A Change of Scenery, page 7
His hands clenched and unclenched, aching to take hold of something or someone. The first thing he came to worth grabbing was a saddle hanging on the corral instead of in the barn. He hefted it over his shoulder and made for the tack room. Hang fire, he had more important worries than staying shy of some painted-up gal with no shame.
He hung the saddle on a rack and laid the blanket on top, then stood there a minute to slow his pulse and gather his wits. After tugging his neckerchief loose, he wiped his face and neck, then walked to the barn door.
Ella Canaday stood by the corral with Doc hanging his head over the rail and lipping apples from her palm. Before one was chewed, she pulled another from a pocket in her skirt and balanced it on her hand, fingers flat.
Took horse sense to know to do that.
She leaned against the poles, seeming to favor her right leg with all her weight on the left. Cale re-tied his scarf and headed out.
Doc saw him coming and swiveled his ears. She followed the signal, and her eyes locked on Cale like a wary yearling, not sure which way to run. He checked his feet to an easy pace and stopped close enough to reach Doc’s muzzle but still keep a polite distance from Miss Canaday.
~
Certain it was Cale who approached, based on the vest and hat and the gelding’s response, Ella watched for signs of resentment for feeding his horse.
He stopped on the other side. Not ready to relinquish the close contact of such a genteel animal, she continued rubbing beneath the horse’s forelock until its eyes closed and a contended whiffle escaped. Comfort seeped into her from the horse’s familiar smell and restful power. She hadn’t been this close to one since—
“He likes you.”
Cale Hutton’s deep voice slid over her skin like a soft woolen coat on a cold day.
She failed to restrain a smile. No wonder Mabel had drawn him away to herself. Where was she, anyway? Ella glanced toward the crew gathered around Mr. Thorson. Mabel watched from a stump, alone and sullen, no doubt concocting hateful barbs to throw Ella’s way.
The horse had not endured Mabel’s hands on him that morning, yet here he stood nearly asleep beneath Ella’s touch. And Mr. Hutton? What had he thought of the leading lady’s forward ways?
“Would you like to try him?” The dimple flashed and disappeared just as quickly, and he seemed to take a keen interest in her answer.
She shifted her weight onto both legs and stepped back, wiping her hands on her skirt. Flustered, she sought refuge in the rocky ridges beyond the barn, their pine-draped slopes so unlike the rolling farmland of Illinois. “I don’t ride.” Anymore.
He leaned forward. “Beg pardon?”
Addressing the horse instead of its owner, she edged her reply with finality. “No, thank you.” Mr. Hutton’s blue scrutiny was palpable, and she retrieved the last apple from her skirt pocket.
“Doc’s a good horse. Best I ever had.” His voice softened. “I’ll help you.”
His gentle confidence unsettled her, but she could not trust a stranger who knew nothing of her background. She shook her head, swinging hair against her cheeks. Only Helen knew her story, and that a mere slice of the whole. The thought of explaining her condition to Mr. Hutton dredged up emotional pain she’d worked hard to overcome. Her leg began to throb.
She offered Doc the apple at arm’s length, and Mr. Hutton’s offer drifted away like the few cottony clouds above them. He planted a foot on the bottom pole and leaned against the top with Doc’s head between them. His sense of propriety was refreshingly clear as the air, unlike that of Jed Barr, who always stood too close.
She eased forward and through the rails, stroked Doc’s burnished neck, breathing in his scent. How she’d missed the smell of strength under control, a hair-and-hide awareness of power beyond her own feeble body.
“You have a natural way with him.”
She peeked around the horse’s muzzle. Perceptive, this earthy rancher. Unexpectedly so, in light of their first frenzied meeting. Hope and doubt nibbled two corners of her heart. In this setting, with this gentle horse, dare she reach again for what had once been a passion? She could certainly testify to the animal’s faithfulness. And to its owner’s.
