Desperado's Gold Page 5

  Catalina sank deeper into the old-fashioned tin tub that sat smack dab in the middle of her room and closed her eyes. She’d never been so thankful for a simple bath before … but then, she’d never been quite so dirty before. Her hair was washed and her skin had been scrubbed pink, and still she lingered in the cool water, reluctant to rise.

  With her arms draped over the sides of the tub, she surveyed the room she’d been assigned. There was a high bed that looked incredibly soft, and it was covered with a deep green silk comforter and dotted with pillows — large and small — in gold and shades of green. The dresser looked like a real — and very well-preserved — antique, and there was a cheval glass in one corner.

  Alberta’s was a miraculous recreation of an old saloon. Even the old tub she sat in, and the outhouse she’d been forced to use. That was carrying things a bit too far, in her opinion. Maybe the director was an eccentric, forcing all the actors to live their roles twenty-four hours a day. Catalina frowned, thinking of one of those performers.

  That floozie Juanita was a terrible actress, and her legs were like toothpicks. What did a man like Jackson see in a woman like that? Catalina didn’t even try to answer that question. She’d seen the way Juanita had clung to Jackson, had seen the way they kissed. Physical attraction. Sex. In real life or in the movie? Catalina sighed and rubbed her temples with pruning fingers. The line was fading, and she didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t anymore. All she knew for certain was that Jackson Cady had saved her, and that he was a really good kisser. Catalina raised one leg into the air. All those long walks, the aerobic classes … she’d never been able to trim her waist as much as she wanted, but her legs were all right. Next to Juanita’s chicken legs, they’d really look good.

  The door swung open, and the chicken-legged hussy herself sauntered in, a small stack of clothes in her hands. Green silk and black lace, from what Catalina could see, with black stockings and a pair of black boots like Juanita’s sitting on top of the neat stack.

  “Alberta asked me to deliver this.” Juanita had a slight accent, and you had only to look at her striking face to see that she was of mixed blood. Mexican, certainly, and perhaps some Indian blood as well. Except for her legs, she was beautiful, with pouting lips and black eyes, and really great breasts … and a tiny waist. And that hair, black and silky and hanging straight to her waist. She tossed the costume on the end of the bed and turned to leave.

  But at the door she stopped and twisted her head to look down at Catalina. “Stay away from Kid Creede,” she warned. “He’s mine.”

  “Oh, are you engaged? Married?” Catalina asked casually. “He didn’t mention it.”

  A sly smile passed over Juanita’s lips. “No. Not yet. But we will be soon. He’s taking me to San Francisco.”

  “Funny, he didn’t mention that, either.”

  The fact that Juanita’s smile didn’t falter at all unnerved Catalina a little. The hussy was so sure of herself … maybe it was true. Maybe Jackson and Juanita would be leaving Baxter for San Francisco when the movie was done. After all, she had just met him the day before, and there was certainly no reason for her to be so obsessed with the man. He was good-looking, that was all, and he had saved her. Wasn’t that some sort of syndrome? She’d read about that somewhere: falling for a man who had rescued you. A doctor, a fireman, a policeman … an actor who pretended to be a long-dead gunman.

  “He’s a nice guy,” Catalina said with a sigh. So, he really was taken. Not a very faithful boyfriend. That kiss had been wonderful, and if she hadn’t put a stop to it …

  Juanita laughed harshly. “A nice guy? Kid Creede? He’s a killer, a man who looks out only for himself. But he has money, and he’s clean, and he treats me with respect. That’s more than I can ask of any man.”

  Catalina could think of no proper response to that. He was clean? And had money? A killer? There was no mention of love, and Juanita had obviously been speaking about Kid Creede, the gunman, not Jackson Cady, the actor. A chill started at the base of Catalina’s spine and worked its way up as Juanita slammed the door behind her.

  Something wasn’t right here. The cameras weren’t rolling. In fact, she hadn’t seen a single one. Or a single person out of costume. Or a phone or a car or a director. And still all the actors played their parts. Method acting? Or were they all nuts?

  Including Jackson?

