Miner's Daughter (31 page)

Who was she trying to kid? She was a puddle
of slush inside. Balling her hands into fists, she concentrated on
not crying. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. Never again.

“Oh!” she blurted out, suddenly forgetting
all about tears. “Where’s Tiny?”

“Tiny?”

“Tiny. He was with us downstairs. Did he stay
there? Why didn’t he come up with us?” He’d been dogging, so to
speak, her footsteps ever since she’d crawled out from underneath
that blasted wall.

A scratch came at the door, accompanied by a
rumbling whine. Mari, her relief so sudden and intense she became
lightheaded, whispered, “Thank God.”

Tony didn’t. Rather, he rose from the bed in
what looked like a huff and stomped to the door. When he opened it,
Tiny bounded in and made a flying leap at Mari and the bed, sending
her over backward.

“Damn it! Why don’t you train that
beast?”

Although she couldn’t see him, since she was
being joyously greeted by her monumental dog, Mari knew Tony was
furious.

“Don’t blame him,” she said. “He’s only glad
to be with us again. I think you probably shut the door on
him.”

“I’m not blaming him. I’m blaming you.
Anybody with a dog that big owes it to the rest of humanity to
train it.”

It was a struggle, but Mari managed to get
herself upright again. Tiny lay on Tony’s bed, grinning up at Tony,
and whipping his tail back and forth so hard he dislodged the
pillows.

Feeling much better now that her dog had
returned to her side, or her back, Mari said, “Nuts. You’re just
jealous because you don’t have a nice dog like Tiny.” She didn’t
resent it when Tony grimaced with disgust, because she’d expected
him to do something of the sort.

Before hostilities could build into something
explosive, Martin arrived with the doctor, a kindly old soul named
Crabtree who’d been treating the ills of Mojave Wells’s citizens
for as long as most of them could remember.

Mari lifted a scraped hand in salute. “H’lo,
Doc.”

Dr. Crabtree shook his head. “You look like
hell, Mari Pottersby. You already knew that, I suppose.”

She grinned, feeling better already. “Yup. I
had a peek in the mirror.”

“To conduct a proper examination, I think it
would behoove us if you’d get that makeup off your face and wash up
a bit.” As he set his black bag down on the night table, he eyed
her closely. “Unless you think you have injuries that ought to be
attended to immediately.”

Mari shook her head and rose from the bed.
“No. I think I’m fine, actually. But I know the studio wants to
make sure their goods haven’t been damaged, so I’ll retire to the
bathroom for a few minutes.” She thought of something. “Um, what
shall I wear, Doc? This dress?” She glanced down at the frock she
wore. Because of the poverty of the character she played in the
picture, the dress had been shabby to begin with, but it hadn’t
started out this dirty.

“No. You ought to have a robe of some
kind.”

“You can use one of mine, Mari.”

Mari was glad she hadn’t washed up yet,
because when Tony spoke, she blushed, but she figured the makeup
and dirt would disguise her ruby cheeks. In an attempt to pretend
she wasn’t embarrassed, she merely smiled and said, “Thank you,”
when he handed her a silk dressing gown that probably cost more
than Mari had spent on provender during her entire nineteen
years.

The bathroom was something. Mari had never
bathed in anything but a wooden tub. This porcelain thing was a
work of art. She filled it, wishing all the while she didn’t have
to hurry. The water, warm from the tap, felt like heaven when she
dipped her toe in it. When she submerged her body, she wished she
could stay there forever.

Such could not be, however. Grabbing the
sweet-smelling soap lying in the dish and lathering her arms, Mari
thought it was a good thing she’d committed to doing this one
picture only, or she might become addicted to luxuries. And that,
given her role in life, would never do.

Her role in life. She scowled as she scrubbed
makeup and dirt from her face. What was her role in life, anyhow?
Was she doomed to struggle fruitlessly in that stupid mine for the
rest of it? It sounded a dismal future to her. Yet she’d promised
her father as he lay dying that she’d keep his dream alive.

“Pa’s dead,” she reminded herself as she
splashed clean water on her face to remove the suds. “And he’ll
never know.”

