Cowboy For Hire (6 page)

“I’m sure we can get something else for you
to drink,” said Martin.

Amy silently blessed him again. She’d have
thanked him, but feared for the steadiness of her voice. She did
manage a smile.

Charlie said, “Hmmm,” as if he didn’t approve
of people who had special, inconvenient, and probably arbitrary
requirements in order to eat a meal or do a job. Amy shot him a
frown.

“Do you care for milk, Miss Wilkes? I’m
afraid we won’t be able to get any orange juice.” Martin, on the
other hand, looked as if he understood completely and didn’t
consider Amy’s unfamiliarity with coffee anything to be
deplored.

Amy could have kissed him—were she another
sort of woman. “Milk would be wonderful. Thank you so much, Mr.
Tafft. You’re very kind.”

“Nonsense. Not everybody likes coffee.”

Really? That made her feel better. She hoped
he wasn’t just trying to be nice. She compressed an end of her
sandwich between her fingers so she could get her mouth around it,
and took a bite. Thank the good Lord, it didn’t taste bad. It was
true that Amy was accustomed to eating light lunches composed
primarily of cheese and fruit, but if she could have mild to drink,
she might survive.

Charlie had finished his first sandwich and
started in on the second one before she’d taken three bits of hers.
He was also guzzling the coffee as if it tasted like the nectar of
the gods. Amy tried not to stare.

But, honestly, his legs still sprawled out in
a most unseemly way, he was eating much too fast for gentility, and
he’d even propped his elbows on the table. Amy was more shocked
than disgusted.

As she’d never been exposed to coffee, she’d
never been exposed to the manners which prevailed in the bunkhouse
or a chuck wagon. At least she presumed these were those manners.
They certainly weren’t what she was used to. She was absolutely
positive that Vernon would never allow himself to eat like that.
Suddenly Vernon didn’t seem boring at all, but merely
civilized.

A glass of milk was plunked down in front of
her, and Amy turned in her chair to smile at the girl who’d plunked
it. It was the same girl who’d exchanged grins with Charlie, but
she was now eyeing Amy as if she were a strange and unwelcome
species of animal life. Amy gulped and maintained her smile. “Thank
you very much.” The girl sniffed and flounced off, and Amy wondered
what she’d done to irritate her.

Life outside Pasadena was a strange and
mysterious affair, and Amy feared she was going to have a hard time
adjusting. She heard Charlie mutter something and turned to
him.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked politely.

“Nothin’.”

“Oh, I thought you said something.”

“Naw. Not really. Just thinking about the
airs some folks give themselves is all.”

Martin Tafft muttered, “Charlie!”

Amy’s mouth pursed. “I don’t believe I know
what you mean, Mr. Fox.” She knew exactly what he meant, the
cretinous blockhead.

He shrugged. “Probably not.”

But thanks to the milk and Martin Tafft, Amy
was regaining some of her fighting spirit. Charlie Fox wasn’t being
fair to her, and his attitude irked her. “Merely because a person
is accustomed to polite manners and milk, I don’t believe that
person should be accused of putting on airs.”

“Yeah?” Charlie grinned at her and stuffed
the last of his sandwich into his mouth. Then he licked his
fingers.

Amy felt her lips prune up and made an effort
to smooth them out again. She didn’t approve of ladies wearing
makeup and powder. In an effort to negate the need for such pain,
she’d vowed to avoid wrinkles if she could. “Yes,” she said
firmly.

“Then maybe you’ll just have to teach me some
manners. Hell, I wouldn’t want to upset such a dignified little
lady.”

She thought she heard Martin groan, but
wasn’t sure. “I’d be delighted to try to teach you some manners.”
She placed some emphasis on the word
try
. “The efficacy of
such an educational undertaking will depend primarily upon the
ability of the student to learn.” There, she thought savagely as
she opened her mouth as wide as it would go and tried to fit a
corner of her sandwich in it, let him figure
that
one out if
he can.

To her astonishment, Charlie Fox threw back
his head and laughed. She scowled at him, gave up on eating her
sandwich as it was, and opened it up. If you can’t beat them, she
thought ferociously, join them. It was horribly impolite and
probably unsanitary as well, but it seemed nobody else cared about
manners. Why should she?

