 
The Greatest Love Story Never Told

A Jessica Thorpe Novel

By William Wresch

Copyright 2019 William Wresch

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After her husband is killed, Jessica retreats to her resort in Galena, Illinois. While she is deep in mourning, a Hollywood film company comes to the resort and invites her to join them in a film about Narcissa Whitman, the woman who helped create the Oregon Trail. Jessica rebuilds her life, and finds new love on the way to Oregon.
Chapter 1

Willie Meets Willie

Willie said he would take me to Paris for our second anniversary. But there is so much more to that story. It was Willie, so he waited to the right time, the right place, and the perfect setting before he asked me. "Perfect" does not begin to describe what he did. The man is amazing.

We were in Galena. Much as I love Amberg, Galena was more fun. Our resort there had great music, great people, and great memories. So we used it as our headquarters for Heritage Hotels, now numbering ten. We had the seven I inherited from Shakira, paid for with the help (and apologies) of the FBI, and three we had bought over the last two years – La Crosse, St. Paul, and Duluth. In all three cases local owners – and the city mayors – came to us. We had a reputation -- one more thing I had inherited from Shakira, and maybe enhanced a little bit with Willie's help.

We added several management people to the front office at Galena, and I spent some time visiting our hotels and dealing with occasional problems, but we hired carefully, and much of the daily grind was handled by people who were pretty talented. So much of my day started with office chores, but ended on the dance floor. The Galena Resort had three different music venues, one of which was handled by Willie. "Willie Sings Willie" actually occurred in our smallest venue, but that's the way Willie liked it. He sang Willie Nelson songs, couples danced, I tended bar in the back of the room, and when he put a tape on for breaks, he and I would dance. And yes, he sang softly in my ear while he held me tight, and managed to get at least one hand on my ass for most of the dance. One more reason to love our time in Galena.

So. Paris? Willie was doing his second set, and I was mixing margaritas, and in walked Willie Nelson. I about dropped my pitcher. It really was Willie Nelson. And he walked straight up to the stage, got his guitar out of a case, and sat down next to my Willie. They were a duet. What the hell? My Willie is sitting there like Willie Nelson came in to join him every Tuesday or something. And I notice – for the first time – there is a second chair and second mic all ready for the man. So this was expected? How?

I am standing behind the bar, frozen in place, but I am the only statue in the room. Everyone else is moving towards the stage. The tables had only been about half full before (my Willie is good, but not that good), but now there was a rush of people in from other places, phones taking pictures and texting, and general noise from conversations and real excitement. Meanwhile, my Willie and the Willie do "Blue Eyes Crying." A few couples dance, but the room is full now, and everyone just wants to get close to the stage and take pictures and videos. The two Willies just sing and smile.

They finish that number and the Willie Nelson says, "Jess." He pauses and looks back at me behind the bar. "There is a man up here who would like to dance with you."

Well, I am no fool. The room was crowded, but people let me through, and I came up to the stage. Meanwhile my Willie took off his guitar and held out his arms to me. I practically jumped into them. Willie Nelson sang "You were always on my mind," my Willie held me tight, the room exploded in applause, and I kissed every part of Willie's face I could reach.

Willie Nelson finished the number, and then said (really) "My turn." The two Willie's exchanged places, my Willie played "On the Road Again," and the Willie Nelson and I danced, well, we danced as well as we could given how crowded the place was. If you are curious, Willie Nelson is pretty old, and fairly short. As he stepped toward me I kicked off my shoes, or I might have been taller than him. But when you are right there with him, you don't think about the lines on his face, or how gray his hair is. You notice how his hair is braided down his back, and you wonder what woman got to do that, and you notice his huge eyes. And his big smile.

The man can dance, and people backed off just enough so he could spin me, moving pretty loose and fast for a man his age. When the song ended, I had to hug him, and I had to ask, "Thank you for coming, but..."

"Willie asked, so here I am."

"Willie asked?"

"Years ago, I walked into a bar I should not have walked into. I was looking for my favorite plant. Your Willie waved my up on stage, and in between numbers he blew his cover and warned me not to go into the back room. Narcs."

"Wow."

"Yes. And I have always wanted to see this place. I wish I had been able to meet Shakira." I think he wanted to say more, but people were pressed all around us. He smiled, thanked me for the dance, and then danced with an endless stream of women while my Willie did "Blue Eyes crying" about six times in a row while women surrounded Willie, took selfies, and offered him room keys.

He danced for almost an hour while my Willie sang every Willie song he knew, usually three or four times. Then the Willie got back up on stage, and they did a set for another forty five minutes. My guy actually did a nice job with some harmonies. I was back at the bar. Fortunately two other bartenders joined us (my people are really sharp), and we managed to keep the waiting lines from getting too long. We were helped by the fact that almost everyone was riveted by Willie's presence and performance.

Eventually the set ended, the two Willie's talked for a few minutes, and then the Willie Nelson packed up his guitar and left, pulling a train of people behind him, some talking to him as he walked, some just happy to have another look at him.

Once the room cleared, I walked up to the stage, grabbed my Willie by the belt, and pulled him behind me back to our room. I wanted him in our bed and in me, and I wanted it now. And that's what I got. The man performed perfectly, even though he was being hampered by a crazy lady who had her arms around his ribs tight enough to stop his breathing, and her mouth all over his face. I was insatiable. He was fabulous. My man.

Sometime later that night, I had my arms and legs wrapped around him so tightly he couldn't move, but I had calmed enough that I could talk. I hoped he could too.

"You invited Willie Nelson."

"It was easier than you might think."

"Because you saved him from a drug bust."

"Because he's a good man."

"Thank you." This ended our conversation for a while. I kept my face smashed against his, and my legs, well, they competed with my arms to see which could held him the best. It was a close competition.

He seemed determined to talk, and eventually he was able to draw enough breath to continue.

"This was the first part of your anniversary gift. For the second part, I will take you anywhere in the world you..."

"Paris."

"Sure. If that's where..."

"Paris." I pulled his head down next to mine and kissed him until we both fell asleep.

Paris. Why Paris? I had seen Casablanca a dozen times. Ingrid Bergman wore a blue dress and a white hat with a wide brim. She and Rick rode around the Arc de Triomphe in a convertible, drank champagne, and listened to music. Somewhere in there I was certain she had sat with him at a sidewalk cafe. I would do that. I would not leave my man at the trail station. We would do Paris.

Chapter 2

We Do Paris

Our anniversary is in early October. Actually a pretty good time to travel. The vacation rush is over, but the weather is still pretty good. We drove to Chicago, took a nonstop to Paris, seven hours holding hands the whole way. I had my head on Willie's shoulder, and while I didn't sleep, I did like having my head on his shoulder, and his arm around me. I think Bogie held Bergman the same way.

What did we do in Paris? We didn't drive a convertible around the Arc de Triomphe. It turns out a million taxis go around that circle playing chicken with each other. I held my breath, grateful when we got around that circle and to our hotel. It was a nice place, not too far from the Louvre, so we could do all the tourist things.

Maybe a comment here about money. By many standards, we were rich. Each time we bought a hotel, we had to fill in all kinds of financial information, so I know our net worth pretty exactly, and it is north of twenty million. But that is the company's money. It comes from seven hotels that turn a reasonable profit. Of the three new hotels, La Crosse breaks even, and St. Paul and Duluth are drawing serious cash as we do remodels that are years overdue. So money is coming in but also going out. But we have money. Enough to travel to Paris for a couple weeks, something I would never have dreamed of five years ago. But we flew coach, and we stayed in a four star hotel, not the Ritz. It still cost us several hundred dollars a night. Paris is not cheap. But it was Paris. And I was excited, even as I watched the meter on the taxi roll over one Euro after another.

Our room overlooked a courtyard with a very nice garden. It was beautiful. The day was beautiful – sunny and well into the sixties (or whatever that is in Celsius). We arrived in early afternoon. The day was ours if we wished to rush out to the Louvre or to Notre Dame. But Ingrid didn't rush to museums, she looked at Rick, and he looked at her. I was wearing a blue dress. I would find a white hat somewhere in Paris. I had my Rick. I stood looking down at the garden and waited. Willie came up behind me. I pulled his arms around me – my man-shawl. And maybe I moved my backside a bit. Paris was the city of love. It would wait while we held each other and did what lovers do.

So, when we weren't wrestling in bed, what did we do for the next five days? We ate in sidewalk cafes. Two things you don't see in movies. Sidewalks are alongside streets. Streets have cars. Cars make noise and blow exhaust. Paris has lots of cars, lots of noise, and lots of exhaust. The other thing? In Europe people spend hours over a meal. I knew that from my time in Switzerland. I was fine with it. I could see lots of other American tourists were not. So there was some grumbling. By the third day we were eating indoors.

Museums? We had to do the Louvre, and had to see the Mona Lisa. But we ended up seeing a war of wills. A lady guard was by the painting with a sign on a pole – "no flash photography." It was in English and French, but it might as well have been in Martian. People took pictures – with flash – and she held the sign over the painting for the next five minutes as a kind of punishment. Then she would move the sign, and ten people would take pictures – with flash. Weird. But now we can say we saw the Mona Lisa. I am not sure that will ever come up in conversation, but if it does, we have our answer ready.

What museum did I like? The Musee d'Orsay. It's an old train station, easy to get to, but no one goes there. It felt like we had the whole place to ourselves. And they have a whole room of Van Goghs. I stood there a very long time. Ask me the one place I would go to first on any return visit? There. Willie stood behind me, and held me, and I felt like I would disappear into Van Gogh's night sky or his fields.

We did the other stuff people do there. We walked through the Cathedral at Notre Dame (lots of street performers out front), took the elevator up the Eiffel Tower (really nice views), climbed up the hill to the Moulon Rouge (nice movie, but a kind of seedy side of town).

What was most fun? As we came down the hill from the Moulon Rouge, we came to several dress shops -- small places with dresses in the front windows. Willie practically pushed me into the first of the shops. Two ladies came to us. They spoke no English, we spoke no French. But we smiled, and I pointed to a dress I thought looked pretty good. Willie sat down in a small place near the front windows (the shop was pretty crowded), while I was taken to the back, measured, and put in one dress after another. I walked back to the front, spun in front of Willie, popped a hip in his direction, posed, smiled, and enjoyed the look on his face. I already have a larger wardrobe than any other woman in Marinette County, so it's not like I needed more dresses, but... Well, how often can you buy a dress in Paris, and how often can you make your man look like Willie was looking. I ended up buying five dresses, all about knee length in various colors and fabrics, all nice enough for an evening out and some dancing, all nice enough that when I looked at Willie's face, I knew he would help me out of them fast enough. I spun on my heel so my skirts practically hit his face. Yes, he would get me out of this dress the instant we were back in our room.

I wore one of the dresses back to our hotel. Willie carried the others over his shoulder, his free hand never leaving my shoulder, back, or ass. I was right about what he would do the instant we were back in our room. And now I had five Paris gowns.

What else did we do? We took long walks holding hands. We walked along the Seine, we walked along the Champs Elesees, we walked through parks. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we just walked, but we always touched. If we rested on a park bench, his arm immediately went around my shoulders, and I leaned into him. The sun shone every day, the temps stayed in the low sixties, and my man, well, Willie was marvelous.

We spent a fair amount of time in our room, the window open, a cool breeze coming in, our bed throwing off a lot of heat. I was all over him – under him, on him, beside him. I loved doing spoons with him. He would wrap his arms around my chest and hold my breasts. I would back my ass into him, pushing into him, feeling him get more and more crazy. Yes, I teased. Hell, I was deep into seduction. I pushed and slid against him, and when I could feel he was about to lose his mind, I rolled onto my back and pulled him in. When we were finished, I wrapped my arms and legs around him as tightly as I could. I wasn't letting go. He wrapped his arms around me just as tightly. I think that will be my lasting memory of Paris – not the view from the Eiffel Tower, but the feel of his body as we pulled ourselves together. How many times did we kiss? I have no idea. But the number was huge.

So, for us, Paris was museums, walks, cafes, and well, lots and lots of sex. It was our anniversary after all. But we also did some business. Yes, business.

If you own ten hotels, you buy lots of things. People who sell you those things take an interest. The companies that supplied our bars and restaurants heard we were going to Paris. What else is there in France? Wine. Would we like to visit a few wineries? Stay a few nights. Walk the vineyards. All gratis of course. All I know about wine is that some is red and some is white. Put me in a real winery, and I am likely to be embarrassed by my ignorance. But. They said we should take the train down. A train. I had never been on one. I wanted to try it. I balanced my chance at being embarrassed against the opportunity to ride a train, and the train won. We went. Willie? He just smiled and said, "Sure."

Which winery did we choose? Eight had been in contact with us. All seemed to have the same advertising writer. I saw the words "Classic, authentic, historic," and "prestigious" in each invitation. Which did I pick? The one in Bordeaux. Because Bordeaux wine is best? How would I know? But I had a map, and I could see Bordeaux would be the longest train ride. So that's where we went.

Did I like the train ride? How could I not like it? The seats were much bigger than the seats on planes, we could get up and walk around, the dining car served really good food, the ride was smooth, and the train really moved. We saw the countryside flash by – fields, vineyards, hillsides, small villages, wood lots. Willie and I sat close, held hands, and enjoyed France.

So I loved Bordeaux before I ever got there, and once we arrived, I loved it even more. I even knew how to describe it – classic, authentic, historic, and prestigious. I have no idea if it really is prestigious. But it had history in spades. The winery people had a car waiting for us, and the driver took us out of town pretty fast, but what I saw, was historic (old).

The driver was a talker. I guess that was part of the job description. And he spoke English. Before he even had our bags in his car we learned – this part of France was once ruled by the English king, it was now loved by English retirees, we are miles from the ocean, but the (forget the name) estuary brings ocean temps and sea breezes close, thereby creating the best wine growing conditions on Planet Earth, and finally, we would be staying at the finest chateau in France. He drove with one hand, pointed with the other, and never stopped talking. We were a little close on a couple curves, and I wish there had been a guard rail on one hillside, but we got to the chateau in one piece.

And he was right. This was the finest chateau in France, or at least a close cousin. It was certainly the nicest place I had ever stayed in. A circle drive out front, gardens on either side, the Chateau Pomys was three stories, stone for the first two and that funny roof design for the third (Monsard?). And of course the entry way had pillars. It looked like Louis the 14th might have put one of his mistresses here. I was glad I had worn one of my Paris dresses. My heels clicked on the marble floors. I kept my head up and my shoulders back. We were here by invitation. We belonged here. We walked through an enameled entryway to an enameled office area. Philippe (our driver) introduced us to the manager, we shook hands, smiled, signed some forms as the manager carefully explained that all charges would be covered by the winery, he was so glad we would be staying four days, an attendant would be taking our bags, etc.

So okay, I am feeling like royalty and maybe a bit like a fraud. I own a trailer. I have a bartender's license in Wisconsin and Illinois. Yes, now I have some hotels. But chateaus? I smile, keep my hand in Willie's, tell the manager I enjoyed the train ride, and follow our bags up a phenomenal staircase to a suite with a view that goes on forever. Philippe tells us to enjoy our evening, he will be back for us in the morning. And just like that, this Amberg girl is ensconced in a suite of a French chateau. The minute the door closes I am wrapped around Willie.

"How many train loads of wine did you tell them we would be buying?" I am holding on tight. Maybe this is the equivalent of pinching myself. Is this real?

"I made no promises, but I am sure they know how much wine we go through. In Galena and Dubuque alone we must do a hundred cases a month."

"So maybe this is okay?"

"Come here." He moves me to a full length mirror near the closet. He sets me in front of the mirror, and stands behind me. "Let's see. Stunning French gown, filled perfectly is all the right places." He has his hands everywhere, and even pulls my skirt up a bit.

"In blue." I add. "Ingrid Bergman wore blue."

"Ingrid Bergman never looked better in blue. And she would kill for your hair." Now I know he is lying. My mousey brown was adequate at best. "And that face. Eyes that hold you, a mouth that invites you. Even if we never buy a single bottle of wine, this place is graced by your presence."

"You are the biggest liar in the world." I spun into him and wrapped my arms around his neck. "But thank you. Now kiss me and show me how fast you can get a girl out of a French dress."

It turned out to be pretty fast.

Chapter 3

Life in a Chateau

We explored the bed and the shower over the next couple hours. Chateaus have nice beds, and big showers. I was ready to give the place ten out of ten in any review. And Willie? He was well past any rating scale.

The sun was setting when we were ready to come up for air. I put on another of my French gowns (also blue), and reached for a sweater. But Willie promised to keep me warm. And he did. We did a quick turn around the grounds and climbed a small hill to a gazebo. He became my man-shawl as we looked off into farm fields and endless grape vines. I pushed my ass back into his hips, and laid my head back on his chest as we watched the sun set. I was pretty sure Ingrid Bergman would have done that for Rick. And Rick, well I hope his hands were as good as Willie's.

We dined in the chateau dining room. High ceiling, chandeliers, candle light, tables for eight or ten couples, only four others occupied. We went with the day's recommendation – a fish stew. Having selected our meal, a wine steward arrived to pair the right wine. He had lots to say, most of which meant nothing to me. I nodded. Willie nodded. When he came back with a bottle, he poured a taste of each of us. I sipped and nodded. Willie thanked him, and waited while the steward poured.

I felt like a fraud again, but Willie looked at me and smiled. My dress was so thin it was almost a blue film, with tiny sleeves and a scooped neck that came down, well down far enough to draw attention. It drew Willie's. He reach across the table, took my hand, looked deeply into my eyes, then down at my chest, then back at my eyes, then down at my chest. I had to laugh. Yes, it was a French chateau, but it was soup and wine with a horny guy. Been there. Done that. Glad to be doing it again. My shoulders slid down, I brought my chest out for further inspection, and I smiled back at my man. I guessed I belonged here after all.

Philippe came for us the next morning at ten. I won't bore you with the details. He was a nice young guy. Good English with a cute accent. Over the next three days he took us to the four wineries that were paying our way. Four times over we got a walk through the vines (all growing in the ideal soil (who knows, maybe it was true)), a long look at crushers and fermentation tanks (all busily creating wine from grapes that had recently been harvested (in one of the best vintages ever)), a time in a darkened cellar to look at rows of oak barrels (made from carefully selected white oak), and finally a chance to taste eight or ten wines.

I was pretty good about taking the tours. I liked the walks through the vineyards – good views and a chance to walk in a warm autumn sun. As for the tanks and the barrels, I was reminded of Wisconsin barns. I stood patiently, looked, and listened. My problem came at the tasting. At some point we were going to buy a bunch of wine, and all I knew was that some wine was white, some red, some sweet. If Willie knew more, he didn't know much more. What I didn't want was for us to buy a bunch of wine that our customers wouldn't like.

So I asked for an education, and I asked for it all four times. This was no time for me to pretend some level of sophistication I didn't have. So I just said flat out – "teach me." Philippe was pretty good about it, as were all four of the managers who led the winery tours – four middle-aged men. They showed me how to look at a glass of wine, the edge, the color, the "legs" as I swirled the wine around the glass. Then the aromas – the "nose." Finally they taught me what to do with it in my mouth, including "chewing" the wine. Complicated. Time consuming. Work. Did I get it right? I am not sure I ever tasted "hints of jam without the heavy tannins," but I was able to notice differences between wines that I might have missed in the past. Willie and I took notes and found two or three wines we liked at each place.

The best part of each of these visits was lunch. The weather was unbelievable, so each winery set out a light meal under a grape arbor or on a patio. Members of the family came out to lunch with us, and we spoke – often getting stuck with translations between English and French, but all of us were patient. They had some interest in our location. They had map apps on their phones, and I showed them where our hotels were. I even tried a show a little of the Wisconsin state history I remembered from ninth grade, pointing to Nicolet's route down Green Bay, and Jolliet's route down the Wisconsin to the Mississippi. We had a connection to the French. That got smiles and a few polite comments. One lady talked briefly of an old family link to Nicolet. But mostly we enjoyed the food, the weather, the countryside.

Meals went on forever, and involved more wine, so by midafternoon Philippe had us back at our chateau for a nap. We open the windows, the cool breezes driving Willie and me deeper into each other's arms. As evening approached, I changed into something Willie would stare at in the candle light, and we walked first up to the gazebo to watch the sunset, and then into the chateau dining room.

The final evening we stood extra long in the gazebo. I had my back to Willie and my man-shawl was holding me tight. I pulled his arms tighter, looked west, and knew the time was special. I wasn't thinking – let's do this again, or next time let's do another part of France. I wasn't thinking about any other time than now. I was feeling now. His arms around me, a light breeze moving my skirt, his breath by my ear. I was seeing now. Endless fields framed by the gazebo posts, the sun leaving red and orange streaks in a small rank of clouds. I was loving now. His hips and chest warm against my back, his arms tight around my shoulders, his chin sliding slowly along the top of my head. I was hearing now. The wind making the leaves flutter on the wines, my man whispering his love. I gripped his arms tight and held him there. It was a moment. It was special. I was smart enough to hold the moment all through the final fading of the orange and the deepening of the red as the sun dropped out of sight. And still we stood, silent as we faced the black horizon. I didn't turn to kiss him, or say a word. It was a moment. Finally I turned, looked at his face, smiled, then took his hand and walked down to the chateau. I am not sure we said five words during our meal. We didn't need to.

The next morning we had work to do. Philippe brought us forms. Willie and I looked back through our notes. We ordered thirty or forty cases from each winery. We told him we would work out the details of which cases went to which hotel. He would have it before the wine arrived in the distributor's warehouse outside Chicago. There were smiles, handshakes all around. Our bags came down from our room, and we were off to the station. I had another train ride. Another chance to look at France.

We flew home after a final two days in Paris. Eight hours in coach. I wore one of my Paris dresses, and the flight attendants smiled. Willie held my hand, and I rested my head on his shoulder. Life was as good as it gets. I was smart enough to recognize that, and to enjoy it.

Chapter 4

A Busy Fall, a Traditional Christmas

Back in Galena, things were going well. We had hired good people and promoted the right ones. Making Bobbi Steiner manager in Dubuque was a genius move on my part. Making the former manager – Andy Tower – corporate trainer ranks up there pretty high too. I had sent them down to Springfield to enliven that hotel, and then sent them to Champagne. It was like pumping adrenalin into those old places. They were currently putting two days a week into the La Crosse hotel, and I was sure we would see miracles there as well. I knew both were being pursued by Hilton and Marriot. My response was the keep them based in Dubuque where they each had family, to boost their salaries to $100,000, and to give them new titles – Chief Operating Officer, and Chief Training Officer, respectively. I also paid off Bobbi's student loans. I still might not keep them forever, but every month on the job was marvelous for the company.

With their help, and the work of the other good managers, there were only two hotels that took much of my time – St. Paul and Duluth. Both were construction projects. Big ones. St. Paul was bigger than anything we had ever done. It was part of a major renovation effort along the Mississippi. The city was pouring millions into riverside parks and walkways. Old warehouses were becoming retail and dining. And then there was our hotel. The architects we hired drew beautiful pictures – of the "after." The "before" had been boarded up windows and a leaky roof. The "now" was a hollowed out shell with missing windows and steel studs where walls would appear – eventually. We were already three months behind schedule.

So Willie and I spent a week in Galena, managing minor issues during the day, and dancing and bartending at night (well, that was me. He sang most nights). Then we drove north for our monthly visit to St. Paul and Duluth.

What did we find? St Paul was now just two months behind schedule, the roof was done, and the windows were all installed (good thing, given November weather in Minnesota). Inside there were more steel studs. Progress, I guess. We spent the night, talked to the architects, and the contractors, and a range of city officials. They were talking a July 4th fireworks celebration. Would the hotel be done in time? Fingers crossed.

Duluth was a different kind of project, and it was also behind schedule. If you have never been there, the city is interesting. The city faces Lake Superior, and rises up a very large hill. Our hotel was up about three blocks \- high enough for nice views of the lake. Farther up the hill was a branch of the University of Minnesota, or as we would say in business – a limitless supply of eager, talented workers. If we could ever get open. Our project here was interior. Every room needed to be gutted – new bathrooms, new heating and cooling, new flooring, new decorating, new beds. We had hired a guy in his mid-sixties. Lots of experience was my hope. Instead what we got was lots of delays from a guy who pretty much seemed to have lost interest in work. We reminded him that he had performance metrics in his contract – more pay for earlier completion, penalties for late work. I didn't see much reaction from him. This guy was going to be three months late -- if we were lucky.

Driving back to Galena, Willie had his best idea. We needed to hire a contractor of our own to sit on these guys. Someone who spoke their language. Someone to fire a contractor if needed. I agreed. He started the search on Monday and had a guy within two weeks. Good. Let him drive through the Minnesota winter listening to excuses. I went back to bartending, and Willie added the latest Willie Nelson songs to his repertoire.

Then came Christmas. It was cute, but it was also complicated. The cute part is easy – the kids. For yet another year, we celebrated Christmas in my trailer. I had grown up in that trailer. My girls had grown up in that trailer. It meant the world to me that they wanted to come back there to celebrate Christmas. And they wanted to maintain all our traditions. Christmas Eve day, we cut one of the white pines the girls had planted as teens, we set it up in the living room and decorated it with boxes of ornaments – mostly hand made when the girls were young. Christmas Day we exchanged gifts, but the gifts were all ornaments – the only gifts I could afford back when I was waiting tables and then bartending. At nine dollars an hour, you don't buy video games. Yes, we all had money now, but to suddenly start buying expensive things seemed like a betrayal of the feelings we had back in the day. So we bought or made new ornaments and added them to the tree.

We had a new tradition brought to us my Shakira. She had given me and the girls each a red satin dress. Floor length, with petticoats, it bulged out around our legs and either made us look like red balloons, or Christmas bells (I thought balloons, the girls thought bells). We wore the dresses both days in her memory. Then the babies got into the act. Tiffany and Ben now had two babies, Jeremy who was two and a half, and Robbi, nearing one. Britney and Billy had their first – Patricia – at one and a half. She was the one to watch. Just old enough to start standing and taking unsteady steps, she was reaching for anything and everything on the tree. Meanwhile, Jeremy decided he wanted to play hide and seek by crawling under his mother's skirts. He would lift up the front end and laugh. Patty decided this was a good game, so she crawled under Britney's skirts, and soon the two kids were hiding, seeking, laughing, and peeking out. Of course all the grownups laughed each time, so the kids just kept at it. What can I say? I have cute grandkids.

Eventually all the babies went down for a nap, and it was time for the adults to have a glass of wine and some adult conversation. Willie had an arm tight around me, and I could see Ben and Billy also close to their ladies. Red satin will do that. So will love.

We started the conversation with updates – news from their jobs. Billy had gotten another promotion at the bottling plant. Britney was still on leave from the clinic in Niagara. She expected to be back part-time in March. Ben was now director of the labs at his clinic. Tiffany was back working Saturdays. Willie gave them an update on the three new hotels, mentioning that late summer we would invite everyone to the opening in St. Paul.

My turn. I was thinking of selling the townhouse at the Hilton resort. I didn't mention this, but in truth I was still unhappy we had sold the resort to Hilton. Yes, we needed the money, and yes, the Hilton brand had been important, but Willie had done a good job managing the place and I was certain he would have made the place a huge success without Hilton. But I didn't say that. What I said was easier – and obvious. Why have two homes five miles apart? I never used the townhouse. I had no intention of ever selling this trailer. It was my home, I was keeping it, and when I visited from Galena, this is where I liked to stay.

Interesting reaction from Britney and Billy. She started.

"Actually, that would be a relief. We were thinking of selling, but we didn't want to offend you. You got us those three townhouses together, so it seemed like a family kind of thing."

"But you don't like yours?"

"It is a nice place, and we thank you for it." Billy's turn. "But it doesn't feel like us."

"I don't understand."

"I work in a factory, and here we are with a townhouse on this fancy resort. It doesn't feel like we belong."

"Let me explain." Britney leaned in to the room. I wondered how long she had wanted to have this conversation. "The townhouse on our other side is owned by an Indian doctor. They come up maybe twice a month for a weekend. They have another house in Chicago and a third on the coast in South Carolina. The wife, dressed in this sari, is happy to tell me this their first time up. She wants to know where we live. I explain we are local. Well, what business are we in? I explain I am a nurse and my husband works in the factory up the road. You would think I had just farted in their living room. From that day on, we were invisible."

"You could have told them your family once owned the resort." Now Willie was leaning in. "And your family now owns ten hotels. You do understand you are all millionaires, right?"

"Having money doesn't change who we are." Tiffany's turn. "We know you two are doing really well. It's amazing, really. We're all proud of you. But we want to sell too. We haven't been snubbed, but we don't golf, and between our jobs and the kids, we don't have much time to get up here anyway. If we sold the townhouse, it would go a long way toward buying a house in Green Bay. I assume – hope – that if we come up to visit you, we can stay here in the trailer."

"Of course you can."

That was the essence of the conversation. We agreed we would list the townhouses after the holidays. All three sold before the end of January, and each sold for over two hundred thousand. I remembered Willie's original plan for the place – build townhouses that would sell for under one hundred fifty – places ordinary people could afford. The Hilton brand changed that. We each got a very fat check, but I stayed awake a few nights thinking of Britney and Billy. I had brought jobs and income to my part of Marinette County. But I had also brought snobs and hard feelings. There were Beemers parked all over the resort. Billy drove a ten year old F150. So did most of my old friends. Hmm.

Chapter 5

I Lose Willie

On our way south the next day, we stopped in Wausaukee and listed our townhouse. The agent told me Tiffany and Ben had already been in. I explained he could expect Britney any day. Guess who had the biggest smile in Wausaukee? It took us about an hour to fill in the forms, and then I pointed my Rav4 due south. We were headed to Ohare. Willie flew back to Washington each year for a few days with his first wife, his boys, and a few old buddies from the FBI. I was actually happy he maintained those connections. Relationships matter. They should be nurtured if possible.

It's about a five hour drive, much of it white-knuckle for me. He talked, I watched crazy Illinois drivers shoot past me from every side. They were triple parked at the United departure gates (same as always). I got the best kiss possible under the circumstances, and then he and his bag disappeared into the chaos. I wound my car free of Ohare, and eventually free of Chicago. How do people actually live in such a place?

I got to Galena near the end of the work day, but three of my managers stayed to talk about New Year's Eve. It was perfectly planned, and I told them so. I smiled, thanked them, and told them to go home. I had good people. I made every effort to ensure they knew it.

Back in my room, I dropped my bag and changed into something shiny and lose. I was going dancing. First I worked the restaurant for over an hour, stopping for a grilled cheese sandwich, and nibbling on fries that I took from the eight or ten tables I stopped at. I bought a bottle of wine for most tables (if they were drinkers), pushing the Bordeaux and hoping they liked it. Most tables did.

Eventually I made it to one of our dance venues, helped set up the bar, served a few drinks while the band did the required "check check," and then danced like a crazy lady for a couple hours. I was warming up for New Year's Eve, hoping Willie would be back by then to share it with me.

That was my pattern for the next three days. Sometimes I would sit and eat a full dinner with a group of guests, but I always worked the room, stealing French fries or carrots to nibble and laugh. A couple nights I needed to spend more time helping with the bar, but I always found time to dance. Fast, slow, I was up for it all. My shoes got kicked near the stage, my arms went around anyone who wanted me, and if a hand landed on my silk-covered behind, well, that was fine too. We all had fun.

Then came the thirtieth. I wound down around midnight, found my shoes, and went back to my room. Sleep came fast. Until the phone started ringing at three. Three. Who the hell calls at three? I rolled to the edge of the bed, sat up, and took the phone.

"Hello? Is this Jessica Wilson?"

"Yes."

"Are you married to Nelson Wilson?"

"Yes."

"This is Sargent Tim O'Reilly of the Maryland State Police. I regret to inform you, your husband has been killed." I pressed the red button to disconnect. Don't ask me why. But I did. The phone rang again almost immediately. I let it ring. Finally I picked up.

"How?"

"A woman was being attacked. He tried to help. He was shot." I had no idea what to say. So I said nothing. He said nothing. We had complete silence for several minutes. Finally he spoke again.

"I will text you names, addresses, and phone numbers. Willie was a hero here. There are people who will want to help you with the funeral. I will give you a number to call once you have made your travel arrangements."

"Thank you." I hung up again.

I took a shower, found a cotton dress and blazer, than packed a carry-on with another pair of shoes, several sets of underwear, and three more cotton dresses. One was black. I rolled them carefully. I would still have to iron them, but it wouldn't be too bad. Funny the things that concern you. My husband was dead. I was thinking of ironing.

I found my coat and walked out to the registration area. I think the woman working graveyard was Taylor, but I wasn't sure. I just smiled, asked her to have my car brought around, and then asked for a piece of paper. I needed to leave a note for Bonnie. I kept it simple. "Willie has been killed. I am flying to Washington. I will call." I didn't try to hide the note from Taylor. I asked her to give it to Bonnie. Taylor read it of course. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was open like she wanted to say something. Nothing came out. I just patted her shoulder and walked to the front door. There would be lots of people wondering what to say. Me too.

I am sure I woke up the garage guy, but he got me my car pretty fast. I got in it and was gone. Back to Chicago.

I got to Ohare around seven – me and half the world's population. Two parking lots were already full, but I squeezed into a third and took the tram into the terminal. What airline should I use? United. Everyone hated United. Good. It would match my mood. I didn't want good service or happy employees. I wanted a flight to Washington. Now. United had a flight at ten, only first class left. I took it. Bag over my shoulder, I went through security and then down the concourse. People bumped into me. I bumped back.

While I waited for my flight, my phone filled up with texts. I responded to one with my flight information. I forwarded all texts to Bonnie. People were going to be all over her wanting information. I would make sure she knew what I knew.

The flight? Not bad. The flight attendant seemed nice. The food was okay. We bounced for a while. I went the whole flight without crying.

Bill Bannon was waiting for me when I got off the plane. He introduced himself. FBI. I asked if he was on duty. No. He had taken a personal day. He had been in Willie's training class. As we walked through the airport I took his hand. Don't ask me why. Childish thing, I know. But his hand was huge, and warm, and I clung to it.

"Can you tell me what happened?" I waited until we were in his car.

"He was with Tabitha (first wife). Annual coffee. The lady in the next townhouse starts crying. Loud. Gets louder. 'Please help. He's going to kill me.' Tabitha says this is a regular thing. Asks Willie not to worry. But the screams get louder. Real loud. It sounds like he's beating her to death. Willie goes over. The front door is unlocked. He goes in and pulls the guy off. While he struggles with the guy, the woman goes into her room and gets a gun. She shoots and hits Willie. While Willie is bleeding on the floor, the guy takes the gun from the woman and puts three bullets in her. Tabitha sees all this from the door and goes running. Twenty minutes later the local cops arrive. The guy goes to the door and dares them to shoot him. He raises his gun and all three cops fire. Suicide by cop."

"The woman shot Willie?"

"Who knows what she was aiming at. Beat up, scared, she points the gun and pulls the trigger."

"Now what?"

"Willie was FBI. There's protocol for this."

And there was. Three days of protocol. A viewing at the funeral parlor. A visit with the FBI chaplain. A church service arranged. An afternoon meeting with his first family. I liked them. Tabitha and I held hands. The boys gave me hugs. Willie's grandkids looked uncomfortable in new sport coats and dresses. Grade school age, they looked out the windows and had trouble sitting still. Everyone spoke nearly in whispers.

There were costs. I got out my checkbook. One of the sons asked about a will. I said there was one. I would send him a copy. What he had left was life insurance. It was to go equally to Tabitha and the two boys. I thought it was around five hundred thousand. No hotels? No.

The chaplain got me a hotel room near the cathedral. There was a fruit basket in the room each day, and a bouquet of flowers. Protocol, I guess.