But she’d know. If she turned her back on the
Marigold Mine, Mari feared the guilt would haunt her forever, and
she’d end up hating herself. She had enough to contend with, what
with poverty, lack of family support, and unrequited love—damn Tony
Ewing, anyhow—without adding self-loathing to the mix.

It was all too much for her. She told herself
to stop thinking and wash and almost succeeded in obeying herself.
Probably her state of exhaustion helped. As she lathered her hair,
which was dulled with dust, she allowed herself to suspend worry
and merely feel for a few minutes.

Tub baths were really quite delightful. She
could hardly imagine the fabulous wealth that allowed people like,
say, Tony Ewing, to take tub baths whenever they felt so inclined.
Mari thought if she were ever to have access to a bathtub and hot
and cold running water, she’d spend the rest of her life soaking in
it.

This wasn’t the day for that, however. As
quickly as possible, she finished washing the makeup and filth
away, then rose, dripping, from the water and looked around for a
towel. Ah, there was one. She reached for it, noticed the initials
A W embroidered in fancy script on it. “Anthony Ewing,” she
whispered, and buried her face in the pillowy softness of Tony’s
towel.

She was drying her body with Tony Ewing’s own
personal towel. She felt both decadent and fortunate in so doing,
and she allowed a couple of fantasies to keep her company as she
toweled herself dry. Then she brushed her hair with Tony Ewing’s
very own hairbrush, and her fantasies multiplied.

What, she wondered, would it be like to have
enough money? To carry the question further, what would it be like
to have lots of money?

Mari’s imagination, always pretty good,
stumbled as she tried to conceive of such a scenario. Her life had
been so restricted that, for her, luxury would be indoor plumbing.
Running water of any kind would be nice. Hot water was so
outrageously off the scale of what the Mari Pottersbys of the world
could expect that she couldn’t manage to expand her fantasy that
far.

Enough money to go to the doctor when she was
sick would be nice. Doc Crabtree didn’t mind being paid with
chickens, but Mari really needed the chickens for herself, to eat
and to sell to the Mojave Inn. She knew, because she read
extensively, that most middleclass families in America had at least
one person to help with the housework. She wouldn’t need that,
since she lived in a one-room cabin, but she sure wouldn’t mind
being able to buy a meal at the Mojave Inn every once in a
while.

She chided herself for being stingy with her
fantasies. Heck, if she was going to imagine, she might as well do
it big. So she imagined a real house with more than one room. It
would be nice to have a separate kitchen. And a bathroom. And
electricity! The weather in this desert might almost be tolerable
if one could stir the air a bit with an electrical fan.

By the time she knotted her still-damp hair
into a bun and pinned it in place, Mari had succeeded in expanding
her daydream to include a house with a green lawn and a motorcar,
so she could take trips to pretty places like, say, Pasadena. It
was lovely there, near the mountains. And so green. Mari wondered
if everyone who lived in deserts craved green as she did.

She felt almost decadent as she slipped into
Tony’s robe. She’d never worn silk before. It felt like heaven
against her skin. With a sigh, she opened the door and stood there,
slightly taken aback when a room full of men turned to stare at
her. She frowned and turned to Dr. Crabtree. “Where do you want to
do this examination, Doc?”

Her prosaic question seemed to jolt the men
out of their trance. Dr. Crabtree cleared his throat and said, “I
suppose we can carry it out here, if these gentlemen will kindly
leave us be. I don’t think you want an audience.”

He smiled at her in his kindly way.

“Good Lord, no.” Mari shuddered. This was
going to be bad enough without Martin and Tony and Ben and
everybody else in the world watching.

A knock came at the door before the men could
get themselves organized and depart. Martin was closest, and he
opened the door. Frowning and clearly upset, George entered the
room with a graceless lurch. He held his hat in his hand, and his
face was so pale, Mari wondered if he, and not she, might benefit
from a medical examination.

Martin took George by the shoulder, his face
expressing concern over his colleague’s state of mind. “What is it,
George?”

George, whose brown eyes held an intense
expression at the most relaxed of times, now appeared almost
maniacally fervent. “Sabotage,” he declared, his voice rasping and
sharp-edged. “Deliberate, cold-blooded sabotage.”

All talking ceased. The only discernible
noise in the room was Tiny’s tail as it swished back and forth
across the floor. Nothing, not even deliberate sabotage, could get
Tiny down.

