Miner's Daughter (8 page)

But Martin only chuckled some more. “Whatever
happened, the screen test looks very good. If you always come
across that way on film, it looks as if you were born for
this.”

She turned and gawped at him for a moment
before she realized he was kidding her. Trying to make her feel
good about making such an idiot of herself. It was nice of him but
unnecessary. Mari had no illusions about herself—or about life, if
it came to that.

Gazing at her in turn, Martin said, “You
don’t believe me, do you?”

Now she was embarrassed. But she told the
truth anyway. “Actually, no. I don’t.”

“Why do you think I’d fib to you?”

Good question. Mari thought about it. “To get
my mine?”

“You’ve already agreed to rent me your mine,
Miss Pottersby. I told you the truth when I said you look exactly
the way the heroine in
Lucky Strike
is supposed to
look.”

She thought some more. “In that case, I don’t
know why you’re fibbing to me.”

Martin shook his head. “I wish you weren’t so
suspicious of our motives, Miss Pottersby. All we want to do is
make the best motion picture we can. If you’re right for the part,
it will help us along.”

That made sense, even to Mari. Still, she
couldn’t feature a man-about-town like Martin Tafft or a stuck-up
rich boy like Tony Ewing actually needing her, Mari Pottersby, to
act in a picture. It didn’t make any sense. Such a scenario was too
far out of Mari’s experience to be believable.

She decided to shut up about it. It was going
to be hard enough watching herself on film without making herself
miserable ahead of time

They found Tony slumping in an uncomfortable
folding chair in a darkened back parlor of the Mojave Inn, looking
grumpy and with his arms crossed over his chest. The pose of
granite-like grievance didn’t last long, since the rag kept
slipping off his head and he had to keep uncrossing his arms to
slap a hand to it When she saw him trying to keep up appearances
thus, Mari’s heart did a teensy jump, and a twinge of compunction
attacked her

“Oh, dear,” she murmured. “I’d really better
fetch some gauze and sticking plaster before we watch this test
thing “

“I’ll help you.” Martin was laughing as he
said it.

Tony didn’t think there was one single little
thing funny about this latest outrageous behavior on Miss Marigold
Pottersby’s part. The woman was a walking disaster. He’d only been
trying to help her, dammit.

She had looked so small and alone and scared
when the camera started grinding that Tony had felt an overwhelming
compulsion to help her make good. And then the fiend had seized a
rock and tried to kill him with it. Damn her and all uncivilized
females to perdition.

He glared at her and Martin when they entered
the room where they were going to screen her test. He wished the
damned washrag would stop slipping. He rose abruptly when they
turned around and walked out again.

“Damnation, where are they going now?”

But they were already gone. They’d left him
They’d taken one look at him, turned around, and left him all by
himself.

Fine. This was just fine. First she tried to
kill him, then she opted to leave him alone to die by himself with
no one nearby to give a damn. All right for her. See if he
cared.

He’d sat back down and resumed stewing in an
even more powerful grump when the door opened again His heart did a
crazy hitching leap when he beheld Mari, armed with scissors, tape,
and gauze, heading his way, although he wouldn’t show his pleasure
to her for all the world.

“Here, Mr. Ewing. I’ve brought a bandage for
you.”

Her voice was soft and musical; it didn’t fit
her. She was anything but soft and musical. She was a stringy
harridan, and she was crazy, obtuse, and dangerous.

“Thank you. You needn’t bother.” He made sure
his voice was as hard as rocks.

The insane woman didn’t seem to care. “Don’t
be a baby,” she commanded, as if his voice hadn’t put her off at
all. “You can’t keep slapping that rag on your head for the rest of
your life. I’ll just bandage it with gauze and tape and you can
forget about it.”

And exactly what did she mean by that? Tony
would never forget that she’d beaned him with a rock. Why, he might
well have a permanent scar from this. Not that he cared about
scars. Still, she seemed mighty nonchalant for a woman who’d
recently attempted murder. Not to mention the fact that it was
terribly humiliating to have allowed himself to be conked by a
female.

