Miner's Daughter (5 page)

Dammit, she was too fresh for this world.
“Meaning me, I suppose.”

“You know yourself better than I.”

Tony heard Martin snort as if he were
smothering a laugh, blast him. He decided to quit firing her wit
with fuel, dropped the ass question, and went back to the original
point, which she was either too stupid or too stubborn to perceive.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Pottersby. We’re hoping to conduct
business with you. We’d have been happy to send a car.”

Martin held a chair for her. At the same
time, he grimaced at Tony, signaling him to stop quarreling with
the mine owner. Tony knew he should. They needed her, and they’d
succeed more easily if she liked them. But something foreign seemed
to have taken possession of his common sense this evening, and he
couldn’t have stopped tiffing with Mari if he’d wanted to.

As Mari sat in a huff and a fluff, she
barked, “Then you should have told me you could send a car sooner,
shouldn’t you? How am I supposed to know what you big-money,
picture-backing people do and don’t do? I’ve had to work for my
keep all my life. And I can’t read minds.”

Tony heard Martin’s stifled moan of despair
even as he growled, “Most people who work for a living generally
have some common sense.” He managed a fairly decent sneer. “At
least that’s what I’ve always been told. I wouldn’t know from
experience, would I?”

She was glaring in earnest now. “It doesn’t
look like it to me.”

By the time Martin sat and began trying to
soothe ruffled feathers, Tony was so mad, he could have punched
something. Preferably Miss Marigold Pottersby, who was protected by
an act of nature, being female and therefore unpunchable.

Tony felt cheated. And very, very
annoyed.

If Mari ever got the opportunity, she was
going to give Tony Ewing a great, big, fat piece of her mind, the
intolerable snob. What she’d like to do is knock him flat with the
big cast-iron skillet she used to cook dinner every night. Except
this one.

The only other times Mari had eaten in a
restaurant, someone else had done the ordering. She’d been very
little at the time, maybe five or six, and no one had expected her
to be anything but shy, naive, and reserved.

It was her misfortune to be a grown-up woman
now and unable to retire into the security of childhood. People
naturally expected a child to be inexperienced. She still knew
nothing about dining out, but she no longer had any good excuses
for her ignorance. Except poverty and lack of sophistication, and
they didn’t count, being more apt to be ridiculed than
understood.

Thank God she and the waitress who was
serving their table this evening were friends. Judy Nelson, whose
parents operated the Mojave Inn, and Mari had gone to school
together. Mari smiled up at her “Hi, Judy. How’s Pete doing?” Pete,
Judy’s brother and twelve years old, had recently broken an arm
when he’d fallen out of Mr. Nelson’s wagon as they were driving to
San Bernardino.

Judy eyed Mari in obvious amazement, a fact
that went unappreciated by Mari herself. She did, however, vow to
attempt to make herself look more like a lady from now on. If
seeing her in a dress had this effect on her fellow Mojave-ites, it
was past time she did something to boost her image.

“Pete’s doing pretty well, Mari. He’s tired
of being laid up and is being a perfect pig, though.” Judy
grimaced, thus demonstrating her filial devotion. She went on, “My
goodness, but aren’t you all dolled up tonight? You look swell.”
Judy sounded as if she’d never encountered a more flabbergasting
sight in her life than Mari looking swell.

Mari felt her lips pinch together and made an
effort to relax them. No sense advertising her discomposure. “I’m
here tonight on business.” She tried to make the remark sound
casual, as if such things happened to her all the time. Judy, of
course, knew better and let all three of them at the table know it
with the dubious lift of her eyebrows.

“Oh. How nice.” Judy gave up on Mari and
turned to the men. Mari blessed her silently. The waitress’s gaze
seemed to get stuck on Tony. She simpered and tugged her apron
straight, and Mari retracted her silent blessing. “You want the
steak or the pot roast?”

With a roll of her eyes, Mari decided it
would be a good thing if Judy got out more, saw more of the world.
A body would think this was the first time she’d ever seen an
attractive man, the way she gawked at Tony Ewing. She was so
obvious, Mari wanted to hit her. She also wanted to hit Tony, who
gave Judy one of his winning smiles. He had never smiled at Mari
like that. The only smiles Mari ever got from the big snooty
moneybags were nasty ones.

