Chapter Thirteen
Lance led the way to a frontier-style hotel with a wooden water pump and a rustic wagon wheel on either side of the entrance. Inside, a hostess in a flowery bonnet and long hooped skirt that suggested an outrageous bustle underneath met them. Lance apologised for having no reservation with an authority that challenged the girl to suggest the restaurant required them, and they were shown to a corner table laid with lacy drapery and decorated with flickering candles. Isobel’s thoughts had still to move on from the drama with the cameraman.
“Sorry about what happened back there. I guess I over-reacted.”
“Just a bit,” said Isobel, her voice low and halting.
“I don’t take kindly to having cameras shoved in my face, or to being man-handled, that’s all.”
“He only wanted a picture,” she said, her voice distant, her hands gripped together.
“Ninety-nine times out of one hundred things are what they seem to be. But you can never be too careful.”
“Careful about what?”
“Pictures from street hustlers can end up in places you don’t want them.” Lance reached out and gave her hands a soothing stroke. “I just threw a simple judo move like kids learn in school. That way no one gets hurt.”
“You frightened me, Lance.”
“I didn’t mean to do that.” Lance’s apology had its limits. “But next time the guy wants to take a photo, he’ll know better.”
They fell silent until the waitress arrived and took their drink order.
“Apart from the street drama, how’s the day so far?” asked Lance, his tone now chirpy again.
“I think I’m over the street drama, thanks. So yes, I’m enjoying the day…and more than I expected. I didn’t know places like this still existed, other than on film sets. I just wish we could spend more time here,” she said, immediately wishing she hadn’t.
“We’ve come at a good time of year,” he replied, neatly ignoring the possibilities of her statement. “In a couple of months it’ll be a zoo, particularly on weekends. And don’t even think about the harvest festivals. But today you’re only getting a glimpse of what you can do here; a few miles outside town and you’re into the chaparral. Hiking, biking, riding the trail, cooking beans on an open fire, dodging rattlesnakes—you can do it all.”
Isobel startled. Sometimes it felt like Lance had an uncanny way of hitting her weak spots. Horseback riding had been her favourite pursuit; now, it was just one more part of a life that only existed in her memories.
“You ride as well as fly?” asked Isobel, trying her best to keep her enquiry casual and her voice level.
“It’s something I did enjoy, once upon a time.” His thoughts seemed to float off elsewhere, and Isobel took a sip of water before continuing.
“Is it something you used to do with Jessica? I think I remember you saying you spent a lot of time together.”
“Yep, used to,” said Lance, hurriedly turning to beckon the waitress.
Isobel realised Lance too could be hit on a weak spot. “I think we’re ready to order,” he said, the changed tone in his voice a signal that he had drawn a line under the discussion of pastimes lost.
Isobel ordered a salad followed by apple pie and Lance opted for a steak, asking if he could share the slice of pie. She answered him with a teasing “perhaps.” The wholesome country food and pleasing conversation worked on her mood, rekindling the feeling of well-being, drawing her in closer and, it seemed to Isobel, drawing Lance in too. The incident with the cameraman now seemed like a bizarre aberration in an otherwise carefree day. When the apple pie finally came it almost filled the plate, surrounded by dollops of ice cream; she agreed to share with conspiratorial enthusiasm, and they tucked in together with their spoons like two hungry orphans.
“If you can finish the pie, the lunch is free,” said Lance, leaning back and blowing out his cheeks. “Legend has it a desperado from south of the border is the only one to ever have done it, but he never made it out the door.”
“So the moral of the story is not to try and leave without settling the check?”
He laughed. “If there’s any truth in the tale, that’s probably closer to it.” He ran his spoon around the bowl, scraping up the remains of the ice cream. “Too good to waste,” he said, and offered the scoop to her lips.
She hesitated, and then delicately put her fingers to take the spoon, but he did not release his hold. His eyes dared her to lean forward and suck off the cream, but she held his look, removing her own hand. The spoon stayed suspended between them. He stretched forward and put the flatware to her lips. She broke the silence with a giggle before hoovering up what he offered.
While they were waiting for their coffee, Isobel made for the bathroom to check her phone. She found two missed calls and two text messages, all from Ryan, saying things were calming down in LA and asking if she wanted him to come down to San Diego that evening. He signed off with “Missing you like hell babe.”