Each evening two or three FBI guys came to take me to dinner. Usually in the hotel. They were all Willie's age. All near retirement. They were at an age when it feels good to tell stories. Most were funny. Some involved danger. All involved Willie doing something that should make me proud. That was the main message they all wanted to leave. I should be proud of Willie.

The day of the funeral involved an argument. Tabitha wanted him buried here. I wanted him cremated, his ashes scattered in the gardens of Galena. She said his sons would want to visit him. I accepted that. I wrote more checks.

The service was filled with men, some in uniform, most not. Most Willie's age. The chaplain and priest arranged everything, said what needed to be said, had a soloist sing and an organist play as Willie's coffin rolled in and then out.

Protocol determined where the wives sat in the cathedral, and at the grave side. There was a flag on his casket. Willie was a veteran. Before the casket was lowered, the flag was taken off and folded with great formality. It was given to me. I sat with it while the final words were said, and people drifted off. I got more hugs, as did Tabitha. Then we were alone, left to stare at that hole in the ground, she and I and the sons. I hugged her, hugged the boys, and gave the flag to the oldest son.

A United flight took me back to Chicago that night.

Chapter 6

I Mourn

Now what? That was easy. I had lost so many loves in my life I had my own protocol. I drove to Amberg, got in my trailer, called Bonnie to say where I was, and said I would be gone a while. I shut off my phone. I locked the door. I sat on my couch. I cried all that night and most of the next morning.

In the afternoon I got out a pad of paper, and I started writing. About Willie. How we met, what we said, what we did, where we did it. I wrote for three days. If I got tired, I went back to my bed. If I got thirsty, I drank water. I ate nothing. I showered, I changed clothes, I wrote. Page after page after page. I wrote about Willie, reliving every moment. As I wrote, I could see his face, I could feel his hands, I could feel his breath on my face as we laid together. I kept writing, and remembering, and smiling. I had been so lucky.

I don't know if it was the fourth day, or my fifth. But my father came over. He knocked, I let him in, we sat on the couch. Standard line for this situation? 'Are you okay?' Not dad.

"You know the Packers lost Sunday's playoff game. First round, and they lose."

"Please tell me it wasn't to the Cowboys or Bears."

"Indianapolis."

"I can live with that."

"You plan to come into town for a beer while you are here?" He put his arm around my shoulders. When his hand reached my arm, I thought I could feel it shake. How old was he now? Eighty?

"I'm pretty busy." I pointed to the pad of paper next to me on the couch.

"That helps?"

"It has in the past. That and time."

"When your mother died, I stayed drunk for a week. Pretty stupid. I almost killed a guy with my car."

"I've done liquor. I done shouting and beating on things. Journaling works best."

"No one should have to journal as many times as you have."

"He tried to protect a woman. He was a good man. I have been lucky that way. They were all good people."

"The girls want to see you. Are you ready for some company?"

"Give me another day, then yes."

"I'll pass that along." He gave me a hug, kissed the top of my head, and left. I went back to writing. I was describing France. I had lots to say, and lots of smiles.

The kids and grandkids arrived on schedule, two days later. And of course the grandkids took over the place. Jeremy had a rocket ship that he blasted around the room complete with noises. Patty walked – or "cruised" – everywhere, flopping down on her butt plenty of times, but getting right back up to see what Jeremy was doing, or to grab anything shiny that I had forgotten to get up high. Robbi was mostly into eating and sleeping, but you could see him watching the action. He could hold his head up pretty well, and he wanted to see what was going on.

The nice thing about the grandkids filling the space, is there was no real time for "so sorry," or "he was such a good man," or "we will miss him too." Eventually the kids would go down for naps, and I would hear all that then. I guess it was necessary. Words have to be said. But. I knew the kids cared. That was really enough.

But naptime came, and the hugs and tears started as soon as the kids were in the back bedroom. I nodded, hugged them, and then sat them all down. I had an agenda too.

"When I was in Washington, one of Willie's sons wanted to know if they inherited any of the hotels. No. Shakira left them all to me, and Willie left it that way. And the new hotels we bought were included in that company. I own all ten. Which is to say, you own all ten."

"I would like you to do something. Start thinking, now, about your hotels. When I go, you can sell all of them to Marriot or Hilton. Market conditions change, and we don't know how the new hotels will turn out, but my best guess is you will get at least twenty million. Maybe forty. Maybe more. So, you are rich. The other option is to keep them. To do that, you should start learning the business. I know you are not comfortable with Galena, but I can put you anywhere else. There is even a place in Green Bay that might be a good purchase. There are lots of things we can do. But that is up to you. I would like you to start thinking about that."

"Mom, do you want to sell?" Tiffany was sitting closest to me, and she took my hand as she talked. "You have worked hard. You could live comfortably the rest of your life."

"I live comfortably now. Really. I talk to customers, I bartend, I dance, I hire people and sign their paychecks. That feels pretty good. No. I will stay with the hotels until they carry me out."

"We like what we do too."

"I know that. But I want you to know the business is yours should you choose." And we left it there. The girls had brought some spaghetti with them, and as soon as the kids woke up, we ate, and laughed as Jeremy got tomato sauce all over his face and Patty struggled to get her fists around the noodles. Everyone should have kids that age. They are the greatest entertainment in the world.

The kids left pretty soon after supper. I stayed two more days, wrote like crazy, and then I left too. It was time to get back to Galena.

Chapter 7

Hollywood Rescues Me

How can I describe the next six months? I had days where I just walked back to my room and cried, and I had days that were perfectly fine. I had days where I got angry at people, and days where I hugged half the population of Illinois. I was not emotionally stable. Not even close. But as the weather slowly warmed, I got better. Or so I thought.

My work routine was successful. I visited each of my hotels. I said the right things. I fixed what needed to be fixed. I congratulated those who had earned it. I enjoyed the driving. I smiled. I worked every dining room, socialized with every local official. I did my job.

Back in Galena, I smiled, hugged, talked, bartended, and danced. In April I danced with one wedding party particularly long. One of the bridesmaids was particularly good on the dance floor. She and I paired off for several slow numbers. After one dance I gave her a quick kiss. For the next dance I felt her hand slide to my ass and stay there. I suggested we take a walk. We walked down to my room and stayed there for three days. She was beautiful, she was Black, and she reminded me so much of Shakira, it hurt me to look at her. After three days she went back to her teaching job in the Chicago suburbs. She was maybe thirty years old and left with the bright smile and quick comment that only someone that young could make – "That was fun. Good bye." I knew I would never see her again, and I knew – for her – that was not a big deal.

My next attempt at intimacy happened a few weeks later. I went over to our spa, and decided to spend a few minutes in the hot tub before going in for my massage. There was a young woman already sitting in the water. We talked. One thing led to another. I pulled her hair out of the water and arranged it much as Shakira had for me on my first visit. She played with my hair, we sat close, our hands did what hands do, we kissed. She spent the night with me. I bought her a couple outfits, comped her room and meals. She sat close until the college friends she had come with left, and took her with them. Their parting conversation was about some final exam they had coming up. I got a final quick kiss, and they were gone.

I kept my head up, danced, smiled, and looked around me. It was spring. It was warm. The gardens were in bloom. I walked the grounds feeling the sun on my shoulders. The landscaping crew really was doing a marvelous job. There were annuals in bloom around every corner. I walked, I looked, I even smiled. I was mostly happy.

The Hollywood people arrived in late-May. How do I know they were Hollywood people? Our social media guru told me. By the way, that was the title she wanted on her business cards – "Social Media Guru." She was pretty sure all nine planets revolved around her, but she was good at her job. She kept the twitter feed and Facebook pages full of events and celebrities. She had no trouble getting their permission. And we did have a fair number of celebrities -- mostly in the Midwest, but people from the coasts doing a theater tour in Chicago would often manage to get to us for a couple days.

But we didn't get that many from Hollywood, so when she saw the reservation, Ms. Social Media pulled me aside (yes, she was actually happy when I called her that). Lisa Lang would be coming with four assistants (celebrities never traveled alone), she would be staying five nights. I admitted I had never heard of her. Ms. Social Media promptly took on the airs of a pompous math prof and explained Lang had acted in five movies when young and now had her own production company. I asked why she was coming, at which point Ms. SM got a little huffy, after all we were such a hub, our image had gone "viral," so of course everyone wanted to share in the spotlight here. Or she said some variation of those terms, the main point being she was personally making the place famous, so I shouldn't be surprised if famous people wanted to visit. I didn't ask if Lisa Lang really was famous since I had never heard of her. I thanked SM, got her out of my office, and went back to work.

That evening I worked my usual routine. I started in the marriage bar, stopping at most tables, sitting if asked, saying all the right things about the new marriage videos being projected on the wall. The girls did look good. I bought a few drinks, sipped a Captain and Coke (the bartenders knew under no circumstances was some actual rum to get into that drink. I had a long night ahead of me), and I slowly made my way to the restaurant. There I repeated my approach, standing, talking, stealing a carrot stick or French fry, buying a round, being the consummate hostess.

When I got to the Hollywood table, I had no trouble determining these were the Hollywood people. They told me. Lisa Lang herself stood, hugged me, introduced herself and her assistants, and invited me to join them. I did of course. I thought I might recognize her from one of her five movies (I learned later they much prefer if you call them "films"), but I didn't. Maybe she had grown. When she stood to hug me, she towered over me. She was at least five ten, maybe five eleven. She wasn't fat. I guess you would call her "solid." She was wearing silk, well cut for her, and had shoulder-length blond hair that shown, as did her face from fresh moisturizer. Looks? Good, but she had to be mid- forties, and even movie (sorry, film) star looks fade. Her nose was a bit big, and the skin around her eyes sagged around wrinkles. Time is not a woman's best friend.

What did we talk about? Lisa Lang, of course. She was "embarking" on a "significant" new "project." She would "bring life" to a story the world should know about. The best love story never told. But now she was going to tell it. I got to hear pieces of it. Something about a missionary and the Oregon Trail. She got interrupted by her assistants who wanted to emphasize parts of the story, and she got interrupted by our waitress. Alice came over every two minutes. She brought our food (Lisa Lang had already ordered for all of us), she refilled water glasses, she brought more wine (not my Bordeaux), she asked about our needs, always hovering close, usually right behind me, one hand on my shoulder while she addressed the table. Her skirt brushed my arm every time, and I found myself looking at her. I am not sure her real name is Alice, but that is how I thought of her. She had thick blond hair all the way down her back, deep blue eyes, and resembled every picture book version of Alice-in-Wonderland. I liked her smile.

Lang persisted in telling about her project, mostly emphasizing the woman she wanted the world to know about – Narcissa Whitman. The most beautiful woman of her generation. The most perfect woman in New England. The most spiritual lady a missionary could dream of. The bravest woman in a world of brave women. So, okay, a paragon. I ate my dinner, drank my white wine (why hadn't we thought to buy white wine in Bordeaux?), and gradually eased my way back from the table. Alice was right there to ask if I needed anything, her hand somehow in mine. I smiled, told her she was doing a great job, and stood, maybe a moment longer than normal, to look into those blue eyes. She really was beautiful.

Next stop, the music venues. Back by popular demand was a Sinatra impersonator. He was actually an ass who liked to order the staff around. So I got there early and stayed within ear shot. It took him about two minutes to get on our sound guy. I walked closer and stood staring at him. That's all it took. We had dealt with each other before. I signed his check. He would mind his manners. As I watched, he apologized to the sound guy, and went into some weird act clearing his throat.

The guy could sing, and he knew how to work a crowd. He began his set with "My Kind of Town, Chicago is," and things went fine from there. I helped at the bar, danced a few times, was back in my room and in bed by midnight.

Around two there was a knock on my door. "Mrs. Wilson, it's Monica from the front desk." By the second knock I was up and came to the door.

"Yes?" I wasn't wearing much – a white satin night gown that went to my knees. But it was the middle of the night. Who, but Monica, was going to see?

"We have gotten several calls about Ms. Lang. People say her dog is barking. I went to her room, and she said you had approved of her dog." We don't allow pets. Ever. So I had not approved. But I wasn't going to ask Monica to handle it. She was a new hire. Barely eighteen. It was the new ones who got the graveyard shift.

"Just a minute." I turned and picked up my robe. It was also short, but it had half sleeves and would cover my chest. I put it on, and went back to the door. Monica stood blocking my way.

"If I may." She reached up and put her fingers in my hair. She got my hair arranged somewhat better, and then adjusted the collar on my robe. I put my hands on her hips while she did it. She finished, smiled, and stood looking at me.

"I will take care of this. Go back to the front desk. Her room number?"

"1106." She hesitated for a moment, blocking my way, and then walked off. I closed my door, and then padded off in bare feet, walking through the area with our shops, and then down a long hallway, listening for the sounds of a dog. Fortunately, I heard none.

1106 is a suite – one of our best. I really did not want to clean up after a dog in there. I knocked on the door, and one of Lang's assistants immediately opened it. All five of them were there, lounging near cushions on the floor. All were wearing night gowns, two black, three white, all short. Lang's was black and the shortest. She patted the floor next to her and waved me over. I sat down next to her, both of us now leaning back on a coach.

"We are getting calls about a dog."

"There is no dog." She leaned toward me and took my hand. "My assistants did the calling. We were looking for a way to get you here, and that seemed clever."

"Next time just ask." I was a bit miffed, but I stayed where I was. I was pretty sure where this was going, and in truth, I was fine with that. She leaned closer, and her free hand slid up the back of my neck. Okay. I was right. I slid closer, and we kissed. My first movie/film star.

The next hour was pretty nice. Her assistants left. Before they were even out the door, Lang slid her hand down from my neck, down under my robe and gown, and pushed both back over my shoulder. She look a good look at my breast, smiled, and then did the same thing to my other side, both her hands now across my back, my robe and gown wrapped around my arms and down by my waist. She apparently liked breasts.

The next steps were pretty obvious. She pulled me up, walked me back to her bed, and slid me in, my arms still at my sides. She got on top, her elbows outside my arms, her hips holding me down, her knees pushing my legs apart, her face just over mine as she kissed me. So far so good. My arms were pinned to my sides, but I could move my hands. First they went to her ass, but then I slid one between our hips and between her legs. She knew what was coming, and immediately pushed her legs even farther apart, her thighs pressed against mine, while her arms tightened around my shoulders. Yes, Hollywood, I have been taught a few things too.

Skip ahead through some heavy breathing, a fair amount of sweat, lots of kisses, lots of moans, moments when our breathing stopped. She gave as good as she got. And she was very good. We went at it a full hour before two forty year old bodies just clenched each other, kissed, and collapsed. It was a very good night.

I assumed at this point she would slide off to one side, and we would get some sleep. No, she wasn't done. She got up on her elbows, wiped the sweat off her face, and then my face, smiled, and began talking.

"We will be lovers."

"Yes, I will stay with you until you leave Friday."

"I am taking you with me." That wasn't going to happen. There were so many reasons I couldn't go with her that I didn't even respond. It was just crazy talk. A whim.

"You will go with me. You need to." Again, no response from me. The idea was silly.

"We will be gone two months. Three if the weather works against us. You will be my employee. You will handle two things for me."

"Friday I will wave to you as you leave. I will kiss you, I will hold you, I will miss you. But I am not going anywhere."

"You will go with me. In part you will go because the sex will be great. You are a marvelous lover. I wish that would be the whole reason. But mostly you will go because you have to. You cannot stay here. And before you argue with me, I give you one name – Alice."

"What about her?"

"Do you think we didn't see how you looked at her? When you stood, you took her hand. You stood close. You will stand closer. She will see to that. She knows what is coming, and so does everyone else in this resort. They are all watching you. You are a cat in heat, and you will have her, or another, or several."

"And if I do?" I struggled to get out from under her. But she was positioned well, she had forty pounds on me easy, and as I moved, she slid her hands into my hair to hold my head. I hate that.

"She's eighteen, Jess. You are forty two. You think you will have a life together? She will be all over you for a few weeks, and then it will end. Maybe a friend will say something, maybe a parent. Maybe she will just get tired of you. Any way it goes, it will end, and you will be brokenhearted. But it gets worse. She is an employee. She has a fight with you and sues for sexual harassment. Or some other girl gets jealous and sues. Or maybe nobody sues, but they tweet about you on METOO. The feminist hero, Jessica Johnson Wilson, is a predator. Don't let your teen daughters anywhere near her. You are a good woman, Jess, but you need to leave before you do something bad."

What could I say in response? Nothing. I thought about holding Alice's hand. I thought about Monica and putting my hands on her hips. I thought about the college girl in the hot tub. I was a mess. I needed... well, I needed several things. I hugged Lisa, closed my eyes, and nodded. At a minimum, I needed to go someplace where I would not do anything stupid.

Chapter 8

Lisa

Lisa was good to me the next day. We stayed in bed until mid-afternoon. She held me tight. I held her tight, hoping she would hold me tighter, and she did. If she had squeezed me until I could not breathe, I think I would have been grateful. I needed a big, solid person to hold me. She did. I clung to her. I told her about Shakira, and about Willie. I told her about Dubai. I wanted her to know about me, but I think I also talked to her because the longer I talked, the longer I could keep my arms wrapped around her. Would I go with her to the Oregon Trail? I would go anywhere with her if she would just hold me.

Sometime in the afternoon we showered, and she got dressed. I wore my nightgown and robe, and walked in bare feet through most of the resort, her hand on my ass. It was a public notification. Ownership was established for all to see. I was hers. I even walked slowly to ensure as many as possible could see. Girls, back off. I am with her.

Back in my room I put on a satin tits and ass dress, the scoop neck coming halfway down my chest, the skirt not making it halfway down my thighs. I was dressing for her to look at me, for her to hold me. I worked on my hair and makeup for an hour while she sat next to me, one hand under my skirt. Then we went to the restaurant, sitting alone in a booth, my eyes only on her, her hands all over me.

We danced after dinner. A mating dance. Close, kissing often, our thighs intermingled, her hand never leaving my ass, my arms tight around her neck. I looked at no one but her. We were mating. See? Do not come near. We are mating. We spent two hours making my public declaration, and then I followed her back to her room. She held me tight. I told her I loved her.

What did I have to do as her employee? One thing was certain, the other was a "maybe." For certain I would feed and move the production crew -- a task I knew I could do well. The "maybe"? She would talk to me about that later. I left it there.

In preparation, I spent a day talking with my senior managers, set out their tasks for the next two months, explained I would be trying a new catering business, and told folks to call in an emergency, but I had faith in their judgment. That was it. What they all thought of this sudden change, I don't know. They kept their comments to themselves, and I was grateful. I loved these people, and loved this business, but Lisa was right. I needed to stay away until... well, until I wasn't going to do anything stupid.

In the meantime, I was with Lisa. Always. I slept in her room. I slept on my back, with her pulled over me like a blanket. I had my right arm under her. She slept on her slide, one leg between mine, one arm behind my neck and around my shoulders, her other hand, well, lots of places. Sometimes it was up by my head, turning my face toward her for kisses. Other times it made me hot. Always, she was leaning over me, across me. My free hand stayed on her back, holding her to me as I squeezed close to her. I held her tight, and asked her to hold me tighter. We slept some, but much of the time it was me pressing myself against her thigh, her chest, her mouth. I was desperate for her.

She and her assistants stayed in the hotel three more days. I was at her side all but an hour or two. We stayed in bed late and went to bed early. We took showers that might have drained the Mississippi. I pressed against her as I washed her, and she held me against the wall and drove me crazy. When we dressed, I put her clothing on her, one article at a time, slowly. I insisted on combing out and brushing her hair, standing behind her as I did it, my hips and thighs tight against her, sliding against her back as I brushed. One morning I spent over an hour that way.

Initially she was uncomfortable with me doing her makeup, unhappy with the lines and sags around her eyes. I persisted, sitting tight against her, my hands on her face, my own face just inches away. I smiled, I kissed, I slid my fingers over her skin, adding cosmetics and color. Yes, she was mid-forties, but she was beautiful yet, certainly to me.

If we left our rooms, it was to see the gardens. Everything was in bloom. We walked from one garden to another, hand in hand. When we stopped to look, she dropped my hand and wrapped her arm around my shoulders. I turned toward her, my hands clasped behind the small of her back, and maybe sliding down to her ass. We might stand that way fifteen minutes, our faces against each other, looking at the color at our feet. We might say a few words, but mostly we didn't. Our hands did our talking.

On our final night, we were in my room, in my bed, lying as I liked, my Lisa-blanket warm, and soft, and tight against me. We would be leaving together in the morning. Now seemed to be the time to ask some questions.

"Why are you here? The Oregon Trail is south, right?"

"It's not very far south, and I thought this place would be fun. Our work this summer will be very hard. I thought I owed it to my assistants to give them a short vacation first."

"And me?" Our faces were maybe two inches apart. I was looking for every change of expression.

"Oh, Jess." She kissed me and ran her hand down my back and over my ass. "There are so many reasons." She kissed me again. I studied her face and waited. What reasons? I waited. "You know there are about a hundred YouTube videos of you, right? In every one of them, you are beautiful. So I got you to my room, and I seduced you. That was the plan. The plan changed once I had you in my bed. Now I plan to keep you."

"Which video did you like best?" Okay, it was vain to ask, but I was curious.

"The first one. The wedding. You were so beautiful, and vulnerable, and honest. You were completely there, giving yourself to that woman. I have never seen a film do it so well."

"Would you like to see that dress?"

"Of course."

I slid out of bed and went into my closet. I actually had three wedding dresses there. Three. I hesitated as I looked at them, and then selected the one I had worn for Shakira. I put on the complete outfit - slip, petticoats, the gown, and even the veil. I struggled a bit to slide the frame into my hair correctly, but I managed. My final step was the pull the veil all the way down, front and back, well past my shoulders. I was giving myself to Lisa.

I walked into my bedroom barefoot, and stood at the edge of my bed. I watched Lisa through the silk lace veil. Her face said everything I wanted it to say. I stood longer, then slowly turned so she could see all of me. When I faced her again, she was up on one elbow, a hand reaching out to me. I sat on the edge of the bed. If you want me, you are going to have to come get me. She did. She put one arm around my waist, and another around my ass, and she pulled me into bed. I slid tight up against her, my face still covered in silk lace.

She held me every bit as tightly as I wanted, and I put my face to her ear.

"Lisa, I love you, and I know that you love me. Because of this I desire to be your wife. Through the pressures of the present and the uncertainties of the future I promise to be faithful to you. I will love, serve, and obey you as long as we both are alive. Christ told us that the wife must submit herself unto her husband as unto the Lord. For as Christ is the Head of his Church so is the husband head of his wife. I submit myself to you." I kissed her through the lace.

"I love you, and I will keep you." And she kissed me through the veil. She held me that way all night, her arms tight around me, our legs entwined, our faces close. Twice more during the night I woke and repeated my vow. Each time she told me she loved me. And she kissed me. But she never raised my veil.

Chapter 9

An Hour in St Louis

It took us a long time to get started in the morning. As dawn approached I pulled Lisa completely on top of me, her knees between mine, both arms around my shoulders, her weight across my hips and chest. What did I want? More. More what? More her. I got her to hold me – tightly, but her hold also meant she would determine what more would follow. She held me. She got to do what she wanted with me. I still had my veil over my face, and I looked up at her through a silk screen. Once more I said it.

"Lisa, I love you. I know you love me. I wish to be your wife."

The dawn light was still dim, and the veil gave her face a kind of cloudy feel, but I could still recognize her expression. It was kind, but determined.

"I love you Jess, and I will keep you. I will take care of you."

"And..."

"And I promise to be good to you." She laid her head down next to mine. I turned my face to her and kissed her once more through the lace.

"Okay. And I will be good to you." So. That was our contract. I wanted more. Maybe someday I would get more. But for now, I had love, and a woman who held me tight.

We fooled around in bed for a while, and Lisa spent a long time getting me out of that wedding dress. Maybe I was the problem. I was in no hurry, and I liked wrapping my satin-covered legs around her. It didn't seem like she minded.

We did eventually have our usual games in the shower. Then came the hard part – dressing and packing. Two months. Two months in the country – maybe three. I had seen pictures. It was empty – and dry. Would I wear jeans every day? Would I have any chance to look good for Lisa? She had her own packing to do, but she did give me general guidance. Yes, jeans. But there would be cities along the way, and parties. I was to take at least six party outfits. I packed ten. I assumed Lisa and I might have some private parties along the way. And, to help encourage that, I wore silk for the drive.

I filled a suitcase and a dress bag and dragged them to the lobby. A valet brought my Toyota around and stowed my bags. Lisa? She and her assistants arrived about half an hour later, still deep in discussion. Fun time was over. They had work to do and decisions to make. They were still in intense discussions when their car arrived. I stood to one side while their large SUV was filled with cases and bags. The assistants climbed in and took off, still discussing something. Lisa rode with me. Good.

"The movie starts in St. Louis?" Time for me to get to work too.

"The film might." Oops. "Film" not "movie." Got it. "I need to review locations. I have a videographer on site, but he is undecided."

"While you do that, I will check on transportation and food services. But you said there might be a second thing you wanted me to do." We were some miles down the highway, and Lisa's hand had been on the thigh, doing very nice things. Now it stopped.

"It will be easier for me to explain after the actors arrive." Okay, but her hand was still stopped. She was chewing on something. Pursue it? No. I could wait.

I kept the car pointed south, following where my phone told me. Initially we followed the Mississippi – two lanes, little traffic. But eventually all travel involves the Interstate. I kept my cool. I did five miles over the limit. I stayed to the right while the entire population of Illinois shot by me. It was okay. Lisa went back to playing with my thighs, and I smiled while the Illinois drivers did what Illinois drivers do.

What did we talk about for six hours? Lisa's career. I had to know, what movies – excuse me – films had she been in?

"They were all high school films. It turns out you can do a film about extraterrestrials, or terrorists, or football players, or choruses, make it a comedy or a romance, or a fright night, or a absolute tragedy, and everything you do, will work, if you put the setting in a high school. The cash just rolls in. I did my first film at sixteen. Three of us wanted football players to take us to the prom, and we worked all kinds of goofy strategies. My guy never invites me, so I cry at the end while the other two girls hug their boys as the music builds in the background. My first film."

"That was when I was sixteen. That summer I grow four inches. Four inches! What the hell? Suddenly my roles change. Now I am the odd cousin, or the annoying older sister, or the girl who gets invited to the science fair. All my parts are small – ten or twelve lines, maybe three scenes. But I keep at it. I do four more films over the next seven years. But at twenty four, you can't keep doing high school films. My agent tells me I am done, and I believe him. I enroll in USC's film school. I will stay with the industry, but do it behind the camera."

"I graduate, intern for several studios, basically starve for three years, and then an actor invites me out to the Valley. Whole new film industry out there. Porn. The industry is exploding. They can distribute over the Internet now – and do it worldwide. If you can point a camera, they will throw money at you. So that's what I did for twelve or thirteen years."

Okay. Now I'm getting nervous. Did I just promise to spend two months making a pornographic version of the Oregon Trail? I look at her. She sees my face and laughs.

"Relax. This isn't a dick flick. I am done with that. I have filmed everything you can do with a dick, and done it a hundred times over. I have filmed boy on boy, girl on girl, boy on girl with girl, girl on whole football team. For international distribution, I have done girl on whole soccer team. I have done..."

"Okay. I get it. You have done porn, and now you are done with it."

"You got it. You have no idea how boring it can be."

"And this film?"

"Totally new. I'm sitting in the back of my studio after having a screaming fit at one of my lighting guys, and in walks this scarecrow. We hire lots of guys, but I can see right away he just isn't going to make it. Who let the guy in the door? He smiles and tells me he just got a master's degree in creative writing from San Francisco State. Like I care. He has a screen play he wants to show me. Him and half of Los Angeles. I don't have the energy to walk him to the door, so I sit and let him ramble on. He tells me it's about the Oregon Trail, and I lose it. 'Are you shitting me? I am going to make yet another film about wagons and Indian attacks?' He says, no, it's about missionaries. I am holding a coffee cup. It's my favorite coffee cup, or I would have thrown it at him. 'Did you get off at the wrong exit? We make dick flicks here. You want a seminary somewhere. I think they have one in San Diego.' I'll give him credit. He stands his ground. It's a love story, he tells me. 'The most beautiful woman in America creates the Oregon Trail, simply by going to Oregon. She's brave, and beautiful, and determined. Her story needs to be told.' He looks at me. I look at him. He looks at me. I hold out my hand, and he hands me the screen play. And that's it."

"That's it?"

"Of course not. Do you have any idea what it costs to shoot remotes? The budget for remotes alone is twenty million, and we only hold to that if we watch every dollar."

"You have twenty million dollars?"

"I have six partners. All of us have made about as many dick flicks as we want to make. So we are taking a flier. If it goes well, you will see us at the Academy Awards. If I screw this up, we will be making dick flicks until we die."

"But you think the story is good."

"It's the best love story that's never been told. Coming soon to a theater near you."

What can I say to all of that? "Well, thanks for letting me be a part of it." A reasonable response, and pretty much the last words spoken for the next couple hours while we mentally replay her story. I guess I know now what I am getting into.

Eventually we made St Louis. I had driven through it before. I had never driven into it. And we were going right downtown, down to the river. It would be so nice if exits were marked better, and if other drivers would let a person change lanes, and then change back when we see we are in the wrong lane. Maybe in an alternative universe. In this universe I missed my turn and got a great view of the Arch as I drove miles past my exit. Lisa laughed. She drove in LA. What was this to her? I finally got off the interstate, found every stop light in town, got honked at for reasons I will never understand, but kept my eyes on the Arch and persisted. Our hotel was two blocks from the arch, and two blocks from the river. I got us there. I gave the keys to the valets and took my first full breaths since hitting St. Louis.

Chapter 10

A Week in Kansas City

I was out of St. Louis in under an hour. That didn't seem fair. But that's what happened. Lisa and I walked into the hotel lobby and found her four assistants plus three new guys. All were busily talking, and clearly unhappy. The guy doing most of the talking was about thirty five, and very good looking. He was introduced to me as the videographer – Jim Thomas. Given his looks, I wondered if he had also been on the other side of the camera in his youth. We had caught him in mid-story, and now he backed up to start again.

"Any shot on the river is a waste of time. The background clutter will take forever to edit out. Besides, the guy with the boat is a thief. We would be far better off using a green screen and old paddlewheel footage back at the studio. As for the shore shot, yes this LeClede's thing could work, but permits and police will cost a mint. Do we really need it? Green screens are so nice. We get the shot we want when we want, and these small town robbers can go back to hustling tourists."

"I have an appointment in the morning with a couple people in the mayor's office." Lisa put a hand on the guy's arm, and his attitude adjusted instantly. "I know they have a promotions budget. If they help, we shoot here. If not, we use the studio, okay?" Thomas nodded, as did everyone else. Okay, problem solved. But not for me. Lisa put a hand on my arm. "I need to talk with Jessica for a few minutes, and then I want all of us to walk down to LeClede's Landing to see the historic locations Jim has selected."

Meeting over, seven film makers walked to the front doors. Lisa walked me around a corner. She smiled, stood close, kissed me, and got a knee between mine. I was glad I wore silk.

"We will be here several days. We may shoot, we may just rehearse. The film starts here, but it is just b-roll while credits slide over the screen. We establish, yes, they came down the Ohio by boat, yes they arrived in St. Louis, the final city of any size, and by the time the credits are over, we have them where they really start – Independence, Missouri, which is now part of Kansas City. That's where I need you to be. Here is a man's card." She reached into her bag, shuffled through fifty or sixty cards, and gave me one. "Call him along the way. Stay at whatever hotel he is in. Use him. A week from now, I need you to have transportation and food ready to go. Okay?" She kissed me and held my ass. Before I could think of a question, she slid her knee further between my legs, kissed me long and hard, and smiled. My only question was – can I spend the night with you and leave in the morning? But I didn't ask it. She had told me to go, so I would go explore the wonders of Kansas City, assuming I could find the way out of beautiful, downtown St. Louis. I had a hand on her ass, and kept it there as long as I could, but then she was gone, and I was standing alone in a back hallway. Hmm.

I have always thought people from small towns should get a special driver's license that permits them to go at their own speed, and be spared from people honking at them. What do we know about beltways and high occupancy lanes and express lanes? We just want to somehow get out of town. That's certainly all I wanted from St. Louis. Please, big city, let me go. My phone told me I could get from St. Louis to Kansas City (the one in Missouri – turns out there are two of them!) in about four hours. My phone did not understand rush hour, and when I held it up and pointed it at the endless line of stopped cars, it still did not seem to appreciate the situation. Maybe it was happy sitting on the interstate.

Eventually I was able to leave town. Halfway to Kansas City I stopped for gas and a chocolate bar, and I called the number Lisa had given me. He named the hotel, told me it was easy to find, and said he would watch for me. My phone also agreed it was easy to find – right near an exit. If a long row of semis had actually allowed me to get into the exit lane, I would have had no trouble getting there. But, hey, why not take a few more minutes to explore Kansas City – the one in Missouri, not the one in Kansas.

It was after ten by the time I got back to the right exit and pulled into the hotel – one of the cheaper Marriot brands, three stories, large parking lot, close enough to the highway the parking lot shook. Lisa was right about watching costs.

Inside, a forest ranger was waiting for me. I knew he was a forest ranger because he was still wearing a forest ranger uniform at ten o'clock. Who keeps a uniform on in the evening? Decent looking guy. Maybe forty five. Short brown hair, deep tan, just over six feet. I was grateful that he had waited for me, but I was also about as frazzled as I could get. I had driven lots of hours, and logged more interstate miles than ever before in my life. I tried to smile. I shook his hand. He told me his name, and I made an effort to remember it. But. What I really wanted was my bed. I told him I would meet him for breakfast. He said eight. I said nine. I shook his hand again, registered, and was in my room as fast as my feet would take me. Good night, world. I didn't even brush my teeth. I saw the bed, and used it.

It was almost eight when I woke the next morning. Every passing semi sent a pulse wave against my windows, but somehow I had slept through all of it. I showered, did some work on my hair, and put on minimal makeup. I stared at my bags. What does one wear in Kansas City? Was I far enough west for jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt? But this was a city, right? I went with a yellow sun dress and a sweater for the air conditioning.

My seventy dollar room included a version of breakfast. Cereals, powdered scrambled eggs, and waffles if you could figure out how to use the waffle maker. The ranger was waiting for me. I took a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee over to his table. I admitted I had forgotten his name.

"Allen Howe."

"And you are a forest ranger?" Count on me to get to the obvious.

"Twenty years and counting."

"And you work for the film company?" I hadn't even finished my coffee, and I knew to call it a "film company", not a "movie company." Way to go, Jess.

"No, I work for the Forest Service. But we have a public affairs department, and someone decided this project might be educational, so we would help. I am with the company until you get to Oregon."

"Are there a lot of trees between here and Oregon?" Okay, a bit of sarcasm. Blame it on fatigue. But he was pretty good about it.

"You would be surprised by how much federal land doesn't have a tree anywhere in sight. But some bureaucracy has to manage it. For much of the west it is the Forest Service or the Bureau of Land Management."

"And what will you do for the film?"

"I am the guide to historical places along the trail – at least those that still exist, and are easily accessible. As a kid in Wisconsin I got interested in pioneers, and over the years I have been able to get to most of the routes west."

"Where in Wisconsin?"

"Wausau. I got my forestry degree from Stevens Point."

"I'm from Amberg."

"Sorry, I don't know it."

"Did you know a Professor Johnson? He helped us with a water project."

"Doc Waters? Good man. I have been trying to get him to come out here and look at the Ogallala Aquafer."

"So, two badgers. I'm hoping you can help me. I am supposed to provide food and transportation, but I don't even know where we are going."

