Читать книгу Millionaire Cowboy Seeks Wife - Terry McLaughlin - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

YES, WHISPERED A GIRLISH corner of Jenna’s heart. It’s too soon, nagged the doubting voice in her mixed-up mind. She froze, afraid to shatter the moment or upend the fragile balance of her ambivalence. The tiniest motion, the merest notion might tip the scales too far to ever get her life on the level again.

She sucked a deep breath into her hollow, brittle core and shoved it out with an empty, stilted cheerfulness. “I made some cookies today. Cinnamon oatmeal. I’ll pack some of those in with the sandwich.”

He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand with the gentleness that was as much a part of him as the bronzed skin that stretched over his prominent cheekbones and the blue-black hair that brushed along his shirt collar. “Thank you, Jenna,” he said and stepped away.

The gap between them yawned wider than mere inches of space. “You’ve nothing to thank me for,” she said.

Nothing. It seemed that was all she ever offered, and yet he took it. He lapped it up, every stingy drop of it, and waited and watched for more of the same. She wanted to curse him for his patience, and curse herself for her cowardice while she left him in limbo.

She busied herself arranging slices of beef on slabs of bread. “How are things going?”

“Ellie’s doing fine,” he said, answering another question Jenna had meant to ask. “Maybe you could talk her into going to town with you sometime next week, to get her out of here and get her mind off her troubles for a few hours.”

“And get her out of your hair?”

His low, throaty chuckle seemed to tickle up her spine. “That, too,” he said.

She worked in silence for a few moments, and then he shifted behind her. “Jenna—”

Ellie rushed into the room. “Better get going.”

“Just about finished here,” said Jenna. She picked up the knife and quickly, cleanly sliced Will’s sandwich in half.

FITZ SPRAWLED ON THE THIN slice of burlap-covered foam that passed for his trailer sofa, thumbing through the latest draft of his script. His script. Optioned and paid for. One more step toward his dream of creating the definitive remake of the Cooper classic, The Virginian.

Outside the living area’s low-slung metal window, the whumps and whines of power tools faded as the swing gang broke for dinner. They’d start up again in less than an hour and keep at it under the lights until midnight. He’d seen the second unit loading up gear for a dawn shoot out at some place called Cougar Butte. If he wanted to get any sleep tonight, he should head back to town.

Burke’s familiar four-beat rap sounded at the trailer door.

“It’s open.”

He stepped in and closed the door behind himself. “How are the accommodations?”

“Not bad. The electricity’s on, the plumbing works and the bed’s tolerable.”

“You didn’t mention the kitchen.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Am I fired?”

“Nope.” Fitz smiled at the slightly hopeful note in his assistant’s voice. Burke hated location work. “But you’re not going to get fed until I can get into town to shop for some decent supplies.”

Catering fare on film sets didn’t interest him, as a rule, and he liked to cook. He spent most of his days being what other people wanted him to be. When he dabbled in the kitchen he could relax, and be himself, and please himself.

Hell, in that respect, cooking was more relaxing than sex.

“So?” he asked. “What’s up?”

Burke hesitated. “Stone called.”

“Damn.” Fitz didn’t need to ask what the producer had called about, or what the message was. “No deal.”

“He says he’s not fond enough of the script to take a chance on a western right now.”

“We’re not asking him to put up any money.” Fitz stood and started to pace, but there wasn’t enough room in the trailer to get up to speed. “All we need are some connections. A nudge here or there.”

He grabbed a Corona from the tiny refrigerator and offered another to Burke. “What is it he’s not saying?”

Burke avoided the question with a long, slow sip of beer.

“Samantha Hart.” Fitz twisted off the bottle cap with a little more violence than necessary. “Leno.”

“He did mention it.” Burke shrugged it off. “You knew going in on this a western was going to be a tough sell.”

“But not impossible.” He tossed out his arms. “Hell, I’m surrounded by the evidence.”