“Do you have a preference, Miss
Pottersby?”

Mari jerked her head in Martin’s direction.
She’d forgotten all about him, which had been a big mistake since
he was the nice one of these two men. She undertook to deliver a
gracious smile. “I don’t think it makes much difference. I hear
they’re both pretty bad.”

Judy muttered something that Mari didn’t
catch. Served her right, though. Judy had no business flirting with
the customers. Mari sniffed and tried to look superior. Since she’d
never done such a thing before, she wasn’t confident about the
outcome.

Tony sent her a scowl. Mari scowled back. It
would serve him right if the food here made him sick.

Martin cleared his throat. Mari got the
feeling he wished he could clear the air so easily. She felt guilty
for a second, before she remembered that these men were here to try
to cheat her. She sat up straighter in her chair and said, “I
believe I’ll have the pot roast, thank you.”

“One pot roast.” Martin smiled with relief
and turned to Tony, who was still frowning at Mari. He said,
“Tony?”

His dining companion started in his chair.
“Oh. Oh, yes. Well now, let me see.” He glanced up and gave Judy
another gorgeous smile.

Mari wished she could kick him under the
table, but he’d probably misunderstand and think she was jealous.
As if she’d ever be jealous of so odious a specimen of mankind as
he. His smile, the one he reserved for people he liked, transformed
his face and made him look charming and approachable and almost
deliciously masculine. It wasn’t fair.

After a moment of his stupidly smiling at
Judy, Tony said, “I believe I’ll try the steak.” He shot a mean
glance at Mari. “I’m sure both main courses are delicious.”

Mari said, “We’ll see,” under her breath.

Judy cast her a triumphant glance.

Martin hurried to say, “I guess I’ll take the
pot roast.” It sounded to Mari as if he were trying to counter
everyone else’s bad mood and worse manners by being especially
festive. Another tiny stab of guilt smote her.

But that was neither here nor there. She had
to keep her wits about her because this evening might make or break
the Marigold Mine. At least temporarily. The depressing truth was
that no matter how much money Mari poured down the ravening maw of
her father’s mine, it was played out. In her heart of hearts, Mari
knew it, although she’d never admit it aloud, even to herself.

The condition of the mine was too depressing
to dwell on right now. She smiled sweetly at Martin. “I’m sure
you’ll enjoy the pot roast.” Transferring her attention, but not
her smile, to Tony, she said, “I hear the steaks are always as
tough as an old boot.”

“So,” said Judy, interrupting mercilessly and
looking as if she could cheerfully kill Mari, “that’s two pot
roasts and one steak. Thank you.” She marched off, and Mari knew
she needed to do some fence-mending in that quarter. She hadn’t
meant to be rude to Judy, darn it. It was all Tony Ewing’s
fault.

Before Tony could use the breath he took to
shower her with intemperate words—not that she didn’t deserve them,
she supposed—Martin rushed into the breach. What a brave man he
was.

“So, please tell us, Miss Pottersby, have you
lived at the Marigold Mine all your life?”

Mari gave him points for attempting to
salvage the evening. “Yes. All my life.”

Tony said, “Hmph.”

Martin said, “You’ll have to tell us about
how mining operations go forward. We’ll need to study up on the
subject for the picture.”

“I’m sure that’s so.” Mari made sure she
pitched her voice to sound honey-sweet for Martin, whom she liked
even if he was probably going to try to gyp her.

“I’ve cabled to the studio in Los Angeles to
send a cameraman out here, Miss Pottersby,” Martin went on. “As
soon as he arrives, we’ll have him take some moving pictures of
you. I’m hoping you’ll look as good on film as you do in
person.”

Mari told herself not to get swell-headed; he
probably only said such things to gull his audience. Once he got
them feeling good, he’d strike like a rattler. Since she hated to
think such things about Martin Tafft, she shifted the blame for
such sleazy business tactics onto Tony Ewing’s broad shoulders,
where it fitted more naturally

“I’m sure I’ll be very nervous,” she told
Martin. Shoot, she was already very nervous. To counteract her
jitters, she sat taller and lifted her chin. Out of the corner of
her eye, she caught Tony observing her. She wished he’d take
himself off somewhere so she could calm down.