She drew her hand back and folded her arms. It’d been nearly a year and a half since she’d ridden. And fifteen long, frustrating months of fighting pain and sorrow in equal portions. She’d endured countless doctor’s visits and recuperative exercises, yet her strength had not returned to its former proportions. She’d be a fool to try.
More than her thigh muscle had torn. More than her femur had broken. She’d lost a great portion of her heart as well. The dread of losing her bearings if she remained an invalid in her father’s home had driven her to this job with Selig Polyscope. The bold move was her bid for freedom and forgetfulness.
But a third, uninvited element quashed her hope. Stark fear shot to her throat with a twist. She couldn’t take such a chance in spite of this cowboy’s proven ability and offer to help her ride. Regardless of his sky-blue promise to—again—keep her from harm, she couldn’t trust him.
~
He’d heard her the first time, though it was nigh on a whisper.
Cale expected more from a gal with such fire in her eyes, and he figured fear must ride her hard. Had something to do with her gait and the way she favored her right leg, he’d bank on it. But plain as spots on a fawn, she had horse sense.
He looked her up and down. “So why’d you dress like that if you didn’t intend to ride?”
“I beg your pardon?” Her shoulders squared stiff as a singletree.
“Well, you’re all gussied up in fancy high-top boots and a riding skirt. I figured you wanted to ride, not just strut around like a peacock.”
Not exactly how he meant to put it.
With one sharp look, she skinned and quartered him, then marched off-kilter to the big pine.
Thorson waved him over.
Confound it all. He yanked his hat off and slapped his leg, wanting to join the group about as much as he wanted to whack a bee tree with a hatchet. He took his time getting there, shying away from both the seamstress and Miss Steinway, who sat scowling like a wet polecat, and ambled around to the other side.
Thorson wiped his brow with a handkerchief and stuffed it in his pocket. “We’ve got enough film to keep us busy, so we’ll head back to the studio and write script tomorrow. The plan is to come back the day after for a branding.” He turned to Cale. “We’ll do that runaway scene I mentioned then too. That work for you, Hutton?”
Hugh stood with his back against the house, a boot planted on the wall behind him, his expression blank.
Cale gave a two-finger salute. “That’ll work.”
“Good. We’ll be out of here, then, but I want to thank your cook for her pies and such.”
He gestured to the crates and stumps littering the yard. “Gather these up, men, and take them wherever Cale tells you. And get the table indoors.”
Every man picked up his makeshift seat, and Cale jerked a thumb toward the barn. “Behind the hitching rail.” No sense taking the stumps to the woodpile if folks were coming back. Hugh hefted one end of the table and Jed took the other while Thorson spoke with Helen and set her to blushing with his praise.
Miss Canaday disappeared inside the house and returned with an armload of clothing.
Helen hurried over to him as soon as Thorson walked away.
“We don’t get many women folk up here. Shame Ella couldn’t stay for a longer visit.”
Ella now, was it?
“Be nice if she could stay on until the company returns, don’t you think?”
His hat band heated and he rubbed the side of his jaw.
“Well, wouldn’t it?” His housekeeper frowned like she did at the boys when they weren’t paying attention. “Don’t you think she’d enjoy a day of life on a ranch?”
This one-sided conversation was headed in a dangerous direction. Helen’s stare cut through him clean as a hot knife through gravy.
“Tarnation, Helen, just say what it is you’re trying to say.”
She broke out a grin. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I thought too, and that director fella said she could stay on. I assured him I’d take good care of her.”
Cale’s turn to stare. When had he agreed to Miss Canaday staying on?
“I do need a new Sunday dress, you know. And Ella agreed to help.” She took out after the gal who was making her slow way to the automobiles.
“Hold on!” Helen gave Thorson a run for his money in arm waving.
Miss Canaday stopped, relieved it seemed, and waited. Then she cast a look in Cale’s direction while Helen worked on her.
He couldn’t very well stand there gawking like his nephews, so he took to the barn. Tack needed checking and horses needed turning out. And he didn’t need that gal underfoot when he had work to do.
Too bad Grace wasn’t here.