"I do. Finish your breakfast, and I will be back with a map."

I had a second bowl of Cheerios and two more cups of coffee. Allen came back with a stack of maps and a tablet computer. That breakfast table became our conference table, and we used it the rest of the morning.

What did I learn? We would be making twelve stops for shooting. Several were near smaller cities where I could put people in motels. But most were in the middle of nowhere. And Allen had another challenge. "Get lots of Winnebagoes. You will need them for nights, but also for days. By July we will be in the high desert. The sun there will suck the life out of you. They will need AC between shots. And water. Get twice as much water as food. And don't bother much with liquor. They will want a few beers initially, but they will lose interest fast."

He showed me all twelve locations on his map, and then showed me images of each on his tablet. He explained the significance of each location. He really did know the Oregon Trail. What he didn't know is how long we would be at each spot. I told him Lisa thought we might be on the trail two or three months.

"Maybe," he shook his head. "But if we actually spend that much time out there, you are going to be dealing with some really cranky people."

"These places look beautiful."

"Most of them are. But the sun is hot, the wind blows constantly, and the elevation gets to you. Let me give you the warning everyone who finished the trail sent to people still back east. The Trail is backwards. It is easiest when you have the most strength and the most food. It is hardest when you are tired and hungry. Those last miles are killers – literally."

Well, that was a happy thought to keep with me the rest of the day. We agreed to meet for dinner around six. In the meantime, I searched my phone for trailer rentals in both Kansas Cities. And hour later I was parked in the lot of RV World. I hoped this was the place. I had seen a couple other trailer rental places. They seemed too small, so I had just kept driving. This place had size. Fingers crossed, I stepped out into an early afternoon sun that seemed ready to melt the asphalt. It was still just early June. What kind of summer was coming our way?

I was one of a half dozen cars parked out front of the offices. You've seen places like this in every American town – glass walls, flat roof, stickers telling the world there was a SALE!!! Lucky me, I was in time for the "Jump into summer" sale which no doubt led up to the "midsummer" sale and predated the "end of summer" sale. Was there a creative bone in any car lot/trailer lot in the world? I put on my sweater to prepare for the AC I knew I would find inside, hung my bag over my shoulder, and pushed through the glass doors.

What did I find inside? Two camping trailers, a couple desks, and three guys talking in a corner. One walked towards me.

"Well, young lady, don't you look nice. What can I do for you?"

I was hot before. Now I was hot and annoyed. Under the right circumstances, I would pity the guy. He was early fifties, pudgy, had a really sad comb over, and walked like his feet hurt. This was a sad man with a sad job. But he had that look on his face that every woman would love to slap right off him. He was condescending and flirting. I was trivial and cute. Whatever I wanted was trivial – maybe a job, maybe a look at a trailer that my boyfriend had already selected. He would talk to me, and I would be grateful for his time and attention.

I waited until he finished his shuffle across the room, and then I waited some more, my head up, my back straight, my eyes fixed on his. He stood. I stood. I waited until I had his attention. It took a minute, but I could see his expression change.

"I want ten to twelve RVs. They need to sleep at least four. Their engines have to be big enough to get them over the Rockies. I will be renting them for three months." I said all that as a simple statement. My eyes never left his. He stood, processing this, and I saw his back slowly straighten. Okay. I had his attention.

"Yes, mam. We can do that for you. When would you need them?"

"In five days."

"I will have to make some calls, but we can have them here for you. I have two models that I think would work. May I show them to you?"

"Yes." And off we went, out into the heat, down the rows of trailers and RVs. He was silent at first as he tried to determine which sales pitch was appropriate. I was grateful for the silence. We got all the way to the end of the row before he said anything, and then it was just, "I think this model will do what you need."

Would it? I walked to the back – the main bedroom. Big bed, small closet, mirrors on one wall, a big window across the back. Okay. In front of it was a second bedroom, smaller, bunkbeds. Designed for the kids. I asked about the length of the beds. Adults would be using these bunks, not kids. He said "over six feet," which I interpreted to mean "barely six feet." But there was a decent closet.

Across the hall was the bathroom. I spent a long time looking at that. If we put four people in each RV, that meant four people in each bathroom. Was that going to work? The shower was small, but the sink and counter seemed big enough. The toilet? You would have to back into it, but a reasonably sized person would fit.

There was a kitchen and a couch that could be covered by a table. Up front were two captain's chairs. Could four people spend three months in this space? Maybe. I sat down in the driver's seat and started the engine.

"How do I start the AC?"

He showed me, and gave me the specs on the engine. Eight cylinders, a transmission geared for climbs, a cooling system that could handle the desert. He slipped into sales mode and told me all about a client who had taken an RV just like this one to Arizona in August. No problems. I nodded and waited. I wanted to see how well the AC worked. I felt it come on, and then I walked to every corner of the RV to make sure I could feel it. Okay, this thing might work.

We looked at three other RVs that were basically clones of this one. They might have an extra foot in length, and might have an audio package or a wall that slid out when parked, but whatever name they put on the model (I looked at "Vail, Leisure Life, Westward," and "Highway Home"), it was basically the same box.

We took "Highway Home" for a spin. Kansas City is built up from the Missouri River, not exactly a mountain, but a decent hill to try. I had him direct me to a road that had a pretty steep incline. Along the way he reminded me to take my turns wide, and to watch both mirrors. Okay. But what I really saw was that cars gave me plenty of room. I liked that. Clear the way, little guys, Jessica is coming through. He did nudge me when I got a little close to a parked car, but otherwise I made the climb damage free. And, the AC stayed on.

I drove back to the lot, and we talked dollars. Basically, his rental charges would total about fifty percent of the purchase price. I told him I would agree if he extended the rental to four months, covered all maintenance, warranted every part, paid for the insurance, and had his people pick the RVs up in Oregon when we were done with them. He was back and forth to his finance people. I was on the phone to Lisa. How many people were we taking to Oregon? How many RVs would we need? Her count was thirty eight people, but it might grow along the way, and the talent would refuse to share trailers. Talent? The people who would be on camera – "on-screen talent." So, fourteen RV's? She agreed, I gave the finance guy a purchase order from Valley Vision Films, and we were done.

Back at Marriot's discount highway hotel, I just had time to clean up a bit before dinner with Allen. I stayed with the cotton sun dress, but ditched the sweater. This was just a dinner between to co-workers. I wanted to look nice, but well, just "nice."

He was in the lobby, out of his uniform and into jeans and a polo shirt that he filled out pretty well. He drove me to a typical family restaurant a few blocks away. No bar, lots of kids and old folks, waitresses who were quick. We had iced tea in front of us in minutes, and chicken fried steaks and mashed potatoes pretty fast thereafter. I talked about the RVs, he talked about a visit to one of the parks we would use. We were down to final bites when the talk got personal. I guess I started it.

"Family?"

"Two daughters. One is two years into the University of Nebraska. The other will start in the fall. Ex-wife. My fault." He is looking straight at me as he says this. "I took an assignment at Yellowstone. A wolf watch. Small cabin, endless snow, sometimes we couldn't even get out on snowmobiles. I drank, I said things I shouldn't have. In a bigger place we might have gone to separate corners and let things cool, but we were on top of each other until well into May when the roads finally opened up. By then I had said things that couldn't be unsaid."

Long pause. Now what did I say? "And the wolves?"

"I got a pretty accurate count in my sector. More than people thought, not enough to threaten the cattle outside the park." Another long pause. We are now done eating and are sitting across from each other, looking directly at each other. "And you?"

"Also two daughters. I had them when I should have been in high school. Both fathers married me, and then divorced me. No marriages for a long time, then three in the last six years. All three were killed. Willie was killed in January. A woman next door cried for help. He tried. She shot him." At some point in that brief statement, he reached across the table and placed his hand on mine.

"I'm sorry." Long pause. "And so now you want to see the West?"

"Now I want to be with Lisa." I looked directly at him while I said that. I'm not sure what I thought I would see. Maybe I expected him to withdraw his hand. But his expression never changed, and his hand didn't move.

"She's an interesting woman." If he was going to add anything to that, he never had the chance. Our waitress brought the check. We were done. Family restaurants turn tables fast. Time for us to go. We split the check and were back at the hotel five minutes later. He was up a couple floors, I was on the first floor, so we paused by the elevators. There was really nothing to say besides "see you in the morning," but I stood with him for a moment, put my palms on his chest, and reached up to kiss his cheek. He put his hands on my shoulder blades while I did it.

"Thanks for the conversation." I kissed his cheek, and then settled back down off my toes. He kept his hands on my back as I took a first, small step away from him. I sensed his hands holding me, not quite ready for me to go. But then he smiled, said "good night," and stepped into the elevator.

I spent the rest of the evening in my room, talking to my girls, telling them about this movie project. I also left messages for Lisa. Her phone took me to voice mail all three times I called. Eventually I fell asleep even as semis rattled the windows of my room.

In the morning I walked down to the breakfast room just as Allen was finishing. We briefly described our agendas for the day. He had another shooting site he wanted to walk through, I had to find a catering company that would give me two or three people for three months. He left. I focused on the waffle maker. There were instructions, and pictures, so even a child could make it work. Nevertheless, I felt a real pride when I managed to get a waffle from it. Jessica conquers food technology.

I sat down with my trophy waffle and a lake of syrup when the woman who ran the breakfast room approached. I assumed she wanted to compliment me on how well I made waffles.

"I overheard your comment about needing a cook. Could I talk to you about that?"

"Sure."

"My shift ends at ten. Could we talk then?"

"Sure. The lobby?"

"Yes. Thank you." I liked that she would not talk to me about another job while she was still on the clock for this one. Nice ethics. I watched her clean the counters of the breakfast area. She was my idea of poor and Southern – hunched shoulders, prominent cheekbones with dark areas under her pale blue eyes, hair turned mostly gray, pulled back in a ponytail. I would guess her age as early fifties, but that could just be from years of work, decades of five a.m. shifts. She looked hungry, and I guessed would still look hungry after eating all the food in the hotel.

I would talk to her at ten. In the meantime, I ate my waffle, had two cups of coffee, and then went back to my room to search my phone and bookmark all the local catering places I would contact later in the day.

At ten I went back to the lobby. I had decided to stay with the sundress, sweater combination. The AC was on high here. Shirette joined me almost immediately. I knew her name was Shirette because her name tag declared it. She was still wearing a white nylon uniform. With no place to change, she would wear that uniform in her car or on the bus, no one in management too concerned about how she might feel wearing that cheap uniform dress in public, her name on display, "Shirette" on a black tag pinned on the left side of her chest, a pin easy to remove when she quit and the uniform went to the next woman.

"May I sit down?" She stood with her hands clasped.

"Please." I pointed at the chair next to mine, black vinyl cushions showing wear at every corner.

"I apologize, but I overheard you talking about hiring cooks. I would like to apply. I have made all the breakfasts here for the last two years. I have worked at other restaurants for almost thirty years – since I was sixteen. I have cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinners, and done some waitressing." She was sitting on the edge of her chair, her hands in constant motion.

"Why would you leave this job?"

"This is a very good job, but it is part-time. I would like something full-time." Thirty years of working had taught her you never criticized an employer – it just made other employers nervous about you. Was this really "a very good job"? Who knew?

"My job will just last two or three months."

"But it will be full time for two or three months. When I get back, I should be able to find another breakfast job. There are usually plenty. One other thing. I heard you say you could use two or three people. I have two daughters in high school. They are already waitressing, and I have a sister who cooks. None of us has ever left Kansas City. I can't tell you how exciting it would be to travel the Oregon Trail."

"Our forest ranger guide says we are all going to be very hot. But I agree, it would be interesting to see the Trail." While I am talking, I am watching her face. I see desperation, I see hope, I see poverty. And, yes, I see the me that used to waitress and bartend.

"Let's do this," I continue. "Rather than references, it would help me if you could give me the recipes you would use for a week. You would be feeding forty people, and doing it out in the middle of some field. What would you feed people, and what food and equipment would you need? Show me tomorrow at ten, and if they are able, ask your daughters and sister to join us." I was certain she wanted to jump across to my chair and hug me.

"Yes, mam. I would be happy to do that. And thank you." She shook my hand and thanked me four of five more times as she left. I watched as she left the building, wondering if she would get in a car, or take a bus. She got into a pickup truck that had to be twenty years old. It left a trail of smoke as she pulled out of the lot. I could swear it was my old Dodge Ram. I hoped there was some way I could give her a job. She definitely needed one.

I spend the rest of the day in my room looking at the web sites of every catering company in both Kansas Cities. They were now my backup plan if Shirette didn't work out. They would be a simpler choice for me since I could assume they would bring their own equipment, and they might even have some experience in bringing food to picnic sites. But I would give Shirette her shot.

Allen and I had agreed to do dinner again. I checked my hair and face, did a little work, put on a floral print sundress (lots of daisies), sandals with a low heel, and walked down to the lobby to meet him. He was wearing khakis, a bright polo shirt, and a smile.

"How about some Missouri food tonight – ribs down by the river?" I agreed, he put a hand on the small of my back, and we were off.

Ribs are apparently a big business in Missouri. The restaurant was huge, and it had an even bigger patio along the river. We were shaded by the building and by trees, but still it was warm. No need for my sweater. We were taken back to one of about eighty small tables, and sat side by side facing the river.

"The Missouri, I assume?" I asked. "Our route to Oregon."

"It is the Missouri, but no, we will not follow it to Oregon." This conversation took all of twenty seconds, by which time a waiter had already brought us ice tea and taken our order for the obvious – ribs. I liked the place. Most of the tables were taken, but not all of them, so the place didn't feel crowded, and the grounds were nicely landscaped and terraced down to the river. Small boats went by, and kayaks, and people waved. So it was pretty and pleasant. Good.

But it had ribs. Sure they tasted good, but I was absolutely certain I would end up with the sauce all over my face, and probably all over my dress. I would be lucky if it didn't end up in my hair. Just to prove I wasn't being silly, the waiter brought over a mountain of wet wipes and napkins the second we ordered ribs. I started tearing open wet wipe packs even before the food arrived.

"If you like, you can use a knife and fork to get the meat off the ribs." Allen was turned to watch me work on the wet wipes, amused, but also sympathetic. At least that's what I thought I saw in his smile.

"I had ribs once before, and made a complete mess. I think I was fourteen. My mother never let me order them again."

"I think the people of the south use ribs as a social leveler. It doesn't matter who you are, you will make a mess. Everyone is equal before ribs."

"My guess is, I will be more equal than anyone else." I tore open another wet wipe package. He took my hand.

"Jess, it's okay." I put the wet wipe down, but he kept his hand on mine. I let him. He had big hands.

"Okay," I settled down a bit, and looked at him. "Before the ribs come and I embarrass both of us, explain why we aren't going up the Missouri. Isn't that the route?"

"Okay, quick history. The Missouri is the route Lewis and Clark took. They had to. It defined the land Jefferson had just bought, so they needed to see it. But mostly they found trouble. They wanted it to go way north, so the US could claim much of what is now western Canada. It didn't. They wanted it to get close to the Pacific. It didn't. But it was plenty long. It took twenty two young men, operating under military discipline, to get just to the eastern side of the mountains by the end of their first year. You might expect them to think, hooray, it turns out we bought a huge slice of Planet Earth. You would be wrong. They wanted to get across the continent, and now they knew this was much harder than they expected. It gets worse. In year two they do the mountains. They knew the Appalachian Mountains. Welcome to the Rockies. Even with the help of Sacajawea they almost die in the crossing. Without her, they would have died. All of them. Finally they follow the Columbia River and make the coast. There they end year two. Year three, they head home, have to run for their lives from Indians, but make it back. What does the world conclude from their trip? The area west of the Mississippi is the Great American Desert, leave it to the Indians, distances are too long, the mountains are too high, the continent will never be crossed by ordinary Americans."

"But we did cross it."

"By using the Platte, not the Missouri. That is where we will spend much of our summer." Okay, so I needed to read some history, and maybe look more closely at the maps he had given me.

In the meantime, our ribs came. The rack extended over the edge of the plate. A side dish held fries. I looked at all that meat and wondered how big a disaster this was going to be. Could I ask for a bib? Allen used his knife to cut one rib away from the rest, and picked it up with his fingers. Maybe if I waited until he had sauce down his shirt, I would be less embarrassed when I did it. No such luck. He ate the first rib with barely a dribble, and started on the second. Okay, challenge made, challenge accepted. I cut off one rib, picked it up at the ends, promptly dropped it back on my plate, picked it up again, managed to get some to my mouth.

"Okay," I said as I finished the first rib. "Here's the deal. We stay friends if you do not laugh at any point in this meal, and I never hear you tell another soul about whatever mess I make."

"Deal." He broke the deal almost immediately when the second rib slipped through my fingers, but otherwise, he was fairly good about it. Ultimately, I made it through six ribs. The fries helped absorb the grease and sauce. I went through a dozen wet wipes and easily that many napkins. And I still went in to the women's room to wash my hands and check for sauce stains on my dress. I decided to declare victory.

Back at the table, I had a few more fries, sipped my tea, and watched the river flow. At one point, as I was reaching for my glass, Allen intercepted my hand and held it. I let him.

"I told you I am with Lisa, right?" He nodded but didn't let go of my hand. I ate fries with my other hand, and we watched the shadows lengthen across the patio and across the Missouri. It might have been a bad river for Lewis and Clark, but I liked the looks of it. Cottonwood trees on both banks, a respectable current, smiling people ending their days floating on its waters. We sat and watched it flow long after we were done eating. We ordered desert just so we could justify sitting at the table. What did we talk about? Actually there were long silences. I felt no significant need to talk. I was comfortable sitting there with him, letting the evening pass.

Eventually we paid the bill and went back to our hotel. We stood together again near the elevator. I put my palms on his chest and reached up to kiss him. This time I kissed him on the mouth. And this time his hands held me much closer, and much longer. I felt good with him, but, I belonged to Lisa. So I thanked him, got down off my toes, and inched away. His hands stayed around my shoulders, holding me just a moment as I backed away. But he did finally let me go. I think that's what I wanted. He got in his elevator, and I walked back to my room. I called Lisa twice, and left messages on her phone.

The next morning I mastered the waffle machine again. I can't even say the waffles were that good, but if you have a skill, why not use it? I put a perfect waffle on my plate, looked around for some applause, and settled for a quick smile from a kid who was waiting to make her own. Oh well. I had a waffle, I had coffee, my day was off to a good start.

Allen came by and got himself a plate full of scrambled eggs and bacon (not up for the waffle challenge, Allen?) and we talked about our agendas for the day. He was off for another day of park visits. Yes, we would have dinner together again. This time a little fancier, cloth napkins and no wet wipes.

Shirette was all over the breakfast room, refilling and cleaning. She smiled at me several times, but never said anything. She was still employed here, and she would do her job here. But I got the impression she would be ready for me at ten.

And she was. She came to the lobby from the kitchen area, as her daughters and sister came through the front door. I got handshakes and smiles all around - nervous smiles, nervous handshakes, the girls getting most of my fingers – briefly. What did the girls look like? Skinny. Not model thin – skinny. They had worked on their hair, and put on some makeup, but they hadn't done particularly well. It would be a struggle in any case. They had their mother's pale blue eyes, plus cheekbones and chin that were just a little too heavy. They were waitresses now, but they looked like they would probably do factory work after high school. Their aunt had the same eyes and chin. I was more concerned by her walk. It was a bit uneven, and I wondered how much she was hiding from me.

I gathered them around a set of black vinyl seats to one side of the lobby, and got started. I know people get nervous at job interviews – I certainly have been, but wow, if there is a scale for nervousness, I was with four people who were off the chart. I asked them all to sit, but that just gave them something more to be nervous about. The girls were wearing dresses, and you would think this was their first time wearing a skirt. They arranged the skirt over their knees over and over, at the same time they tried to determine what to do with their feet. They knew to keep their knees together, but should their feet also be together? Straight under them? To one side? Which side? Their motion was constant. The adult women weren't much better.

I smiled and calmly and quietly described what we would be doing, the movie, the traveling, our need to feed the crew of about forty. I am saying this slowly and quietly, frankly talking like I might to a frightened child. Calm down folks, this will be okay. I probably spoke for about five minutes, and I did see the girls finally stop pulling at their skirts. They even made some eye contact, although the floor still got more time than I did.

I asked them to tell me about themselves. I got "I'm Jolene," and "I'm Marlena" from the girls. Their aunt was "I'm Clarissa." Okay. Dumb question on my part. I got names. If I hoped for anything more, I would have to wait. Maybe by Wyoming. I was trying to think of my next question (maybe about their jobs?), when Shirette saved the day.

"We have been working on the recipes you asked for. May we show you?"

"Sure. I would like that."

Shirette opened her purse and pulled out a wad of papers folded into quarters. The paper was ruled, and appeared to be torn from a child's school folder. The edge of torn holes had been trimmed with a scissors. She unfolded the papers and passed them to me. I found one page for each of seven days, followed by two pages – one for equipment, and one for ingredients. A few of the words were misspelled, but the handwriting was neat and orderly. I wondered how many times they had recopied these pages.

How did the meals look? Breakfast each day was cereal, fruit, scrambled eggs, pancakes, bacon. Okay. Lunch was sandwiches and chips one day, stew another, soup and sandwiches, etc. There was some variety, but mostly things looked simple. I liked simple. That left dinner. This I knew would be tough since expectations would be higher. I saw picnic fare a couple nights – cheeseburgers and chips. They had a steak night, two pasta nights, a pork cutlet night, and a casserole night. Not exciting, but not bad. I had never stood out in a field and cooked for forty people, but these recipes seemed doable. Would they satisfy Hollywood? Who knew? But at least they showed me the women could cook a range of items. If they could cook these meals, they could cook others. I checked the pages of equipment and ingredients, and saw what I expected to find.

While I was doing this reading, the girls went back to moving their skirts over their knees, and both Clarissa and Shirette shifted in their seats. Obviously I was making them even more nervous. Sorry.

"This all looks very good. We will have to see if any of the people have food allergies, and they may have favorites that they will want us to prepare, but I think these meals are a good start." I made sure to look at each of them at this point and smile. The girls were inspecting the floor again pretty fast, but the women matched my look and smile.

"We will need to start organizing all this already today, if you are able." I paused while they nodded. "I was thinking sixteen per hour for the cooks, and twelve per hour for the girls. We pay time and a half for over time, and there will be lots. Does that work for you?" It did. We stood, shook hands (I was going to have to teach the technique to the girls), and headed for my car. First stop was RV World to prepare a kitchen in one of the RVs. Then to buy grills and start getting food. We had a big day ahead of us. Clarissa rode with me, the girls rode with Shirette in the smoky pickup. Off we went.

It was after six when I got back to the hotel. Allen was sitting in the lobby. He was wearing a blazer. So, a little more fancy tonight. Okay, I could do fancy. I told him I just needed a minute to change. Fortunately, he had been married, so he knew how long it would really take. An hour later I had washed up, struggled with my hair, put on a bit more makeup, and then stood looking at my dresses. I went with silk. It was a deeper golden color that worked well with my mousy brown hair (the spa ladies in Galena had done miracles with the color, but still, brown is brown). The dress was knee length with short sleeves and a shallow scoop to the neck. It was nice without being showy. I thought it was right for an evening with Allen.

He seemed to agree. He had his hand on my back as we walked to his car, and again as we walked into the restaurant. He had selected an old restaurant in an old hotel downtown, the walls paneled and the ceiling high. I liked it immediately. The tables were small, covered with cloth, and sporting candelabra. Candle light. Good man. He sat next to me, rather than across from me. It took no time at all before he was holding my hand. I liked that, but. I reminded him once more about Lisa. He smiled, nodded, and kept his hand on mine.

In between ordering (we each had a glass of wine this time, and ordered the pasta special), I described my day, and he described the hotel.

"1880. I thought it might remind you of some of your hotels."

"Ah. You know about that."

"You said you were with Lisa Lang. I thought you might have acted together. You have the looks for it. So I Googled you."

"I don't know why people have business cards any more. Google has us all covered."

"Not me, well, not past a Forest Service picture and a press release of me moving from one park to another. You, on the other hand, have dozens of entries. Many, by the way, are really unpleasant. I am very sorry about Shakira. That must have been awful."

"It was." I found myself looking around the room. And I took my hand away. The wine came, and I drank some. Our Bordeaux was better. I studied the candles for a bit.

"Sorry. Let me try to restart the conversation. Trees I know, and Trail history I know. Let me go off in a direction where I am less likely to say something unpleasant. How about the Trail, and this hotel?"

"Sure. And don't worry about me. I have a glass of wine. Tell me a good story, and I will be fine." I put my hand back on the table. He cupped his hand over it. I looked at him. I saw a solid guy looking back. He clearly was sorry for going off in an unpleasant direction. He would try to do better.

"The hotel was built in 1880. The big years for the Trail were late forties through the fifties. Oregon land was free if you could get there. Three hundred twenty acres. Twice that if you were married. Women who arrived single were really popular upon arrival. The trail was dangerous in the sixties. Troops were pulled out of the forts to fight on both sides in the Civil War. Local Indians were tired of settlers taking their land and their elk and buffalo. Smaller trains were attacked, and settlers were killed. Far more were actually killed by cholera, and that too got worse in the sixties and seventies. People drank from the local rivers, and the local rivers were filled by human waste. The transcontinental railroad was completed in 1869 so now people with a few bucks had a much faster and safer way to get to California. In a few years there were extensions up to Oregon. But people still used the Trail in the eighties and nineties. You could bring your cattle, put your equipment in a wagon or two, and besides, there was a mystique to the Trail. You knew you could brag to the grandkids."

"So." He pointed around the room. "People who took the Trail might have sat in this room for a final meal before starting out. Not the original travelers. Not the ones we will be making a movie about. None of this was around when they started out. But later. People who did walk the whole two thousand miles to Oregon."

"Good story." I put my other hand on his. Our food came, and we talked about this and that. After the meal we walked slowly through the lobby, looking at pictures of the old days posted on the walls. Then he drove me back to the hotel.

And at the elevator? Yes, I kissed him again. And he held me close, one arm across my shoulders, and the other arm sliding across my ass and pulling me to him. One of my hands slid up his chest and went behind his neck so I could more easily hold myself on my toes. And I stayed there. It was obvious what came next, or at least what he wanted to happen next. I guess I wanted it too, but maybe not enough. Not enough to disturb what I had with Lisa. So I got down off my toes and backed away. And he held me. I wasn't going anywhere. I kept my palms on his chest. I pushed lightly. He held me. I pushed again, and said, "Good night." He held me. I pushed harder, and he let me go, his hand staying on my ass even as I turned. I didn't turn very fast.

Days I spent with Shirette and Clarissa while the girls finished their last days at school. Shirette had given notice and made breakfast at the hotel two more days until she was replaced. I never did find out where Clarissa worked, but she had no problem getting free. Once Shirette got off her shift, the three of us did a lot of shopping for equipment, and periodically checked back at RV World while the inside of the kitchen RV was torn apart to make more room. They left the bedrooms for the four of them to sleep, but everything in the living area went to make room for another refrigerator, a freezer, and storage for food and outdoor grills.

Nights Allen and I went to dinner. I wore silk. He held me at the elevator. I kissed him. Ultimately I stepped back and turned away, but each night I turned more slowly.

Chapter 11

The Circus Arrives

Eventually Lisa joined us in Kansas City. When she did, I learned a great deal about the film business. The kitchen crew and I had picked up the remodeled RV that morning and had been driving around town filling it with outdoor grills, boxes of cookware, paper plates, and plastic utensils, and several cases of water bottles. We needed more of everything, but this would be a start. Lisa called me to say she was on her way. We were to meet her at the hotel.

We were at WalMart loading the RV with water when Lisa called. I told everyone we were headed back to the hotel to meet the cast, and immediately all four in the women rushed back to their bedrooms to change. How they could change clothes while I drove and the RV rocked is one of life's mysteries, but it is no mystery why they were doing it. They were going to meet movie stars. They were still busy in their rooms when I pulled into the hotel lot, but they came out quickly enough. All four were now wearing dresses and had worked on their hair and makeup. They were wearing the best they had, and were looking the best they could. If only effort was rewarded.

We got to the hotel before Lisa, so we were already in the lobby when the circus arrived. In came a long black BMW, a bus, and two trucks. The trucks disappeared around the back of the hotel, the bus pulled to one side, and the Beemer pulled up front, maybe ten feet from the entrance. The car stopped, and then nothing happened. I watched out the door, waiting. We would see the film stars now, right? No. The huge Beemer just sat there. We waited. At this point I really think mental telepathy kicked in. Somehow it occurred to me – they were waiting for someone to open their door. I guessed that someone was me.

I stepped out of the air conditioned lobby, into a blast of hot summer air, and opened the back door of the car. Still nothing happened. At least nothing happened in the back. In the front, both doors opened. Lisa had been driving. She got out and started waving at the bus that was now slowly crossing the lot. It stopped, and a man with a large camera jumped out and put it on his shoulder. Meanwhile, one of Lisa's assistants got out of the other front door, and waved for my kitchen crew to come out of the lobby. Once out, she put them in a row, and then backed away. Okay. I get it. This was a photo op.

Lisa stood next to the camera man, positioned him, and then shouted "Okay." Now, finally, people started getting out. First was a woman. I know I had seen her on TV, but I couldn't remember her name. She was wearing a cocktail dress that showed off her thighs and most of her chest. Her legs came out of the car first, slowly, followed by her moving with incredible fluidity and grace. Did they have schools to teach car exits? She finally stood, put a hand through her hair, then looked over at the parking lot and waved. There was no one where she was waving, but no one would know that with the camera angle they were using. Another big smile and wave to the adoring crowds that didn't exist, and then she went to the kitchen crew. Each got a hug, a smile, and a compliment. Then she did another wave to the parking lot and entered the lobby. Her turn was over.

Next came a guy. Him I didn't remember ever seeing before. He was careful to not hug any of the women, but he did shake their hands, smile, and say nice things. A big wave to the adoring, nonexistent crowds, and then he went in to the air conditioning.

Now another woman. And this woman I am sure everyone knew. A star at sixteen, she was still a star. She also wore a cocktail dress. It shown in the sun. It shown in the eyes of the kitchen crew. It was so white she looked like an angel. When she went to my crew, she kissed them lightly on the cheek, and you have sworn from the looks on their faces, each of the girls had just been cured of cancer. Melanie Davis. She didn't need to wave to the parking lot. She just smiled in that direction, held her look, and you knew every car over there had just gotten horny.

Last, Miles Martin. He had hair, he had shoulders, he had the deepest blue eyes in Hollywood. I worried the girls would wet themselves. He took their hands in his right hand, put his left hand on their shoulders, and stood talking with each of them. Clever man. Wherever this video was run, he would be on camera the longest. The girls just looked up and nodded. Shirette probably said "Thank you" a hundred times. Clarissa stopped breathing, and I was worried she would collapse. Finally he moved on, one very male wave to the empty cars, and he went in as well.

I stood and waited. Lisa was talking to the cameraman. Her assistant walked over as well, the three of them looking at some of the video he had shot. I heard Lisa say, "I would have liked more light on Melanie, but this will do. Wrap it up. April, do some stills and some video and get them out locally and back home. The reception line was the local film society, including two high school interns. There were several hundred people here for the arrival."

I felt it was now safe to close the car door. I walked to the entrance, the kitchen crew close behind me. Lisa met me at the door, wrapped both arms around my neck, and kissed me hard enough to dent my teeth. When she came up for air, I pointed back at the kitchen crew. "These are the ladies who will be feeding us for the next three months."

"You all did really well with the entrance. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I am sure the crew could use some help unloading the bus." With the entrance video completed, people were now stepping down from the bus, and the luggage area beneath had been opened. I suspect the ladies had been hoping to go in and mingle with the stars, but they obeyed Lisa and went to help fetch and carry. Lisa grabbed a chunk of my ass and pushed me into the hotel.

The four stars were standing near the door, I assume waiting to see if they would have to redo the arrival scene. They all stared as Lisa approached them.

"Marvelous folks. I was watching. The camera was practically melting in Jim's arms. Expect similar entrances in four more cities along our route. By the way, this is Jessica. She is organizing our transportation and food, so see her about either. She is also the owner of the Galena resort, so you may have friends who have visited her. Miles, she will drive your trailer. But keep your hands off her, she is my piece of ass, and mine alone."

Okay, that's a little embarrassing, but I stand and smile at the actors while Lisa literally holds onto my ass. The actors say hello and smile. I look past them and see Allen Howe watching us from the other side of the lobby. He catches my eye and smiles. It seems a pleasant smile. I smile back. What else can I do?

Lisa talks schedules for a while. Seven for dinner. We will take the bus over. Breakfast at seven. At eight we go for the trailers and drive them to the first location. The walk through will be in full costume. If we are going to trip over skirts, we should do it before the cameras roll. There are a few questions, but just a few. Lisa has one of her assistants spread the word about the schedule and walk through. Then she takes my hand and says, "Your room. Now."

I'm not sure what to say about that evening. Lisa was all over me for about an hour. Really aggressive. She held me down, she tied my wrists, she wrapped her arms around me so tightly I almost passed out. I felt her weight on me from the first moment to the last. Obviously this was about establishing control. Did she think she needed to? By the time she was done, my mouth hurt, my thighs felt bruised, my breasts felt crushed. She hurt me. Did I ask her to stop? No. Did I like what she was doing? Some yes, some no. But I let her do it. We had been away from each other for nearly a week. I guessed she was making up for lost time. I thought/hoped our night together would be better.

After an hour of climbing all over me, she sent me down to the lobby to get her bags while she made some phone calls. My kitchen crew was waiting for me. What were their orders? I told them about the schedule. We would be at the first remote site by noon. They should have the first lunch ready to go. They had the kitchen RV from now on. It was their home from here to Oregon. As for this evening, they could join us for dinner, or go home. I knew what the girls wanted – dinner in the same restaurant as movie stars, maybe a chance to talk with them again. But the women wanted to go home. They had their first meal to get ready for, plus, they would be leaving Kansas City for two or three months. They had a mental to-do list that went on forever. They gathered the girls and took the kitchen RV home.

One of Lisa's assistants was sitting with Lisa's bags. She helped me roll all four of them down to my room. She never said a word to me. But eyes talk. Hers said "My turn will come again." My eyes never replied.

Dinner was at the rib place by the river. Lisa had made the reservation before leaving St. Louis. She didn't tell me how she knew of the place or why she picked it. We all took the bus over. The bus was loud going over, and louder coming back. The bar out on the patio stayed busy. We were all dressed to make a show. The men alternated between jeans and white linen slacks, but all of them wore loafers with no socks, black tees, and sport coats that cost more than a stay at my resort. And that went for all of them – from the stars to the technical guys, to the gaffers (not really sure what they do, but they seemed to be a kind of gofer). It was the Hollywood uniform for males. For the ladies? It was a competition to see who could show the most chest and thigh. Lisa put me in the shortest of my satins T&As, but I was still outdone by all of her assistants.

The underlying message seemed to be that Kansas City needed to know that we were in town. Hence, one of the biggest restaurants, and one of the loudest groups. Why talk when you can shout? Why sit when you can walk about the restaurant turning every head? Why have one drink when you can have three, and buy a round for the bar? Why sit when you can stand and wave? Why pose for one or two pictures, when you can pose for twenty or thirty? Put another way, why not send eighty or a hundred locals home with stories about you, tweets about you, Facebook pictures about you, dreams about the excitement you brought to their sleepy town?

We did all that. Someone once told me that when circuses came to town in the old days, even though they had advertised, and posted pictures and such, they still did a huge parade down Main Street, so people would really know they were in town, and catch the excitement. The rib restaurant was our modern version of that circus parade.