“You needn’t be,” Martin assured her. “People
don’t generally realize it, but a person either looks good on
screen or he doesn’t. It’s the camera that decides. That’s not
universally true, of course, but it’s the case more often than not.
If your loveliness doesn’t come through on film, it’s the
industry’s loss.”

And hers, Mari thought glumly. Five thousand
dollars would be a gigantic loss to her.

To keep from being disappointed, she reminded
herself that the offer was probably a lot of hooey to begin with.
She wasn’t altogether successful. Even the thought of so much money
thrilled her.

“Would you like a glass of wine, Miss
Pottersby?”

Tony had asked the question, breaking into
the conversation abruptly. Mari thinned her eyes and peered at him
narrowly. Wine? Good grief, was she going to have to drink wine?
Were they going to ply her with liquor to get her to sign some
contract detrimental to her financial situation? Not that there
could be any situation much worse than the one she already
occupied.

Then again, wine drinking was probably
expected at these business dinners. All sophisticated people drank
wine. Since she was about as unsophisticated as a human female
could get and had never even thought about wine, much less tasted
it, she wasn’t sure about that, but she read widely and recalled a
lot of wine being drunk by rich people in books and magazines.

She swallowed uncertainly, hoping this wasn’t
an evil plot on the part of her dining companions to weaken her
resolve. “Thank you. That would be nice.” She hated being even this
courteous to Tony Ewing, but knew it would be worse to show her
dislike openly. Except when he was being mean to her. Then she
could be mean back. That was only getting even, and that was
allowed.

Or was it?

Lord God Almighty, Mari was so jumpy, she
wouldn’t have been able to recite the twenty-third psalm at the
moment, even though she’d recited it every day of her life until
her father died. He’d liked her to say it as an evening prayer.

Thinking about her father and his favorite
psalm made her sad, so she ceased.

“When did your father die, Miss Pottersby?”
Tony asked as if he’d tiptoed into her brain and known she’d been
thinking about her father. As he spoke, he poured from a bottle of
red liquid into a glass the likes of which Mari had never seen in
person. It had a stem and was a glass especially designed to hold
wine. Mari recognized it from pictures she’d seen.

Trust this rat to bring up her innermost
thoughts and spill them all over the dinner table. She frowned and
said, “He’s been gone for six months now.”

“I’m sorry.” This gentlemanly comment came,
naturally, from Martin, who had a shred or two of human compassion
in his soul. “His passing must have been very difficult for
you.”

“It was. Thank you.” Mari lifted her glass,
took a largish drink of wine because she felt insecure, and nearly
choked to death. She set down her glass, too hard, and some of the
liquid spilled onto the white tablecloth, thus adding humiliation
to her already skittish state. Blast it all.

As she wiped her teary eyes with her dinner
napkin, she noticed Tony eyeing her from over his own wineglass.
She sensed him smirking at her, although he was too suave to do so
openly. She hated him then.

Once her nerves settled somewhat, she
admitted that this latest gaffe on her part eliminated any
necessity to pretend a sophistication she didn’t possess. Nobody’d
believe her at this point, whatever she did.

In order to show Tony Ewing that she had a
sense of humor, as well as the mine he wanted so darned badly, she
grinned at Martin. “Can you tell I’ve never drunk wine before?”

Martin grinned back and lifted his glass in a
salute. “It takes some getting used to.”

It sure did. Although she didn’t want to, she
shot a peek at Tony. If he’d been smirking before, the expression
had tipped upside-down, and now he frowned. Fortunately, his frown
wasn’t aimed at her. In fact, he didn’t even mention her abysmal
table manners when he next spoke. “Maybe we should get down to
brass tacks.”

Mari blinked at him. What brass tacks? The
mine? Are those the brass tacks he meant? She was willing, although
she’d sort of expected the Peerless people to try to curry her
favor awhile longer before they talked business.

“Tony . . .” Martin appeared displeased.

“I don’t think a dinner in this place is
going to soften Miss Pottersby’s heart,” Tony said in a tone that
told Mari exactly what he thought of her: nothing. He did do her
the honor of looking at her when he next spoke. “If she has a
heart.”