Miner's Daughter (4 page)

“He ought to be shot,” Tony said
bitterly.

Martin grinned. “Too late. He’s already
dead.”

“I still think she’s insane not to jump at
the chance we’re giving her.”

“She’ll probably come around,” Martin said
with a shrug. “I suppose she won’t be able to help herself. Money’s
like that.”

Tony eyed Martin briefly. “You sound as if
you disapprove.”

“Oh, no. It’s just that . . . well, I feel
sorry for the girl. She’s young and pretty and bright. Most girls
her age are going to school or getting married or working at jobs
designed for women. She’s trying to keep a dying mine alive for the
sake of a man who was probably nuts, but who was obviously a good
enough father to have inspired devotion in his daughter. The fellow
couldn’t have been all bad.”

Dammit, Martin was making him feel like a
bully and an old meanie. Simon Legree Ewing. That was him. Tony
sighed. “All right, I’ll grant the girl has a few good qualities. I
only hope this dinner idea will work.”

“I hope she photographs well and can act. Not
only does she look perfect for our heroine, but she needs the extra
five grand.”

“You’re entirely too nice, Martin.”

“Nuts. She’ll be perfect.”

“I hope so.”

Tony, who’d never thought much about his own
blond good looks, had to admit that if anyone took the effort to
scrub Marigold Pottersby clean, slather some cream on her to get
those rough hands soft, give her a manicure, send her to a hair
salon, and clothe her in something besides dirty dungarees, she’d
be a looker. She’d never be one of those petite things who simpered
and fainted every other minute, but at least she wouldn’t look like
a scarecrow.

Actually, she could be damned near striking
if she ever tried. “I wonder how she’ll dress for dinner,” he mused
aloud.

“Me, too. I expect she’ll try to look
nice.”

“Do you?” Tony wasn’t so sure.

He and Martin spent the remainder of their
day in the fan-cooled parlor of the Mojave Inn, discussing how
Lucky Strike
was to progress. Martin seemed sure they’d
secure Miss Pottersby’s permission to rent her mine. He sent a
cable to the Peerless Studio, requesting a cameraman be sent out as
soon as possible so that a screen test could be made for Marigold
Pottersby.

Tony still had his doubts.

If she had any money, Mari thought glumly as
she hiked up her skirt in an effort to keep it out of the dust,
she’d be able to buy a car. Even an old, beat-up rattletrap held
together with baling wire, like the heap driven by her buddy Gordon
Shay, would help in times like this

Not that she expected there would be any more
times like this. Her heart rattled against her breastbone like dice
in a cup, her nerves hopped and skipped like Mexican jumping beans,
her mouth was as dry as the surrounding countryside, and she wanted
to turn tail, run back home, hug Tiny, crawl into her narrow cot,
and pull the covers over her head. She’d stay there until Martin
Tafft, Anthony Ewing, and the entire Peerless Studio either left
Mojave Wells or finished their project without her, whichever came
first.

There wasn’t a chance in heck of that,
though. No matter how scared and nervous she was, Mari wasn’t going
to turn her back on the prospect of ten thousand dollars. She
wondered if they’d meant it.

The whole thing sounded highly unlikely to
her. On the other hand, she’d read something somewhere about
Peerless; she’d even seen a couple of their pictures when Mr. Purdy
at the grocery store had invited people over and projected some
moving pictures against his back wall. Mari’d especially enjoyed an
opus called
One and Only
.

Every time she considered watching herself in
one of those pictures, however, she felt a mad compulsion to turn
around and run, screaming, into the night.

She hoped she looked passable. It was too
much to ask of the Fates that she look good. Her face was brown
from years of working outdoors, her hands weren’t soft and lovely
like the hands of beautiful women were supposed to be, she was too
tall, too thin, and too—not perfect.

She’d washed her hair, however, and pinned it
up. When she wasn’t holding her dress up out of the dust, she was
disconcerted by the way its long skirt buffeted against her heels
as if it were chasing her. Obviously, she’d spent too much time in
trousers and not enough time in dresses. Not that dresses were
appropriate to her way of life, but Mari acknowledged sourly that
her way of life wasn’t appropriate to a lady.