We did eat some actual ribs. It wasn't all a performance. But it was almost all performance. And sitting there with my skirt up and my boobs out, I knew I was one of the clowns. I smiled and waved, and drank with the others. I played my part. But I hoped I wouldn't be wearing my clown suit too many more times.

We went back to the hotel sometime after one. Lisa was gentle with me. We kissed, we caressed each other, we touched and held each other for a while. And then she turned her back on me and went to sleep. I slid up tight against her back and put an arm over her chest. We lay like spoons, but that didn't change the fundamentals – she was giving me her back.

Chapter 12

A Challenge

I woke up with Lisa wrapped around me, and her eyes staring holes through my head. She had turned toward me, one arm under my neck, across my back, pulling me tight against her. Her other hand had pushed the hair off my face, then slid past my ear, and was now holding the back of my head, her fingers deep in my hair, her grip tight, almost to the point of pain. To complete her possession of me, she had taken one of her feet and basically stepped over my legs, then pulled back with her heel, forcing my top leg between hers, her foot and leg now locking my leg in place between her thighs. I would say she kissed me, but it was more than that. Her hand held my head against hers, and her mouth, well, her mouth locked on to mine. It was like from top to bottom, she was pulling me into her.

I had one arm trapped under me, but the other was free. Did I push her off? Could I? She was big, and strong, and she had a tight grip on me. Now what? I put my hand on her hip and waited. Maybe she was overcome with passion. Maybe. She pulled me tighter. I waited. Then I put my hand on her back and stroked from her shoulders to her ass, slowly. Over and over. Settle down, big girl. Settle down. I'm here, you're fine. Just relax.

It occurred to me I had been in this position before. You can't control your world? Control your woman. What's going on in her world? Don't know. Maybe she will tell me, maybe she won't. In the meantime, I was locked up tight against her. Lots of times, I would have loved this. See me, hold me, love me. She was big, she was warm, she was all over me. Shouldn't I like this? Not the way she was grabbing me. Something was going on. She had me, she would control me. Okay, for the moment, I would let her. I kept my hand moving down her back. Slowly.

I felt the hand in my hair relax first. She kept her fingers in my hair, but she moved them, massaging the back of my head. It felt pretty good. And she moved her mouth off of mine, while still staring at me. I said "Good Morning."

"Tell me you love me."

"Of course I love you. You know that." I kept my hand moving on her back. I felt the arm across my shoulders loosen somewhat. Her hand stroked my side. This was more like it. I kissed her and moved my free hand up to play with her hair. She had great hair. We had ended up on the same pillow, looking at each other an inch or two apart. Was it time to talk? Not quite yet. I played with her hair, I slid my thigh against hers, I kissed her. I really did love her. I felt her breathing change. Now was the time to talk.

"I will do anything for you." I went back to stroking her spine as I talked, my fingers touching every vertebrae. Relax, big girl, relax.

"Benicia." I remembered the first woman out of the car. The legs. She had great legs, and made sure they came out of the car first. She had even paused. See these legs? These beautiful, sexy legs? They are mine. And the rest of me is pretty good too. The way she had stood up reminded me of a plant being moved in water, the current sliding it from side to side, and then up straight. It was astonishing, really. She had waved to people who were not there. That was their loss. Any people who had been there would have been mesmerized.

"She's a beautiful woman. And she moves well."

"She auditioned for the lead."

"I could see her as Narcissa. She could open the Trail."

"She needs the lead. It would make her career. She took the supporting role, but she is afraid it will type cast her as a supporting actress, and she will never get to lead."

"But."

"But I can't do that. Benicia needs the lead. I need Melanie Davis. It's not enough to make the film. I need to sell the film. You saw what we did yesterday at the hotel, and then at the restaurant. Sales. It was all sales. Of the people who got off that bus yesterday, two thirds are here to make the film, one third to sell it. I use Melanie Davis in the lead, and her name puts the film in a hundred more theaters on opening weekend. It gets me more air time, more interviews. It gets me flash."

"Like I said. I will do anything for you. Do you want Benicia whacked?" Okay, not a good joke. But it seemed right at the time.

"I need you to scare her. I watched her try to upstage Melanie Davis in every scene we shot in St Louis. I am tired of reshooting scenes. It gets expensive, and will be more expensive as we shoot longer scenes. So I want you to scare her. When we do our walkthroughs today, I will ask you to walk through one of the scenes. She will watch you take her place."

"I'm not an actress."

"No, you're not. Everything that is in your head is instantly on your face. I think that's why you have so many lovers. You are beautiful, and you are completely transparent. We can trust you."

"So I get to walk through a scene with Miles Martin? Have someone take a picture so I can send it to my daughters, okay?"

"Okay." We kissed, and she held me, but it felt different. There was no threat in her hands. There was warmth.

But there was still control. After our shower, she had me put on far too much makeup for this early in the day, and she put me in a silk nothing that barely made it halfway down my thighs. My breasts were half exposed, and the spaghetti straps, well, they didn't provide much security. To be fair, she seemed to want similar outfits on the rest of the women. Her own outfit was only a little longer. It was pretty obvious what we were selling. And we had our first real audience. There were probably fifty people, mostly young women, standing outside the hotel in the hot sun. There were a couple security men in uniform, no doubt Lisa's effort at yet another visual effect. I saw at least three people from the film company taking videos inside and out. Selling, selling, selling.

I was glad we didn't have an audience at RV World. The bus got us all there, and then it disappeared the minute we got off. Back to St Louis I guess, with stories to tell. We all gathered on the parking lot as salespeople and mechanics came out of the office. Thirty eight people for thirteen RVs (plus the kitchen RV). Lisa handed out thirty eight copies of an assignment sheet. I instantly heard some unhappiness, and saw people trading assignments. Meanwhile, the sales people wanted to walk people to their RV. More unhappiness. "I thought they would be bigger" seemed to be the quotation for the day.

I ignored that and went to my assigned RV – a "Vail" model I would drive for Miles Martin. We both climbed in, the salesman right behind us. The guy was born for sales – he never stopped talking. First the bathroom. Here's what you do to flush. Most people don't flush on number one. Here's how you tell how much water is left in your tank. Here's how you turn on the shower. Here's why you should keep your showers short. Miles is paying attention. Then he wanders off to check the bedroom and living room.

Sales guy goes outside. Miles stays inside. I guess I am doing the outside work. "Leveling" comes first. He shows me how to drop and secure the corner posts. Standing in a short skirt and wearing two inch stiletto heels, I drop all four posts, tighten them in place, and then raise them. Great job for a woman. I look in a window and see Miles is sitting on the couch reading his script. Hmm. Next? Here's where you refill the water tank. Here's where you empty the waste tank. My jobs too, I guess. Thanks Lisa.

We go back inside, start the engine, play with all the gauges, crank up the AC, get out the operations manual with all its helpful tips on what to do if any of a huge number of things go wrong. It should be called the fright book. I took the guy's 800 number and told him what I would really do if anything went wrong.

Sales guy is done. He shakes my hand, looks down my dress, and leaves. I leave the engine running and step out to see how the rest of the folks are doing. Not good. Pumping tanks is not going over well, nor are bunk beds. I stand next to Lisa while she takes complaints. I thought I heard whining when my girls were in third grade. Standing in that parking lot, I heard a whole new level. But. The sun is hot and the asphalt is already getting soft. Every RV has a driver, and every driver has figured out how to work the AC. People can stand and argue, or they can get inside a nice air conditioned RV. Funny how that works. I hear lots of "We'll talk about this later," as people back away and get into an RV.

It was after noon by the time we were all ready to go, but we were ready to go. It felt like a miracle to me. Lisa led off, and the rest of us followed. Thirteen white RVs in a convoy. We were only going about thirty miles to a state park by the Missouri River, but we were going. Look out world. There's a new wagon train on the Oregon Trail.

Chapter 13

On Location – Day 1

Allen had arranged the perfect location for us. Weston Bend State Park was just thirty miles from our hotel. So we could get there in half an hour. Easy to get back to the hotel in the evening, easy to get to the park in the morning. The park was on the Missouri, and large enough for us to shoot with a variety of backgrounds. We ended up shooting there for over a week.

It was fun pulling in there the first day. Allen had done a great job getting ready for us. There was a large field where we could park the RVs, all of it surrounded by snow fencing. There were already forty or fifty people standing outside the fence. Lisa's sales crew had done their job.

We followed one another into the enclosure, parking in a long row like we knew what we were doing. Miles and I got out, and I saw him do something interesting. He walked right back out of the enclosure and stood talking to the people outside. I bet he did half an hour out there, standing for selfies, shaking hands, signing things. The other three stars eventually joined him, but he was the one who initiated the effort, and the one who stayed out there the longest. That was true for every other day we were there.

I headed over to the kitchen RV. They were on the other end of the enclosure, parked with the door opening toward the parking lot. I was really happy to see they were ready for us. They had put out the two six foot tables we had bought, and had sandwich boxes piled across the top. All four of the kitchen crew stood on the other side of the tables, and, all four were in costume. They had the complete prairie outfit – long calico dresses with ruffles along the hem, long sleeves, and a collar around their necks. And bonnets. They each had a sun bonnet with wide brim that framed their face. The girls were beautiful. They really were. Not in the traditional sense. Their features were just a bit too coarse, chins a bit big, teeth a bit crooked. But when you looked at them standing by those tables, what you saw were smiles. And the smiles changed the way their features appeared. Somehow their eyes were bluer, their skin smoother, their mouths more attractive. They were happy. And so excited. They could barely stand still. And that made all the difference.

By the time I crossed the lot, they were already giving out sandwiches. All four of them crowded the table so they could answer any questions, or help in any way. They offered bags of chips, and listed all the varieties. They opened the cooler and showed all the drinks available. They described the contents of each sandwich. One of the guys in front of me said he just liked peanut butter and jelly. Shirette immediately went back in the RV to make him one. You want to see smiles? You want to see eagerness? You want to see service? This was the place. I was really proud of them.

Was everyone happy? No. One guy made a big show of taking the tomato off his sandwich, and another asked "Is this all you have?" But there wasn't much of that. How big a jerk do you have to be to look at those happy girls and say something mean?

I stood for a while, watched, and then told them what a good job they were doing. I also took a sandwich. Turkey, with bacon, lettuce, and tomato. They had a little less mayonnaise than I would have used, but still, it was a great sandwich. There were several picnic tables nearby, and I parked my silk-clad ass down to eat. Everyone else at the table seemed to have the same reaction I did. The food was good.

It occurred to me the girls might like to have their picture taken. Well duh. I asked, and both Jolene and Marlena ran back into the RV to get very old phones. Old, but these were teen girls, so there would be a phone. I took several pictures of them, and then noticed both girls seemed to be vibrating. I really don't know what else to call it. But I turned to look and saw all four of the stars approaching. Hmm. Maybe more pictures? They were pretty good about it. I got maybe two dozen shots of the four stars with the four cooks. All were "candid." None had the stars looking directly at the camera. In each case they were listening attentively to one of the girls or their mother, head tilted, maybe nodding, a hand on a shoulder. These were professionals.

The only thing out of the ordinary is something I might not have noticed if I had not been attacked in bed by Lisa. As I moved to take my pictures, so did Benicia. Where did she move? Between me and Melanie Davis. Really. I had to step to one side or another to get any pictures of Melanie. Benicia was fast, and it seemed natural, but I could see what Lisa meant about "upstaging." I gave the girls their phones back, pretty confident that a whole new onslaught of images were about to hit the Twitterverse.

Next? People were telling me to get my costume. Lisa had decided everyone would be in costume. Whether on camera or off, we would all dress for the times. Fine with me. Having half a day with my boobs hanging out was more than enough. I followed the others to the big trucks parked nearby. One was for the camera and sound equipment and even had two booths inside. The other was for costumes. Here was one case where the women actually had it easier than the guys. Guys needed to change pants, shirts, and jackets (black, white, black). Ladies just pulled a dress over what they were already wearing. We walked up, announced our size, the wardrobe mistress took a good look at us, quietly told us our real size, and handed us a dress, gloves, and bonnet. While we stepped into the dresses, she explained the basic design. Ruffles at ground level to add weight and keep the skirt from blowing up in the wind. We wouldn't want men looking at our ankles. Long sleeves, gloves, and bonnet with wide visors to protect our white skin. Ladies had pale skin. We would protect our skin. Calico was heavy and durable. Dark colors and floral patterns made it easier to hide dirt and stains.

Okay, redressed and newly educated, I kicked my skirts across the parking area looking for Lisa. Everyone I talked to told me to follow the signs to the park headquarters. Not too hard. Most of our group seemed to be headed the same way. What did I discover about prairie dresses as I walked along? Calico is hot and heavy. Such dresses easily weighed two or three pounds. And the bonnet was like having blinders on. Yes, the wide brim around my face kept the sun off, but it reduced my peripheral vision. I kept turning my head to see what was around me. And that cute ribbon that tied in a pretty bow beneath my chin? Every time I turned my head, the knot slid across my neck. That gets old fast. So, my conclusion? Be happy fashions have changed.

It was a fairly long walk to the park headquarters, but that gave me a good chance to look at the place. I think Allen had chosen well. There were trees all along the river bank (it looked cool in their shade), a wide expanse of river visible through the trees, a few small hills where I guess the camera people would set up, and some open areas that might normally be used for visitor camping, but had been closed off so we could use them for more shooting "in the prairie." Hiking paths were everywhere. I bet families loved coming here on weekends. I hoped they wouldn't mind us taking most of it for a week, but really, this would be a great place for us to get video footage. It was only half an hour from a major city, but it felt much farther.

What did I find at the park headquarters? Wagons. Three of them. Lisa was near the first. Gathered around her were Allen, two other park people, plus a growing group of actors and crew. Allen had the two park people on either side of him. He was doing the talking.

"We promised these wagons would not be moved. They are re-creations, not originals, but still, they are very valuable and fragile. You can put things in them, and sit in them if you wish. But they cannot be moved. There is a ranch outside of North Platte Nebraska that has a dozen replica wagons and a small herd of oxen. People who want to recreate a bit of the Trail experience stay in the wagons and take them out for a few miles. That will be your chance to get shots of a train in motion."

I assume Lisa already knew all this and had already determined what scenes could be shot here, and which in Nebraska, but it helped the rest of us get a general idea of what was going on. There were a few questions for Allen, and several men did climb up on the wagons, but most of the action was around the fringes as workers set up cameras and sound equipment. Long power cords ran back to the headquarters building. Poles were extended to hold microphones in the air. People were busy – we were going to make a movie! Oops – film!

I was looking for someplace to stand out of the way, when Lisa motioned me over. She wrapped an arm around my ass and handed me a booklet.

"Page 6 and 10. Now kiss me and then go stand over there so I can find you when I need you." I leaned in to kiss her, but she was also wearing a bonnet and our brims collided. Somehow we managed. "You know you look real sexy in that calico dress." She still had her arm around my ass.

"No one has ever looked sexy in a calico dress."

"If that were true, the American population would have died out about 1890." Fair point. I walked over to the oak tree she had pointed at and started reading my lines. There were just five. But of course the point was not for me to really act, it was for Benicia to see me take her lines. Lisa was putting her in her place. And maybe being a little mean.

I ended up standing there for over an hour. It was just a walkthrough, but they wanted to get light levels and sound levels, and camera angles. They also brought up another camera on wheels. It would move along the asphalt path as actors walked along the grass next to the wagons. It was interesting how quiet it got as the technicians worked. They were completely focused. The actors ended up standing with me in the shade of that oak tree. They had nothing to say either. All of us were reading from our copies of the script.

Finally Lisa and the videographer – Jim – decided they were ready for the walkthrough. Lisa came over to us.

"They want to try some motion shots first. Melanie, you and Jessica will go to the back of the train, and walk to the front." At the mention of my name, all four actors looked in my direction. It was like the first time they had noticed I was with them. "Benicia, watch how they move. I will have you do it later. Ladies, just walk first. I will ask you to do the lines from page six on the second or third pass."

Melanie Davis and I dodged around the cameras and walked to the back of the last wagon. I was walking with Melanie Davis! If you could be sexy in a calico dress, she was. They had tailored it to match her figure, and it was a lighter color than the others. And somehow her neckline was lower. And her golden hair was visible across her forehead and around the sides of her face. Her bonnet was different from the rest of ours. Part of me was thinking, hey, that's not fair. But of course there was no intention to be fair, or historically accurate. She was the star, she was beautiful, and her costume had to show that.

I tried to think of something to say as we walked. "These dresses are certainly warm."

"Yes, they are." My peripheral vision was blocked by my bonnet, but it didn't appear she turned at all in my direction as she responded. Nor was there anything in the tone of her voice that made me eager to continue comments on the weather. But hey, I could tell my girls I had a conversation with Melanie Davis – on set.

We got to the end of the wagons, and stopped. I didn't need to be told I would be next to the wagons, Melanie would be closest to the cameras. Lisa held us there while the cameras got ready, and then waved us forward. I made it about three steps and then damn near fell on my nose. Walking in the parking lot had been fine, and walking on the asphalt path had been fine, but walking through high grass with an uneven surface, well, I hit a clump of something, and almost went down. I expected laughter, but fortunately did not hear it. Melanie waited patiently for me, and we continued our walk. Did I float with the grace of a ballerina the rest of the way? Nope. But I didn't trip again. I walked maybe a hundred feet, and did it successfully.

Lisa asked us to do it again, and we did – four times. I got better at walking through grass in a long skirt. Little miss perfect seemed to master it immediately. On our fifth circuit, we got to talk. "It was never this hot in New York," I said. "Yes, I can feel the sun burning through my bonnet." She said. There were more lines of page 6, but Lisa just had us repeat those lines over and over as we walked. She was standing by a portable sound table talking to a guy with headphones just off his ears. She waved her finger in a circle, and we went around again, saying the same lines. We did that three times. Did I mention it was hot? It is never this hot in New York (or Amberg or Galena).

I was hoping my film career would end soon. It did. The technical guys got what they needed from us. Now it was time for Miles to take my place. He and Melanie did one walk, and then did their lines two times. And they were done. Hey, no fair. But at least I was able to get back under the shade of the oak tree. Benicia gave me a look as I walked over. I am pretty sure it suggested my injury or death.

Next scene? After almost an hour of moving cameras and doing more light and sound checks, someone put three stools beside the middle wagon. Melanie and I again. We were back in the sun, but it is pretty hard to trip while you are sitting down. So, progress. We were told the third stool was actually a camp fire. Okay, it's night. Melanie and I sat on our stools, hers closer to the cameras, and two women worked on us. Off came our bonnets (after all, it was night), and out came combs and brushes to work on Melanie's hair. The other woman arranged our skirts. My hair? I ran my fingers across my forehead to get the hair out of my face. Hmm.

We spent the next fifteen minutes waiting while cameras were adjusted yet again. And then we said the initial lines from page 10. I said, "When he looks at you, I see love." She said, "Yes, I feel that too." And of course we repeated those lines half a dozen times, pausing each time to see what Lisa wanted of us. What she wanted was the lines repeated while the sound man pointed at various mics that needed to be moved, and then finally nodded.

Finished with the scene, I gathered we were now finished with the afternoon's walkthroughs. I couldn't help myself. I turned directly to Melanie.

"This is really hard work, isn't it?" She looked at me like I was suddenly visible for the first time.

"It is boring beyond belief, but then come moments when it is exhilarating beyond anything you can imagine. If this film has five such moments, I will go home grateful."

"Oh." I guess I should have said more, but she was already up and walking away, and I, well, I have no idea what I could have added. Thanks for sharing?

Lisa was gathering people to her. It was after five. I guessed we were done for the day.

"Thanks to all of you for a good first day. I think we need one more day to walkthrough some scenes, and then we will start shooting. Tonight the bus will leave at seven thirty for the same restaurant we used yesterday. The food is good, and the restaurant is comping our bar tab. They tell me the place will be packed. We got lots of local coverage. People are interested. Expect even the sound guys will be doing selfies." Good laugh at that. I wondered if it would be true. "Tomorrow we will have breakfast at the hotel, but I want us to spend the night here, so pack a change of clothing and all your toiletries. Let's do a shakedown cruise for the RVs before we venture across Nebraska. Just one night, and then back to the hotel until we leave next week. Understood?" She got nods, and then people wandered off.

I headed directly back to the parking area as fast as my skirt would let me. Had she told the kitchen crew? No. I found them packing up, but leaving some snacks and drinks available should people want them. Their enthusiasm was still off the charts. It may have been hot, but all I saw was smiles. I explained the schedule for the next two days and said I would meet them at WalMart at seven thirty to get the food we needed. That done, they packed away the last food and the tables and drove off.

I went back to my RV and arrived at the same time as Miles. He waited for me to start the engine and the AC, and then asked me to come back for a short talk. He was sitting on the couch, and patted the seat next to him. Okay, my chance to talk to the man with the bluest eyes in Hollywood. By the way, that's completely true. I sat next to him and was certain of it.

"Jessica, do you mind a question? You own hotels. You have a very large business that I assume needs your attention. What are you doing driving an RV across the West?"

"My husband was killed in January. I thought I was handling it well, but I wasn't. I met Lisa, and she suggested I travel for a while before I did anything too stupid."

"Fair enough. But a word on that. People traveled to Oregon for the free land, and some for the adventure. Some traveled for a safer climate. Malaria was endemic to the Mississippi Valley, and they thought Oregon would be healthier. But they found cholera along the Trail, and hundreds died."

"I get the point. There is no guarantee this trip will be safe either." I paused and then continued. "If you don't mind, your turn. I assume you have lots of film offers, and you aren't worried about next month's rent. So why a film that will take you to deepest, darkest, Nebraska for much of the summer?"

"The character. I have done eleven films, but none of the characters I played were actual historical figures. It creates a huge challenge. I have spent three months reading about Whitman. You find people who think he personally settled the West. And, by the way, you can make a case for that. Fur traders took wagons as far as Fort Laramie, but he was the first to take a wagon all the way into Oregon Territory. Obviously he was also the first to take a wife there. You can argue he reconceptualized the West. Before him, it was the place men went to be real men – Mountain Men. After him, it was the place a family could go. But, there are a mountain of books that say he was given too much credit. Wagon trains would have gone there anyway, and besides, look what happened to the Indians."

"Okay." I had to respond. "But you understand the film is not about him. It is about Narcissa."

"True. But picture them sitting at a campfire out on the plains. She looks at him. What does she see looking back? A missionary zealot? A skilled doctor and surgeon? A visionary? A fraud?"

"What does he see looking at her?"

"A woman bright enough to teach chemistry and physics. A woman strong enough to travel two thousand miles, on horseback, on a wagon, and on foot. A woman brave enough to step across the Missouri into a land no woman like her had ever seen. A woman determined enough, and dedicated enough to spend year after year facing real privation."

"A tragic woman?" I had to ask.

"You mean because her only child drowned at two? Because the Cayuse murdered her husband, and killed her as she held him in her arms?" I nodded. "Those are tragic events. But in classic Greek tragedy, a tragic character has to have a tragic flaw. What's her flaw?"

I shook my head. I could think of none. I sat looking at him for a minute. "Thank you for this conversation. You are an interesting man."

"Thank you."

"May I ask a favor? May I kiss you?" He just looked amused. "I have two daughters. If I tell them I once sat on a couch with Miles Martin and didn't kiss him, they would never let me hear the end of it."

"Well, I guess we can't have that." He sat and waited. I leaned toward him and put a hand on the back of his head. I kissed him, and as I did, I shifted myself so my back was now against the couch. I pulled him toward me (gently), and slowly leaned my head back against the top of the couch, putting myself in the classic female position, me lying back, he leaning over me. Yes, I am a hussy, but if you are going to kiss a man, kiss him.

I held that kiss for a very long time, and then stopped and looked up at the bluest eyes in the world.

"Thank you." I looked up at him, and didn't move, my hand still on the back of his head.

"You are welcome." He hadn't actually touched me, but he did put one hand down near my hip. Not on my hip, but at least near my hip. I kissed him again. Why not? I finally let him go, but stayed with my back against the couch, my head resting on the top of the cushion.

"If you want to ravish me, feel free." I was joking. Mostly.

"I am not sure my wife would approve, but I appreciate the offer."

We both smiled, and I slid off the couch and went to the driver's seat. It was a quick drive back to the hotel. I'm not sure what I was feeling more – the ruffles on my skirt sliding over my ankles as I moved from one pedal to another, or the wet on my lips that I chose not to wipe off.

Back at the hotel, Miles got off the RV with a pat on my shoulder and a "Thank you." I locked up and hurried to my room, out of a prairie dress, out of a silk invitation, and into a cotton sundress.

I used my Toyota for the drive over to WalMart. The kitchen RV was already there. I parked nearby. All four came out and joined me for the walk to the food aisles. Shirette had written out the meals she planned and the food necessary. The meal plan looked good to me. Sandwiches with fruit for lunch, a cookout with beef, pork, and salmon for dinner, omelets and oatmeal for breakfast. I liked the meal plan and told her so. At this point she stopped. We were just inside the doors.

"Mrs. Wilson, we can do this." I stopped, confused for a minute. "The shopping, the cooking. We can do this." Oh. I got it. I was micromanaging. I was walking with four women as if they had never been in a grocery store before. It was a bit degrading.

"Yes, you are doing a fine job. Let's do this. As we get the travel schedule, I would like you to work out a meal plan for several days and let me see it. Okay?" Shirette nodded. "And, if you need any help, and I do mean any – cooking, shopping, cleaning the kitchen, anything, ask me." Shirette promised she would. I dug around in my bag and found the film company credit card. I handed it to her, said I would see her for lunch, and walked away.

And suddenly and unexpectantly, I was done for the day. Now what? The rib place? No. I bought an apple and a banana on my way out of the store, and went back to the hotel. I had a couple great stories to share with my girls, and then I would sleep.

Chapter 14

On Location – a Bad Morning and a Better Night

I had gone to bed in a white satin nightgown that I knew Lisa liked. I wasn't sure if she would be gentle with me or rough, but it hadn't occurred to me she wouldn't be with me at all. But that's what I found when I woke up. No Lisa. I was still lying in bed, trying to grasp the situation, when there was a knock on my door. Had she forgotten her key? No, it was one of her assistants here for her bags. I didn't think the woman's smirk was absolutely necessary, but apparently she did.

Bags gone, Lisa gone, now what? I stood in the shower miserable and confused. I had been dumped before. By the time I was eighteen, two men had divorced me and left me with babies to care for. Other lovers had come and gone since then. Practice didn't make it any easier. The initial question was pretty straightforward – did I get in my Toyota and drive back to Galena, or did I stay with the RV train to Oregon. I did have a contract to work on the food and transportation, but Lisa could cancel that, and I assumed I could cancel as well. Pieces of paper weren't going to hold me here.

What would? Allen? Miles? Funny, what I really thought about at that moment was Narcissa. Yesterday I had barely taken three steps before nearly falling on my face. She had walked and ridden horseback two thousand miles. She'd had a baby out on the frontier. She had taught school in a log shed. She – well – she interested me. I wanted to see the Whitman Mission outside Walla Walla, Washington. Maybe I would drive there in my car. Maybe I would stay with the Hollywood people. But I would go.

Fine. Decision made. I got out of the shower, put on my prairie dress, and walked down the hall to breakfast. A few people were already in the breakfast room. I made no effort to study their faces. What did they know or not know? I didn't care. I walked directly to the waffle maker and got that going. I had barely turned the machine on when one of the gaffers stood next to me – close. He wanted instruction on how to make a waffle. Sure. As he leaned towards the machine, his hand landed on the small of my back. Okay. So the word was out. I no longer belonged to Lisa, this "piece of ass" was available. I took his hand off me and stood looking directly into his face until he backed away. One down. How many more to go?

I took my waffle and a cup of coffee to a table and sat down. Three bites later, Miles came over.

"May I join you?"

"Please do." He sat near me, but not too near. Co-worker near. Respectful near. He ate his eggs, and drank his coffee, and told me the day's weather forecast. Empty words, but words that told the rest of the room how I should be treated. At one point he took my hand and smiled. But then he went back to his eggs. The man with the world's bluest eyes was also the world's nicest man. We talked a little about the walkthroughs scheduled for the day, and slowly I noticed my shoulders were sliding down from my ears. This would be okay. We finished our meals at the same time, stood, smiled, and walked our separate ways. I needed to pack an overnight bag. I would be getting back in my RV.

Lisa was waiting for me back in my room. No explanation, no excuses. She backed me onto the bed and then climbed aboard. Her legs between mine, her elbows at my shoulders, she slowly undid the buttons down my chest, then peeled my dress over my shoulders and down my back. My arms were now pinned, but my hands were free. I left them where they were – lying flat on the bed. This was Lisa's show.

"You have really nice breasts." Her mouth was on each of them, and then she kissed me. Her hips and thighs were sliding against mine through layers of fabric.

"Is this make up sex?"

"This is me expressing affection."

"Do you plan to express it very often?"

"Is that a request?" She was staring down at me from a height of maybe two inches. I let her stare. "Okay, let me make a request. Stay with the project. Feed us. Move us. Let me hold you from time to time."

"I am to stay available to you. From time to time."

"Don't be a bitch about it, Jess. I'll be good to you. I might even use you in a scene or two. You do a nice job keeping Benicia in her place."

"What I want is for you to hold me and love me." At this point I put my hands on her ass and held her tight.

"I do love you Jess. And I will hold you." She wrapped her arms around me and held me. I whispered "tighter" and she did, as she kissed me. I held her as well, and accepted that this is what I would now have – her arms around me – sometimes. But sometimes was better than none. So, okay, I would stay with her, and see the Oregon Trail with her.

I knew the clock was ticking. We were supposed to be in the RVs in a few minutes. But she was good with me. She traced the edge of my face, kissed me over and over, held my breasts, caressed them, and held me tight and long, or as long as she could. Then she was up. I walked her to the door, my dress still down off my shoulders. I got a final smile and kiss, and she was gone.

I wasn't far behind. I got my dress buttoned again, did a quick job on my hair and lipstick, threw the last couple items in my overnight bag, grabbed my gloves and bonnet, and then I was down the hall, headed for my RV.

Miles and the other actors were standing just outside the hotel. There was another gaggle of teen girls, and the actors were signing anything put in front of them, while also posing for an endless chain of selfies. Miles' overnight bag was at his feet. I picked it up. He thanked me, gave me a quick kiss, and went back to signing things. Twenty girls looked at me, all united in a desire to tie me to an ant hill. I pushed through them and stepped into my RV. His bag I left near the foot of the big bed. My bag I took into the smaller room with the bunk beds. For a second I hesitated. Put it on his bed? No. I put it on the lower bunk, and then went forward to start the RV. I cranked the AC on high, and waited while Miles did his job.

It took Lisa to get the girls to back off. She promised we would be back later tomorrow. The actors smiled one last time, got on their RVs, and we were off, thirteen white RVs, twenty-first century wagons following the Trail. Miles sat on the couch rereading his script. I concentrated on my driving. I don't think we said five words along the way.

Back in the park, my kitchen crew was already there and set up. Coffee, donuts, fruit, water bottles. Shirette was good. I gave her a hug, complimented the girls and Clarissa, took a water bottle myself, and walked in the same direction everyone else was going.

It turned out today was riverside day. Lisa used me once. I sat on a log, my back to the cameras. Melanie sat opposite. Our skirts got arranged again, and she got some work on her hair, even though we were wearing bonnets. We said a few lines, over and over and over. I heard some complaints about river noises from the sound guys, but I couldn't hear anything. Eventually the sound guys got set the way they wanted, and I was replaced by Benicia. Fine by me. I watched the walkthrough for a while, and then got back to the kitchen RV before the crowd. Another good sandwich.

The afternoon was mostly camera guys walking through various pathways, climbing hills, pointing cameras here and there. Long afternoon.

Dinner time finally came. I got there early to see how things were going, and to help out if needed. I actually was needed. They were set up pretty well. Three of them worked the grills while Clarissa worked the microwave inside. She was baking potatoes in there. But. It was pretty clear something was wrong with a foot or a knee or a hip. It was three steps up into the RV, and three steps down. I didn't ask why she had been assigned the job with the steps. I just made sure I was at the door to take the box of potatoes from her as she finished each batch. When I wasn't waiting for potatoes, I handled the liquor. I hadn't said anything, but Shirette had decided on her own there should be a couple cases of Bud and several bottles of white wine. I opened the wine, poured, and made people happy.

The big event for me came at sundown. Somehow people just decided the riverside was where they should be. I joined them. The Missouri curves along the edge of the park, and the sun set right into the water to our west. I swear no more than twenty minutes later, the moon rose over the waters to our east. It was like magic. We all stood and stared. And, then, suddenly I wasn't standing alone. Allen.

"You haven't kissed me in two days." He had taken my hand and stood close. I liked the way he held my hand. Not too tight, not too loose. I stared at the moon reflecting off the river before I answered.

"The first rule of show business is to keep them asking for more."

"I see." At this point he let go of my hand and slid his arm across my back, pulling me closer to him. He held me, not too tight, not too loose. I turned toward him, my palms on his chest, and kissed him.

"Worth waiting for?"

"Yes." His other arm came around me, and he kissed me. I laid my head down on his chest, watching the moon rise. His arms were warm. His chest was large. It occurred to me the last time I had stood with a man and watched the moon rise over a river, I had ended up joining a Mafia family. I moved to put my arms around Allen's waist. He tightened his arms around my shoulders.

"You did well for us. This park is perfect for the film. And, well, it's just a nice place to be."

"There will be other nice places along the way. A few will take some getting used to, but the beauty is there when you look for it."

"I'll be sure to look for it."

"Good." He kissed the top of my head. And one of his hands started drifting lower. "I'll be leaving in the morning to get North Platte ready for you." And that implied what? Or was the hand that was now firmly on my ass telling me how he would like the rest of the night to go? And, how would I like the rest of the night to go? Not there. Not yet. I am not that easy. Well, yes I am. But not yet. I liked having him hold me. I liked being with him. But, that was enough for now.

I moved my arms up to his neck, got up on my toes, and whispered in his ear. "Kiss me, hold me, and feel free to put your hand on my ass. I like it. But five minutes from now I am going to ask you to walk me back to my RV and say good night."

"Leave them asking for more?"

"Don't over think it. Hold me, kiss me, enjoy the moonlight. I am."

And that's what we did. It was far more than five minutes, but eventually he did walk with me to my RV, and there was more clutching and kissing at the door, but he did say good night, and I did go inside alone. I liked him. I would think about him between here and Nebraska. We would see what happened in North Platte.

Inside the trailer I found Miles sitting on the couch reading. He must have seen and heard what was going on right outside his door, but he said nothing about it. I told him the sunset had been beautiful, and now I was going to bed. He smiled, said good night, and went back to reading.

I went back to my bedroom and started getting undressed. This was a bit of a challenge. There was maybe two feet of room between the bunk beds and the wall. I am not a big person, but I still hit the wall with my elbows more than once. Eventually I got that huge dress off, and a nightgown on. White satin, short, I was thinking of Lisa when I packed it. Now I was thinking of Miles. I stepped across the hallway to the bathroom and did the usual. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. And combed my hair. And combed my hair some more. I slid it behind one ear, then tried again more forward, the ends behind my shoulders, then mostly in front. I am looking in the mirror as I do this, moving my hair around in half a dozen positions. And then, as I am supposedly getting ready for bed, I put on lipstick. Let me think why.

I spend at least fifteen more minutes in the bathroom looking at myself and primping, and then, I come out. My room is three feet across the hall. But, why not have a glass of water from the kitchen? The kitchen that is right across from where Miles is sitting. Could I be any more obvious? Short of just throwing myself at him, no.