Oh, dear, she was truly being corrupted.
Thank heavens Vernon couldn’t see her now. Even as she deplored her
incipient fall, Amy picked up a piece of roast beef from a piece of
bread with her fingers and popped it into her mouth. Then she
glared defiantly at Charlie Fox as she chewed. She might be going
straight to hell, but she wasn’t going to starve to death in order
to get there, Vernon or no Vernon.

“Here, Miss Wilkes,” Charlie said after he’d
stopped laughing and wiped his eyes. “Maybe you can use this.” He
unsnapped a leather scabbard, which Amy hadn’t noticed was buckled
to his belt, and withdrew a knife that was larger than any Amy had
ever seen outside of a kitchen. She blinked at it. “Maybe it’ll
help you carve through some of that meat and bread.”

He withdrew a clean handkerchief from his
pocket, dipped it in his mug of coffee, wiped the blade of the
knife with it, and handed the knife to Amy, haft first. Amy eyed it
warily for a minute, decided he was right, even though he probably
meant the gesture as one of contempt, and took the knife. She
handled it gingerly. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sweet pickles, his eyes were sparkling like
some kind of gemstones. Amy wished they wouldn’t do that, as they
affected the speed of her heartbeat alarmingly. She took out her
own clean hankie and wiped the coffee from the blade of the knife.
Then, concentrating on her sandwich, she carved a bit of roast beef
and bread with Charlie’s knife and forked it into her mouth. The
knife was very sharp. After she’d swallowed—her code of conduct
might have slipped some, but she hadn’t sunk far enough to talk
with her mouth full—she turned to Charlie again.

“Thank you, Mr. Fox. Your knife works very
well. It’s quite sharp. You must take great pains to keep the edge
well honed.”

Charlie nodded. He’d propped his chin on his
folded hands, which were supported by his elbows, and was watching
every move she made. Amy heaved a small internal sigh and wondered
if most of the world was like him, or if most people behaved as she
and her Pasadena friends and family did. If she herself was unique,
and not Charlie Fox, she expected she’d have a lot of adjusting to
do as she moved through life. Or perhaps she could merely return to
Pasadena and not have to face the world again.

“Yes, ma’am. Got to keep ‘em sharp or they
don’t do no good.”

“I see.”

“But it ain’t hard to do. A honin’ strop, a
piece of rock, and bear grease does the job right fine.”

“Bear grease?” Amy eyed her sandwich. But she
hadn’t tasted anything amiss, so she guessed the napkin and coffee
had eliminated any telltale traces. Probably it had been the
coffee. Amy couldn’t imagine even bear grease surviving coffee.

“Yes, ma’am. Them bears, they’s good for lots
of things besides eatin’.”

She squinted up at him sideways, curious as
to why he sounded so much more ungrammatical now than when she’d
first met him. Eyeing the remains of her sandwich, she wondered if
she should take another bite or two. She was feeling full, but
didn’t know when her next meal would be served—or what it would be.
She hadn’t anticipated eating foreign food when she’d agreed to
play a part in this picture.

“Losin’ yer appetite?”

When she glanced at Charlie again, his grin
was in place, his eyes were twinkling, and Amy decided that if one
were forced to face trials in life in order to temper one’s
character, which was what she’d always been told was the way of the
world. Charlie Fox was setting up to be a huge trial. “Yes.” She
smiled. It had been a somewhat pleasant little joke. “I do believe
I am.”

“You got a whole lot of sandwich left,”
Charlie pointed out.

Immediately, Amy thought of the poor starving
orphan children in China and India, as she’d been taught to do as a
child. She wished she had a starving orphan right here right now;
she’d gladly relinquish the rest of her sandwich. On the other
hand….

She smiled sweetly at Charlie. “Since you’re
such a hard-working fellow and need lots of fuel to keep your
energy up, perhaps you can help me finish it, Mr. Fox.”

He looked startled for a moment, then grinned
back. “Why, that’s a very nice offer, Miss Wilkes. Don’t mind if I
do.”

So he did. Amy watched him polish off the
last three-quarters of her sandwich with amazement. He really did
have a prodigious appetite, didn’t he?

Thinking about Charlie’s appetite started a
whole new train of speculation about him in her head. She started
out by wondering if he’d enjoy her cooking. Amy had always believed
herself to be quite a hand in the kitchen. Then she considered his
accent and changeable grammatical leanings. He was an awfully
handsome man; he’d appear to advantage in a suit and tie of a
Sunday morning, say, on his way to church. With his neatly dressed
children and his pretty wife.