He stared at the view outside the window, looking past the base camp of white vans clustered in raggedy rows, past the tidy nineteenth-century farmhouse on the slight knoll behind them. When his gaze lifted to the jagged silhouettes of the mountains sprouting from silver-green pastureland, his pulse kicked with anticipation.

Maybe he’d read one too many Louis L’Amour novels. Maybe it was genetic—his grandfather had lassoed the family’s Hollywood connections working with John Ford on Stagecoach. Maybe he was just a sentimental fool. Whatever the reason, he wanted a chance to make The Virginian, and to play that role, with a passion he hadn’t felt for anything else in his adult life.

It was a huge gamble, but if he wanted to win big, he had to bet big. Myron Greenberg had howled with rage and expanded his cursing vocabulary when Fitz had signed on for this relatively small Van Gelder film. But there was a lot more riding on this Montana location shoot than the filming itself. If he could pull this off, if he could prove to the studio heads that audiences would pay to see him on horseback, he could make his movie the way he wanted it made. Big, and bold, and packaged with the best a production could have.

All he had to do over the next few months was focus on Wolfe’s Range—act his heart out, promote it until he was ready to drop and then keep all available appendages crossed that it made a profit.

That, and keep his nose clean and his name out of the tabloids.

He settled on the sofa and glanced at Burke. “So, what’s the next step?”

“Word’s out you’ve been talking to Stone.” Burke squeezed into the compact dining booth and folded his legs under the miniature table. “Seems that brought another interested player out of the woodwork.”

“Funny how that works.” Fitz took a drag of his beer. “Give me the edited version.”

“Lila Clarkson likes the story.”

“The Lila Clarkson who produced Virtual Indemnity?”

Burke nodded. “That’s the one. She’s working with a hot new script doctor. Says he’s a whiz at punching up visuals and dialogue. Can make any project more marketable.”

“Doesn’t she have a first-look deal with Warner?”

“Yes. Yes, she does. But if the Warner execs like what they see, they’d come in on the financing.”

“Or they could tie it up for years.” Fitz set the bottle aside. “Hell, I might never get it back.”

“There’s always the other option.”

Fitz set his jaw to stubborn. “I’ve done everything on this I’m going to do.”

“Look, Fitz.” Burke spread his hands on the table’s surface. “You’re already doing everything an executive producer does, anyway. You’ve optioned the script. You’ve put up the initial financing. You’re trying to get some of the players in place. Hell, you did the whole Cannes scene last month.”

“Don’t remind me.”

There were few things Fitz hated more than Cannes. The tedious glitz, the shallow glam, the deals bubbling underneath it all like brewer’s yeast in a septic tank. He’d gone over early to set up his office, and he’d made his pitch to the international investors, mucking around in the filth along with the other beggars. It had taken a week for him to wash off the stink. But he’d do it all again, and more, if it meant he could make this film his way.

“It’s your deal,” said Burke. “Why not see it the rest of the way through? Why not take the credit?”

“I don’t need to see my name up on the screen more than once.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Burke.” Fitz shifted forward. “Can you honestly see me setting up and running a production company? I barely manage to do the one job I’ve got.”

Burke pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Yes, you somehow manage to do as little as you possibly can. And brilliantly so, in my humble but expert opinion.”

“Besides,” said Fitz, ignoring Burke’s sarcasm, “I’m just not convinced I can do it up right. The way it needs to be done. And I want this done right. I want—”

He held out his hand, grasping for an eloquence worthy of the scenes and emotions in his head, but they slipped away yet again. All he had was his idea, his vision—and his faith in both.

And determination. He’d dredged up plenty of that, for once in his life. He curled his fingers into a fist and brought his hand down, slowly, firmly, on the sofa arm. “I want this done right.”

“Then do it,” said Burke. “You’ve already got everything you need. The name, the connections, the clout.”

He probably did. His mega-paychecks automatically translated to mega-power. But Hollywood loved to watch the mighty fall. He’d done plenty of tripping over the years, but so far he’d managed to keep his balance by keeping to his one small place in the shuffle.