  Five

  *

  She’d been dressing forever, it seemed, and she was almost finished.

  Her bath had been followed by a hot meal delivered to the room by a scantily dressed woman only slightly less surly than Juanita. This one — she’d mumbled the name Winnie — was fleshy and plump, and her brown hair was thin and poorly styled. Still, she wore next to nothing, and when she moved too quickly the low neckline of her flimsy dress fluttered and an entire breast was bared. Catalina considered telling Winnie that she needed a pin or a scarf at her neck. Surely she wasn’t aware of the display. And then Catalina was certain that the exposure was no mistake.

  Evidently she was to be dressed a little differently from Winnie. Layers and layers of clothing, including several pieces she didn’t quite know how to put on. There was a thin lace-trimmed chemise against her skin, and a pair of bloomers. Bloomers! Ribbed stockings, black and thick, came well over her knees, and there was a pair of ankle-high black lace-up boots that were just a bit too large.

  The corset was the killer. Winnie, no friendlier than she’d been when she’d delivered dinner, was there to assist, and she pulled the strings so tightly, Catalina could barely breathe. There was a definite benefit to the device, Catalina thought with a smile as she looked into the cheval glass. No wonder Juanita and Alberta had such small waists. No aerobics required.

  The dress was emerald green and black lace, and was cut so low her nipples all but showed. Her breasts were pushed up, giving the illusion that she had cleavage. No, she amended as she faced the mirror. With the tight corset and the low-cut dress she did have cleavage.

  The emerald green skirt came just to her knees. The length was certainly far from daring, but the skirt was full and swished when she walked. With a bounce in her step Catalina practiced walking back and forth, crossing the room again and again. What would Jackson think of her in the costume?

  Alberta herself fixed Catalina’s hair, and Catalina was grateful. Winnie, who had corseted her so tightly, might have snatched her bald-headed before she was done.

  But Alberta brushed her hair almost tenderly, leaving the slightly curling tresses hanging down her back. The longer strands that sometimes fell across her cheeks were pulled back, and Catalina got her feather — a black plume that brushed one cheek when she turned her head quickly.

  Alberta took on an almost motherly attitude as she helped Catalina apply the strange makeup. Lip rouge, she called it, and a white powder she dusted lightly over Catalina’s face.

  When she was done Alberta leaned back and smiled. “You look lovely, Cat.”

  Inwardly, Catalina cringed. All her life people had tried to stick her with that nickname, and she hated it. “Catalina, please.”

  Alberta obviously didn’t like being corrected. Her gray eyes hardened, and her smile faded for a moment. Then it was back. “Never mind about that. You’ll knock ‘em dead.”

  “I’m really not much of an actress,” Catalina confided.

  Alberta patted Catalina’s arm. “I know. The best thing to do is to clear your mind. Don’t act; don’t try to pretend. Be yourself. That’s what they like.”

  That’s what they like. Apparently someone in charge would be downstairs. A director or a producer or … someone.

  “Be myself,” Catalina repeated, nodding her head slightly.

  Alberta opened the door for her, and waited for Catalina to leave the sanctuary of her room. For some reason she felt sick to her stomach, as if something were terribly wrong. Was this stage fright?

  The saloon had changed in the hours she’d been upstairs. It was
dark outside, and the place was lit with lanterns and gaslights. It was noisy, and the bottom floor that had been all but deserted that afternoon was now filled to capacity.

  Catalina stood on the stairs and surveyed the scene below. Smoke hung over the room like a low cloud, and the tables were occupied by more actors in costume. None looked as fine as Kid Creede, of course. She searched the room for him first. He would certainly stand out in a crowd like this. Catalina wrinkled her nose as the smell of unwashed bodies reached her.

  They appeared to be mostly miners, covered with dirt and sweat, bearded and dressed in well-worn work clothes. Not one of them had a nicely trimmed beard like Kid Creede’s. Their facial hair grew unattended, bushy and — she was certain — filthy.

  There were two other girls besides Juanita and Winnie, and they laughed too loudly as they leaned close to apparently drunken actors.