I walk down to the kitchen and reach into a cabinet for a glass, knowing that the higher I reach, the higher my skirt rides up. The best glasses are the ones on the top shelf, right? Glass in hand, I turn and look at Miles. He is looking at me, a slight smile on his face.

"I am assuming ravishing is a possibility." He closes his book and stands. I just smile, take his hand, and walk back to his bed.

Chapter 15

Final Days along the Missouri

I couldn't keep my hands off him. He was beautiful, he was strong, he was tender, he had the bluest eyes and the best hands of any man in the history of Planet Earth. Wow. I knew I couldn't keep him forever, but I was sure going to keep him as long as I could. I was under him, I was beside him, I was all over him, and in every position and from every angle, the man was a marvel. In the morning I knew I was going to make him late. Tough beans. He wasn't going anywhere for a while. And he was good about it. He held me, and whispered to me, and told me I was beautiful. And even when they started knocking on the door of the RV, he took his time getting me off his chest. What a man. My only complaint? The goddamn shower. I so wanted to slide all over the man, but there was no way two of us could get in there. Stupid trailer.

Finally ready, he walked over to the kitchen RV like the star he was. I think I skipped across the parking lot. Want to see what a happy woman looks like? Get those cameras rolling. He had oatmeal. So did I. I hate oatmeal. Gray mush, what century spawned this nonsense? He sat at a picnic table. I sat with my hip so tight against his I could feel his heartbeat. They were going to start shooting today, so I knew he would be busy, but. But I was with him now, and if God was kind, I would be with him again tonight. I followed him down to where they were shooting (back by the wagons). I stood and watched every take. At every break I brought him coffee, or I brought him water, but what I was really bringing him was me – a smile, a touch, a hope that he might put a hand on me, and maybe even give me a quick kiss. And whatever he did was perfect.

When did my personal heaven end? About four thirty five. Lisa (the jealous bitch) reminded me we would be going back to the hotel, and I might want to check on the RVs. She had been sending drivers back to start engines and get the AC cranked up before leaving. I took a final look at Miles (he was holding Melanie near the river as four cameras rolled), and walked back to the parking area to talk with the drivers. On the way, I had the best and worst idea of my entire life. The park had an area for trailer camping, and there was a place to dump tanks there. Why not get all the RVs over there and dump tanks so everyone has some practice? I now have an endless list of "why not," but I didn't at the time.

I led the parade over to the dump and dumped my tanks first while other drivers watched. I also found the water source and refilled my tanks. Great idea, right? You can't imagine the smell tanks get when they have been cooking under a 90 degree sun for several days. Well, maybe you can't imagine, but I will never forget. And I not only did my tank, but I helped with twelve more. And then, I got behind the wheel and drove back to my dream lover. I don't know what IQ morons have, but I was well south of that. I reeked. I reeked incredibly. I reeked unbelievably. I reeked at a world class level. I filled that RV with a stench it would take me a week to get rid of.

Miles? Miles was in my RV long enough to get his bag, apologize to me, and then get the hell out of Dodge. I don't know who he rode with, but it wasn't me. I drove straight to WalMart, bought a fan, opened my windows, and blew stink all over their parking lot. I sat there for two hours. Of course most of the problem was me. I was wearing a calico skunk skin. Not much I could do about that yet. I eventually got back to the hotel, showered twice, changed dresses, and went straight to the hotel laundry. I ran that calico mess through the washer three times. It did finally come clean.

By now it was nine and everyone had gone to the rib place – in costume. I swear Lisa was getting a kickback from the owners. But it was one of the largest places on our side of town, fans knew to look for us there, and – and this was important to me – we were being comped at the bar. If anyone had earned a few free drinks...

So, after working forever on my hair and makeup, and smelling every inch of my calico dress just to be sure, I directed my RV to the rib place, windows open all the way. What did I want? Miles and about six glasses of wine. What did I get? Three glasses of wine. People seemed happy to tell me Miles had gone back to the hotel – "You just missed him." He was pretty tired after shooting all day (he was tired after a night of me – poor boy, but I didn't say that). I did a beeline for the bar and did three glasses of wine faster than girls at a frat party. At this point Lisa decided to go all mother on me. "Remember you are driving." Okay. Fair enough. And who knew. Maybe there was a blue-eyed man waiting in my room.

There wasn't. And there wasn't any other night as we finished shooting in that locale. I got a hug after we arrived at the park, and a hug as we got ready to leave after work, and I got smiles and an occasion pat on the shoulder during the days' shooting, but my ravishing never happened again. He was shooting. He was acting. He rehearsed, he read and memorized his lines, he walked the leather off his shoes as he paced back and forth reciting his lines. He was professional. And professionals don't ravish their drivers. Dammit.

Chapter 16

The Road to Nebraska

We had been shooting in that state park for a week. Days in the park, nights at the rib place, autographs and selfies everywhere (I even signed a few when people saw me in costume and thought I might be someone. I am sure I disappointed them when they checked back with their friends). I think Lisa was happy with the riverside footage, less happy with the wagon-side shots, but she wasn't telling me much (she did come to my room one night for about ten minutes, just enough to remind me why I had fallen for her in the first place, and then she was gone).

Lisa gathered us around her RV on the last afternoon and explained she had the footage she wanted, we had all done great, this film was going to set new standards for visual something (sorry, I didn't catch the next couple words), we would go to the rib place in costume one more time, then back to the hotel to pack. We would leave at eight in the morning, and would spend the next eight to ten days living in our trailers (I heard a few groans).

Groans for them, but I had a man waiting for me in North Platte. I also had a man in my trailer (I still had some hope he might do more than hug me). And I had a woman, well, maybe I did, maybe I didn't. In any case, I was feeling pretty good about things.

But I also had work to do. I asked Miles to hitch a ride in another RV. I was going to help with the food. No problem, pat on the shoulder, a smile, no kiss or even a hug. I had work to do with him. But at the moment, I really did need to help with the food. The kitchen crew had done a great job with lunches and snacks, but Nebraska was going to be a whole new level of effort. Eight to ten days somewhere outside North Platte? What did we need? Everything, and lots of it.

I helped the ladies pack away the afternoon snacks, and then we went into their RV to plan menus. They already had so much stuff in their RV we had no place to sit, so the five of us went to the one room with some space – the larger bedroom. All five of us sat on the bed, and Shirette got out a notebook. Jolene's name was clearly printed on the front cover – one of her notebooks from school. American History. Interesting coincidence.

What did we need? Bottled water. Pallets of it. Juices, sodas, some beer and wine. Allen said we would need liquids. I believed him. Could we get more in North Platte? Probably, but who knew how far from town we would be. Let's load as much as we can so we can last as long as possible. Fine. What about food?

Shirette impressed me again. She already had some meals planned, and, she had them planned in order of what would keep the longest. The cookout had gone well, so we would do that again, but the meat took up a huge amount of space, so we would have that meal the first night to make more room. Clever. Pasta was easy and took less space. Stew came in cans. She had five days all planned out, with a sixth day if there were leftovers. Way to go, Shirette, and way to go Jess. You hired a winner.

We took both RVs to Walmart. All five of us took a cart, another convoy cruising up and down the food aisles. Along the way one of the workers asked if he could help (really, I think Walmart gets a bad rap. Sure some strange types shop there, but I think the workers are first rate), and I sent him after three pallets of bottled water – meet us at check out. We worked every aisle, but we knew what we were looking for, we filled all five carts, and we were pretty sure we had what we needed. And, believe it or not, we were done in an hour. Shirette passed over the card for a bill that hit four figures, and we loaded the RVs. Two Walmart guys helped us. I got two pallets of water bottles in my kitchen plus four boxes of vegetables. The kitchen crew ended up with a tiny path through boxes all the way back to their bathroom. The Walmart guys got stories about the film from two girls who looked pretty good in their bonnets and had much to smile about. Jolene even gave her number to one of the guys.

Next stop? Shirette wanted a last night in their apartment, and I wanted a plate of ribs and a blue-eyed man.

Lisa had taken a whole row of tables right at the edge of the river. It was a great backdrop. She, and all the actors, were being interviewed on camera by local TV stations. There were three different "exclusive" interviews underway. And, twenty feet farther from the river, there were three of our guys taping the stars being taped. I was willing to bet our footage would hit the Twitterverse hours before the station tapes. Look at us. See the interest in this film? You should be interested too. It is special.

I headed for the bar, stared off a gaffer, got a glass of white wine, and then got out my phone. What the hell was a "gaffer"? Google told me a "gaffe" was a mistake (which covered lots of men and women), but a "gaffer" was actually the chief electrician on a film. Hmm. Maybe I was misusing the term. What should I call the younger technicians with bad haircuts and ambitions to share my bunk bed? I'd work on that after a couple more glasses of wine.

Over the next hour I had two more glasses of wine and conversations with several men who expressed an interest in my film, while also showing an interest in my chest and hips. I guess calico didn't completely kill off sex appeal, especially if the man was on this third or fourth drink. I smiled, we talked, they wandered off, I looked down the slope of the hill at the tables along the river and the interviews. Eventually the interviews ended, and the actors got up to work the room. I have to admit I was gaining respect for their work ethic. It was late evening, and they were still willing to smile, sign all manner of things, and stand still for yet another selfie.

Lisa was the first one to climb the hill to the bar. I had a white wine waiting for her. I got a kiss in payment. The bar area was crowded, but that was fine, it pushed us closer together. I got a hand on her ass, our faces close enough to talk quietly, and to kiss often. I knew we were on camera from about twenty phones. So? We talked, we kissed, we smiled.

"You are going to like tomorrow."

"Nebraska is scenic?"

"Not especially, but we are going to follow the Oregon Trail. Not exactly, of course. Interstate Eighty was poured right over the top of much of it, but there are some historical markers and a few ruts left. We will make a few stops so people can get a feel for the route. It will be a good day."

"And tonight?"

"You get me here and now. For a few more minutes. That's going to have to do." She kissed me, and played with the buttons on my dress. Just teasing me, really. But I liked it, and she knew I liked it. I kept my hand on her ass. I can tease too. There was a final kiss, instructions to make this wine my last, and she was gone.

I finished my wine and went looking for Blue-eyes. I found him surrounded by women waiting four deep for an autograph or a picture.

"I see my ride is here," he told his fans. "We have an early start in the morning." He stood for five or six more pictures before I understood I was going to have to pull him out of there – literally. I apologized, let him stand for two more pictures as we began the stairs winding through the tables, but I kept a hand on his wrist, and really did pull him up through the seating area and out to my RV, half a dozen women following us every step. We took several more pictures at the door to the RV, and then I got him inside.

"Thank you." He waved out the window, and then walked around the vegetable boxes to the couch.

"My pleasure." My reward for driving him back to the hotel? He stood for a moment, his back to the water bottles. I stood – close. He put his hands on my upper arms, while my palms went to his chest. I got a quick kiss, a thank you, and he was gone. Okay, Blue-eyes, but you and I are going to share this trailer for eight to ten days – and nights. What are the chances I spend every night in my bunkbed?

I locked the RV and kicked my ruffled skirts down the long hallway to my room. I did most of my packing, and set my alarm for six. I wanted an early start. I was going to look good under that bonnet.

And I think I did. I had plenty of company the next morning as I ate my waffle. No Miles, but a couple sound guys who seemed nice enough. I checked out, got my bags into my RV and cranked up the AC. Miles appeared soon enough, talking to fans at the hotel entrance. I walked over and took his bags, and then went back to the RV. Eventually Lisa took charge and all the actors walked to their assigned RVs. Her words to the drivers? "Follow me."

My phone said North Platte would be about a six hour drive. It took ten. Some of it was educational. She had stops for us along the way. Some of it was sales. Wherever we went, four camera guys would get out to shoot our convoy arriving or leaving. Several times we drove in circles so they could get us from different angles. And I could see where fourteen RVs traveling in a convoy along the route of the Oregon Trail might be interesting to people. So I followed the RV in front of me around and around and over rural roads and over sections of the Interstate. Basically, we were taking I-70 west across Kansas to Topeka, Kansas, jogging northwest on back roads until we got to Grand Island, Nebraska, and then it was I-80 to North Platte.

It sounds simple, but I guess I was not the only one who was grateful we did not actually drive it quite that simply. Yes, we took Interstate for sections, but I bet Allen had given Lisa a list of places to stop, because we did stop to get a much better sense of the Trail.

First stop, Lawrence, Kansas. We got off I-70 and drove into Riverside Park. Our fourteen RVs pretty well filled the parking lot, but it was our first chance to get a good look at the Kansas River. Interestingly, Miles decided he would be our tour guide.

"They had to follow rivers. They needed water for themselves and for their livestock. Lewis and Clark took boats up the Missouri, and there were some other efforts to bring trade goods west by boats, but the rivers are shallow. Barely navigable. Trust me on this one, I have just finished my eighth book on the Oregon Trail." That got a chuckle. Most of us were standing along the shore, staring up and down the river, but also listening to Miles.

"The Kansas goes west, so fur traders used it. Eventually they got off it and used the Big Blue River and the Little Blue. Who knows how many years it took for fur traders to pick that route? Probably quite a few. They go up to the Platte. Why the Platte? It was south of several Indian tribes that might be dangerous, and it led to South Pass – basically a hole in the Rockies discovered by John Jacob Aster's fur traders as they were chased out of Oregon by the British after the War of 1812. Enough history?"

"How many miles did they go a day?" I don't know who asked that.

"Twenty miles. The Whitman's were mostly horseback, but the vast majority of Emigrants who used the Trail did it barefoot. By the way, Emigrants stopped for the Sabbath, and they stopped for the Fourth of July – what they called 'the Glorious Fourth.' Books say it was a bigger holiday than Christmas. Of course they didn't have Amazon to deliver their presents then." Chuckles, side conversations, people wandering along the shore. Our videographers got looks of footage. We were all in costume for a reason.

Back in the RVs, back on I-70 through many miles of nothing, then onto a local highway and Manhattan, Kansas and the junction of the Big Blue. We drove north out of town and stopped at Randolph State Park. Nice enough place along a big lake. But the point of the stop was not to look at the lake, but for us to recognize something important. The Big Blue had been dammed. Nice lake, good place to spend a weekend. But. The land we were seeing now, was not the land the Whitmans had seen. We saw farms, small towns, fields of wheat. They saw prairie grasses four and five feet tall. Rolling hills that had not been plowed flat yet. A complete absence of people. This had been the Great American Desert. We could feel the sun on our backs and the wind in our faces, but we couldn't see what they had seen. Back to the RVs.

We drove about an hour north to Blue Rapids. This was where the Little Blue bends west from the Big Blue. It's a cutoff to the Platte. We stopped in town this time. No problem parking. The town is built around a circle – not a town square, a town circle. Big. Trees, grass, plenty of space. A sign said a thousand people lived here. Maybe, if you counted pets. There were a few houses down side streets, a few businesses across from the green circle. It was lunch time. We could see the Blue Valley Café. We could also see it was closed, and likely had been for years. No problem. We parked all around the green circle, and waited while the kitchen crew set up. Sandwiches, cool drinks, and a chance to stand in the middle of a tiny town. I could have sworn I was back in Amberg.

We attracted a small amount of attention. A few people walked over to talk. They were polite. They were old. We gave them a water or soft drink, got them to sign a release, and then videotaped the heck out of them. Here we are on the Oregon Trail, mixing with the locals. We were on our best behavior. No one commented on the condition of the buildings (it had been a decade since paint had come to town). We asked about this and that. Several people pointed us to a tiny museum across the way that could be opened for us if we had the time. We heard a few stories that had been passed down over the generations. A store had been here when the emigrants were still coming through. Must have been about 1906 as they recalled.

Some of our people took their sandwiches back to their RVs and their AC. A few of us stood in the circle, under a tree, ate our sandwich and talked. It was hot. It was dry. It was a bit disorienting to stand in the middle of so much empty space, made to feel even emptier by the presence of these few buildings. I could see a bar across the wide street, a large Budweiser sign hanging over the entrance. I wondered if some clone of me was in there pouring beer and talking football. I hoped things were going well for her.

Lisa had no trouble getting us back into our RVs and back on the road. We drove north. Sometimes we could see the Little Blue, but mostly we saw fields and a few trees. A sign pointed to a Pony Express site, but we didn't stop. From what we could see, it was sized about like a three car garage, and surrounded by fields. One car was parked outside. The museum guide?

Pretty quickly we passed into Nebraska and found both the Platte River and Interstate 80. Fourteen RVs traveling in a convoy attract a fair amount of attention. I think every kid in every car waved at us. Semi drivers seemed less amused. We managed to get our RVs up to seventy, so I don't think we created too much of a disruption. I liked being out on the Interstate. The road was dead straight, easy driving. North Platte, maybe a few more hours, and we were done for the day.

Except we weren't. About forty five minutes after we got on the highway, Lisa led us off. Minden. What was in Minden? Ten or twelve billboards later, I was pretty sure I knew where we were going – Pioneer Village. Why?

I can't say we were grouchy, but we had done several stops, it was already afternoon. We had more driving to do. Why were we here? Lisa gathered us around.

"The earliest exhibit here is from 1869. The Oregon Trail runs nearby, and there were still people using it in 1869. But not the Whitmans. As we know, they came through here over thirty years earlier. So why are we here? I asking you for forty five minutes of your time. There are six or eight historic buildings. Stand in them. Feel the heat. Smell the air. Sit where it is allowed. Actors, sit with your spouse. Talk. We will not be able to do this again at the Whitman Mission, so I want you to feel it now. Absorb the period. Look at the tools they used. Read the spines of their books. What was on their walls? What was under their feet? Where did they sleep? Go into one or two of the buildings, and stay until you can sit with your eyes closed and describe everything around you. Would you do that for me?"

And we did. We blew right through the main exhibit hall and went back to the buildings. I went for the sod hut. It felt like a sauna, and smelled... well, I could smell heat and vegetation and I am not sure what. I looked for family pictures, I studied the furniture, I looked up at the ceiling and down at the dirt floor. I tried to figure out how I would cook, and what I would cook. How would I wash? How would I see at night? What might be out there across all those empty miles?

I managed about twenty minutes before the heat just weighed me down. I wandered through the other buildings and then sat in the shade. Did anyone actually manage the full forty five minutes? Yes, all four actors. I saw Miles and Melanie through one of the doorways. They were holding each other. They just stood and held each other. It didn't look like they were talking. They were just standing. Some technique from acting class? I could see they were both sweating like crazy. Weren't we all? He reached up and slid some hair from across her forehead. She looked up and smiled. No kiss. A smile. Were they envisioning the Whitman marriage? They stood a little longer, and then he left by one door, she by another. Interesting.

Lisa was good to her word. After forty five minutes she had us back in our RVs and back in air conditioned comfort. Next stop, North Platte.

Chapter 17

North Platte

It was early evening when we arrived at the ranch. Big place maybe five miles off the Interstate. Several buildings, cattle pens, Allen waving us toward a parking area. We lined up our fourteen RVs like we had been doing this for years. We all got out quickly – a need to stand and stretch. It felt good. Then we felt the heat. Wind came out of the west - hot, dry, constant. A week or two of this was going to dry us to our bones.

I walked down to where the kitchen RV was parked and helped unload the tables and the first coolers. People would want something to drink. I certainly did. I set out beer, wine, sodas, and water. I wanted water. So did folks who started wandering over. I thought I saw a few others get back into their RVs and the AC.

The kitchen crew got both gas grills out of their RV and got going quickly on the evening's grill – salmon, some beef, some pork. It had been a winning combination the week before. They would go with it again to initiate this new location. I should point out the ranch was prepared for picnics. There were nearly a dozen large tables nearby, all of them shaded by both roofs and trees. There was room enough for all of us to eat comfortably. I helped Clarissa bring out baked potatoes again, along with a big bowl of baked beans she had cooked inside. We had already served the first few people twenty minutes after we parked. Not bad.

I stood pouring wine and passing out water battles until the sun started getting low, and then I went through the food line as well. Salmon and baked beans. I had no interest in a baked potato. Based on the large pile still in the bowl, it appeared I wasn't the only one. I spoke for a while with Shirette and the girls, my plate in my hands, and then headed for a table in the shade. There was plenty of room. I noticed lots of folks took their food back to their RVs and air conditioning.

I found Melanie Davis sitting alone at the closest table. Maybe it was the angle of the sun as it hit us from the west, but I would swear she shone in that light. Really. Like she was an angel in a calico dress and bonnet. True, the bonnet was almost white, and her dress was light yellow, but there was more to it than that. She did shine. Her face, her hair, her posture. You want to be a film star just because you are pretty and got the lead in your high school play? Check yourself. See if you shine. There really is a difference between film stars and the rest of us.

I asked her permission, and then took the seat opposite her.

"Lots of people are taking their food back into their trailers for the air conditioning."

"I want to feel what she felt. She walked and rode across this entire state, her face into that wind."

"When we were in Minton, I saw you standing in that house with Miles. When you were standing there, was that you, or Narcissa?"

"We are trying to figure out their marriage. I think I understand her. But they came west almost immediately after they got married. They were still getting used to each other. How did they stand together? How did they look at each other? Miles and I need to get that right." Like me, she had taken salmon, baked beans, and water. Unlike me, she took maybe three beans at a time on her fork. Trying to imagine how a lady like Narcissa would eat?

"Have you worked out her character?" I was taking long pulls from my water battle after each mouthful of food. I wondered what it would be like to be out filming in that wind tomorrow.

"I think I have her. I think of her as the 'more' woman. She did everything a woman of her class was expected to do, and then did more. Daughter of a judge in rural New York, they put her in a corset at age ten, a frame to shape her growing body and keep her waist thin. She let them. They had her take dance lessons and learn to play the piano. She danced, she played. But she also sang. Soprano. Good enough to sing solo at church. She even sang at her own wedding. They gave her etiquette classes, and she learned to set a table and sit correctly. She learned all that. And she set a table for guests even out here on the prairie. They taught her French and some history. She did that too, but then she did more. She got her tutor to teach her math, some chemistry, and some physics. She learned more at an academy in her home town in New York. Girls were to be pure. Girls were to pray and attend church. The dominant denomination at the time was Presbyterian. Her family was Presbyterian. The church sent out missionaries to share the good news of Jesus Christ, we are all saved by the grace of God. She wouldn't just be a good Presbyterian woman. She would be a missionary. She was accepted into training at age twenty seven, and married Marcus when he came back to New York that winter. She would do more. She always did what was expected, and then she did more."

"She was married at twenty seven?"

"Just a month before turning twenty eight."

"So..."

"So was she a spinster? People out west claim she was the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. There's a quotation from a Scots lord who had been out west to explore. Nat Wyeth. He was gone from Scotland and his lands for years. Someone asked him if he regretted being gone from his lands so long. His reply? 'Never, until I beheld the Beautiful Mrs. Whitman. Why was one so fair born to an American judge? What would I give to possess her love and be at home in Scotland?' Every other man they encountered in the west had the same reaction. Unfortunately, there is no portrait of her, just a drawing made from memory by a person whose artistic skills were limited. You see that picture in books and wonder about her. It's unfortunate. It's misleading. In the picture she was plain. In life, all agree she was a beauty. So, to answer your question. Is she single because of her looks? No. We know for certain she rejected Henry Spalding, and likely many others. Why is she single at twenty seven when most women were married at eighteen? Because she wanted more."

"Then Whitman came along."

"Yes, and he got more. Whitman didn't marry an eighteen year old girl. He married a twenty seven year old woman with a good education and an intense desire to serve the Lord. A beautiful, talented woman who had her own desires. As a single woman she could not be a missionary until she married. Who did she choose to marry? A missionary who had already been to the Rockies, a man who would now cross the Rockies and start a mission so far west it was not yet legally part of the United States. She wanted more, and she would do more."

"Was her love more? We are filming a love story, right?"

"Lisa, Miles, and I are trying to understand that love."

"Can I help?" I could see from the expression on her face she wanted to be polite, but, well, who was I to teach her acting? Good question. Before her expression changed, I hurried on. "Just a thought, but do you know the traditional wedding vow many women took in those years? It's this:

"I love you, and I know that you love me. Because of this I desire to be your wife. Through the pressures of the present and the uncertainties of the future I promise to be faithful to you. I will love, serve, and obey you as long as we both are alive. Christ told us that the wife must submit herself unto her husband as unto the Lord. For as Christ is the Head of his Church so is the husband head of his wife. I submit myself to you."

"So, you say she does more, is more. What is more than loving, serving, obeying and submitting? Let's assume she will do all that. And more? Supporting. She will help him succeed. She will have his back. She will walk over those mountains, build that mission, and help him serve God, the church, and the people of Oregon. That's her 'more.' That's her love."

"How do you know that vow?"

"Long story."

"But I like where this takes us." She put her fork down. I guess that was a sign of approval. "What can a twenty eight year old woman do that an eighteen year old can't? She has practical skills developed over the years, good, but her love also brings enthusiasm. It's hot. She feels it. But she doesn't show it. He has a bad day, she smiles and helps him move on. Anyone says a word against him or his plans, she is all over them. That's her love. And that's something I can show. Excuse me."

Her plate and plastic fork hit a waste barrel, and she is off. Looking for Lisa or Miles? Maybe just to relook at the script to see if I have said anything useful. But, I can tell my daughters, I had dinner with Melanie Davis, and we talked about the role she was playing. Of course, I will be modest about the conversation. Very modest.

I sat, ate my salmon, watched the sun begin sliding below the horizon. Another good day's work done. And for dessert? Allen. He came around from behind me and took Melanie's seat. There was a look on his face. I think it said, "Tonight's the night I get laid." I'm not sure what look was on my face, but it was probably similar to his. But first some conversation.

"Our stops today. Your picks?"

"Yes. What did you think?"

"It helped to see the land. But we drove it in eight or nine hours. How long did it take them to get here?"

"About three weeks. Twenty miles a day, walking and riding through prairie grasses that grew four or five feet tall, pulling a wagon over hills that aren't there any more, crossing creeks. It was work, but not nearly as much work as they had ahead of them."

"And the place in Minden. That was the way they lived?"

"Eventually. It took them years to build the mission."

"It will be interesting to see it."

"You won't. It is all gone. What you see is a hill with a concrete obelisk on top. There are farm fields all around. Pretty good soil. But flat. It feels empty. I am sure they are building a mission in the studio back in LA. I assume they will shoot the ending there."

"I still want to see the place. I want to climb that hill."

"Good for you." I had his approval. I also had his hand on mine. His thumb slid over my palm. How a thumb on a palm could be erotic, I don't know, but it was. Maybe it was the sunset. "Shall I show you around the place?"

"Sure." I cleared my place. He hadn't let go of my hand, and it was a bit clumsy throwing my plate away and coming around the table to be with him, but I liked that he didn't let go of me. Yes, I was pretty confident I knew how this evening would end. "Let's start at my RV so I can change out of this heavy dress."

No man is going to complain about a woman getting out of a dress. We went straight to my RV. He stood outside. I went in. No Miles. I am not sure what would have happened if he had been there, but he wasn't. I went back to my room, dropped that heavy, sweat-soaked calico dress on the floor, and pulled on one of my sun dresses. Which one? I never hesitated. Sleeveless, mid-thigh, spaghetti straps. He was getting the full treatment. I stepped across the hall to the bathroom and did a little work on my face and hair. No bonnet. Not much makeup. It was too hot. But a little blush, eyeliner, lipstick. Good color, eyes to notice, lips to kiss. Like I said, he was getting the full treatment.

I walked back to the door. Three steps down. I hesitated at the top. Let him look. Let me see his face. I took one step down only to have him grab me, one arm around my back, one arm under my ass. He lifted me out and held me. So, I guess I was wearing what I should be wearing. I put my arms around his neck, he kissed me, I kissed him, he held me. Yes, tonight's the night.

"Why don't we start the tour with your place?" Yes, I'm being obvious. I guess maybe I was already past that point. He put me down, took my hand and walked off into the dark. His "place" was a trailer maybe five minutes away. It was an Airstream parked behind a pickup truck. You have seen Airstreams. They are those shiny silver trailers that are rounded at both ends like hot dogs. He took me inside and mumbled something about "kitchen there, living room there..." I just wanted to know which end held the bed, and I went straight there.

Foreplay consisted of undressing each other. His clothes took a lot longer than mine, but he did just fine. I leaned in to him, and he reached around to get my zipper. It came down fast enough – he was eager – but he also held me well while he did it, both hands on my back, caressing my bare back and ass while he took that dress off me. Good man.

That little trailer had a little bed, but we didn't need much room. He was all over me. I liked the feel of him in me, and I really liked his huge back. I grabbed it with both hands, liking how solid it felt while he rocked into me. I held on tight. He held me tight, and it felt really good. When we were done, he still held me. An important point for me. A man who just rolled off me and went to sleep, was a man I was done with. Allen handled me the right way. He stayed on me, kissed me, played with my hair, caressed my face. His hands showed that he valued me. I hoped my hands were sending the same message.

When it finally came time to sleep, he lay next to me, still partly over me, my man-blanket. The best way to sleep. Not that I slept much. My hands still had parts of him to explore, and his hands sent out exploration parties too. Two forty year olds don't giggle often, but two of them did that night.

In the morning I discovered tiny trailers have tiny showers. Our solution was to have one of us in the shower, the other standing in the door. We followed trailer water rules – a quick rinse, then the water off for soaping, then another rinse. There was no rule about how long the soaping could take. I had my arms around his neck while he did me, and I moaned in his ear more than once. I hope I did him nearly as well.

Out of the shower and back into clothes, we stood by the door before going out. I had my arms around his neck again, he had an arm under my ass. My feet were off the ground, my face was at his ear.

"I am yours for as long as you want me."

"I want you for every second you will give me." A fair amount of necking followed, and frankly, I would have been very happy if he had just carried me back to his bed and did me again. But we could hear people moving around outside. It was a work day, and we both had jobs to do. But sunset would come again.

He put me down and I left the trailer. He stayed behind a few minutes, one of the few men left in Trump's America who believed in discretion. I can't say I showed much. My arms were swinging, I was swaying, and I was tempted to sing as I walked back to my RV. Anyone who saw me knew exactly how I had spent the night. Fine with me.

When I got to my RV, I found Miles sitting on the couch reading his script. I didn't hesitate a second. I climbed up onto his lap, wrapped me arms around his neck, and kissed him.

"I see someone's having a good trip."

"I am surrounded by good men." I kissed him again. I noticed he put down his script, and now had one hand across my back, and the other on my ass. The world had suddenly delivered Jessica a surplus of men. I just held him and put my head down against his neck. He started stroking my backside, and I started kissing his neck. I was pretty sure this was as far as things would go, but still, it felt nice. The world felt nice. God, I loved Nebraska.

"The wardrobe people were here with a fresh dress for you."

"Okay." I didn't want to move. I kept my lips against his neck, my arms holding him tighter. But. The hand that had felt so good on my ass was now up by my waist. My time was about up. "Do you have any idea how many women hate your wife?"

"I'm always good for a kiss."

"I would be easier if you were a complete ass."

"I'll work on it. In the meantime, I should probably be reading my lines."

Okay, clear enough. I kissed his neck one more time, and then went back to change. There was a new prairie dress hanging in my closet. Brighter, and a few ribbons. I might be filling in for Melanie today. Fine. I stepped out of my sundress (memo to self – remember Allen liked this one), and pulled up the prairie dress. It might be brighter, but it was no lighter. I crossed over to the bathroom and put on a bit of makeup and played with my hair, but then it was bonnet time, and I was out the door.

There was a short line for breakfast. I took oatmeal even though I hate it. But it was fast, simple, and easy to eat while standing. I wanted to talk with Shirette. She was in a new location, she would be here for over a week, how was it going?

"They barely touched the potatoes last night. We will slice up the remainders and put them in stew. The meat went well and so did the beans. They don't eat in the picnic area. Even though the tables are shaded, they are hot, so people are taking their plates back to their RVs. So paper plates and plastic forks were a good idea. We went through a lot of water. If the heat stays like this, we will be out in just a few days."

"I haven't seen a forecast, but Allen tells me it will just get hotter the farther west we go."

"I have checked, and North Plate has a Walmart just off I-80. We'll head over there in a couple days."

"Good. How are the girls doing?" They were both at the other grill making omelets. In their dresses and bonnets, they looked like they could be serving a wagon train.

"I had them up at six this morning. Not a word of complaint. They were serving last evening with temps well into the 90s. No complaints. They are serving movie stars, the young men smile at them, and they are traveling the Oregon Trail. You are looking at two happy girls."

"Well, buy them some ice cream when you get to Walmart. They are earning it."

I finished my oatmeal, grabbed a cup of coffee and a water battle, and walked over to one of the shaded tables. Really, the place was set up nicely. The grass was browning out, but it had been mowed neatly, the trees had been placed well to provide shade, and each of these shaded tables provided real relief from the sun. What they could not help was the wind. It was early morning, but temperatures were already into the seventies, and the wind felt like a constant assault. It was hot, it was dry, it hurt, and you knew it was going to hurt much more as the sun pushed the temperature up. I finished my coffee and started on my water. Three pallets were going to go fast.

Lisa joined the breakfast line. At least she did for a moment, and then she was over with this person or that. Each person, male or female, got a hug and a kiss and a few words. Her hands were everywhere – a shoulder for some, an upper arm, a quick rub up and down a back, a pat on an ass, sometimes a hand that stayed on an ass. She ended up just taking a cup of coffee, sipped, talked, smiled. There was some content to the conversations. We would start at nine over at the wagons. Walkthroughs, and maybe a bit of shooting.

Then she came for me.

"We have a few minutes. Come with me, will you? We should talk."

I was pretty confident how we would talk, and where we would talk, and I was right. I followed her into her RV and back to her bed. She closed the bedroom door and kissed me while taking off my bonnet. I reached for hers, but she pushed my hand away, and then pushed me back on the bed. I knew the required position, me on my back, legs spread. She climbed on and immediately started unbuttoning my dress. She did like my chest. She opened my dress, wrapped it back over my shoulders and down over my upper arms, and held me tightly while she alternated between kissing my mouth and my breasts. I put my hands on her ass, but I am not sure she noticed.

"You should remember who brought you to the dance." She was back to kissing my mouth, and talked to me in between kisses. She was very good.

"I think you left me standing in the corner."

"It wouldn't hurt you to wait there, eager with anticipation."

"How long should I be waiting there? I am eager, but if a man comes along and asks me to dance..."

"Does he dance well?"

"Yes. Very."

"You are a lucky woman. I never enjoyed that kind of dance." She was staring at me as she said this. Wondering at my response? I held her tighter. The long skirts made it hard to move our legs, but I wrapped my legs around hers as best I could. She needed a friend. I wanted to be that friend.

"May I ask who you are dancing with?" That seemed like a question a friend would ask.

"No, you may not. Some of what I do is personal. Some is professional. This is a busy time for me."

"I am glad you have friends. I want to be your friend too. But I like being with Allen. Please let me have that."

"Don't worry. I won't send him off in search of another remote site. You get to keep him for a while. But you understand he is a real Forest Ranger, and real Forest Rangers eventually go back to the forest."

"I understand. Thank you for letting me keep him until then. You are a good woman." I kissed her, and we wrestled around in that big bed until one of her assistants came knocking at her door. "Nine o'clock." She said it twice and then walked away. Lisa gave me another kiss and then got up off me. I stayed as she left me, naked to the waist, my arms pinned by my dress, looking up at her. It was the least I could do for her.

After she left the RV I put myself back together and went outside. There was a general drift off to the south down a path. I retied my bonnet and followed along. In the distance were four wagons, our workplace for the day – and for eight more days to come.