She’d have Ella Canaday up and trottin’ in circles by tomorrow morning. But she was in Denver, last he’d heard. Licking her wounds after that Wild West outfit she’d signed on with went belly up. He snorted. Not one shy bone in his little sister’s body. Why, if she were here, she’d show Thorson what a horsewoman could do and knock that Steinway gal down a notch or four.
He slipped through the corral poles and unlatched the north gate, then waved his hat and hollered at the ponies till they lit out. Doc’s graceful lope carried him ahead of the others. The gelding had a soft spot for that whip of a woman, the way he ate from her fingers almost dainty like. Doc’d be good to her if Cale could get her on him.
Combing a hand through his hair, he considered the other horses that were brought up. The boys’ old mare, Barlow, might be a fair choice. Wouldn’t spook if you lit her tail afire. Easygoing.
And why was he wasting his time considering a gentle mount for someone who made it clear she didn’t ride?
He scoffed. A lie as plain as snow on Pikes Peak.
He resituated his hat, irritated that she drew his thoughts like a barn cat to cream. He savvied fear and figured she was fightin’ her head. But he also knew firsthand that a good spill called for gettin’ back in the saddle. His pa had been there for him when he was Ty’s age. Tossed him back up on the horse that had tossed him to begin with. There was nothing for it but to ride again, his pa insisted. And he’d been right.
Cale had caught the look in that little gal’s eye when she was with Doc, and something deep inside made him want to help her fight whatever held her captive.
He headed back across the corral. Another woman around for a day or so would do Helen good. Lord knew, it was the least she deserved for puttin’ up with five Huttons.
Be a heck of a lot easier if he hadn’t made that peacock remark.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Was it Helen’s offer of the old treadle Singer or the woman’s winsome speech that convinced Ella to stay?
Or the opportunity to photograph the ranch and its surroundings?
“A good woman-to-woman gab is just what I need.” Helen took half of Ella’s load from her arms.
Thorson mumbled something, then faced Ella. “We’ll return in two days, Miss Canaday. Don’t do anything wild. Mabel doesn’t know a needle from a noose, and I can’t afford the time to find another seamstress.”
He meant no insult, but his off-handed warning stung. Ella rubbed one hand on her skirt and caught Mabel over his shoulder with fire sparking in her eyes. Ella didn’t need an enemy, particularly one with the power to influence her employer. Perhaps staying at the ranch wasn’t such a good idea. But how could she turn down Helen’s hopeful request?
Slim jumped into the open back seat, and Ella touched his arm. “Would you mind putting this basket with the costumes, and I’ll see that Clara gets it when I return.”
“Sure ’nough.”
She grabbed her satchel and left the empty basket in its place.
Thorson shouted for everyone to load up. Engines popped and choked, and the boys ran around in unbridled excitement. Ella pressed her satchel close, imagining a delightful hour to herself photographing the countryside.
Surely she could avoid a cocky cowboy who hadn’t even had the courtesy to say peahen.
Hugh leaned against the big pine, watching as she and Helen returned to the house. His face held as much resentment as Mabel’s, and he pushed off the tree and stalked to the barn.
Ella’s throat tightened. Was there nowhere she could turn that someone was not offended by her?
“We can work on that new Sunday dress I mentioned.” Perspiration collected at Helen’s temples, and her rosy cheeks shimmered with good will.
Resentment and relief twisted through Ella’s mind, an unlikely cord. “Do we have time before supper to look at what you have in mind?”
Helen raised her apron hem to her forehead. “If I don’t melt away, we do. I’ve got beans in the oven, so supper won’t take much work other than rolling out biscuits and opening a jar of my canned peaches.”
Home-canned peaches. Solace seeped like balm into Ella at talk of meal preparation. The tender comradery chipped another chink in her wall. Simple companionship—she’d missed it more than she cared to admit.
Helen slowed her pace with a show of suffering from the heat, but Ella suspected it was for her own benefit. Half a day on her feet, with more walking that week than she’d done in months, had taken its toll.