Amy couldn’t help thinking that Charlie Fox
could be quite a respectable member of society if someone were to
take him in hand—clean him up, as her uncle might say. If someone
were to, oh, for instance, teach him grammar and table manners and
not to swear in public, Amy had a feeling he’d fool anyone into
thinking he was a perfectly refined gentleman.

She was distilling her image of Charlie as a
civilized human being when a commotion broke out at the front flap
of the tent. She heard someone shouting, then heard a woman scream,
and turned to see what was happening.

Charlie turned, too. Martin, who, Amy
realized, had been sitting as still as a stone and watching Charlie
and her banter back and forth, stood, shaded his eyes, and stared
in the direction of the ruckus. Amy heard him mutter under his
breath, but couldn’t make out what he said, which was probably just
as well. Although Martin Tafft would never, she felt sure, sink so
low as to curse in a room full of people, she could clearly see
that he was upset.

With growing uneasiness, she asked, “What is
it, Mr. Tafft?”

Charlie, too, seemed concerned, and glanced
at Martin sharply. “Need any help, Martin?”

“I’m not sure,” Martin said. He extricated
himself from his chair, skirted their table, and headed like a bee
to its hive toward the front of the tent.

Amy watched, apprehensive. “I hope nothing’s
the matter.”

“Yeah,” said Charlie. “Me, too.” He rose and,
because of his height, didn’t have as much trouble as Martin had in
discerning the cause of the commotion. He frowned. “Hellfire.”

Amy, alarmed in earnest now, jumped from her
chair. “Oh, Mr. Fox, what is it?”

“Some drunk, it looks like form here.”

“Oh.” Some drunk? Amy’s nose wrinkled.

“Yeah. Looks to be carrying on something
fearful.”

“How disgusting.”

She shouldn’t have said that; she could tell
as soon as she noticed the expression on Charlie’s face. “Well, it
is,” she averred with some spirit. “I think it’s deplorable for men
to drink themselves senseless and then cause problems for
others.”

Shrugging, Charlie said, “I reckon you’re
right.”

He didn’t sound as if he believed it. Amy
felt considerably deflated and said darkly, “One of the people in
this picture is a man who drinks too much. He spent a month at my
uncle’s health spa, but I don’t believe he profited from the
experience.” She sniffed her disapproval.

“That so?” Still watching the melee, his eyes
thinned for better vision, Charlie said, “Would that be Mr. Horace
Huxtable, by any chance? The man who spent time at your uncle’s
place, I mean?”

“Yes. Yes, it was Mr. Huxtable.” A sinking
sensation crept into Amy’s breast; a feeling of premonition, of
dire anticipation. If that man making all the fuss was Horace
Huxtable—

“That’s him, all right,” Charlie said
cheerfully, confirming Amy’s worst fears. “Drunk as a skunk and
roarin’ something comical.”

Amy, speechless, pressed a hand to her bosom.
She’d die. She’d absolutely
die
if she had to put up with
Horace Huxtable after he’d been drinking. The man was insufferable
sober, for heaven’s sake.

“Shooty tooty, he’s raisin’ hell for sure. I
think Martin needs a hand.” Charlie took off at a lope.

Amy watched him go with a plummeting
heart.

* * *

There was nothing the least bit comical about
this situation as far as Martin Tafft was concerned.

“For God’s sake, Huxtable, they only let you
loose yesterday.” He tried to take Huxtable’s arm, but the actor
flung Martin’s hand away.

“Unhand me, vassal,” Huxtable slurred as if
he was king of the world and Martin a lowly servant.

“For the love of Mike,” Martin muttered. “Let
me get you put away someplace. You’ve got to get sobered up before
tomorrow. We rehearse in the morning.”

“I,” Huxtable said, swinging his arms about
and narrowly avoiding collisions with several spectators, “am a
profesh—profesh—a seasoned performer.”

“You’re seasoned, all right. Pickled is more
like it.”

Several people snickered, and Huxtable
attempted to draw himself up majestically. He succeeded in
overbalancing himself and staggering backwards, bumping into a
table and a man who’d been watching.

About at his wit’s end, Martin was ecstatic
when Charlie showed up.