What did we do that first day? Walkthrough after walkthrough after walkthrough. In the sun. In temps that got to 90 almost instantly and climbed towards a hundred. We walked through one scene after another. Lisa ordered two RVs to drive up close, and that's where the stars went to get cool and to have their makeup and hair done over and over. Meanwhile, I and the other minions sat by the wagons, walked past the wagons, sat in the front seat of the wagons, staged one scene after another, and talked nonsense over and over while the sound guys got their readings.

Jolene and Malena walked over early in the morning to see the stars, but then they left and came back with the kitchen RV, crashing through the tall grass to within about twenty yards of the wagons. Then the two of them took bottles of water to every person they could see. I resolved on the spot to give them both a raise.

How bad was that day? Around noon Lisa called for a lunch break. The girls set out a table with boxed sandwiches. No one touched one. They took one or two bottles of water and crowded into the RVs for a taste of air conditioning. Forty five minutes later Lisa had trouble dragging us back out for another walkthrough. It was bad out there. And yes, I did think of Narcissa and how this must have felt to her with no AC, no one handing her a sandwich, and only the water she saw flowing muddy in the closest stream. I was sympathetic. But I was also really hot. I wanted that damn sun to move toward the horizon a helluva lot faster than it seemed to want to go.

Then it got worse, and then it got amazing.

Later in the afternoon, Lisa decided she wanted to shoot a night scene. Apparently through camera magic, you don't need night to shoot a night scene. Live and learn. The scene is to be a love scene between Narcissa and Marcus. The first one in the film. So they want it right. That means I will be used to set the scene while Melanie stays fresh in the RV getting work done on her hair and makeup. The scene takes place in the wagon, so I am helped up into the wagon (it's harder getting up into those things than you would imagine). Up I go.

First problem. It's night, she would be wearing a nightgown. Wardrobe hands me a cotton nightgown – ruffles at the wrists, neck and hem. Now I need to put it on. Inside this cramped wagon with twenty guys watching, I have to undress and put on this nightgown. Of course everyone makes a big show of turning their backs while I change, but you know they are sneaking peeks. Ugh. But I get the thing on and get on my back while Miles gets on his side next to me.

Next problem. There is the standard white canvas cover over the wagon. You have seen it in every western. It is up over some ribs. Fine. But they need to get cameras in position to see us, so one side of the canvas is raised, the other side stays down as it would be in real life. We are getting some shade from the remaining canvas, but it is also blocking any air movement. Much as I dislike the hot wind, we are now trapped in a box with cameras on all sides, lights above us, microphones coming at us from all angles. "Stifling" doesn't begin to describe it. I feel like I am going to melt into the boards I am lying on. My face is running with sweat, and my nightgown is beginning to stick to me. Fortunately, I have hired the smartest seventeen year old in America. Jolene pushes her way through the technicians and hands me a bottle of water. I drink half of it and pour the rest over my face.

Problem three. Where should this incredible love scene take place? Yes, it will be in the wagon, but should the woman be two or three inches closer to this end? Or the other? Should she slide a bit to her left? Let's try that. No, let's try the other way. How should her hair be arranged? How much should her head be pointed at Marcus? Is she shy? How shy? Let's try a direct look and see if that works. This goes on forever. I am on my back, I am wet, hot, and tired, and these guys have a million great ideas for setting up this scene, all of which take time and involve me moving a millimeter this way or that.

Problem four. At some point, when real actors are in this wagon, there is supposed to be a love scene. Imagine two people looking at each other in love, about to get physical, while twenty people stare at them from two feet away and wave microphones over their heads. It would be like trying to make love at the ticket counter of an airport. How actors really do it, I don't know. I am not a real actor, but Miles is, and it seems we should at least approach the way the scene will actually go when Melanie lies in my place. How can I possibly do that?

But we try. They finally decide my left wrist is within a millimeter of where it needs to be, the last lock of my hair is positioned correctly, we have the camera angles we need. Are we done? No. Now comes sound check. They want us to talk. Just say anything while they measure the sound. Look at each other and talk.

I start. Here is what I said. Try to imagine at least a little drama as I said it. I did pause here and there. I tried to imitate a few scenes from movies I had watched.

"Marcus, I love you, and I know you love me. I know that with all my heart. I am grateful to be your wife. Whatever we face, I promise to always love you. I will love, serve, and obey you as long as we both live. Christ told us that the wife must submit herself unto her husband as unto the Lord. For as Christ is the Head of his Church so is the husband head of his wife. I submit myself to you. I submit myself gladly. I am your wife. I love you, I will be with you, you are my joy and my life."

As I say the last of this, I reach up with one hand, place it at the back of his head, he lowers his face, we kiss, and we hold our positions. If I have learned anything in my one week as a Hollywood extra, it's that you freeze at the end of every scene. Something to do with editing. So we freeze.

And suddenly I hear screaming. And cheering. And applause. Lisa is yelling. "You got it. Please. Tell me you got it." Miles rises up a minute, then wraps his hand around the back of my head and kisses me all over again. "Thanks, Jess. That was marvelous."

Cool. Apparently I said the right thing. But my chief thought at the moment was – shit. I should have given someone my camera. Me and Miles Martin doing a bedroom scene together. My daughters will never believe it.

Eventually they let me up out of that hothouse. Miles actually lifted me down from the wagon. The wardrobe lady carried my dress and led me to the RV they were using for makeup. Apparently this time I could change with some privacy. I took the big bedroom and collapsed on the bed for a long time. Finally I changed back into that heavy calico, but they let me stay in the RV and gave me another bottle of water. I was done for the day.

Chapter 18

North Platte – The Good, the Bad, the Whip

So, did they use my lines in the film? No. Well, maybe two sentences and a phrase here and there. But the version Melanie did had some of the character of mine. They tell me they had her watch my take three times before she got into the wagon. So I think I contributed to that scene. It ended up being one of the scenes they used for the film's trailer. And, the next summer, when I saw the film with my girls (husbands were home with the babies, watching some movie that involved car chases and buildings being blown up), I made sure they knew I had been in that wagon too.

It had been fun for a moment. But the moment was over. Mostly. Miles was willing to practice his lines with me now, and Melanie ate with me several times during the next week. And maybe some of the technicians were a bit more friendly (or it could have been they were thinking of me as I changed out of my dress). But this was not my big breakthrough moment. Look out Hollywood, here come Jessica. No. I was still just an extra. I did the walkthroughs in the sun. They might have been a bit more careful about keeping a bottle of water nearby, but it was still me sitting in the sun until the camera angles worked and the sound was right. Then the real actors came out of the air conditioning and did the scene.

Not that I am complaining. Well, I guess I am, but I shouldn't be. I had great nights. Allen was every girl's dream. Attentive, passionate, strong, tender, and a marvel with a bar of soap. We would usually meet after dinner. I still helped some with that meal. I might just serve wine, or carry out dishes as Clarissa made them (the only person who made stew that people actually looked forward to). I guess I was partly there to show respect for the work the women were doing. At the end of two weeks I calculated their wages, had Lisa's finance person write four checks, and enjoyed presenting each check to the ladies. They were big checks, and the ladies earned every dime.

But after dinner, it was Allen time. We might sit and talk for a while, or take a walk across part of the ranch, or climb the one hill within miles of the place, but all that was just to build suspense for the important moment – the moment we got to his trailer. I can't tell you how much I wanted to just drop my paper plate in the trash and race him to his door. But a lady really shouldn't do things like that. So we took strolls hand in hand, stopped and looked up at the sky (You want to see stars? Come out to the plains), talked about this and that, and basically built up sexual tension.

I had taken an overnight bag to his trailer, and took all my best nightgowns. One more thing to build sexual tension while I slipped on some satin and he "helped." Besides boffing like teenagers, we did have some good conversations. But they were conversations we had in bed, after, while holding each other. Those are the best conversations, right? He told me more about his girls. I told him about mine. He told me about his cabin in Montana. I told him about my trailer. He said he had found Amberg on a map – not a simple task. We compared notes on small towns, each of us certain our town was the smaller of the two.

But there were long sessions when we didn't say a word. Our hands did the talking. His had lots to say, and I enjoyed every word. We might lie for an hour, his hand sliding up and down on my satin, me running my fingers over his huge back. Eventually we would drift off to sleep, our hands still on each other. Those were good nights.

I also had some good mornings. Several times Miles was sitting on our couch when I got back to our RV. I slid onto his lap every time. I don't think I was being disloyal to Allen. Well, I guess technically I was, but really – a famous (and beautiful) actor is right there – see if we can count how many women would not slide onto that lap and wrap their arms around his neck. I loved holding him. I would kiss him, get my arms around his neck, and lay my face next to his, cheek to cheek. He would put one arm across my back, and the other... Well, that varied. Sometimes it would also stay on my back, a couple times it got to my ass pretty fast, and one time he slid that hand up under my skirt. Yes, really. It can be January in Amberg, but I think about that morning, and I am plenty warm.

With my face next to his, we would even talk a bit. He would describe how he was approaching an upcoming scene, and he might even ask for my reactions. He really was serious about his craft. I would say a few words, but mostly I just wanted to hold him. Eventually he would get me off him. He would make some comment about the morning schedule, or his need to get here or there. I would ignore the first couple times he mentioned his schedule, but eventually I would give him a final kiss, slowly slide my backside off him, and go back to my room. As I walked away, I might also be unzipping my dress, my straps already off my shoulders. I needed to change back into my prairie dress. Why not get started? And yes, I would peek to see if he was watching me, and he always was. Good man.

Was everything perfect? Well, mostly. Even in that first week – the best week - the world had a problem or two. I had two RVs that ran through water every other day, and of course it was all my fault, so I had to go with them to the dump tank, stand upwind while they drained their tank, and help them yet again fill their water tank. Morons.

And the weather wore on us. Shirette was driving in to North Platte every two days for water and anything else she thought people would drink. And we went through everything instantly. You ever pour water into sand and watch it disappear? That was water around us. The wind was constant, and I swear it felt like someone was holding a hair drier against our faces. Add in a constant, baking sun, and people got worn out. And then they got cranky. Two sound guys got into a fist fight one day over a mic setting. Benicia and Melanie went at it one day – on camera. I half think Lisa was hoping for something like that. Both women stayed in character, fighting as they thought women would argue in 1836, but arguing just the same. And this was still the first week in North Platte.

Starting on day seven, things got much worse. Allen left for Casper, Wyoming. There had been a settlement and small fort in Laramie since the 1820s to support the fur trade (Allen told me all this as we lay in bed that last morning. Like I cared. The only thing I wanted to know was why he had to go, and when I would see him again). The fort was long gone, but there were some ruins Lisa might want to include in the film, and he was to go talk through provisions for our access. Thanks, Lisa.

I watched him pull his airstream down the road, and then walked toward the next disaster – oxen. Oxen, I was told by any and all, are castrated bulls, the point of castration being to make them more docile. Nice theory. But recall, docile or not, these are bulls. Do you have any idea how big a bull is? These things are huge. And heavy. If they step on your foot, it gets crushed. If you get in their way, you get knocked down and your chest gets crushed. These are big animals, and dangerous.

So for the first week of shooting, we had not had oxen anywhere near our wagons. The scenes we were shooting were night, or evening, or early morning, scenes when the oxen would be off chewing on grass or something. Fine. But the whole reason we can come to this ranch was to get some shots of wagons actually hooked to teams of oxen and moving down the trail. Why not save all the money and risk by using computer graphics and green screens? Ticket sales. Lisa constantly had a camera crew taking shots of the film crew, showing us using real animals in real settings, paying tribute to the real Oregon Trail. The publicity camera crews were putting out daily tweets, Facebook pages, and Instagrams. Hey look at us. We are doing really cool stuff, and doing it in the original settings. One more reason why you should – a) see the film, and b) make sure the Academy remembers us in April.

I get the reasoning, and I did think it would be interesting to see an actual wagon train roll down the trail. But you can't imagine the effort.

First, they brought in a dozen cowboys. We were using four wagons – two for the missionary couples, and two for the fur traders traveling with them on the way to the annual Rendezvous (an annual July event where traders met with trappers and Indians to exchange blankets and muskets for furs. (In addition to sunstroke, I was getting a pretty good introduction to Western history)). Six oxen were hitched to each wagon. The cowboys had done this many times, and were pretty good at it. Our camera guys got some pictures, but mostly we stayed out of the way.

Next, we got a new set of actors – the fur traders who had supposedly been along with the missionaries since Kansas City. These guys needed to look like fur traders (hats, buckskin pants, wool shirts, big beards), and they needed to at least act a little since they were in a few scenes, and, they needed to be able to drive the wagons. No steering was needed – we weren't going that far, but they needed to get six oxen to start, and the same six oxen to stop. An interesting skill set. Who did they use? One guy was flown in from Hollywood who would do most of the on-camera work, and four guys were hired from an amateur theater company in North Platte.

A whole morning went by as the real cowboys talked with the pretend fur traders, the oxen settled down, and cameras went to assigned places. Two things I should add just to give you a sense of how difficult this simple jaunt was going to be: The camera guys laid down over a hundred yards of tracks so the cameras could move smoothly alongside the wagons when and if they finally moved, and wagon trains also used horses for riding both along the trail and after folks got to the far end, so half a dozen horses now appeared and were tied so they would follow the last wagon. Complicated enough for you? Time passed. Heat built. The oxen seemed happy enough just munching grass. Everyone else was wondering how this would actually work, especially since the real cowboys could not be on camera. They would be off some distance to help if needed, but only if needed, and not until disaster had already struck.

There was no disaster that first day, because the wagons never moved. Well, not really. All afternoon was spent shooting background shots. People standing by the wagons (me substituting for Melanie again). Fur traders standing by the wagons and talking to the missionaries. Fur traders talking to other fur traders ("that Missus Whitman sure is purdy"). Different groupings, different camera angles, different places among the wagons, but all shots that could be taken while the wagons were stationary. Rehearsals, walkthroughs, shots. And of course there were the publicity cameras shooting the film cameras shooting the wagon train and the stark Nebraska background, all going out to social media (and members of the Academy).

About six they decided to try to move the wagons a few feet. Cowboys came down and gave the men another round of instruction, got the oxen moving a few feet, then handed the reins to the actors. We walked along (I was standing in for Melanie again), learned the pace of the oxen (pretty damn slow), and got maybe twenty feet before the cowboys stopped the wagons. Okay, cowboys out of the shot, let's try it with just the actors. Instant pileup. The cowboys come running back out. Rule 1 – the first wagon has to be moving before the second wagon starts or the oxen for wagon two will walk right up on the wagon in front of them. The cowboys put the wagons back in some order, and explain again – wait for the wagon in front to move before you get your own oxen moving.

Try number two. Wagon one moves. Wagon two moves. Wagon three moves. And, finally, looking like it should, wagon four moves and we have an actual wagon train. True, it's a short wagon train, but a wagon train nonetheless. Those of us walking, do our part, the drivers do their part. Success. Cameras roll. Everyone is happy. We go about fifty feet. Good. That's enough for today. Now, how do you stop them? The cowboys come running and stop the lead pairs of oxen, this time working from back to front. The actors watch carefully, pretty sure they can stop them next time.

By the now it is after six, and the sun is at an angle the videographer likes. So he has us walk a few feet, stand, and wait while he gets a wide angle shot – a small train in the huge open prairie. Probably a poster for the film. We all stand in the sun while he changes filters on his camera. Moments before the first of us will drop from dehydration, he says he has the shot, and Lisa lets us go. Air conditioning never felt so good. It was probably best Allen was gone. I picked at my dinner, drank three bottles of water, and dropped into bed around eight.

I think we assumed oxen-day-two would go better, after all anything had to be better than oxen-day-one. And initially we were right. Cowboys hooked up the oxen, cameras got into place, and all the fur traders knew their lines. Lisa took the first two hours shooting additional fur trader scenes, but with that done, the rest should have gone well. We were to walk maybe a hundred yards while cameras rolled. How hard could this be?

Wagon one moves, then two, then three. Four has oxen too busy eating to follow instructions. They aren't going anywhere. Out comes a whip. The driver snaps it on the backside of the lead ox. Up comes the head. "Moooo." The driver hits him again. "Mooo" (or something similar – sort of sad sounding, actually). The ox steps forward as do his five brothers. Wagon four is now moving. But. Everyone immediately sees how well this will go over with PETA. It doesn't go over all that well with us. We just hurt a cow! We want to make a film, not start a battle with animal rights people. People should leave the theater thinking about Narcissa, not the poor cattle.

Can the oxen be "encouraged" to move without any visible stimulation? Big conference between cowboys, actors, and videographers. Social media cameras off (and previous footage deleted), film cameras pointed forward, a cowboy hides behind the fourth wagon and snaps a whip over the oxen. "Mooo." The lead ox is unhappy. He is also still standing. Hidden cowboy whips him again. "Mooo." Okay, now he moves, but no one is celebrating. Can we keep the whips off camera? Maybe, maybe not. Can we be sure no one will ever spill the beans? How many beers before the cowboys are laughing about it in some bar? And how many of us will look back at these scenes and just think, "poor ox, did you hear the poor thing mooo?" This isn't going to work.

So, what do we do? We send the oxen back to their pasture, and reshoot three days of film using horses. Three days in the heat and wind, shooting film a second time. Three days. We were really unhappy during the first three days of shooting. Imagine how we felt about doing it all over again? Yes, the horses are easier to control – no nasty whips – so the shooting goes okay. But what do we really conclude? Forget oxen – and – forget horses. Forget any of this. The good people of California had invented computer graphics so film crews would never have to deal with animals of any species again. Enough with reality. In reality animals did crazy things, and furthermore, reality was hot with a wind that never stopped blowing.

We got our footage, and three days later were very happy to put our RVs back on the Interstate. Enough of Nebraska.

Chapter 19

A Busy Night in Casper

It felt good to get on the road again. Progress. One step closer to the Whitman Mission. But we had lots more work to do along the way. We had to see – and be seen along – the Oregon Trail. We were on the interstate for about an hour, but I-80 follows the South Platte. The Oregon Trail takes the North Platte. So we got off on Highway 26. It's two lane, but it kept us largely alongside the river. As we found with the Little Blue, the river had been dammed at one spot so what we were seeing was not what Marcus and Narcissa would have seen. But there were places above the dam where things looked natural. And barren. This is wide open country. Some places would be irrigated – huge crop circles with pipes spraying water as they circle a main pump. Anything not irrigated was short and already brown. The hot wind had sucked the green out of all plants.

Lisa had us stop four times. The first time we just pulled over to the side of the road and walked over to the river. This wasn't the Kansas or Missouri. There were no trees along the banks – or not many. The river was shallow, with lots of sand bars sticking up and sporting grasses. Where it flowed, it flowed slowly. We had heard the stories of cholera. The water here was ideal for it – slow moving, heated by the sun, a petri dish for any and all bacteria. Women would come to these banks and fill pails of water. Maybe they would boil it. Maybe they wouldn't. The family would be sick in hours. Allen had told me a story about one family that lost all their children in a single day. Fine in the morning, dead by night.

The videographer wanted a shot. Not only would it show another part of the Trail (my, we were authentic), but while the river didn't look like much more than a glorified ditch, we now were close enough to the Rockies to see them in the distance. If he framed his shot right, he could get us talking by the river, the mountains just over our heads. The lack of wagons was no problem. We would be down by the water, away from the wagons. And, if he felt the need to have the wagons, he would just insert them via computer magic.

Somehow he decided this should be a woman's shot – Benicia and me. Actually Eliza Spalding and Narcissa Whitman, but Melanie wasn't leaving her RV – headache. So I was Narcissa for the moment. He shot us from behind. We gathered water in one take, sat chatting in another, and looked up at the Rockies and pointed in a third. Would any of these make it through the editing process in LA? Who knew? But we were only out there for an hour. And it gave me a few minutes with Benicia. We sparred for a few minutes when the cameras were set and she tried to upstage me, but I yanked on her skirt and kept her in her place. I guess I was protecting Melanie/Narcissa.

We talked for a few minutes. She had never left California before. Her parents had moved there when she was a baby, both wannabe actors who put her through every lesson available, her first time on screen at age three. Stage parents. She said I had nice hands. I think that's what you say when you don't want to compliment someone's looks, but don't want them to notice. I told her I liked her shoes.

Since it was near noon, and we were already parked, Jolene walked down the line of RVs with a huge platter of sandwiches. Marlena was behind her with a big basket of fruit, followed by Shiretta with a bag of water bottles. I must be the luckiest manager in the world – I just hire people, and they know exactly the right thing to do without being told. The kitchen crew seemed determined to impress me at least once a day.

Stop two was Chimney Rock. Okay, I could see why the videographer wanted this shot. There were the four of us (still no Melanie, but Miles and Travis came out for this one) with the river, Chimney Rock, and the Rockies in the background. It was hot as hell, but none of us complained. The view really was special. He got our backs as we pointed and talked. And the PR folks knew a good shot when they saw one. They got pictures of our video people taking pictures. Just to add to the layers of images, I knew lots of the technicians had their phones out, getting personal shots of Chimney Rock, and us, and our video people, and our PR people, row after row of people taking pictures of people taking pictures. The only person not getting a picture was me. Hmm.

I hated stop three. Allen must have told Lisa not to bother with the Fort Laramie historic site. There were only ruins left, and an information building with lots of pictures of the original fort. I have seen pictures, and the place was spectacular. Two story walls, watch towers, a grand entrance. Even in 1840, this was no thrown-together pile of logs. It may have been built for security, but I bet it also impressed.

Allen and Miles had both talked to me about the place. It was important. Some version of the fort had been here for a decade before the Whitmans arrived. Not a military fort. That came later. The first forts were built by the fur companies as trading posts. They changed hands from one fur company to another, but they still provided an important service – you could buy and trade things here. Sound simple? By the time Emigrants reached Laramie, they had been on the Trail a minimum of six to eight weeks. They had also encountered or dodged cholera, and if their initial supply of fruit had run out, they were already in the early stages of scurvy (and would not have known it). They were tired, they needed a little of this and that, but mostly they needed some sense of normalcy. Here was a store, just like back home. Here were people who spoke their language. Here were people who lived among the Indians, and nothing too bad seemed to be happening. Down came the stress levels, and up went a sense of pride. They had made it to Fort Laramie. It was halfway between St. Louis and the Oregon coast. Halfway! It was just early July and they were halfway. Why not stay a few days, rest the horses and oxen, talk to a few people, get some information about the road ahead? And that's what people did – they rested.

I wish I had seen what that fort had looked like. But rather than pull into the historic area and see ruins, Lisa had us park on the main street of town and see a different kind of ruin – the town of Fort Laramie. Yuck. I liked the sign at the edge of town – "Welcome to the town of Fort Laramie – 250 good people and 6 soreheads". Okay, a sense of humor. But they needed it. There were half a dozen businesses along Highway 26 as it passed through the middle of town. Were any of the businesses in operation? Hard to tell. Lisa had us park our RVs alongside the road, and get out and look. Look at what? My hometown of Amberg doesn't have much, but I think it has more than this town does now. So much for one of the highlights of the Oregon Trail. We were back in our RVs and back on the road as soon as Lisa allowed it.

A few miles down the road was our fourth stop. Ruts. Just outside the town of Guernsey was a section of the old trail that had been protected. You got to see wagon ruts. We all piled out of our RVs and stood to look. It struck me that over a century had passed since any wagon had used this trail, yet their ruts were still visible. I think a poet might say that the Trail was so important it still had an impact today. A geologist would probably point to the rocks and gravel and say nothing had grown over the trail because the surface was too fragile, too dry. I finally had my phone with me and took some pictures, then handed it to various people and asked them to get pictures of me with the ruts, with Miles, with the kitchen crew, with... well, I was pretty annoying, but I also had almost no pictures of the trip, so I was overdue.

Back in the RVs, we followed 26 to Interstate 25 and Casper. We would rest several days there. Melanie was not the only one with a headache. The heat, the hot wind, the long days under the sun. And then I saw the sign outside town – elevation 5150 feet. Oh. That would explain a few headaches.

I wanted to appreciate the history of the town. I wanted to stay in an old legacy hotel down on Main Street. Basically, I wanted to stay in a hotel like the ones I owned. But I had already checked on Expedia. No such animal existed. We would have to stay in one of the generic highway hugging hotels along I-25. Lisa led us to one of the Hilton hotels, not that it mattered. They were all identical. This one was named "One-More Boring-Rectangle-along-the-Highway-but-There-won't-be-Any-Surprises-and-We-take-Credit-Cards-Hotel." Not really, but that name would have fit. I think we took this rectangle rather than the others because it had a restaurant and a bar. I was happy for both, and happy that my kitchen crew would have a little time off. They had earned it. As for the rest of us – we would be in generic hotel rooms, but we would have a larger shower and wouldn't have to share.

We pretty much filled the parking lot – fourteen RVs and two large trucks. I sat behind the wheel and let the rest of the folks get in and register. I could wait. It was mid-afternoon, and this would be a good time to make some calls.

Tiffany first. I gave her an update on where we were and how things were going. My phone was showing four bars, so I was using FaceTime. As we talked, I could hear Miles in the back bedroom filling a bag or two to take into the hotel. Finally he came forward, and saw that I was on the phone. I stopped and turned to him.

"Miles, this is my daughter Tiffany." I held the phone so she could see his face. I would have loved to see her face at that moment.

"Hi, Tiffany. Your mother has told me all about you and your family. How is Jeremy enjoying his summer? I hear you live near a park."

Long silence while Tiffany processes the fact that she is speaking to Miles Martin. Finally she manages, "Yes, it is very nice here. Thank you for asking."

"Well, I know you and your mother have lots to talk about, so I will get out of the way. Your mother is doing a marvelous job, by the way. I love it when she stands in for Melanie Davis. But, got to go." He turns to me and says in a classic bedroom voice, "I will see you later." And he wraps an arm around me and gives me a kiss to remember. I have one arm on his back, and the other is waving the phone around, hoping some of this is visible. Finally he straightens up, winks at me, and heads for the hotel.

"Mom? MOM!!" I'm pretty sure Tiffany caught most of that kiss. "That was Miles Martin."

"Yes, we share an RV. Nice man." I leave it there, and ask about my grandkids. Tiffany manages to get a few sentences out, but I think I have seen her really flustered for the first time in years. This is fun. Finally I finish up with her and call Britney. No Miles this time, but I am pretty sure Tiffany will call her momentarily to describe what she has seen. As a parent, how many times do we really have an opportunity to impress our kids once they are grown? Well, I think I just had one. It feels pretty good.

My next calls were back to the office. Bonnie gave me a quick status report. Things were fine in the older hotels. The real action was in St. Paul and Duluth. That was my next call. Bobbi Steiner and Andy Tower had been spending a lot of time in St. Paul hiring and training staff for the hotel opening. When would that be? Bobbi said there would be a full opening August 1.

"The contractors are clearing enough equipment away that we will be able to show people around the ground floor and serve people out on the patio when the city has the big celebration for July 4th (two days from now). Will you be coming?"

"No, I am in Casper, Wyoming handling that film contract. You probably won't see me until late August. I know you will handle the grand opening well. By the way, I hired two cooks in Kansas City. They are marvels. No formal training, but they can cook the full range of a basic menu and do it for forty people. Do any of our hotels need cooks?"

"We need lots of people here in St. Paul. Are they willing to relocate?"

"I'll find out. By the way, how do you like St. Paul? Feel free to move your base there if you like. I hear the art scene is first rate, and the young men are tall and blond."

"They are tall, blond, and tempting. Let me think about that." That pretty much wrapped up our call.

Next call? Our new engineer to get his take on the two remodeling projects. I wasn't too surprised by his overview. St Paul? Back on track (probably because he was sitting on them). Duluth? The guy wanted an extension, all kinds of problems, yada, yada, yada. My response? No. He gets paid for whatever work is done when the contract ends August 1. In the meantime, shop for a contractor who hasn't already semi-retired. We need to be open in September when tourists come through on their way to drive the north shore of Lake Superior and enjoy the fall foliage. Agreed.

Okay, back to Casper. I packed a dress bag and an overnight bag, and went inside to take my turn at the registration desk.

Lisa and two of her assistants were passing out printed instructions. I guess her RV had office equipment. Our instructions? Tonight was dinner and a reception for local dignitaries and press here in the hotel. Cocktail dresses for ladies, suits for men. Tomorrow was a "free" day but we were to spend the afternoon in costume being seen at some museum – "Historic Trail Interpretive Center." Who knew with museums – some are interesting, some will bore you to death. We would find out tomorrow. July Fourth we would all be in the local parade. Miles and Melanie would be co-grand marshals. Busy, busy, busy. And no doubt all caught on our cameras for sharing with a fascinated public coast to coast.

I took my copy and smiled. I have no idea how good Lisa really is as a director, but she obviously knew a thing or two about PR. Speaking of whom, Lisa came over, slid an arm around my ass, leaned close, and said "Wear something nice tonight." Okay. I was thinking more about Allen (wherever he was), but I didn't mind dressing for Lisa too.

I stood in line (I am certain the clerks in my hotels are faster), looked around the lobby (I hoped they didn't pay their decorator much), and waited my turn. While I stood there, the kitchen crew came in. By the look on the girls' faces, this was their first hotel. Their excitement was obvious. I gave up my place in line to go back and stand with them.

"When we come down for dinner tonight, would you like to go together? I think Miles might join us." I could swear I saw four pairs of pupils dilate when they heard his name. We had another fifteen minutes in line waiting for the desk clerk to process us. During that time we agreed to meet at seven. I told Shirette lunch at the museum would be helpful, but otherwise they had the next two days off. They deserved the rest. They had done a great job. The girls mentioned the parade. I told them yes, they were included. It felt like I was announcing a second Christmas. I waited for them while we were finally all processed, and we went up the elevator together, me to a generic room, them to their first hotel room. And yes, I enjoyed seeing how much fun they were having.

I had about two hours before the trip down for dinner. I put my feet up for a while, then took a quick shower and worked on my hair and makeup. I was going to look good. My dress? Satin in a darker shade of gold, spaghetti straps, low cut, flared skirt just an inch above my knees. Good for dancing, good for cuddling. Matching shoes with three inch stilettoes. Lisa might be grabbing my ass, but I was hoping Allen would be grabbing a whole lot more.

I was out the door at seven. The kitchen crew was waiting for me in the hallway. I assumed they were wearing their best dresses. The girls were wearing plenty of makeup. Shirette was standing behind them, looking proud. I gave all four of them a quick hug. I had called Miles and told him several ladies would like to go to dinner with him. He was gracious about it. He met us in the hallway and walked to the elevator and then into the dining room with Jolene on one side, Marlena on the other, mom and aunt taking picture after picture while Miles smiled and held the girls' hands. I'm sure we all wished it had been a longer walk to the back dining room.

But Miles was nice when we got there. Lisa hurried up to take him away to some table with local biggies, but before he left us, each woman got a hug and a kiss on the cheek. And yes, some phones came out for more pictures. Good man. We five ladies headed for an eight top near the back of the room. Instantly three young technicians appeared and held our chairs, managing carefully to ensure that in the end the seating was technician, Jolene, technician, Marlena, technician – and then three old ladies. I couldn't help myself. Once we were seated, I leaned across the table and said, "Gentlemen, remember they aren't eighteen." The technicians were all innocence, but I was pretty sure this was not the first time they and the girls had been in proximity, and it didn't take long before most hands disappeared under the table. Oh well. Young fun.

The waitresses were slow (I know ours are faster in Galena), but it gave me a chance to look around the room. I hated it. They called it "Mike's Saloon" or something equally touristy, but it was plainly decorated, neutral so it could serve for wedding receptions, anniversary parties, multi-level sales pitches, and Kiwanis meetings. Boring. A real "Saloon" would have had a tin ceiling, chandeliers, nice warm paneling, and large paintings of prairie scenes, including a huge picture of a buffalo hunt. That is how a hotel restaurant in the West should look. And the place should be a hotel with rooms upstairs behind the bar, and maybe a naughty lady standing at the top of the stairs. That's the kind of place I would enjoy, old bathrooms and all. But no, the world had turned to generic highway hugger hotels. Safe, sure. But fun? No.

Eventually the waitress came, beers for the men, Cokes for the girls, two bottles of white wine for us old ladies. I would do the pouring. I didn't want to spend forever waiting for each drink. And I wanted to talk to Shirette and Clarissa. The drinks came, we ordered buffalo burgers (what else?), and I poured for our end of the table. I waited for the young'uns to get talking, and then turned to Shirette and Clarissa.

"I have been very impressed with the work you have been doing. The food is good, you pick the right meals, and you seem one step ahead all the time. My company owns several hotels. We are opening a new one in St. Paul. There are fulltime, permanent jobs there for both of you if you are interested."

Long pause. Shirette and Clarissa looked at each other, and then Clarissa asked. "Could you tell us the pay?"

"Of course. If you wish to work as an assistant manager, the salary would be fifty thousand. If you would rather work hourly, the pay is twenty per hour. As a manager, there is also a potential bonus if you make the numbers we hope for." Another pause. "You don't need to decide now. I understand it would mean new schools for the girls, and a home away from your family and friends. Take your time. We will be together for another month or more. But know, whatever you decide, I have been very impressed with your work. You are both very talented ladies."

I started to pour myself a second glass of wine, but Shirette took my hand. "Thank you. We need to talk, but, well, thank you." And she hugged me. I hugged her back, and smiled past her at Clarissa. Nice way to start a meal.

I changed the subject, asked them what they thought of the Oregon Trail, and we talked about sites we had seen until the buffalo burgers arrived. By the way, they advertise it as low-fat meat. Give that some thought before you order it.

How did the rest of the night go? Well, I drank pretty much a whole bottle of wine. I watched for Allen. I got a kick out of the celebrity tables – lots of laughter, all four actors great with their hands – a touch on a forearm to emphasize a point, a hand on a shoulder to reinforce a compliment, a hand on a hand for a serious moment. Four city officials, and every newspaper reporter or radio reporter not yet laid off by the internet, sitting up tall and memorizing every word and every look. They would have stories to tell for months or years, exactly as Lisa had planned.

But where the hell was Allen? We finished our burgers, I had at least two more glasses of wine than I should have, the girls had ice cream sundays for dessert (one hand on a spoon, one hand under the table), and still no Allen. Time passed. A few people started leaving. Shirette started giving her girls the look – time to let go of the boy, time to go. Two more tables headed for the door.

I didn't want to keep the other ladies any longer. I told Shirette, "I am going to stay here a little longer. I need to talk to someone."

"We can wait with you."

"Thank you, but it might be a while. I enjoyed having dinner with you. I am sure I will see you all tomorrow."

I stood, said good night, and then sat again while they left. I had a short skirt, a plunging neckline, and no man. I sipped my wine, stared at the entrance door, and waited. It didn't take long before several of the technicians started circling. Okay, I couldn't wait here. I stood and walked out into the bar area. And I stood again. Where the hell was he?

Lisa came up from behind me. She stood tight up against me, her arms around to the small of my back. She held me.

"You shouldn't drink so much."

"I agree."

"And you should stop looking at the door. He's not coming." I struggled to step back away from her, but she held me tight.

"What did you do with him? Where did you send him this time?"

"He is in his room here in the hotel. He gets you tomorrow."

"What?" I struggled again, and she held me again.

"Hold still." She was bigger than me, and I was drunk. I put my hands on hers, but could not move them. "He and I talked. I asked for a night with you. He agreed."

"He agreed?"

"It's one night, Jess. Is that so terrible?"

"Do I get to choose?"