He was an actor, plain and simple, not a hyphen director, a hyphen producer, or a hyphen screenwriter. He’d leave the hyphens to the people with the dual and triple ambitions. One ambition at a time was enough for Fitz Kelleran.

One ambition. To make one film. One perfect, classic version of a perfect, classic novel. To play the role of his lifetime, a part that would require all his talent and ability. He didn’t want to dilute that effort or diffuse his concentration, to ruin his vision at the very heart of its creation. “No,” he said.

“It isn’t the money.”

“No. Though a hell of a lot of it’s already tied up in this, with a nice, neat bow.”

“You know you could get more if you needed it.” Burke stared down at his hands. “Kruppman says he’s got a buyer who’ll take the Thousand Oaks place as is. And it would be one less distraction, a distraction you don’t need right now.”

Fitz sank back against the stiff cushion. The reminder of his financial adviser’s pressure to dump Gramps’s ranch had him feeling mulish again. “My grandfather’s ranch is not for sale.”

“It’s your ranch, now.”

Fitz shrugged, acknowledging the slip.

Burke shrugged, too, and stood. “Do you want me to set up a meet with Lila?”

“Let me think about it.”

“Don’t take too long to make up your mind. She wants to move on this.”

“If she’s really interested, she’ll still be interested when I’m ready to discuss the deal.”

“All right.” Burke slipped his sunglasses out of their case. “If that’s all for tonight, then, I’m heading back to town.”

“Thought I’d head in myself.” Fitz stood and stretched. “Maybe pick up a few groceries.”

“Are you cooking tonight?” Burke tried unsuccessfully to downplay his interest, but Fitz knew his cooking was one reason Burke tolerated his abuse.

“Yep. Want some?”

“Sure.” Burke started out the door ahead of him. “What are you making?”

“Montana grub.”

Burke halted at the bottom of the trailer steps and turned to face him. “Grub?”

“Buffalo steak. Venison stew.” Fitz locked the door behind them. “We’ll see what the locals have that’s fresh.”

Burke paled a bit beneath his California tan. “You’re kidding, right?”

“About my dinner?” Fitz shoved his hands into his pockets and led the way to Burke’s rental car. “Never.”

IT WAS JUST PAST NOON the following day when Ellie staggered up the house’s back steps behind Jody. She was dragging with fatigue, her caffeine overload nudging her closer to cranky than alert.

Her eyes narrowed to slits at a series of hoots and whistles from the direction of the outbuildings. “You go on in,” she told her daughter. “Think I’ll check out the cause of all that ruckus.”

Jody grinned. “Must be the day for it.”

“For what?”

“For checking things out.” Jody sneaked a peek through the screen door and then leaned toward Ellie. “Like the way Mr. Hammond was checking you out.”

“What? Who, Wayne?”

“Yep.” Jody fluttered her eyelashes. “Mr. Wayne ‘Anything I Can Do for You, Anytime’ Hammond.”

Ellie’s cheeks stung with what was working up to be a champion blush. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mom.” Jody reached into her pocket and pulled out some change. “Here’s a dollar. Buy a clue.”

Ellie hid her hands behind her back. Wayne Hammond? No. It couldn’t be. The very idea was… mortifying, to say the least. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, one of us better figure out what I’m talking about,” said Jody, “or this conversation’s going nowhere fast.”

Ellie pulled the stern parental routine. “This conversation has nowhere to go.”

Jody tugged at the screen door. “All I’m saying is, it’s, like, totally obvious Wayne Hammond has the hots for you.”

“Jody?” Jenna called from deep inside the house. “Ellie? You coming in for lunch or not?”

“Coming!” Jody stepped inside and held the door. “Mom?”

Ellie shook her head and backed away. “I’ve got things to do.”

“Okay.” The door slammed shut, and Jody grinned through the screen. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“God.” Ellie turned and fled from the porch.