Finally, Tony broke the silence with a short,
brutal curse. The men swarmed around George. Dr. Crabtree shooed
them out of the room to discuss the matter elsewhere, and directed
Mari to sit on the bed so he could test her reflexes and eyesight,
and judge for sure if she’d been concussed by the falling wall.

Mari wanted to rush off with the men and hear
what George had found out. Darn it, she hated being left out.

It was a glum group that gathered in a corner
of the Mojave Inn’s dining room. Understanding the needs of men,
Mr. Nelson dismissed his wife’s objections and carried over a tray
of mugs, frothy with beer foam. Tony tipped him handsomely,
grateful for the proprietor’s consideration.

“My old man’s going to have to know what’s
going on here,” he said to Martin unhappily. “I haven’t called him
yet and was hoping I wouldn’t have to; but if somebody’s seriously
trying to undermine the picture, he’ll have to be told. I’ll try to
get a long-distance trunk call put through before the end of the
day.”

“I suppose you’d better.” Martin took a swig
of his beer, looking more grim than Tony could remember seeing him.
“It’s his money, after all.”

Feeling apologetic about it, Tony agreed.
“Right. I’m sorry, Martin.”

Martin waved away the apology. “It’s all
right, Tony. This is serious, and our backers need to know about
it. I’ve already placed a call to Phin. I’m hoping the
long-distance operator will ring back soon with the
connection.”

“Yeah, he ought to know what’s going on,
too.”

Martin uttered something between a growl and
a snort. “I’m going to ask him to send out two or three private
detectives. And maybe a couple of other men to work as guards at
night.”

Tony lifted his eyebrow. “Good idea. Why
didn’t I think of that?”

Martin grinned at him. “It’s not your baby.
You’re only minding your daddy’s money. My career and the future of
Peerless might rest on this venture.”

George, who had remained silent and seemed
shrouded in gloom, shuddered. “Career?” he muttered. “I don’t even
have a career yet, and it’s being ruined as we speak.”

That put everything in a disagreeable light.
Tony frowned into his beer mug. “You’re right. Blast it, I sure
hope your detectives can find out who’s behind all of this
vandalism, Martin. This whole series of malicious acts is an
outrage.”

With a sigh, Martin said, “It’s gone beyond
vandalism, I think. It looks to me as though whoever’s doing this
is seeking outright ruin for Peerless.”

“Hmm.” Tony eyed Martin. “You don’t think
Edison has anything to do with this series of . . . mishaps, do
you?” They weren’t mishaps, but Tony couldn’t think of another word
to describe them.

For a moment; Martin gazed off into the gloom
of the dining room; luncheon was still a couple of hours away, and
the lights hadn’t been turned on. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know
Edison’s more likely to use the courts and claims of patent
infringement to undercut his competitors. I’ve never heard of him
doing overt malicious mischief to a rival’s production.”

Tony downed the rest of his beer. “Yeah. I
never have, either.”

“And if whoever was behind today’s villainy
had succeeded in killing Mari, you can be sure that would be the
end of Peerless.”

Tony’s heart contracted so suddenly and
painfully that he couldn’t have responded even if he could have
thought of words to say, which he couldn’t.

George didn’t speak either. He only moaned
softly.

When Tony looked up at last, he beheld Mari
standing and blinking at the door to the dining room. She’d come
from the light-infused lobby area, and probably couldn’t see the
men in their corner. She was dressed in the clothes she’d worn to
town that morning. He rose abruptly, and his chair scraped the
floor with a noise that made Martin and George jump and Mari turn
toward the sound.

He hurried over and took both of her hands in
his. She appeared a little shocked by this intimacy, but Tony
didn’t care. She might have had the life crushed out of her this
morning, and it had scared the bejesus out of him. Although he
still wasn’t able to put words to his innermost feelings, he did
know he wasn’t going to let her get away from him without putting
up a damned good fight first.

“What did the doctor say?” he asked before
she’d had a chance to find her wits. “Are you all right? Is
anything broken? Was there a chance of concussion? What about
bruises? Are you sore? Do you need medication? Carbolic? Headache
powders? Bandages? Anything?”