You
don’t crave what you can’t have. All you do is enjoy each day as it
comes.”
And eat. Tiny ate tons, sometimes more than
Mari could easily provide. The Peerless money would come in handy
for feeding Tiny, too.
In order to keep her mind from dwelling on
useless fancies, Mari started singing. She couldn’t carry a tune in
a bucket, but she loved music anyway. The only time she ever heard
music was when she went to church, so most of her repertoire
consisted of hymns.
She sang them loudly until, when she took
Tony’s jacket outside to hang on, the line, she noticed the
Peerless crew who were pounding the mine shaft into shape had all
stopped pounding in favor of looking at her. They were probably all
pausing to be thankful motion pictures were silent, given her
voice. Like a dog with its tail between its legs, she scurried back
into her home, embarrassed and put out.
“Oh, Tiny, I’m not used to people being
around all the time. I’m used to my privacy.” In fact, she felt
invaded and violated. The sensation was most uncomfortable.
Mari also wasn’t used to making painful
confessions and asking for forgiveness. Two hours later, as she
neatly folded Tony’s once-fashionable jacket and braced herself to
take it back to him, she rehearsed the confession she’d have to
make to him She continued all the way to the Mojave Inn.
That was the easy part. The hard part came
next, when she was supposed to ask him to forgive her for allowing
her dog to ruin his clothes.
“Forgive, heck,” she muttered, building up
quite a head of steam as she walked. “What do I have to be forgiven
for? I wasn’t the one who wore a fancy suit to Mojave Wells. It
isn’t my fault my dog likes him.”
This was the first instance since Tiny had
come into her life that she’d looked on him as a traitor. Still,
she’d known for a long time that although Tiny might be very big,
his brain wasn’t. Anyhow, it still wasn’t her fault the silly dog
had taken a liking to the blasted millionaire.
It was her fault she hadn’t trained Tiny not
to jump on people. Mari knew it. And she hated knowing it.
By the time she spotted Tony Ewing—clad in
another fancy suit—seated on the porch of the Mojave Inn and
sipping an iced drink, Mari was mad enough to chew nails. He and
Martin Tafft were talking, probably about the darned picture they
were going to make here.
Chapter Six
Tony didn’t say anything to Martin when he
spotted Mari Pottersby tramping up to the hotel, carrying a bundle.
He presumed the bundle was his jacket, and he wondered if she’d
managed to fix it. He doubted it.
Not that he gave a rap on a personal level.
What did he care about one measly jacket? Hell, he had enough money
to buy Bloomingdales.
Since her dog had attacked him, Tony’s grudge
against Mari had been growing by the hour, however. He wanted her
to suffer for the animal’s unseemly behavior. He couldn’t have said
why, although he thought it might have something to do with her
illogical loyalty, her damnable lack of respect for him and his
money, and her smart mouth.
It was a pretty mouth.
Damn, he hadn’t meant to admit that.
“Say, Tony, isn’t that Miss Pottersby?”
Tony squinted at Martin and acquitted him of
subtlety. Martin’s open, honest face didn’t betray a hint of
sarcasm. Well, and why should he be sarcastic? It was Tony who had
the problem with the Pottersby wench, not Martin. Martin didn’t
ever have problems with anybody.
“Yeah. I think it is.” He spoke casually, as
if the two men were chatting about espying a lone eagle in the sky.
In Mari Pottersby’s case, it was more like a lone buzzard. Which
might be why Tony often felt like carrion in her presence.
She was a graceful buzzard, though. Even
though the weather stank—the rusty thermometer hanging outside the
Mojave Inn’s back door registered 105 degrees—her back remained
straight, and she seemed to glide across the dusty ground. Tony
wished
don’t crave what you can’t have. All you do is enjoy each day as it
comes.”
And eat. Tiny ate tons, sometimes more than
Mari could easily provide. The Peerless money would come in handy
for feeding Tiny, too.
In order to keep her mind from dwelling on
useless fancies, Mari started singing. She couldn’t carry a tune in
a bucket, but she loved music anyway. The only time she ever heard
music was when she went to church, so most of her repertoire
consisted of hymns.
She sang them loudly until, when she took
Tony’s jacket outside to hang on, the line, she noticed the
Peerless crew who were pounding the mine shaft into shape had all
stopped pounding in favor of looking at her. They were probably all
pausing to be thankful motion pictures were silent, given her
voice. Like a dog with its tail between its legs, she scurried back
into her home, embarrassed and put out.
“Oh, Tiny, I’m not used to people being
around all the time. I’m used to my privacy.” In fact, she felt
invaded and violated. The sensation was most uncomfortable.
Mari also wasn’t used to making painful
confessions and asking for forgiveness. Two hours later, as she
neatly folded Tony’s once-fashionable jacket and braced herself to
take it back to him, she rehearsed the confession she’d have to
make to him She continued all the way to the Mojave Inn.
That was the easy part. The hard part came
next, when she was supposed to ask him to forgive her for allowing
her dog to ruin his clothes.
“Forgive, heck,” she muttered, building up
quite a head of steam as she walked. “What do I have to be forgiven
for? I wasn’t the one who wore a fancy suit to Mojave Wells. It
isn’t my fault my dog likes him.”
This was the first instance since Tiny had
come into her life that she’d looked on him as a traitor. Still,
she’d known for a long time that although Tiny might be very big,
his brain wasn’t. Anyhow, it still wasn’t her fault the silly dog
had taken a liking to the blasted millionaire.
It was her fault she hadn’t trained Tiny not
to jump on people. Mari knew it. And she hated knowing it.
By the time she spotted Tony Ewing—clad in
another fancy suit—seated on the porch of the Mojave Inn and
sipping an iced drink, Mari was mad enough to chew nails. He and
Martin Tafft were talking, probably about the darned picture they
were going to make here.
Chapter Six
Tony didn’t say anything to Martin when he
spotted Mari Pottersby tramping up to the hotel, carrying a bundle.
He presumed the bundle was his jacket, and he wondered if she’d
managed to fix it. He doubted it.
Not that he gave a rap on a personal level.
What did he care about one measly jacket? Hell, he had enough money
to buy Bloomingdales.
Since her dog had attacked him, Tony’s grudge
against Mari had been growing by the hour, however. He wanted her
to suffer for the animal’s unseemly behavior. He couldn’t have said
why, although he thought it might have something to do with her
illogical loyalty, her damnable lack of respect for him and his
money, and her smart mouth.
It was a pretty mouth.
Damn, he hadn’t meant to admit that.
“Say, Tony, isn’t that Miss Pottersby?”
Tony squinted at Martin and acquitted him of
subtlety. Martin’s open, honest face didn’t betray a hint of
sarcasm. Well, and why should he be sarcastic? It was Tony who had
the problem with the Pottersby wench, not Martin. Martin didn’t
ever have problems with anybody.
“Yeah. I think it is.” He spoke casually, as
if the two men were chatting about espying a lone eagle in the sky.
In Mari Pottersby’s case, it was more like a lone buzzard. Which
might be why Tony often felt like carrion in her presence.
She was a graceful buzzard, though. Even
though the weather stank—the rusty thermometer hanging outside the
Mojave Inn’s back door registered 105 degrees—her back remained
straight, and she seemed to glide across the dusty ground. Tony
wished
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