  “Go on.” Alberta prodded her from behind, with a hand on her shoulder.

  “What kind of movie is this?” Catalina asked, her words meant only for herself.

  Juanita was on the other side of the room, sitting in a filthy miner’s lap. She smiled, as if she were smiling at Jackson. Her smile was that bright. The miner whose lap she occupied seemed thrilled, as did the surrounding patrons … actors, Catalina corrected herself.

  “What should I do?” Catalina whispered her question to Alberta, who was losing her patient and motherly look.

  “Be friendly. Mingle. Have a drink. Any one of these men would be thrilled to buy you some refreshment.”

  Catalina looked at the glasses and bottles of whiskey that dotted every table. “I really shouldn’t drink,” she confided. “I have no tolerance … ”

  “Go!” Alberta whispered harshly.

  Catalina stepped cautiously between drinking men seated at tables crowded close together. They leered at her, and one bold man touched her leg, grabbing at her and just missing. He got a slap on the hand for his trouble, but all he did was laugh raucously.

  Just as she was about to reach the bar — what she would do when she got there she didn’t know — a man grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap.

  “You’re new,” he said into her face. What foul breath he had! And she could see bits of his dinner in his beard. God, she hoped it was dinner, and not lunch … or breakfast.

  “Release me,” she said quietly.

  The ignorant miner continued to smile. That was no special effect; he had only three visible teeth. “Oooh, we got us a real lady here at Alberta’s.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Lemme buy you a drink, and I’ll do that,” he countered. His grasp was tight.

  “All right,” Catalina agreed calmly. She would have a drink, find the director, and get an explanation for this bizarre place.

  The miner, who introduced himself as Milford, did release her when the bartender placed another glass of what appeared to be whiskey on the table. Probably tea, or at least watered-down bourbon. Catalina found herself perched on the edge of a chair much too close to Milford, and she lifted the small glass and downed it in one swallow.

  It burned all the way down. Her eyes watered, and she began to choke. The miner clapped her on the back until she could breathe again, laughing throughout the embarrassing episode.

  Catalina lifted watery eyes to Milford. “Who is the director of this debacle?”

  His eyes were blank. “What?”

  “The director. Who’s in charge?”

  He nodded, finally comprehending her simple question. “That would be Harold Goodman. He owns … ” Milford waved one arm grandly. “Hell, all of Baxter, but for this place.”

  “Is he here?” Catalina asked calmly. Finally, someone who could explain all of this to her.

  “Right this minute?”

  “Yes, Milford, right this minute.” Her head was already swimming. From the too tight corset or from the whiskey? She didn’t know and didn’t care. Another glass of whiskey appeared before her, and she downed it.

  Milford seemed to be searching the room. “Nope,” he said after a futile search. “I don’t see him here right now, but I ‘spect he’ll be in shortly. It’s Saturday night,” he added with some special meaning.

  Catalina wrinkled her brow. “No, it’s not,” her words slurred slightly, against her will. “It’s Sunday. Yesterday was Saturday.”

  Milford was shaking his head, and Catalina decided not to bother arguing with him.

  She pushed, herself away from the table, and the room tilted and spun. Grabbing onto the edge of the table, Catalina fell into Milford’s lap.

  “Sorry,” she said as she rose unsteadily to her feet.

  “No apology necessary.”

  Catalina wandered away from Milford’s table. Where was Jackson? He should be here. He could introduce her to the director. He could point out Harold Goodman.

  A series of friendly miners … actors … pulled her onto their laps and placed glasses of whiskey in her hands. Apparently, the only way to escape was to drink the vile stuff.

  Another actor arrived, and this one was dressed like a gambler. Red silk vest, thin mustache, slick grin. Juanita lit on him as soon as he walked through the swinging doors. Catalina watched as the tramp latched herself onto the actor with the dark blond hair and actually rubbed herself against the man. Disgusting.

  Finally she found herself back at Milford’s table … back in Milford’s lap. She perched on a bony knee and closed her eyes so the room would be still.

  She refused the glass he pressed into her hand.