"Yes, but please choose me. I spend many nights with people I need to be with. I want one night with a friend. I think of you as a friend." As she's saying this, her hands are holding me less tightly, and one hand is sliding down over my hip, and down to my upper thigh. She is wearing a deep blue satin number (or the latest plastic equivalent), the skirt short and tight, probably too tight for a woman over forty, but it does good things for her ass. The bodice is sleeveless. Maybe not the best choice. She has big shoulders for a woman, not her best feature. But her straps plunge down off those shoulders in a deep V, showing a lot of chest. Whether she is wearing a pushup bra or cups in the dress, her breasts are pushed up, bulging from her dress. I bet men had been looking at her chest all night. I was now. The face opposite mine? I would bet the Hollywood makeup lady had helped her. Her face shone, her eyebrows were perfectly curved, coming to exact points at her temples. There was color around her eyes, enough to draw attention to them, blush shaping her cheekbones nicely, and a nice shade of red on her lips. It was a face so perfectly drawn, it could have been a mask. But I looked at those eyes and saw a person behind them – a person who held me, but irritated me.

"He said you can have me? You just divvied me up?"

"I asked for a night. I wanted some time with you. I need a friend. One night." Her hand is touching me through my skirt.

"You could just ask."

"I am asking. I asked him, and now I am asking you." One hand slides up my back, pulls me to her, and she kisses me. "Jess, please. Just come with me." I look into those eyes and see a person behind the mask. Long pause. I look at her, feel her against me. My hands slide up to her shoulders, and I kiss her.

"Yes."

She keeps an arm around my shoulders as we walk to the elevator and then to her room.

What was going on with her? I don't know. Maybe she did just need a friend. She was gentle with me. She held me, but did not put her weight on me. She kissed me without pushing my head back into the pillow. She played with my hair, but didn't hold it. She brushed it back from my face as she kissed me. She left me dressed for much of the night, not that I was wearing much to begin with. She liked sliding my dress straps over my shoulders. She liked kissing my chest. She liked sliding her thighs against mine. She liked putting a hand behind my ass and pulling me tight against her. She liked sliding our hips together.

About the middle of the night she changed our position – now facing each other as we lay on our sides. She kept an arm behind me to pull me to her, but she also waited for me to slide tight against her. She wanted me to initiate, to kiss, to slide my thigh between hers, to grab her ass to pull her close and then closer. It felt like she needed reassurance. Proof of my affection. And, as the night progressed, I did feel more affection. I told her I loved her, and I did.

We slept for a time, and then woke when a loud semi went by on I-25. It felt good to wake up in her arms. Still half asleep, warm from being so tight together, our faces inches apart, I smiled, and then started kissing her. I rolled her onto her back, slid on top, my arms around her neck, and my mouth locked to hers. My legs went between hers, my thighs tight against hers, forcing her legs farther and farther apart. I grabbed her tighter and tighter with my arms.

I felt her hands on my back, stroking me from shoulder to ass, but doing it softly, gently. I was grabbing and clenching and pushing myself into her. She was letting me do it, but responding with softness, slow movements across my body. Finally she put a hand into my hair, lifted my head, and said "Thank you."

"What?"

"I needed someone to want me. The way you do now. I have people who want a raise, or a job, or more minutes on camera. I needed to feel someone want me – just me." She pulled my head down again, and kissed me – but gently. I still held her tight, but exhaled, and slowly loosened my grip.

"I do want you, Lisa. I want you. I belong to you. I've told you that before."

"You can't imagine how good that makes me feel." She lifted her legs now, and wrapped them around me. The arms on my back now slowly tightened around me. "I love you, Jess. And I need you."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. I want to feel you tight against me. Just hold me. Kiss me and let me kiss you."

And that's what we did. I think we were practically welded together for an hour, maybe more. More would have been fine with me. What was going on with her? I could only guess. She held me, I held her, she thanked me, she kissed me.

About midmorning it was time to go. I walked down to my room, the front of my dress soaked in sweat, sticking to my body, my shoes in my hand. I went straight to bed and slept into the afternoon.

Chapter 20

A History Tour

Allen never said a word about my night with Lisa. He called around two. I said I would meet him in the lobby around three. My day with Allen. After my night with Lisa. I loved her. And I loved him.

It took me a full hour to get ready for him. Shower, hair, makeup. Over an hour, actually. It was too hot for makeup, really. So I kept it minimal. But my hair. My hair was just not cooperating. I dried it, combed it, brushed it. I felt like I was fighting it. I was really temped to put it in a ponytail. Today was a costume day. Did women on the Trail wear ponytails? Probably not. So I fought with it for a while more.

What was really going on with me? It wasn't the hair, of course. Well, part of it was the hair. But most of it was thinking about Lisa, and thinking about Allen. I loved both, and I wanted both, and I wondered if when all this was over, would I have either? How do you comb your hair when you have that on your mind? Ugh.

I think I would still be standing in that bathroom looking at my hair, when it dawned on me that this was a costume day. I would be wearing a bonnet. Over my hair. Over the hair I was fighting with. That thought helped some. I put on a fresh calico dress and then put on my bonnet. But did I want the bonnet slid all the way forward? Maybe just a bit to one side? Back enough to show some of my hair? And then I needed to tie the ribbon under my chin. Small bow or big bow?

It was three thirty. What finally got me out of that bathroom was desire. I wanted Allen to hold me. I wanted to feel his arms around me while I put my hands on that huge, solid back. That would never happen until I got out of the damn bathroom and went down to the lobby. And, finally I did.

What are male virtues? First, when he sees you he not only tells you how nice you look, but you can see in his face he means it. Second, he doesn't start the conversation with "I thought we agreed three o'clock." Third, and maybe most important, while he is telling you how nice you look, his arms are around you. Allen checked all the boxes. I got up on my toes, kissed him, and then just stood there with my arms around his neck. I think I would have stood there with him the rest of the day.

But Allen had places to take me. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and led me out to his truck. No Airstream in sight. We would be traveling light. His truck had yet another virtue to add to my list – it had a bench seat, no buckets, so I could slide right up next to him. I kept a hand on his thigh, leaned into him, and enjoyed the ride. He often kept both hands on the wheel, but if the road was straight, his arm would come around me, pull me tight, and I would lay my head on his shoulder. I like straight roads.

He took us west, out of town.

"I take it we are not going to the museum?"

"No, Lisa gave me a pass. I get to take you wherever I want." At the mention of Lisa, I got nervous.

"Does it bother you that..."

"Jess, I like working with her. I think she is a nice person. At some point we will fight for your hand. Maybe it will be six guns on Main Street, maybe we will arm wrestle. Until then, I am happy with as much time as I can get. I like how you sit in my truck, by the way."

"I like your truck." I was sliding my hand on his thigh while we talked. Probably not the safest thing to do while driving, but, safety needn't always be the top priority. He leaned over to kiss the top of my head. I looked up and the brim on my bonnet caught his mouth as he lowered it. Hmm. Maybe it would be better if we just parked.

"Where are we going?" What I wanted to add but didn't was – wherever it is, keep it short, because the real place I want to go is my hotel room, and every mile you drive is a mile farther from where I want to be.

"I want to show you the Rendezvous and talk a little history."

"Is it a long drive?"

"Four hours, maybe five."

"Five? That gets us back pretty late." And again, I wanted to add – but didn't – let me read about history in a book. I want you in my bed, the sooner the better.

"I promised Lisa you would be back to ride the parade float. I didn't promise where you would lay your pretty head tonight."

Hmm. The man had a plan. I would go with it, especially if the road was straight and his arm was around me.

Was it straight? Not really. We were going southwest, up into the mountains on highway 220 as it paralleled yet more of the North Platte. Long River. Allen identified points of interest as he drove. Emigrant Gap, Independence Rock, Muddy Gap, and then a different road along the Sweetwater River, before we took 28 and headed straight south.

I had to ask. "Emigrant Gap? Why Emigrant?"

"Immigrants come into a country, emigrants leave, right?" I nodded. "We keep forgetting Oregon was under British rule. The people on the trail were leaving the U.S. They were also leaving any legal claim to land they might farm. Through the early forties, these folks had no real recourse to law. One more risk they were taking, in addition to all the others."

I could see why he was such an expert on the trail. He admired these folks. He wanted to know about them. Meanwhile the hand that was sometimes on me, was sometimes on the wheel, and sometimes pointing out the window. I have no idea how many times he had been up and down this road, but he knew it well.

We had been on the road almost two hours when he pulled over. South Pass. There was a parking area, and a sign – maybe fifty words of history. I guess the point was either you understood the significance of the pass, or you didn't. And if you didn't, another fifty words on a sign wasn't going to make much difference.

We got out and stood for a while. I had my arms around his waist, he had his arms around my shoulders. His chest was warm. I looked around. We were in the midst of a huge meadow. Low grasses, a few shrubs of one sort or another, mountains off in the distance. But no mountains right here. This "pass" didn't slip tight between two mountains, a ravine you passed through to the other side. It was a meadow. It was huge. It was open. Wagons could ride over it with little effort. It was high. The sign said over 7000 feet, so there would have been a climb up from Casper, but there was water almost all the way up to the pass, and tributaries to the Green River just a few miles down the other side. A decade after Lewis and Clark had encountered the Rockies and shown how difficult it would be to pass through them, fur trappers had found this pass. It seemed a miracle. Add another twenty five years, and families were taking their wagons through here, water and grass all the way. We were standing in a hole in the Rockies. We were standing close. I laid my head on his chest. It's nice up here. Now hold me tighter.

"Okay," I said. "I get that this is a kind of geologic miracle. Why isn't it used? Where's the Interstate?"

"Oxen need water. Trains don't. The Oregon Trail goes north around the Laramie Mountains. When the railroads did their surveys, they found a south way around the mountains, shorter, straighter, not much higher. Another gap. Call it the 'More South Pass.' I-80 also goes that way. Cars don't need water either."

"So yesterday, when we saw Fort Laramie – the town..."

"You saw detritus. Technology advanced, transportation routes moved, towns stayed behind. We can respect what those town were, but we can't bring them back."

"So, point made. Is this what you wanted me to see?"

"No. We have more driving to do."

"Am I ever going to get you in my bed?"

"You look very fetching in that calico dress and bonnet, mam, but we have another two hours ahead of us in the truck. But kiss me now. Your bonnet gets in the way when we are driving."

I moved my arms up around his shoulders, and we necked pretty seriously for a while, but finally got back in his truck. Two more hours. I kept my hand on his thigh encouraging him to drive a little faster. Maybe it worked. Only an hour and a half later we were at a small park where two branches of the Green River came together. A sign called it Lombard Ferry Crossing. Okay, another sign describing its place on the Oregon Trail.

Allen pulled into a restricted area (I guess Forest Rangers get to do that), pulled down his tailgate, and got out a tent. He had it pitched in ten minutes. I guess he had done it before. Out came a cook stove and two camp chairs. He gave me a bottle of water first, and then after we had each finished ours, out came a bottle of white wine. I like this guy.

While he heated up a pot of stew, I looked around. Well, actually, I moved my chair right up against his, and kept a hand on his shoulder while he stirred the pot, but I did look at the valley while also looking at him. Interesting place. Large. It went off up river as far as I could see. Grasses, trees along the river, greenery. Not forest green like Wisconsin, but more green than I had seen on the North Platte. We were a bit lower here, maybe two thousand feet lower. Three? I couldn't be sure, but I knew we had dropped some elevation during the last hour's driving. There was some noise from cars and trucks coming down 28, but otherwise, it was quiet.

"What is this place?"

"This is where Marcus Whitman established his reputation. Where we sit, or fairly close to here, he took an arrow head out of the back of Jim Bridger. No anesthetic, no operating room, he took a three inch arrowhead out that had been in his back a year. Forty or fifty men stood and watched. They liked what he did so well, eight other men asked him to carve out their arrowheads too."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"Here."

"This was the site of the 1835 Rendezvous. Whitman and another minister had been sent west to see if there were tribes interested in learning about Christ. Pretty good idea, if you ask me – check to see if there is any interest before you start pushing your religion at people. The two of them hooked on with the only group coming out here that spring – a guy named Lucien Fontenelle working for the American Fur Company. He's got sixty men and six wagons to take trade goods out and bring furs back. Our guys tag along. Not really welcome since ministers won't like much of what these characters will do out here. There is even talk the men will just kill them once they get out in the frontier. But cholera strikes and Whitman is not just a minister, he is also a doctor. Three men die, but Whitman helps the rest survive, including Fontenelle. So no one murders the ministers.

They travel west over much of what became the Oregon Trail, and Fontenelle used wagons, some say for the first time ever. Why wagons? Whitman could tell you why. He and his pal used mules to carry their load. But the load has to come off every night, and go back on every morning, tied carefully to an animal that is not real excited about having a load on his back. Whitman's partner, Sam Parker, is not only a Congregational Minister (Whitman is Presbyterian), but he is old and lazy and makes Whitman load the mules every day. Later, when history is written about the Trail, Whitman will be given credit for getting wagons farthest west, proving the possibility of farmers and families taking the route. And that is true. It also helps to have a wagon at the end of the route if you are a farmer – it is basic farm equipment. But I like to think Whitman got his inspiration that summer when every morning was a fight with their mules."

"So he follows the fur people here?"

"Yes. They take the route through Fort Laramie, up the North Platte, then over South Pass and down to right here. They arrive August 22nd, over a month late. But, there are still hundreds of men waiting for them. They have the Valley here to hunt, and basically, time looked different back then. Each year there was one chance to trade furs for blankets, guns, and whiskey (among other things), and that one chance was at the Rendezvous. So if the fur company traders came a few weeks late (remember they were laid up with cholera for a while), well, you wait a few weeks. While you wait, you swap stories, gamble, trade pelts, and hunt."

"Once the fur company people arrive, you have whiskey, tobacco, a new coat, and more people to swap stories with, gamble with, and fight with. The trading lasted weeks. Imagine Marcus Whitman. You are sitting right about here. In the valley a bunch of guys are having a horse race. Various Indian tribes are wandering through, trading, drinking, buying or selling wives, having their own fun. Off to your right, Kit Carson takes on a bully. Carson is five four, and just twenty four years old, but he has been out trapping for years. He and the bully go at it, finally settling things by getting on their horses, racing from each side of the valley, guns blazing. Actually they were single shot pistols, but Carson shoots that one shot better than the other guy."

"The Whitman who sat in this spot, saw all that, and spent days carving arrow heads out of backs, is the Whitman we are making a movie about."

"But we aren't making a movie about – excuse me – a film about Whitman, we are making it about Narcissa."

"Exactly."

"What? Good story, and I hope eventually I get some of that stew, but how is this about Narcissa?"

"You know, and I know, some jackass critic is going to say this movie is just pandering to women, that the real hero is Marcus. But they miss the point. By any measure, Whitman is one incredible guy. He has traveled more, done more, braved more, enabled more, risked more than just about any other man of his time. That man can have any woman he wants. He wants Narcissa. Why? Yes, she's beautiful, but I'm not sure it matters. She is well educated – enough to do the teaching he promises the Indians (he does have conversations with various tribes and they assure him they do want to learn this new religion, so he has learned what he had hoped to learn during this trip). She turns twenty eight as they travel west, not a girl, she is a grown woman who knows what is going on. She is a believer who wants to share the good word of the Gospel. She is willing to travel three thousand miles from home, knowing she will likely never see her family or friends again. She is willing to travel to a home that does not exist yet. Will she have friends? Other women around? Probably not. Will there be a woman with her when she bears her children? Probably not."

"Whitman knows exactly how hard this will be, and he says – she's the one. One of the special men of his age, knows that she is special too." He pauses here, stirs the stew and then looks at me (I guess he knows something about drama too). "The point is, the greater the man he is, the more we understand just how great she was. And that's what Miles needs to portray."

"Maybe you should have brought Miles and Melanie on this trip."

"I'd rather share my tent with you."

Okay, fun is fun, and patience is patience. But I had watched him stir the stew and listened to his story. Enough. I grabbed two sleeping bags from the back of his truck, threw them in to the tent, and dove in after them. He followed pretty fast. Good man.

Chapter 21

We do a Parade

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 1- I slept in a tent. A tent. The ground was hard, sleeping bags are awkward, the tent ceiling was just three feet above the ground, so getting dressed and undressed involved dressing while on hands and knees, meanwhile those sounds outside the tent were probably just little animals messing around in the leaves and bushes, but they could also be larger animals pretending to be smaller animals. And as for the toilet down the path, don't get me started.

But I did love the guy. I'm not sure if we were in one sleeping bag, or both, or neither, but he was good. I wrapped my arms across that big back and held on for dear life. My man. Later, we crawled back out of the tent and ate his stew (not bad), and then for a long time we stood near the river and looked up at the stars. At this altitude, and with no ground lights, the stars were a constant carpet across the sky. It was beautiful, and the river was musical as it slid over small stones. But I didn't see or hear much of anything. I had my arms around his waist, and my head on his chest. I felt his warmth. The temperature dropped fast as the night progressed, but I had my man-blanket, his arms around me. I whispered "tighter," and my temperature rose. I remember asking myself, do I get to keep this one? We had only known each other three weeks, but I knew what I wanted – him. And, at least for that night, I had him.

In the morning I crawled into my calico as best I could, and then ran for the truck. It was cold. I let Allen roll the sleeping bags, tear down the tent, and get everything into his truck bed. It only took a few minutes and we were back on the way to Casper. I couldn't remember if the parade was at two or three, but either way, it was time to get back.

We stopped along the way at a tiny town with one of those small cafes that are only open for breakfast and lunch. We sat on stools at the counter and ordered eggs. Food came fast there. We sat as close as the stools would allow, our legs touching from hip to toe. I got a couple questions about my dress and bonnet, and told folks we were going to Casper for the parade. Smiles, nods, best wishes. Friendly folks. We were back out the door in under fifteen minutes. As for the drive, his arm never left my shoulder. It should have been on the wheel for several turns, but, well, we got to Casper in one piece – and well before noon.

Allen went off to reattach his Airstream to his truck. I went into the hotel to clean up. The wardrobe mistress saw me as I was crossing the lobby. "I'll bring a fresh dress to your room." She gave me a look like I was a naughty child. I didn't think the dress was that bad, but when you spend the night in a tent, wrinkles happen.

I cleaned up pretty fast. I stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around me, looking for my fresh dress. It was lying on my bed, next to Lisa.

Lisa had the towel off me pretty fast, and then started dressing me. Not a word was spoken. She just started putting clothes on me. Bra first, her standing behind me and arranging the cups as she fastened the back. I could feel her breathing on my neck. Panties next, then a long nylon slip. I objected to that.

"Cotton would be better. It will be hot and this will stick to me."

"Yes. It will." She slid her hand down my side and to my ass, I guess indicating where she wanted it to stick.

Next came two petticoats. I guessed we were going more formal for the parade. She dropped my new calico over my head, and then stood in front of me buttoning it. With each button she took the button, and the fabric opposite, and pulled on them, bringing me tight to her. Every button, slowly, and carefully, pulling me to her. There had to be twenty pearl buttons on that dress, and she pulled on each one. At no point did she actually look at the buttons. She looked at my face. When she finally made it to the button on my collar, she held me there, pulling my face right to hers.

"Jess, do you love him?"

"Yes." She had one hand on my top button and put the other at the back of my head. She paused, looked at me, and then kissed me. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her hips against mine. "And I love you." I kissed her, and we stood together, looking at each other.

"Let's do your makeup." She gave me a push towards the bathroom. We stood facing each other next to the sink. I kept my hands wrapped around the small of her back. She started working on my face. Eyebrows first, her hands taking long, slow strokes. Then my eyes, again going slow. My face was raised to hers as she worked. She looked into my eyes, I looked into hers. I loved what I saw there. She put a bit of blush on my face. "You already have a lot of color this morning." And then she did my lipstick.

Standing, holding her while she worked on my face was more erotic than you can imagine. More than kissing, more than wrestling around in bed. My hands started sliding lower. She finished with the lipstick and started with my hair. Mostly her fingers in my hair, her hands warm, pulling my face even closer. She put my bonnet on me, tying the ribbon under my chin. My hands were now well down her backside, pulling her tight against me. She smiled.

"You're mine, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"And his."

"Yes."

"I hope that works for you." She kissed me so long I was sure we were headed for my bed, but then she let go of me and left. I rummaged around until I found shoes, gloves, and my bag, and then I followed - down to the lobby and the gathering cast.

Lisa's four assistants made order from the chaos. We would be taking five RVs downtown to the parade area. They got us in rough groups and out the door. I found Allen, grabbed his hand, and took an RV with him. It was a bit crowded. Fine. I sat on his lap. The kitchen crew was in the same RV, and the girls smiled at me. I winked back.

What can I say about the parade? Every town has a main drag, the place where businesses used to be before the highway came through and they all moved to the edge of town. And at the end of every main drag is a large bank parking lot. The parade was set up there. I saw two high school bands, each now clustered around a band director, seven or eight convertibles for the dignitaries (Miles and Melanie were whisked off to theirs the minute they exited their RV), five or six floats sponsored by various local businesses, and three covered wagons, each with a pair of draft horses attached. I knew where we were headed.

Why had we stayed an extra day to be part of this parade? Dumb question, right? The minute we got off the RVs, at least five cameras came up to shoulders and our PR people got video of every move we made. Lisa talks to local mayor – get a shot. Miles and Melanie get into their convertible, get a shot of them talking to the local driver, and make sure to include the sign on the car – "Grand Marshalls – from Hollywood – Miles Martin and Melanie Davis." Zoom in to half a dozen high school band kids who suddenly are looking at Melanie or Miles rather than their band director. Catch him glance their way too. Get some video of us nobodies standing and talking to lots of locals who pass by on their way to get a good seat on Main Street (or whatever the local version is called).

If they had gotten a picture of me at that moment, it would have shown me laughing. But I was also impressed. While Allen and I had been busy in our way, the PR people had been working overtime on signs. The three wagons were covered. The back ends had signs for the local museum – "Historic Trail Interpretive Center," followed by hours of operation. It was the sides that impressed me. There was even a sequence. First sign – "Cast from the upcoming film – The Greatest Love Story Never Told." Second wagon – "The Greatest Love Story Never Told – now filming in Casper and the Oregon Trail." Third wagon – "The Greatest Love Story Never Told, opening in theaters December 15." And in smaller print along the bottom – "World Premiere, Rialto Theater, December 14." If Lisa is half as good at directing as she is at marketing, this film has got ten Oscars guaranteed.

We stood around for about half an hour mixing with locals – those who would also be in the parade, and those who would be on the street. It was hot, but people seemed in a good mood. I got the impression the bar around the corner was doing well.

Finally, a fire truck came around the corner and stopped out on Main Street. It was pretty clear he was going to lead the way. Right behind him came a line of veterans with a set of flags. Once it was out there, the first band lined up on the street, standard band formation, six across, drums in the back, clarinets in the front, band director walking alongside. The fire truck slowly rolled forward, blew its horn, and the parade was going. Off went the veterans in perfect step, US flag high, Wyoming flag just below it. Off went the band, instruments up, a Sousa march pretty well performed.

Time for us to board our wagons. There were roughly ten of us for each wagon. And there was a protocol. A local guy drove each team of horses. Next to him on the front seat was a star. Benicia got the first wagon (complete with a small sign by her seat saying "Benicia, star of television and film"), Travis Austin got the second wagon (and little sign), initially, they were going to put one of the "mountain men" from North Platte up front on the third wagon, but Lisa, bless her heart, put both Jolene and Marlena up there. I got a million pictures of the world's happiest teens.

The rest of us climbed up short ladders to benches in the back of each wagon. The canvas sides had been rolled up to a point where we were all visible, each of us already practicing our waving ("window washer" or "light bulb," you choose which hand motion to use). And Lisa? She wasn't going to sit still. She walked the whole route, talking to people all along the way. Speaking of walking, Allen walked too, at the back of the sidewalk, behind the spectators, mimicking my wave and making me laugh.

How did the thing go? Really well. The drivers kept the horses under control even when the fire trucks (one led the parade and one ended it) got their horns going. We waved, and the spectators waved back, pretty actively as I saw it. Friendly bunch. All along the way I saw our camera guys getting video of us, and video of the crowds ecstatic to have Hollywood heroes right on their main street.

The funniest thing was the bullhorn guy. He was a full block ahead of us, but we could hear him. The PR people, not happy to just have huge signs, had put a guy with a bullhorn walking in front of the Miles/Melanie car telling the crowd, "Please welcome Miles Martin and Melanie Davis, stars of twenty three Hollywood films, here to make their latest film in Casper and the Oregon Trail." And people did cheer while Miles and Melanie sat on top of the back seat in their Cadillac convertible and waved. The route was about twenty blocks long, and that guy still had a pretty good voice by the end of it.

The highlight for us in wagon three was the Rialto Theater. Management there, not being stupid, had set up bleachers and gathered their own crowd. They all cheered when they saw our sign, and we shouted back, "See you December 14th." We waved, they waved, we shouted, they cheered. It was fun.

It took us about half an hour to finish the route. Then the driver turned a corner and we took a parallel street back to the starting place. There were people along the way, and we waved as we went. But still, it was hot, and an hour of adulation and waving is a lot (I switched from "window washer" to "light bulb" pretty fast). We were happy to get back into the RVs and air conditioning. We waited for a while for our stars to sign things and pose for pictures. I used the time to text Jolene and Marlena the pictures I had taken. They were happy. I was happy (I was sitting on Allen's lap again), and eventually the RVs got us back to the hotel.

The bar was open and we all went straight there to celebrate. I have to give the bartenders credit. They served a glass of water with every drink. Good move. I had a couple glasses of wine, swapped pictures with people, joined in the general sense of celebration, and then edged out of the room with Allen. I had a room. I had a nightgown I wanted to wear for him. We could order room service for dinner. Once I had him upstairs, he wasn't going anywhere for a while.

But something unexpected happened when I got Allen up to my room. As we came up the elevator I had my hand in his, my face all over his, my backside into him time and time again. I felt ready to take a running jump into my bed, with him right on top of me. But once the door was closed, something took possession of me. And I teased him. Rather than tear off my clothes, I asked him to do it. Slowly. All those buttons on my dress? I asked him to unbutton each, and give me a kiss each time. And I made those kisses last. For the last buttons, I even moved a bit so he had to grab me to get the buttons. Calico? Get it off me while my arms are on your shoulders. Petticoats? See what you can do while my arms are wrapped around you. That nylon slip? Take the straps down over my shoulders while I have my arms wrapped around your neck, my mouth pressed to yours. Oh and here's the nightgown I will wear. Put it on me.

None of this is normal sex play for me. My license plate should be "IM EZ." So why give the guy a hard time when I am desperate to get into my bed and have him ride me? He did eventually get me into bed, and he did get into me, and I loved it. When we were done, I pushed him onto his back and slid onto his chest. We held each other, and dozed a bit. I felt comfortable on him and with him. This all felt good. So why was I being a bitch?

I had my head down next to his, cheek to cheek, with my arms wrapped around his neck. I was kissing him when I felt his hands take my arms and pull on them.

"What?"

"Jess, you're choking me."

Oh shit. I was. I was doing more than that. I was clutching at him, clinging, gripping him. I was holding on tight. Why? So he wouldn't go away. I let that sink in. I was afraid to lose him. The teasing? To make him work harder for me. Make an effort. Value me. Stay with me. Wow. That was pretty messed up. I took my arms from around his neck. I put one palm by his cheek, the other on his chest. I waited. In time I felt his hands on my back. They were gentle. He kept one on my lower back and slid one up to my shoulders. He held me. This was such a good man.

"Allen, I have been married five times." I slid my head down to his chest and talked to his shoulder. I didn't want to look into his face. "My first two husbands abandoned me when I was still a teenager. My last three husbands were all killed – brutally. I told you about Willie in January. Shakira was killed by the Mafia, Ibrahim by the Iranians. I have been married five times, and left alone five times. I have mourned too many times. I am messed up, and I know it. I should be seeing someone, and I will. At the moment, I love you like life itself. I love to touch you, I go half crazy when you touch me. I will do anything for you. I will even go camping. But I'm not stupid. I know how this ends. Two months from now you will be back in your Montana forest, and I will be back at my resort. What I need to do, and please help me with this, is to enjoy you while I have you. Don't let my fear of the future destroy our present. You are a good man. We can have two months that are special." I still hadn't looked at his face. I stared at his shoulder.

"Jess, first, hold me as tight as you want. I like it. I'll let you know before I choke out. Second, I have about a million weeks of vacation saved up. You might not be done with me in two months. But I agree with your last point. I think we can have two months that are special, and maybe many more."

I was now crying into his chest. In some ways he had just made things worse. He was such a good guy. I should be dating assholes, so it would hurt less when they left. I didn't move my head and try to kiss him. I left my head on his chest, and held my hand to his cheek. His hands were all over my back, softly stroking me, and then holding me. We slept that way. He held me to him all night.

Chapter 22

Three Extra Days in Casper

So, come morning, how do you restart a relationship on a whole different level? I guess some of it is up to you, and some up to him. I didn't want to spend our time together weepy or whiney, and I didn't want to pretend life was perfect. I decided to go back to basics. We were going to have two months together. My room had a full size shower, and presumably had access to a big Hilton water heater. Why not start out our new relationship with the Jessica Shower Ceremony?

I slid up his chest, and held my head above his. My hair hung down on both sides of my face and created a kind of tunnel for us. Just the two of us, looking at each other as the sun rose.

"Thank you for last night. I can't believe you held me the whole time. I love your hands. And I hope you know, I love you."

"Jess, if I could lie holding you the rest of my life, I would be grateful for every minute."

"Thank you. Now how about a shower? I think this one is big enough so I can show you a few things."

It turned out the shower was the perfect size. And Hilton had big hot water tanks. I think we were in there an hour, but neither of us complained about shriveled skin. Our two months together were off to a fabulous start.

Out of the shower I wandered around in a towel for a long time. Oops, did the top just slide down? This was me, back to normal – teasing, but easy. Grab the towel, get the girl. He got me just fine.

Somewhere in the midst of bouncing around that bed, we heard something slide under my door. I had no real interest in anything not connected to that bed, but I did eventually get over there to see what the world demanded of me. It was an announcement and a meeting notice. We were staying three more days, and all would be explained at breakfast. Be there at eight. That left us forty five minutes. How to spend it? It ended up being a jumble of bed, shower, hair, makeup, dressing me, dressing him, his hands in my hair, my arms around his neck, both our hands lots of other places. It was going to be a good two months.

We made it to the dining room just in time, ordered huge meals (we never did get around to ordering room service the night before), got our chairs as close together as physics allowed, and waited to be informed. We were going to be in Casper three more days – why?

Lisa used to be an actress. Pretty useful skill to have. She used it that morning. We were all talking, drinking our coffee, eating whatever the waitresses had brought. Lisa entered the room, stood at one end, and waited. Never called for our attention. Never raised her voice. She just waited, standing perfectly still with a look on her face like she had complete command of the room, even if we didn't quite know it yet. She stood. The room quieted. People even set their coffee cups down. Pretty interesting to watch.

"You have had two really productive days in Casper. Yesterday you generated real excitement in that parade, and our social media people are telling me videos of that parade are going viral. We are well over a million views and counting." She paused, expecting a cheer, and she got it.

"Two days ago was a quieter day, a chance for us to pay our respects at the local museum – the Historic Trail Interpretive Center. Interesting place. I am pleased you were willing to spend part of your day off there. Now something has come of that day. It was our intention to shoot the Rendezvous scenes on site in the Green River Valley. But the manager of the museum has offered her location. Similar valley, but with her location we get electricity, one of her wagons and a teepee, and the chance to stay in Casper rather than in our RVs." That got a cheer.

"I thought you would like that. We have extended all your hotel rooms three days. Videographers, I would like you to join me at the museum at ten. I would like the rest of you there by eleven. Enjoy your breakfast. Then let's film the greatest love story never told."

We all applauded, and Lisa stood for a minute accepting our praise, and then, before it faded, she sat down with her assistants. We all went back to our breakfasts, and I got a hand back on Allen's thigh, but I was also thinking, whoever the museum manager is, that's one sharp cookie. In comes a legitimate Hollywood film crew with big named actors. You loan them a wagon and let them plug into your power, and suddenly you have something to brag about for a decade. Come to the museum where the big movie was filmed. I bet they have posters up by the end of the week. The museum was literally going to hitch its wagon to a star. Pretty clever.

As it turned out, the day started with complications. Miles wanted to get there early to walk the scenes. I drove, Allen caught a ride with us. I was wearing my calico and bonnet, Allen was wearing his Forest Service uniform. Miles, well, Miles was wearing something, but mostly all I noticed were his blue eyes.

By the time we got there, the videographers had huddled and were looking off in various directions, a herd of men holding their hands in squares before them, checking backgrounds. The museum was north of town, maybe three miles distant, surrounded by open fields. Off to the south was a long cliff-face that they seemed to want to get into their pictures. How could they do that without also getting modern Casper in the frame? That seemed to be their problem for the morning. They also had one of the museum's wagons to use. A Jeep would pull it wherever they wanted it (yesterday's horses were back at whatever stable they had come from). Where did they want the wagon? Decisions, decisions. They walked, stopped, looked, talked, walked again. I guessed they would be walking and looking all morning.

Lisa was in the shade of the museum, standing with two of her assistants. Miles, Allen and I approached her at the same time as another group - three women and three men. All of us gathered in the shade of the museum, and I ended up hearing one of the more interesting conversations I would ever hear.

It started with the usual greetings and handshakes. I gathered the three women were museum employees, one the manager, two her assistants. I guessed they were early thirties, all dressed professionally. Pleasant enough, and happy to shake every hand out there, including mine.

Then came the introductions of the three men. These guys were forties and fifties, wore boots, jeans, cowboy hats, and loose shirts decorated with ribbons. They had dark complexions and rounded faces, and I am thinking – Native Americans. Cool. My first. More handshakes, more smiles, everyone is having a good morning.

Then came the question. The museum manager is standing roughly in the middle of all of us, but she is looking at, and talking to, Lisa. "These men have all done some film acting. They have access to others from their tribe who have been professionally trained. They would like to know how many Sioux actors you would like for your film."

"None." Lisa drops that word and then waits. She looks at the museum people, but then focuses on the Sioux men. "I won't be using any Native American actors at any point in the film. I hope you will let me explain why." She's looking at the three men. I don't see any change in their expression. She turns to one of her assistants.

"Get the videographers over here, and anyone else from the film. I want to explain this once." Both assistants go running off. Lisa just stands there. To me, this feels like confrontation, but I don't see any signs of it in her. She seems to be standing relaxed, looking to see if others will be joining us. Being patient. It only takes a few minutes, and now there are about thirty of us gathered around her.

"Let me explain the narrative arc, or story line if you prefer. This may take a few minutes." She stops and looks around for any objections. Obviously there are none. So she continues. (Nice dramatic pause, if you ask me.)

"This is a love story. Narcissa and Marcus. We are telling it as a mingling of three intertwining story lines. I think of it like a braid. There is the maturing relationship between Marcus and Narcissa. They are newlyweds out on a journey no one has taken before. There is the conflict with the Spaldings. He had proposed to her when they were both younger, and one of life's ironies puts him of all people with the Whitmans. He is jealous, his wife is weak, those two couples are in constant conflict. Then there is the wagon. We really haven't done much with that third braid yet, but it will be all we do in Idaho. Can Marcus get a wagon through the desert and over the mountains to Oregon, and what will it mean for the future of Oregon if he can?"

"With me so far? My point is that we have a complex story line for a ninety minute film. All dramatic moments are already taken. But there is more – what we show, and what we don't show. We will not show Native Americans, and here's why. The first place for Indians is at the Rendezvous. The boy who wrote the initial script followed history as it is known. Basically he copied what Bernard DeVoto wrote in his history. And what did the local Sioux do at the Rendezvous when they saw Narcissa? She was the first white woman they had seen, so they got off their horses, walked up to her, touched her blond hair, and ran their fingers along her dress. Natural enough, but you know how that would look on film. Oh see the Indians, they are like children. How funny. I won't do that to you." She is looking at the Sioux men as she says this. Still no reaction from them.