“I doubt that I’ll be able to forget about it
entirely, Miss Pottersby, since. I have no doubt the wound will
take some time to heal.” Lord, he did sound rather like a small
child, didn’t he? Trying to cover up, he said with an assumption of
graciousness, “You needn’t bother. I can bandage my own head.”

“You’ll need a mirror to see yourself,” she
pointed out.

Nettled, Tony snapped, “I’m sure I can
manage.”

“Oh, stop being such a darned snot!” Mari had
the grace to blush and press her lips together.

Tony merely glared at her, so indignant his
head began to pound, which he was pretty sure wasn’t doing his
wound any good.

“I’m sorry,” she said almost immediately. “I
didn’t mean that. And I’m sorry I hurt you. Even if you did deserve
it.”

It was as if she couldn’t bear to make a
sincere apology. Livid, Tony said in measured tones, “I was trying
to help you.”

She sighed. “Yes, yes, I know. Now shut up
and let me cover that knot.”

He gave up. “Very well.”

“You might want to try to relax. You’re sure
to get a headache if you stay all mad and tense like that, Mr.
Ewing “

“And exactly how much medical training have
you had, Miss Pottersby?”

She sighed again. “Go ahead, belittle me. But
I’ve learned how to doctor most injuries and illnesses in my
life.”

“I’m sure.” He hoped he sounded disparaging,
because that’s how he felt.

She didn’t argue. Her fingers handled the
gauze and scissors deftly, and she created a perfect pad for his
poor head. The wound throbbed, and Tony wondered if she was right
about him getting a headache if he didn’t calm down. Dammit, he
didn’t want her to be right. About anything.

“After I get the pad taped in place, I’m
going to massage your neck,” she told him

He jerked away from her, spoiling Mari’s aim
and getting a piece of plaster stuck to his nose. He yanked it away
furiously. “You’re going to what?”

“Will you stop that?” She ripped another
length of tape from the roll and snipped it off. She was sticking
the strips to one of the arms of his chair.

He wasn’t sure he trusted her. “Why are you
doing that?” he asked suspiciously.

“So they’ll be ready when I need them.”

That made sense. “Oh.” He still didn’t like
it.

“Stay still, or we’ll never get this
done.”

But Tony wasn’t so easily mollified. “You
said something about massaging my neck. What was that about?” It
was outrageous. It was scandalous. No proper female put her bare
hands on a gentleman’s flesh, massage or no massage, wound or no
wound.

“For pity’s sake, calm down and stop being
such a sissy,” Mari commanded

“Sissy? Sissy!”

“Yes. Sissy. You’re thinking it’s improper
for me to massage your neck, aren’t you?”

Tony clamped his mouth shut and didn’t answer
her sarcastic question, mainly because he’d have had to say
yes.

“Well, for your information, mister, massage
helps relax a body. When you have to live rough, you learn not to
be fussy about maintaining all of the silly airs and graces people
who live in towns think they need to survive. They’re wrong, you
know. All of those things are unnecessary luxuries.”

Airs and graces? Was the woman mad?

Stupid question. Of course, she was. Although
he hated it, the notion of Mari’s fingers massaging his neck
appealed to him. Tony sat back in his chair and glowered at her.
“Very well. If you must.”

“I swear, men are such babies,” Mari muttered
as she dabbed more iodine onto his cut head.

He winced inside, because it hurt. But he’d
be boiled in oil before he’d let her know it.

“There. Now don’t move again, or we’ll never
get this done.” She gently placed the pad over his wound and held
it there while she plucked one of the pieces of tape from the arm
of his chair.

In order to bandage him properly, she had to
lift her arms, thus giving Tony an up-close and perfect view of her
bodice. She had a nice shape. And she obviously didn’t go in for
corsets and a lot of boning. Although she was slender, the curves
he could see were all hers. He could tell, because her nipples
pressed against the calico. Tony swallowed and couldn’t decide if
he was more happy to have found that out, or the opposite.

She worked fast. Too fast, in Tony’s opinion.
He wanted to investigate her attributes for a while longer.

No such luck. He had just about decided that
the size of her breasts was probably perfect—not mere fried eggs
and not balloons, but a delicious handful—when she sat back,
lowered her arms, and said, “There. All done.” She sounded
intolerably self-satisfied.