Isobel rubbed her brow, thinking that fate had conspired against her. She thought first to agree, reckoning that she could be home by early evening, perhaps having Lance drop her at the supermarket to avoid any possibility of more doorstep fisticuffs. But as she pondered the logistics, the weak excuses to Lance, the barefaced lies to Ryan, doubt took over. Why should she, she asked herself, compromise a perfectly enjoyable day to be at Ryan’s beck and call? And the more she thought about it, the more indignation took over from dilemma. She called back but he did not pick up, so she left a voice message that she was out of town, and would call him in the morning.
As they were leaving, Isobel stopped at the desk and asked for the hotel calling card.
“If you’d like a quick look around the hotel, I’m sure they’d be happy to oblige,” said Lance. “Unless you’re too busy,” he added, turning to the girl on the desk.
The girl called the manager, who insisted on taking them around personally. The hotel dated back over a hundred years and it smelt deliciously old. A musty but not unpleasant odour of dust deep in wood, of smoke lingering in ancient stone added to the seeming authenticity. Years of wear had left the mahogany floorboards chiselled and uneven, and each step drew out a groan like the breaking hull of a sinking galleon. The reception reminded Isobel of a Western movie, made more real by a banister staircase of the type that gunslingers would haul the saloon girl up after a night of drinking and a dramatic shootout over a disputed hand of poker.
“Would you like to view the guest accommodation?” said the manager.
“If we wouldn’t be disturbing anyone,” said Lance, before Isobel could say that a look around downstairs would be more than adequate.
“I’ll just show you the Wyatt Earp suite,” said the manager. “Not one of our largest, but typical.”
From the opulence of the room Isobel decided Wyatt Earp liked his creature comforts and, for a gunfighter who died with his boots off, that certainly extended to his sleeping arrangements. A grand four-poster bed lined with drapes took centre stage. The room had been authentically restored and adorned with antique furnishings, with rusty horseshoes and other symbols of the Wild West stuffed into every nook and cranny. A grainy picture of the grizzled old lawman hung above a mahogany vanity dresser.
“Did Wyatt Earp ever stay here?” asked Isobel, keen to draw attention away from the huge bed that dominated the room and somehow made her feel uncomfortable. “We’re quite a way from Tombstone.”
“Well, I’m told Earp moved to San Diego after the gunfight with the Clancy brothers, and according to local folklore he liked to visit Julian, so if he ever did come here, I expect this is the room they would have given him.”
“Do you want to test the bed?” said Lance with a grin, “just in case you ever pass this way again?”
“Thank you, Mr. Denning, but if that should ever happen then I think something more modest would meet my needs. But you go ahead, unless, that is, you’ve already had the opportunity.”
Isobel had not bought anything in Julian and had declined several attempts by Lance to do so on her behalf. He insisted on one more stop. “It would be a shame to leave here without a souvenir to remember it by.”
“I won’t be forgetting the loop-the-loop anytime soon,” she countered smartly, “and I should be getting back.”
“But I still feel bad about the guy with the camera, and you can’t show the loop to your friends when you’re telling them what a great day we had.”
“You really want to go back for a picture?”
“That’s not what I’m thinking; we can do better than a street snapper.”
“And you’re not afraid a camera will steal your soul?” said Isobel, vaguely remembering a fear to this effect amongst native tribes.
“That legend supposes you’ve got a soul to steal,” replied Lance, grinning, “which in my case not everyone would agree on.” He grabbed her hand, one more touch on a day of increasing, albeit fleeting, touches. “Come on, we’ve got enough time before you turn into a pumpkin.”
He whisked her into a shop selling memorabilia and offering period-style photo shoots. In a corner, a camera rested on a tripod in front of a blue curtain.
“We’d like a quick costume photo,” said Lance, charming yet forceful.
The man behind the counter seemed taken aback by the brash approach. “You’ll need to make an appointment.”
“My friend is over here from England and leaves for home today. She has set her heart on a photo, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone standing in line.”
The man looked Isobel up and down in a way she didn’t much care for. “I’m afraid it won’t be possible without an appointment.”
Isobel gave Lance a discreet tug on the sleeve, but he held firm and looked around the shop. “Do you have any glass slippers,” asked Lance, giving Isobel a wink, but only eliciting a frown from the storekeeper. “Thought not,” he continued, “so what about those Abilene cowboy boots over there, the ones with the gold toe-caps, how much are they?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“If you have them in my size, then I’ll take two pairs. Now, while I’m trying them on, can you sort out two period costumes—a cowboy outfit for me and something appropriate for the lady, and set up that camera there?”
The man did his best to save face. “I’ll need to call my assistant.”
Lance sat down on a stool and pulled off his shoes. “I’m a size twelve.”