Wayne Hammond. Wayne Hammond. She groaned as she swung down the gravel road. Probably looking at her and thinking it would be a fine and sensible thing to tear down some nice long stretches of fence between his ranch and hers. Well, hell, he could look and think all he wanted. She was done with giving folks around here reason to think she was marrying for a place to call her own.

She slowed her pace, tripped up by needle-sharp guilt. She’d loved Tom Harrison, surely she had—she’d matched him leap for leap through a carefree, rollicking courtship. He’d been six years older, the wandering prodigal son returned to aid his ailing father, a dashing college graduate with big ideas he’d developed working on bigger ranches. She’d been fresh out of high school and reluctant to leave the only home she’d ever known. So unsure of her footing, so quick to tumble in over her head. And when the daydreams had faded, they’d settled down in comfort and contentment and had made their beautiful daughter.

Maybe neither of them had been built for a deeper passion.

Nothing wrong with that, she thought with a hitch of a shoulder. It was the safe and sensible way to go about living a life and sharing a love. Passion could suck a person into a world of pain.

Or so she imagined.

But oh, just once in her life—just for a moment or two, nothing too risky—just once she’d like to know what it felt like. Just once she’d like to be swept up in something dark and reckless and intensely, wickedly thrilling.

None of those adjectives could be applied in any stretch of her imagination to a relationship with Wayne Hammond, but that was probably a good thing. At least she’d keep her wits about her if he started sniffing around.

She set her chin and picked up her pace. She was doing okay these days taking care of herself and her own. Better than okay, once the extra money from this film started rolling in. She had plans—expanding the herd, replacing some of the equipment with new. Adding to Jody’s college fund, sending Jenna off on one of those cruises she was always talking about.

Maybe her dreams weren’t as audacious as Tom’s, but perhaps she had a better chance of making them come true. And she didn’t need a man to help her do it.

Another round of laughter sailed in on the languid afternoon breeze. Ellie pinpointed its source—the sand arena down along the creek. She hiked the short distance from the calving barn to the stables, and then skirted the low-slung building and headed for the open area beneath a row of cottonwoods.

One of the temporary hires trudged up the path, lugging an armful of bridles and saddle blankets. He nodded politely. “Hey, Ellie.”

“Hey, Nudge.” She tilted her head at the arena. “What’s all the excitement?”

“Fitz is giving ol’ Noodle a try.”

“Noodle?”

“Yeah. You gotta see this, Ellie. It’s quite a show. He already put Pete through his paces. It was something, I’m telling you.”

She snorted. “Pete could make anybody look good.” She tucked her hands in her back pockets and kicked at some loose gravel. “So, why’s he trying Noodle?”

“That gal with the clipboard liked Noodle’s looks. And Fitz said he didn’t want Pete.” Nudge rolled a wad of tobacco from one side of his jaw to the other. “It’s okay to let them check out the stock, right?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. Anything they want, within reason.” Ellie sighed. “But there’s nothing wrong with Pete. He’s a good pick for this job. The director liked him well enough.”

“Oh, Fitz liked him well enough, too,” said Nudge with a shrug, “but he said he was hoping for something a little more quick on the draw.”

“Pete’s okay.”

“Pete’s pokey, Ellie. Everybody knows that.”

“Yeah, but he won’t shy, and he won’t throw some Hollywood dude on his million-dollar ass.”

“I don’t think Fitz is worried about that.”

“I’m sure he’s not.” She rubbed at a tight spot on the back of her neck. “That’s why I get to do it for him.”

“I don’t think you’re gonna have to.” He nodded toward the arena. “Go take a look.”

“I just might.”

“Okay, then.” Nudge lifted the bridles. “Better go get these cleaned off and hung up before the spit dries on ’em.”

By the time Ellie claimed a viewing spot among the crowd hanging on the arena rails, Fitz was switching mounts again, pulling a saddle off Noodle. Brady Cutter, the ranch’s bowlegged stable hand and farrier, was standing to one side, smoothing a blanket over Hannibal, her oversize sorrel gelding.

Not Hannibal. Not my boy.