“If I get an infection . . .” his voice
trailed off, because he didn’t want her to accuse him of being a
baby again.

“You won’t get an infection,” she said with
conviction.

He wanted to argue, but held back because he
didn’t want her to think he was sniveling. In truth, he was only
furious and wanted to lash out at her for catching him unaware and
beaning him. He was a man, blast it, and she was a skinny little
snippet of a female.

Perhaps not skinny . . .

At all odds, she was female, and females were
supposed to be weaker and less capable than men. They weren’t
supposed to bash men over the head with rocks.

Miss Marigold Pottersby was about as weak and
incapable as a grizzly bear. With elaborate courtesy, he bowed to
her from his chair. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Her head tipped slightly to one side, she
gazed at him through slitted eyes. “And if you do get an infection,
be more than happy to lance it for you.”

Her smile was as evil a one as Tony had ever
seen. For some reason, it made him want to laugh out loud and hug
her hard. Good God, insanity must be contagious. “Thanks a
lot.”

“Think nothing of it.” She gathered her
medical accoutrements together, rose from her chair in a more
stately manner than Tony would have guessed her capable of, and
trounced off to Martin’s side.

Martin, Tony noticed with interest, was
grinning at the two of them, as if he thought they were as cunning
a pair as he’d ever seen. Tony’s urge to laugh vanished. Miss
Marigold Pottersby was a very dangerous female.

“Ready to watch this thing now?” Martin
queried in a friendly, let’s-all-be-pals voice.

Mari set her tape, scissors, and gauze on a
table. “I guess so.” If she was enthusiastic, she hid it
admirably

“Let’s get it over with,” Tony growled.

Mari frowned at him He frowned back. So they
were back to square one.

Martin had already arranged chairs for them.
While she was doctoring Tony’s wound, Mari had moved a couple of
them out of line. She pushed them back, then sat in the one on the
end, leaving a chair between herself and Tony. Although this didn’t
surprise Tony, it did disappoint him. He couldn’t have said why,
since he really wasn’t keen on being close to a woman who was
evidently out to kill him if she got the chance.

“I thought you were going to massage my
neck,” he said stiffly.

“I’ll do it after this is over.” She sounded
grim.

He had to be satisfied with that.

The screening was to be done against a wall
of the parlor. Ben and Martin had removed two paintings—very bad
ones—from the wall and propped them up next to the sofa. The wall
was more or less white, and would make a passable viewing screen.
The accommodations around this place were pretty pathetic, Tony
thought with an internal sneer.

Then he told himself not to be a snob. Then
he told himself he wasn’t a snob, and that Mari Pottersby was dead
wrong about him. Nevertheless, he felt slightly ignoble about
having had disparaging thoughts about the Mojave Inn. After all,
nobody came here. Why would they? Unless a person had business with
the miners hereabouts, why visit Mojave Wells? It was a terrible
place. A ghastly one. One that no right-thinking individual would
ever visit on purpose, unless he were forced to. As Martin and Tony
had been.

Sighing happily, Martin sat in the middle
chair. Eyeing him, Tony decided Martin, at least, was glad Mari had
chosen to sit apart from Tony. The poor man probably feared a fight
would break out if they sat next to each other.

That was silly. Tony would never strike a
woman, not even one as irritating and hazardous as Mari
Pottersby.

“Can you get the lights, Ben?”

“Sure thing, Martin.”

Tony watched as the cameraman went to the
light switch, pressed the
off
button, and returned to his
camera. The room wasn’t awfully dark, but it was dark enough that
Tony wished Mari were sitting next to him. He still didn’t know
why. But he’d have liked to watch her face as she saw herself on
film. He was curious to see her reaction.

“Okay,” said Ben from behind the projector.
“Here goes. It’s rough and unedited.”

“That’s fine,” Martin told him. “All we need
to see is how Miss Pottersby projects herself on film.”

Tony thought he heard a noise from Mari, sort
of a cross between a moan and a sigh. He looked her way but only
saw Martin. Damn it.

A mechanical sound started, a tunnel of light
flickered from the projector, and images began appearing on the
wall. There were several frames of test patterns, and then nothing.
Into the nothing, a woman walked.