When she’d surveyed the result of her efforts
in her mother’s old hand mirror by the light of the kerosene
lantern, she’d decided she hadn’t turned out too bad. At least her
face was clean and her hair was shiny. A couple of people had told
her she had pretty hair. One of them had been Gordon Shay. Big
deal. On the other hand, it had been a compliment delivered by a
man.

The dress she wore was one of the two she
owned; both had belonged to her mother. That made them at least
twenty years old, but Mari had tried to update them, using pictures
from ladies’ magazines she’d borrowed from the librarian, Miss
Winters. She had a sneaking hunch that Miss Winters felt sorry for
her. Mari didn’t really blame her for it. Lots of people did.

Anyhow, the dress was old. Fortunately, the
fabric was a good, sturdy calico. Unfortunately, fashions had
changed a good deal in twenty years, and the calico had faded in
spots.

Mari told herself to stop finding fault with
herself. She’d done the best she could, and that was all that could
be expected.

Oh, but she was so nervous!

Fortunately, she still possessed a pair of
her mother’s evening slippers. Unfortunately they, too, were at
least twenty years old. And too small for her. She’d have blisters
before the evening was over, or she’d be much surprised.

Fortunately, the Mojave Inn was only a mile
from her cabin. Unfortunately, that mile was dry and dusty and Mari
had to pass by the homes of several of her friends along the
way.

Fortunately, they’d be through working in
their mines and gardens for the day. Unfortunately, they’d also be
finished with their dinners and probably, given the heat, sitting
outside to enjoy the relative coolness of the evening.

“Stop it!” Mari commanded herself. If any of
her neighbors saw her and asked what she was doing, all duded up
and headed for town, she’d simply explain it to them.

They wouldn’t believe her. They might believe
the part about Peerless wanting to rent the mine, but they’d never
believe anybody wanted her to play a part in the picture, much less
the leading lady’s role.

But that couldn’t be helped. It was the
truth, and Mari had often found it necessary to stand on the truth
even when explanations sounded skimpy. It occurred to her that
existing on the truth was a perilous and generally unprofitable
business.

And that’s exactly where the promised
Peerless money would come in handy. She tried to encourage herself
with the prospect of ten thousand dollars. Or five thousand, when
that nice Mr. Tafft realized she wasn’t cut out to be an
actress.

Unless he’d been spoofing her about that part
of his deal. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed
likely that he had been. Who’d want her, of all people, to act in a
motion picture?

Such a trick, if trick it was, was really
unkind of him, though. Mari hadn’t believed him to be unkind; he
acted so nice. She pressed her lips together and reminded herself
that the only reason confidence artists succeeded was that they’d
mastered an air of sincerity.

Oh, but it would be a bitter pill to swallow.
What a disappointment! She’d thought so highly of Martin Tafft.

That Anthony Ewing fellow was another kettle
of fish. Mari figured this sort of thing was exactly what she
should have expected from a man who looked like him. He was too
handsome. All that thick, dark blond hair and those blasted
classical features. Why, that nose of his made him look like he was
sneering even when he wasn’t.

What a rotten trick to play on her! It wasn’t
enough that she had to endure poverty and the prospect of never
being able to run the mine properly, but now she had to put up with
men trying to exploit her. Imagine, offering her money when they
only meant to divert her from their true motives. The two of them
were so slick, they slid. Drat them.

What a fool she was to have rigged herself
out because she believed their sweet talk. And making her walk a
mile to their supposed dinner conference was a prank, too. Mari was
hopping mad by the time she reached Mojave Inn.

The dining room at the Mojave Inn wasn’t like
any decent restaurant Tony’d ever been in. Which made sense, since
it wasn’t one. It was more like a hole in the wall, and the menu
carried two choices for the main course. Steak and pot roast. Tony
watched the waitress, a buxom lass named Judy, as she carried food
to the tables, in an effort to determine which entree looked
tastier. He finally decided it wouldn’t make any difference. They
both looked awful.

Tony didn’t recognize Miss Marigold Pottersby
when she first appeared at the door to the Mojave Inn’s dining
room. He noticed a tall, lovely, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman
standing in the doorway, fingering a small beaded bag, and his
interest perked right up. He hadn’t expected to encounter such a
fine specimen of womanhood in this hellhole.