  “Harold Goodman came in a few minutes ago,” Milford whispered as though they shared a deep secret.

  “Where?” Catalina looked around the room, but her eyes wouldn’t focus. If only she had her glasses.

  Milford pointed to the batwing doors, which were swinging nauseatingly as a weaving miner exited. Catalina knew the man who stood just to one side of those doors had to be the director. He was the only man in the room who wasn’t filthy. He was dressed as a cowboy, but his clothes were clean and he carried himself differently. Like he was an important man … or at least thought he was.

  Catalina clasped Milford’s head in her hands, trying to make him be still. “Introduce me.”

  Milford was more than happy to take Catalina’s arm and lead her to the most important man in town. He made the introductions almost formally, as if they stood in her grandmother’s parlor.

  When the introductions were done and Milford had been dismissed by the director, Harold Goodman took Catalina’s hand.

  “You’re new.”

  Catalina was thinking that he was awfully young to be a director, but then maybe he had money, or his father was famous, or he was one of those child geniuses.

  “Yes I am,” she said, trying to speak clearly. “And I really would like to speak to you. There’s something very strange going on here.”

  There was a buzzing in the room, or else a buzzing in her head, or both, and she covered her ears momentarily.

  “Too noisy in here for you, Catalina?” he asked, leaning in to speak into her ear.

  Catalina nodded. “It really is. Do you think there’s some quiet place we can talk?”

  Harold Goodman smiled, and it wasn’t at all pleasant. He looked rather like a weasel when he smiled. “Your room, perhaps?”

  “Sure,” Catalina started toward the staircase at the back of the room.

  Alberta waited at the foot of the staircase, a feline smile on her face.

  “I see you’ve met our Cat,” she said to Goodman, ignoring Catalina and offering both hands to the director.

  “Yes. She’s lovely.” Goodman kissed the back of Alberta’s hand. “Wherever did you find her?”

  “She was a gift from an old friend.”

  Catalina tried to interrupt, but they ignored her. First of all, she hated to be called Cat, and secondly she was not a gift, and thirdly … she forgot what came thirdly.

  “Go on up,” Alberta said to Goodman. “She’s i
n the green room.”

  Goodman nodded to each of them and started up the stairs.

  Alberta gave Catalina a smile that was very unlike the one she’d given Goodman. It was almost mercenary. “Very good, Cat. Getting your claws into Harold Goodman before he’s even had a chance to mingle with the other girls. You’ll do well here.”

  “I just want to … ”

  “Don’t worry,” Alberta whispered, leaning close and placing an arm around Catalina’s shoulders. “The girls say he’s real quick.”

  Catalina came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the staircase. “He’s what?”

  “Quick. Done in a flash. You’ll be back down here before you know it.”

  “We’re just going to talk.”

  Alberta shook her head. “Hell, if I know Harold, he’s naked and ready as we speak. All you have to do is lie down and … ”

  Catalina took a step back. “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” There was no more maternal charm in Alberta’s eyes.

  “I mean, I never have before, and I can’t just … ” Catalina waved a hand at the deserted staircase. At that moment the chubby girl who had tied Catalina’s corset walked past, a miner on one arm. They walked up the stairs, and the miner’s hand dropped down to squeeze Winnie’s ample butt.

  “I’m not a hooker,” Catalina whispered loudly. “I’m a librarian.”

  “Girlie, you owe me,” Alberta said harshly. “For the room, and the bath, and the meal, and the clothes on your back. You can and you will entertain my customers.”

  Catalina closed her eyes. She was hearing everything wrong because she’d had too much too drink. “I can’t. I’ve never … I was waiting for my wedding night, and I know that’s unusual in this day and age, but it’s really important to me.”

  “You’re a virgin?” Alberta asked in a low voice, her anger gone.

  Catalina nodded. Alberta understood. Everything would be all right.

  “You’ve never been with a man before?” Alberta asked, as if to clarify that Catalina knew what a virgin was.

  “No,” Catalina said, leaning against the banister. “There’s been a terrible misunderstanding here.”