The screen door swept a breathy welcome, and Ella fell into the chair at the end of the table the men had carried inside.
Helen ladled a cup of lemonade from the crock on the counter and set it before her.
“You rest a spell there and I’ll go get my pattern. Ordered it from McCall’s last winter and still haven’t got around to cuttin’ it. Cost me a whole fifteen cents . . .” Her voice trailed off through the dining room as she hurried to the other end of the long house.
Ella downed the lemonade in an unladylike fashion, then held the cool tin cup to her forehead. At the moment, her bobbed hair was an obvious disadvantage. There was no twisting it up off her neck and face—a dear price to pay this summer for an impulsive decision last spring. She set down the cup and kneaded her shrunken thigh muscle, more weak than sore now that she had her weight off it.
Perhaps a few more days outdoors would build her strength.
A latent longing stirred. Enough strength to ride? If only. She pressed her fingers deeper into the woolen fabric that masked her scar. Cale’s brash question cut to the core of the matter. She’d worn a split skirt when she couldn’t use it.
Wouldn’t use it, she admitted to the white daisies observing from the sideboard. Their cheery faces prodded her. “Yes, yes, give it a try,” they shouted with wordless fervor.
Helen returned with an armful of buttery-yellow broadcloth and a pattern that was a fashionable design from McCall after all, but with a slender line. Helen was anything but slender.
“I bought extra goods, seeing as how I’m not exactly a petite thing like you, dear.” She chuckled and her ample bosom reinforced the confession.
Ella perused the pattern, noting with relief, that it accommodated a forty-six-inch bust.
“What do you think?” Helen took the opposite chair.
Ella kept her eyes on the print, searching for the kindest way to make her observation. Had she known her seamstress skills would be enlisted, she would have brought along her entire sewing kit and not merely needle and thread. “Have you a measuring tape?”
Helen disappeared into an adjoining pantry and returned a moment later with a folded ribbon. “Now you see why I haven’t started on the cutting. Couldn’t very well ask Hugh, Cale, or the boys to help me find my girth. They’d have me cinched up with one of their saddle leathers for sure.”
Ella swallowed a laugh and stood. “Come over here to the center of the kitchen. I’ll take some measurements, and we can spread the fabric on the table.”
Helen planted herself in the middle of the room and raised her arms straight out on each side. Ella reached around her to grab the loose end of the measure and jumped at the clap of the screen door.
“What’re you doin’ to our Miss Helen?”
She turned toward three little faces all wearing the same question. “I’m measuring her for a new dress.”
Each boy eyed the folded cloth on the table, then looked around the kitchen with something else on their mind.
“I’m saving what’s left over for supper,” Helen said, her arms still out like a scarecrow. She brushed the air with her fingers. “Skedaddle, all of you. Shoosh.”
They skittered out the door.
Helen tsked. “I swear, those boys eat more than their father and uncle put together and the three of them stacked on top of one another wouldn’t add up to half a man.”
Ella took mental note of Helen’s waist, such as it was, and her imagination ventured a guess at the shoulder span of Cale and his brother. Cale seemed broader, more muscled. Perhaps grief had shrunken his twin. It had a way of doing that to a body.
“Cale told me about Hugh and the boys. That their mother died.”
The corners of Helen’s lips pulled down and she dropped her arms. “A shame. A crying shame, poor thing. She had a hard time with Kip. He came early, and it was just Hugh and her. No midwife or doctor. Hugh blames himself in spite of what I tell him.”
Ella held the tape against Helen’s shoulder and measured a little past the hem of the dress she was wearing. “You weren’t here on the ranch then?”
“Wish I had been. But I didn’t come out until after the funeral when I saw those two brothers wouldn’t make it with a pair of young’uns and an infant. Liked to killed Hugh, it did. The man didn’t speak for nigh on a year, except to scold his boys. He’s gettin’ some better.”
Ella’s brows bunched as she looped the tape around Helen’s upper arm, remembering a scene beneath the big pine tree.