When Martin rose and started for the door,
Tony frowned and opened his mouth to ask him what he was doing.
Only then did he understand.

Good God. Could that attractive female
possibly be Miss Pottersby, the grubby miner’s daughter? He
narrowed his eyes and peered closely at her.

By God, it was. Tony slowly rose from his
chair and started to follow Martin.

But this was uncanny. Impossible. A miracle,
even. That the untidy, trouser-clad ragamuffin he’d met this
morning could have been transformed into this stunningly shy violet
was incredible. Inconceivable.

It must be some kind of trick.

At once he realized he was being foolish. It
couldn’t be a trick. There was no way on earth Mari Pottersby could
have known Martin wanted to use her mine before the Peerless folks
spoke to her about it. And she certainly never expected Martin to
want to use her in the picture. Therefore, she couldn’t possibly
have made herself look good in order to deceive Tony into wanting
her.

No. This astonishing transformation must,
therefore, be the result of one of those freaks of nature that kept
mankind constantly confused.

But . . . good God.

Martin got to Mari before he did. Tony saw
Mari and Martin smile at each other. It wasn’t until Mari held out
her hand in the same slightly self-conscious manner Tony had noted
earlier in the day that his insides fully reconciled themselves to
the fact that this comely female was really, honestly and truly
Marigold Pottersby.

The fact that she was clearly as nervous as a
cat also clued him in to her true identity. He couldn’t recall
another such interesting instance of feminine metamorphosis. When
he got to where she and Martin stood, her glance for him was as
apprehensive as hers for Martin had been friendly. Tony begrudged
her that look.

“How do you do?” she asked him politely.

“I’m well, Miss Pottersby. And you?” His
voice, he noticed, had chilled considerably in his walk from the
table to the door. Interesting. Why should she make him want to be
impolite? Was it merely because she so plainly liked Martin better
than him?

She stiffened visibly. “I’m fine, thanks.”
Her words, too, sounded clipped and frosty.

Snippy little thing, wasn’t she? Tony jogged
Martin out of the way and held his arm for. Mari. He was a trifle
embarrassed when Martin looked at him strangely, but he hid his
discomposure. “Here, Miss Pottersby, let me show you to our
table.”

Now that he was standing right next to her,
Tony saw that she wore no paint or powder. Probably didn’t own any.
If she did, she wouldn’t know how to use it. She was a nobody from
nowhere, in fact, and didn’t have a sophisticated bone in her
body.

It seemed a lovely body, though. His senses
recognized its slender beauty even as his conscious mind attempted
to find fault with it.

Her gown looked as if it were a million years
old.

Tony’s finer nature told his critical one not
to be so damned snooty. Not everyone could be born with a silver
spoon in his or her mouth, as he had been. Poor Mari Pottersby had
been reared by a lunatic in dire circumstances. Tony should be
treating her courteously, not seeking ways to find fault with
her.

Mari murmured, “Thank you.”

As she walked, she lifted her skirt, and Tony
saw dust coating its hem. And those shoes. They were antiques if
he’d ever seen any and they, too, were so dusty, he couldn’t make
out what color they’d been to start with. He frowned. “Did you walk
all the way over here, Miss Pottersby?”

Her color, which was deep to begin with,
deepened still until a rosy flush crept into her cheeks. Tony
watched, fascinated. He’d never, ever have dreamed that she could
be so attractive.

“Yes, I did,” she said, her tight tone
implying she considered him a fool for asking. “How else was I
supposed to get here?”

Martin, hurrying behind them, said, “I’m so
sorry, Miss Pottersby. I should have thought to send a car for
you.”

Dammit, Tony wanted to be the one to have
said that. Too late now He said, “You ought to have told us this
morning that you had no transportation, Miss Pottersby. We didn’t
expect you to walk here.”

She looked him straight in the eye. Her eyes,
Tony noticed with a sudden clenching in his chest region, were huge
and dark and sparkled like jewels. “I have transportation. It’s
only that I didn’t think the donkey would have been appropriate to
the occasion. I don’t generally expect folks to provide
transportation for me, you know. Besides,” she added with something
like a smirk, “one ass at a time is my limit.”