"Next place? The massacre. The original screenplay ends with that, and the scene really would explode across the screen. Marcus has his head crushed by a tomahawk. Narcissa runs to him, and he literally dies in her arms. While she is holding him, she is shot three times and dies with him. Nice scene, right? There wouldn't be a dry eye in the theater. I would be guaranteed three Oscar nominations just from that scene."

"But I won't do it. First, it's not fair. The Cayuse who kill the Whitmans had been hit by a measles epidemic brought on by contact with wagon trains. The leader of the attack had lost three children in the last two days. If I show him, I show incredible grief, and rage. A madness from his loss. So is he a bad guy? What about the people on the trains – the Emigrants. Are they bad people for bringing diseases with them? The short answer is all of them are doing things that are bad. But all of them are also just doing the best they can during an extraordinary time. I can't justify the killings, and I can't justify the diseases, nor can I excuse any of it. So I won't. The film ends not with their death, but with the birth of their daughter."

Maybe Lisa had just acted in high school movies, but she was pretty good. We all stood, listened, and then waited. Was there more? No. She stood, looking around at each of us. She made eye contact with every person – all thirty or so of us. And not a word was said while she did so.

The silence was finally broken by the museum manager. "Excuse us a few minutes. We need to talk." The museum women and the three men walked back into the building.

Lisa continued to stand for another minute, and then looked again at her people. "Questions?"

Jim Thomas, the head videographer, just said "A braided narrative. Nice metaphor." He walked away, taking most of the people with him.

Miles was next. "So I am not going to like Idaho?"

"You are going to hate Idaho, but that's where you win your Oscar."

"Oh." He turned and wandered away. I thought that ended the discussion, but Allen had a point to make.

"I understand avoiding the massacre. What about the British? The Hudson Bay Company guides the Whitmans after the Rendezvous and helps keep them alive on their journey."

"There are three strands in my braid. There is no room for a fourth, even though they deserve it. The Brits saved the Whitmans and lots of the Emigrants. Want to know about it? Read a book."

I wondered if Allen would argue with Lisa. But he didn't. We wandered off, first to take a quick look at the museum, and then to talk with my kitchen crew as they pulled into the parking lot. I had completely forgotten about them, but they knew the right things to do. Five minutes after they pulled in, they had a table with drinks and snacks (even some donuts). Shirette and Clarissa were inside making sandwiches for lunch, while the girls stood outside and gave everyone a water bottle and a smile.

That first afternoon was walkthroughs. They had me dressed as Benicia. She was going to hate her parts - being ignored while the mountain men gathered around Narcissa, looking at Travis only to see him looking at Narcissa, sitting in the wagon, sick, and who should drive the wagon, coming to her aid? Narcissa. Not a happy time for the real Eliza Spalding, and not a happy time for Benicia. How do you upstage Melanie when all the rest of the cast is gathered around her, you barely visible in the background?

It was hot out there, and the altitude seemed to make it worse. I felt like the sun was baking my head inside that bonnet. I gave Jolene a hug every time she came through with water bottles. I bet I went through five bottles just that afternoon. It was another one of those days where I really wished the sun would race a little faster towards the horizon.

Finally, Lisa said we had done enough for the day. We started gathering up our scripts and our personal stuff, but then the three museum women and the three Sioux actors came back.

"We have a proposal." This time it was one of the Sioux actors who spoke. He had an interesting face. I wondered if I had seen him in a film. He stood opposite Lisa and waited.

"Certainly. What do you have in mind?" He was talking to her, but none of the rest of us moved. Yes, essentially we were eavesdropping, but can you blame us?

"We agree with your choices. Our actors should not be made to look like children or butchers. We have an alternative. We have a dance troupe. Fifteen men, fifteen women, all in traditional costume. What if they danced for Narcissa at the Rendezvous? It is historically possible, and it would show our culture."

"I like the idea. Would they be ready to perform tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yes."

"And the fee?"

"Five thousand dollars."

"Done. But. You have acted so you know not all footage makes it through the final edit. I cannot guarantee the dance will be in the film."

"We understand."

If you have seen the film, now you know how that scene was created. It's one of the highlights of the film, not just for its visual intensity, but for the dramatic development. The dancers are marvelous, their clothing is astonishing – the colors, the movement of fringes and beads – you can't take your eyes off it. And then you have Narcissa get up and join the women while Eliza tries to grab her and stop her, jealousy taken to a whole new level. When Marcus joins the men, the conflict between the couples is now visual and obvious. And the funny thing is, none of that happened in rehearsal. All the cameras were set to watch the two couples sit on blankets and watch the dance, Marcus and Narcissa showing real appreciation, while Eliza and Henry show disgust at the display. It is all about their faces. But then when the shooting started, one of the women makes a motion to Melanie, she gets up and tries following their steps, and then Miles is up too. It becomes a whole new scene. We go from appreciation to participation. And Benicia and Travis? You see a whole new expression on their faces as they get up and leave. Great scene.

And there were other great scenes shot during those three days. Dramatically, the Rendezvous scenes were to set a lighter tone before the drama of the dessert. And they did that well. A half dozen additional mountain men were flown in to be Kit Carson and Jim Bridger and some French guys. They had a great time being drunk and wild and fun, and in love with Narcissa while Eliza and Henry backed away in disgust. Maybe the cast member to have the most fun was Miles, since he was supposed to be a hero of the mountain men, having taken arrow heads out of half their backs. He had a few drinks with them, palled with them, even did a horse race with them (courtesy of great computer graphics and a body double). And through all this, life imitated art. Miles and Melanie looked great and had fun, Benicia and Austin grumbled and isolated themselves. It was all interesting to me.

Those three days were fun. And my nights? Awesome. Allen took the Airstream back off his truck, and most evenings he drove me up into the mountains so we could enjoy the views. We sat up on the hood of his truck like teenagers, our backs against the windshield, his arms around me tight. We looked down at the city, up at the stars, and I leaned my head on his shoulder. Eventually we got back into town and back into my bed. Good nights.

Chapter 23

Over the Famous Pass

Allen was the first one to leave Casper. We had done our shooting, time to move on. He needed to get to Fort Bridger to remind the local museum people that, yes, we did have permits, no, we would not damage anything, and yes, they would have to close off parts of the museum for half a day while we filmed. I made sure he went off with a smile.

The rest of us got an eight a.m. start \- time for a full breakfast and a lecture from Lisa (there would be three stops along the way, and remember to take a couple water bottles from the kitchen RV before starting out). As we finished our breakfast, there was a final farewell from the museum manager and several local dignitaries. Nice touch, and it also got their pictures taken yet again for use in local media. Finally we loaded up the RVs and hit the highway.

We took the same route I had taken with Allen – 220 southwest along the North Platte. We drove about an hour and then came to our first stop – Independence Rock. We were all in full costume, and walked to the rock to look at the names Emigrants (and more recent morons) had carved in the rock. Could we find Narcissa's name? We all looked (no luck). We did no shooting for the film. This was a PR stop – see how interested the cast is in the real history of the Oregon Trail? Four cameras followed us from various angles. Was it interesting? Yes. The rock is huge, and it was fun to walk along its face and look at the names and dates, even though the sun was hot and reflected back at us off the rock face.

After about an hour the PR camera people had gathered what they wanted, and we returned to RVs and AC. Next stop – South Pass. This involved three different highways – 220 to 287 (right turn) to 28 (left turn). The Trail followed the Sweet Water River and was actually much more direct than our route, but by highway or Trail, both got to South Pass. And, general disappointment. "Pass" connotes something dramatic, doesn't it? Everyone had the same reaction. Where was the Pass? There should be a breach between huge mountains, and maybe even a water fall or something. But they pulled over next to the road and saw a meadow.

We all got out. Lisa wanted footage for the film, and footage for PR. We were up there two hours getting both. Elevation here, by the way, is over seven thousand feet, the air is dry, the wind never stops, and the sun feels like it is maybe two inches above your head. Melanie had a headache, so wardrobe put me in a calico matching her colors, and it was my back shot looking west while Miles put an arm around me. Travis and Benicia were also in the shot, but they stood separate from each other, representing the differing relationships of the two couples. Miles pointed here and there, miming his excitement, and I put my head on his shoulder, showing my affection. Travis looked over at the two of us, and displayed the jealousy his character was supposed to feel. Having now spent three weeks working opposite Benicia, I thought he was having less and less trouble getting into character.

We were up there two hours. Two hours. Jolene was around constantly with water bottles, and I saw that people who didn't need to work one of the cameras or mics pretty quickly got back in their RVs. Even Miles started to sag. Lisa must have noticed, since she got us all back in our RVs when she saw the look on his face.

Next stop, down the mountainside to Green River and the same "restricted" area Allen and I had used a few nights earlier. It was lower here, and there were trees, but it was still plenty hot. Lisa wanted another scene for the Rendezvous segment, so we all piled out.

While the crew set things up, Shirette put out bowls of stew, fruit cups, and pie. Lots of folks ate in their RVs with the AC on "high." I grabbed a water bottle and piece of pie and looked for a good spot to watch this scene. Three weeks with actors, and I still found it fascinating. What did I see? A dinner party on the plains. Narcissa was entertaining. It involved her being hostess to the mountain men they had just met, specifically Kit Carson and Jim Bridger. And the scene included some character development. Here's what happened:

Melanie carefully spread a blanket and put out six plates. There were also knives, but no forks. She carried a basket over from the wagon (off camera) and put out some bread she had baked the night before. Miles, meanwhile, has a fire going and is roasting some meat. Travis and Benicia take seats on the blanket, and make no effort to help. In come Carson and Bridger (two actors who had joined us at Casper and would take a car back to Casper and back to LA after the Fort Bridger shoot). They are loud and constantly in motion. Carson has a huge side of meat he gives to Miles to also hang over the fire. Bridger has a bottle. He drinks some, Miles drinks some, Carson drinks some, Travis refuses and makes a comment about "fuel of the Devil." Benicia is already quoting scripture.

Miles brings over the meat and puts slices on each plate. He sits down cross legged on the blanket. Melanie slices large chunks of bread for each, then she sits down – on Miles' crossed legs (Okay, a few comments about that. Apparently, that's the way Narcissa actually sat at dinner. Melanie found it in some book she read, and Miles confirmed it. This woman is newly wed, and she is all over her husband. Good for her. (She becomes pregnant along the Oregon Trail!) No doubt Marcus was also enjoying dinners. But it was a little different for Miles. He had a very attractive woman setting her ass right up against his equipment, which would be great, except she wouldn't let him anywhere her trailer at night. Not fair. So he responded by making sure he kept a hand on her thigh, sliding his fingers under her leg until she grabbed his hand – smiling the whole time, of course. So, if you are wondering what is going on in scenes like that, the answer is lots. But, back to the scene.).

The conversation (loud and full of wild exaggerations) turns to a horse race they had seen that afternoon. All six of them eat, three of the men drink, the two mountain men shout, swear, and address every comment directly to Melanie, ignoring Benicia. Travis and Benicia finish fast, make some comment to Miles about appropriate behavior, and say they must go say their prayers. None of the others respond, or even look in their direction. They are fully engaged in the horse race story, with Melanie asking questions and all three men eager to respond. Finally there is a shout in the distance, the two mountain men thank Melanie and jump up to address whatever is going on, and Miles and Melanie are left in the light of the campfire, him holding her around the waist, her twisting around and kissing him, addressing him as "husband" and telling him how pleased she is with this trip. Fade to black.

Pretty cool scene, I thought. Of course it was full daylight for this shot, but camera magic will turn the scene to night. Various gaffers put away equipment and put out the fire while Shirette and family pass out more water. Lisa and others gather around to congratulate Miles and Melanie on the scene. Lisa is also careful to congratulate Travis and Benicia, but I notice few of the crew do. Life is imitating art? I make an effort to tell both how well they are doing, but I get half smiles and they are off to their RVs. Actors.

By the time the equipment is stored away, it is after five. Off we go. 28 runs into 372, we turn left to follow the Green River and run right into Interstate 80. Civilization. Less than an hour later we are at Fort Bridger.

Chapter 24

Fort Bridger

"Fort" Bridger is really just two log cabins with some fencing between to hold stock. The original fort is long gone, but this one has been reconstructed to match the original (why not Fort Laramie?). We are told the fort was important in its time. It stands where the Trail splits into the Trail up to Oregon, and the Trail down to Salt Lake City (the Mormon Trail). It was home to Bridger, who would do some guiding, and it held some trade goods. But I have to tell you, it looks about as monumental as a 7/11 store.

Why are we here? Bridger will tell Marcus he can't possibly get his wagon any farther west. He has been told that (and Lisa has created scenes for it) since Fort Laramie. Now he is going to be told that again, and this time by none other than Jim Bridger, who should know.

But that won't happen until morning. All that will happen in what's left of the evening, is that we will park our RVs in the visitor lot, Shirette will get food out, and the rest of us will hope sunset brings cooler temperatures.

I go looking for Allen, and find him in the museum office. Oh. Well, she's cute. Sitting maybe two feet away in a cheap government-issue plastic chair is a woman in a Forest Service uniform, her hat off, her legs crossed, and the top button of her uniform undone. One more government employee with no real work to do, and plenty of time to entertain my man. Bitch.

"Jessica, this is Bailey. She will be our liaison for tomorrow's shoot."

"Nice to meet you, mam." She turns in her seat so her ass is now pointed at Allen, and she offers me her hand. Mam. Interesting word for her. A way to address a civilian. Also a way you talk to your elders. Bitch.

"My pleasure." I take her hand, but do not crush it. Well, maybe my grip was a bit firm, but I am sure I did no real damage. "Allen, I think dinner will be ready soon."

"I'll join you out there in just a minute." I guess that's my invitation to leave. Okay. I go. I'll wait. Whether he is getting anything tonight depends upon how long I have to wait. As I walk back to the kitchen RV, I look at the "fort." Pretty pathetic. She can't be much if this was the best assignment she could get.

I help the ladies get dinner out on the serving tables. Well, mostly I got the wine out to the serving table, and I got the wine ready to serve. White wine was cooler, but this felt like a red wine night. I was on glass number two when Allen walked over, all smiles.

"How was the trip down here?"

"We did a shoot at South Pass and again at the Green River. How was your day?"

"Pretty simple. They are ready for us. Bailey will tape off the west half of the fort, and we will be able to shoot inside or out."

"That's very nice of her." I'm looking at Allen, glass of wine up near my chin. He looks at me, and I can hear gears clanking between his ears. Clank, clank. Clank.

"Why don't I show you where I parked our trailer?" His hand goes to the small of my back, suddenly his hip is against mine, and we are walking well back in the parking lot. "Our" trailer. I think the gears meshed. The hand on the small of my back rides up my side."

"Would you like some of my wine?"

"Sure." He takes my cup, finishes it, and opens the door to "our" trailer. Did I mention this guy's a keeper? I kept him in "our" trailer until breakfast the next morning.

What can I say about the shoot after breakfast? Either the guy doing Bridger was hung over, or he had drunk moron juice for breakfast. Lisa did the scene inside one of the buildings – the replica "fort." She did it outside. She did it as a standing conversation. She did it as Miles was carrying things out to the wagon. She did it with just the two of them. She did it as a crowd scene. She did it over and over and the guy could not get his line out. Okay, part of the problem is the line has been included in five scenes by now. We get the message. No road – no wagon. Wagon bad. Mule good. Four wheels bad, four hooves better. This is Jim Bridger talking. If anyone knows the road to Boise, this guy does. Besides, Marcus cut an arrow out of his back – he will not steer Marcus wrong.

We can play this as obstinate man refusing advice. We can play it as desperate man clinging to a dream. We can play it lots of ways, but we can't play it where Bridger gets confused about his line. "You can get a mule up those hills, but not a car." A car? "You mule those hills." ??? "You can mule those hills, but they are high." How high was this guy? Time after time after time, he could not get his line. Allen promised Bailey we would be out of the Fort by noon. One o'clock and we are still waiting for the guy to get his line right. Finally inspiration strikes Lisa. She shoots Bridger from behind. Miles stands, looking intently at Bridger, hearing his concern. He nods, thanks him for his advice, and walks out the door. We never see Bridger's face while he talks, so back in Hollywood where people can read a script, she will just hire a guy to say the lines. Finally. We are out of there.

But we are way behind schedule. And we are looking at backroads up to Pocatello and then beyond it to the big desert shoot. Allen and Lisa study a map trying to figure out what can be done. Realistically, nothing. We need to stop and shop before going out into the desert. So... New destination? Pocatello.

Directions? West on I-80 a few miles, then north on 189 to Kemmerer and highway 30. 30 north along the Bear River, tracking pretty close to the original Trail. We get a good idea for the lay of the land while we drive, but there are no stops for sightseeing or trail scenes. Lisa has to get us moving. Eventually the highway gets us to interstate 15 and Pocatello. I am assuming Lisa has made some calls, since as soon as we hit town, she pulls the lead RV into a Marriott highway hugger. It will do for the night. Hello Pocatello.

Lisa stands outside the front doors of the hotel and waits for us to park and then gather around her.

"We are going to spend the next two weeks in the Craters of the Moon Reserve. Our friend Allen Howe made that happen. I was hoping I could get you there tonight so you could see it, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. We can't just go there. We have to prepare. We have some major shopping to do if we are going to spend two weeks in the desert. So, here's the plan. Check in, put your feet up. Meet me next door at Applebees at eight. Eat light. Drink lots of water – not just beer. In the morning have a big breakfast, and again, lots of water and juices. I want to be out of the hotel by eight. Our first stop will be WalMart. Each of you will be taking on a load of water. Then we cross the Snake River and go to a place you will never forget. Clear?"

Well, okay, now she had our attention. Desert? Craters of the Moon? Doesn't that sound cheery? I went looking for the kitchen crew. If everyone else was shopping in the morning, we should be shopping now. I got to their RV at the same time one of Lisa's assistants arrived with a schedule for the next two weeks. Pretty normal daily schedule. It was the footnote that got my attention. The RVs would be staying in the desert the whole time. No breaks. The kitchen RV would be allowed to run back to Pocatello for supplies, but no one else. A lockdown in the desert? I hope she had a good reason.

Meanwhile, off we went with a long list. We were going to have a full evening.

Chapter 25

We all Hate Idaho – Day 1

I bet there are people in Pocatello who still talk about what they saw at Walmart the next morning. I had warned managers there that we would be in for water, so they had pallet after pallet ready for us, but still, you see thirty eight people (all in costume) each pushing a cart and taking two or three cases of bottled water, it leaves an impression. They had a special checkout line for us and got us through pretty fast, but still we were there long enough to attract lots of looks and lots of pictures.

Next stop – a camp ground on the edge of town where we paid to empty our dump tanks and fill our water tanks. That's a stop I'd like to forget. But it was necessary, and we got it done about as fast as can be.

We had gotten an early start, but the heat was already building by the time we finally hit the highway – Interstate 15 across the Snake River, left onto 26, and then left onto – well, roads that got narrower and narrower at every turn. And the landscape? Bleaker. If there was a tree within a hundred miles, I didn't see it. I saw rocks, I saw low brown grass, I saw more rocks.

"Miles, are you ready for this?" We were maybe going twenty five, which just gave us more time to see there was nothing to see.

"Every book on the trail describes this stretch as the worst. It's the heart of the Great Basin. Think a saucer. On the east end is the Rockies. On the west is the Coastal Range. In between, a thousand miles of desert. It's still four thousand feet high, and rain drops either in the Sierras as the clouds climb those mountains, or the Rockies as they make a second climb. Here in between, nothing falls, and nothing grows. The water they find is bad, so people are sick, animals are sick, all the stock is hungry. People are running out of food too. They all have dysentery and early stage scurvy. They are hot, sick, and tired. But they can't stop to rest. They still have the coastal mountains to climb, and if they get there late, the passes will be blocked by snow. If they get caught on this side of the mountains, they will freeze and starve."

"Miles, I know it was tough for them. I am asking about you. Lisa is going to have you pull a wagon across this desert. Are you ready for that?"

"I appreciate your concern, Jess. I'll make it." I heard confidence in his voice. But he was an actor. Maybe he really felt confident, maybe he didn't. Besides, whatever he felt now, how would he feel after two weeks under this sun? I felt sorry for him. I really should have felt sorry for all of us.

Eventually one gravel path led to another gravel path led to a gravel parking lot. Allen was already there with "our" Airstream. Parked next to him was a large truck, and two pickups pulling horse trailers. I noticed no one was out of their vehicle. They were all sitting in their AC. A warning to us all, I think. There was not enough room in the lot for all our RVs. Not a problem. We just parked on the gravel/dirt/grass area next to the gravel/dirt/grass parking lot. There wasn't much of Mother Nature for us to destroy here.

The kitchen crew was out of their RV and setting up a table while the rest of us were first beginning to stand out and stretch. Shirette had a coffee pot going, and several large bottles of juice, but mostly she had water bottles on the table. I had helped pack her RV the night before, and I knew they carried so many bottles they had to slip sideways through the stacks. I could appreciate them wanting to get some of the water out so they at least had minimal room again.

Several gaffers were trying to spread a canvas awning back behind Lisa's RV, one end tied to the RV, the other two poles pushed down into the gravel. Nice idea. If I had a dollar for every time that awning blew down over the next three weeks, I could buy another hotel. And yes, it ended up being three weeks out there, not two. Luckily, we didn't know that when we arrived.

How can I describe the scene that first morning? The first word that comes to mind is "wince." Anyone who stepped out of their RV without sun glasses, jumped right back in to get them. Anyone who wasn't wearing a hat, went back for it. Those of us wearing a bonnet immediately pulled the brim forward and down. It was like the sun was attacking us, and we winced from the brutality of it. Add wind. Add heat. It felt brave to be outside. But I wasn't sure how long our bravery would last. We sheltered ourselves under hat brims and sun glasses, our backs turned to the wind. The ruffles on the bottom of my calico constantly grabbed against my ankles and seemed to fight every step I took. I looked for RVs to stand behind.

Lisa was impressive. She was dressed like the rest of us, even though she would never be on camera. But somehow her bonnet didn't need to be pulled down as far as ours. Her skirts blew in the wind, but she stood solid. She would wear shades later, but not that first morning, not for that initial meeting. She waited while we gathered around, looking at us, and letting us see her eyes – her confident, determined eyes.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is where we make film history, maybe the last feature film to ever use real horses, real wagons, at an historic location. Part of our film will be done with computer graphics. Not this part. Now that we are here, our prop people will bring out the wagon we will use – and ultimately destroy. We have contracted with local stables to provide six horses. Our actors will ride them. To the extent possible, we will follow a path through this terrain, traveling much as the Whitmans did nearly two centuries ago. We will record their progress and their pain, their determination and their defeats, and under the dirt and the sweat, we will record their love. I think it is likely you will all hate me when this is over, but I am certain you will all be proud of this work, and grateful you were here to be part of it."

"Videographers, Allen will walk you to the initial location. Actors, go with the cowboys. Help saddle the horses, and then ride them. Get comfortable on those animals – you will be on them for two weeks. The rest of you, help unload the wagon and get it set for shooting. Our first walkthrough is at one. I hope to be filming at three. Oh, and all of you, I want to see a water bottle in your hands, or near you at all times."

Okay, so we had our marching orders. I saw Allen walk off west with about a dozen men following him. The actors went toward the horse trailers. I guessed I might be involved with the horses eventually, so that's where I went. As for the wagon, four guys walked over there. For the next hour I just heard cursing coming from the truck as they pulled it down the ramps and put the ribs up for the canvas covering. There would be lots more cursing about that wagon.

But I was with the horses. What do I know about horses? Not a thing. I'm not sure I had ever touched one. I think I may have seen one at a county fair. Maybe. But I certainly had never been this close to one before. Horses are big. I stood around the edge, staying out of the way as they were backed out of their trailers, bridled, and then saddled. The four cowboys handled them well. That was reassuring. But there were six horses and four cowboys. So two of the actors had to hold a horse while the last horses were saddled. Had any actor done any riding before? Yes, Miles. He explained he had played an English Count and had ridden after foxes. Good. Anyone else? Silence.

Well, here, just hold the reins. And suddenly I had two leather ropes in my hand, and a horse staring me in the face. I froze. He stared at me sideways. Or was it a she? Neither of us moved, and then I reached up and petted his face. A bit sweaty, but his hair was soft. I petted his face a few more times, while he stared at me. Okay, nothing terrible had happened so far.

"You're doing fine. Give me your foot, and I'll get you up on him." The cowboy took my left foot, lifted it, and I was sitting on this horse before I gave it any thought. He put each of my feet in the stirrups, and that was it. The horse didn't move – thank God – and I just sat up there while they saddled the other horses. It's high up there. Really. I held on to the saddle with one hand and the reins with the other, and waited. What I really didn't want to do was move. Fortunately, it took them time to saddle the other horses and get two other actors up.

Then I got the strategy. Three actors, three cowboys. One paired up with each of us, one hand on their reins, one hand on ours, and off we went for a very slow walk. Look at me, I'm riding a horse. We walked through the parking lot, and I even let go of the saddle for a minute to wave to Jolene as we went by. I kept my feet in the stirrups, kept my knees tight to my horse, and followed out onto a patch of grass. We did a big circle, then walked back to the horse trailers. Was that it? I wasn't ready to get off yet.

But yes, I was done. At least for the moment. While we sat on the horses, one of the cowboys explained our situation.

"When you are out filming, there will be two horses pulling the wagon, and four horses riding in front. Two of you will be on the wagon, and two on horseback. Usually women in the wagon, men on the horses, but not always. Two of us will always be on horseback. We will be dressed as body doubles for your British guides. We will stay close. If you are having trouble, just grab your hat, and we will come right over. Clear?" Nods from everyone. "One last point. Women used to ride sidesaddle. While that is historically accurate, it is dangerous. Our insurance company won't let us put a sidesaddle on a horse. So ladies, you will ride as this lady is now." And he pointed to me. Cool. Suddenly I'm the expert.

I got humble fast when it came time to get off. A cowboy came close on the left side of the horse, and talked me through the dismount. "Give me the reins, hold the saddle with your right hand, swing your right leg over the horse, and step down." Okay, but did I mention how high up I was? I gave him the reins, held the saddle with my right hand, and swung my leg over, but I was still way up in the air. He actually grabbed me around the waist and pulled me down the last couple feet. And he had to take my left foot out of the stirrup. Not the most graceful move a lady has ever made getting off a horse. But he was good about it. "You did fine, mam. Two days from now you will be on her and off her in seconds."

So, it's a her, and I have now ridden a horse. Good for me. I stood off to one side, very proud of myself. Melanie and Benicia got the next rides, and it looked to me like I did as well as either of them. Just my opinion, of course.

After everyone had gotten one ride, we all mounted for a second. This time the cowboys rode next to us, but did not hold our reins. And we walked out farther. I wondered if they would ask us to go faster, and then it occurred to me, that was not going to happen. We were showing people crossing the desert. Hot, tired, sick, hungry. Such people do not race across the landscape. So, the walking we were doing now, was the walking we would do on camera. Okay. If called on to double for Benicia or Melanie, I could do that. I was ready.

Next challenge, the wagon. Two of the horses were walked over and put in harness. Don't ask me to describe that. Lots of leather strips and some chains. The cowboys knew what they were doing. I was pretty sure we would never be asked to harness horses on camera, so I just stayed out of the way. As for driving the wagon, I assumed that would be Miles' chief duty. But I was wrong.

As soon as the horses were in harness, one of the cowboys climbed up on the wagon and said, "We were told three people will be driving the wagon – Mr. Martin, Ms. Davis, and Mrs. Wilson. If you will just climb up here one at a time, we will show you how to do that."

Miles went first. He looked really good up there. The cowboys sat next to him and showed him how to handle the reins, but Miles caught on really fast. Down to the end of the parking lot, and back. He got down, and Melanie got up in the seat. Off they went. While they are driving away, I happen to look at Benicia and Travis. Not happy. If the main prop of the film is the wagon, and you aren't driving it, well, you just disappeared. The two of them walked over to Lisa's RV. I hope she was ready for them.

My turn. Friendly cowboy. He takes the reins first, gets the horses moving, and then gives the reins to me. I hold them, and the horses keep moving. Good horses. Now what?

"How do I turn the wagon?"

"You won't. Ever. We will put the wagon in the right position, and you will just sit here while the horses pull you straight ahead. Any turns will be done off camera."

"Okay. How do I stop?"

"You say Whoa, you pull back on the reins, and you pull back on this brake." (A long wooden bar on my right side.) "But mam, it is hot out here, and the horses will tire fast. Trust me on this. Stopping will not be a problem. Getting them to go will be the challenge." He takes the reins, pulls the wagon around in a big circle, and then gives me the reins again for the return trip. I guess I am fully trained. Just wait until next time I update my resume.

So, we were ready for a walkthrough at one? Nope. But it wasn't much after two when we got the wagon ready. None of us had eaten much lunch (it was too damn hot), but Lisa held up the walkthrough until each of us drank a bottle of water and ate an apple. Then, finally, we started.

Where was I? I was lying in the back of the wagon. Benicia claimed she had a headache (possible, but I think she was pouting), so they put me in a matching calico and laid me in the wagon. It turns out Eliza Spalding was sick for the second half of the trip. That played into the "narrative arc" or "braid" Lisa was using. Eliza's weakness contrasted with Narcissa's strength. Henry Spalding's jealousy and pettiness contrasted with Marcus' fortitude. Lisa had scene after scene in the desert to emphasize those distinctions. Which was nice for the film. But as Benicia pouted, I had to serve as her body double in the back of the wagon. And you are probably thinking, what's the problem? You just lie there and pretend to be sick. Pretty easy part.

So, let me describe the glamor of being a Hollywood extra. First, the sun is beating down on me. Yes, the canvas is up and gives me some shade, but I would swear the sun is coming through and baking me. Second, I am lying on boards. The prop guys put two blankets under me (thanks guys), but two blankets on boards is still just a half inch between me and wood. This wagon has no springs, and the road we are on is not a road, just an open field of rocks and gravel. We crunch over gravel and then drop over rocks. My hips were bruised the first hour. My back was bruised the second hour. I was going to do this for two weeks?

We did that initial walkthrough four times. I understand. They were trying to determine the relationship between the wagon and the four horses. How distant should they be? Should the four horses be close to each other, or scattered? The videographers were trying to set the initial vision. I could hear them talking as we rode by. They were having an important discussion with significant artistic implications. I appreciated their problem. Did they appreciate that I was banging around in a sun-baked box?

Eventually they did some filming, and then took it to their truck to look at it in their video booth. Me, I went back to my RV, stripped off most of my clothes, and lay flat on my back in my bunk. Thirteen more days in the back of that wagon, and I was going to punch someone. Or at least I would if I got some strength back.

When the sun hit the horizon, I put my calico back on and staggered over to the kitchen RV. I can't say I was hungry, but I thought I should at least go over and see how things were going. Shirette had some chairs set near her RV. The minute she saw me, she put me in one of them. A minute later Clarissa limped over with a bowl of stew and a glass of wine. I had no real interest in either, but I took both.

"Are things going okay for you?" I asked.

"We are doing fine." Shirette and Clarissa stood over me. Shirette even adjusted my bonnet. I guess I hadn't noticed how bent the visor had become. "Our plan is to serve stews and soups every night, plus fruit. Mostly a liquid meal. Some bread for those who want it. Ice cream or Jello for desert. Does that sound right to you?"

"It sounds fine to me. Your kitchen doesn't get too hot?"

"The AC handles it well." Both stood and looked at me. "I think you got too hot today." She yelled into the RV. "Jolene, bring out some ice cream for Mrs. Wilson." Jolene was out in a minute with an ice cream sandwich. "Maybe if you have the ice cream first, the stew will look better to you."

She was mostly right. The ice cream tasted good, and after it, I ate about half the bowl of stew. As for the wine, I had one sip and left the rest. I think it had gone bad.

I wondered if I would see Allen that night. For that matter, I wondered if I would see anyone. The parking lot was incredibly quiet. There were AC noises, but no people noises. It appeared everyone had withdrawn to their own RV. The only people outside were the cowboys. They had a campfire going and were sitting around it on camp chairs. I thought I saw them pass a bottle.

Me, I sat outside the kitchen RV, slumped in my chair, and stared at the flat horizon. There wasn't much color here to start with, and with the sun disappearing, the ground went from gray to black pretty fast. Up above were a million stars. Here on the ground, there were rocks, and short, brown grass. Not much to look at.

Would Allen be coming for me? Maybe. I would wait for him in my RV. Back in my room I got out of that heavy calico one more time, and hit my bunk. I was asleep in a heartbeat.

Chapter 26

We all Hate Idaho – Day 2 - 14

I think we all felt better after a night's sleep. I certainly did. I found Allen over at the kitchen RV. I had a bowl of Cheerios, a glass of juice, and a cup of coffee. I also had his arm around me and his apology. He had been in the video booth talking about places for filming, and it had gotten late. He had come by my RV, but Miles had told him I was asleep. I told him he should have woken me. I am such a liar. Nothing would have woken me.

Two of Lisa's assistants were working the parking lot. One walked up one side, one the other, stopping to give each RV the schedule for the day. The one who stopped by the kitchen RV was the same one that had come for Lisa's bags back in Kansas City. I hadn't had time to pay her back for her smirk, but we were still miles from Portland. What were her glad tidings this morning?

"We are already behind schedule. We will walkthrough scene eight at nine, and film at ten. Same location as yesterday. We will only have fifteen minutes for lunch, and then work on scene ten. Also, we will work this evening and most evenings. We will do dinner scenes fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen." There were maybe eight of us sitting there having our breakfast. She made a point of staring at each of us individually. She was delivering our orders. We did understand, and we would obey. She stood a minute longer, her arms out from her side, feet apart. Was she imitating a bear? Finally she left.

"Power pose."

"What?" I looked at Allen.

"She took a seminar somewhere. They all come back from the seminar and stand like that. It gives them power."

"It does?"

"It does if you are a bad manager and desperate. If you are a good manager, you stand like a normal human being."

"I wish I got to stand. I think I will spend the day lying in my box again."

"Take a bottle of water with you. Lisa is right about that. By the time you feel thirsty, it will be too late." He gave me a hug, threw away our cardboard cereal bowls, and asked me if I wanted any help dressing. He got a kiss for asking. He promised to come for me earlier tonight, and I promised to still be awake.

How did the rest of the day go? It was bad. For that matter, they all were. If you have seen the film, you probably recall the general plot from the scenes we shot out in the desert. Eliza is pretty much sick the whole time. She bounces around the back of the wagon, and the other three missionaries spend time nursing her – lots of water and sympathy. Henry Spalding rides his horse every day, sometimes up with the two guides from the Hudson Bay Company, sometimes back to check on his wife. Lisa carefully defines his character. He is loving with his wife (in a restrained and formal way), still looks at Narcissa more than he should, and tells Marcus the wagon is slowing them up and should be left behind. The difficulty is showing him to be sort of a jerk, but not a total loser or villain. He does go on to be a successful missionary, and besides Lisa does not want to draw too much attention to him. This is a story about Marcus and Narcissa after all. So she directs Travis carefully.

Narcissa transitions during this period. Where earlier she is boundless enthusiasm and energy, she tires. But she endures, and she supports. Marcus wants the wagon, she wants the wagon. She drives it for many miles. But at night we see her leaning back against Marcus rather than sitting on his lap. When she takes off her bonnet, we see tangled and matted hair (not as matted as it would be in real life. After all, this is Hollywood. But you can see she is less perfectly groomed than before.) But at every campfire discussion, she agrees with Marcus – keep the wagon.

Marcus is shown to be tiring but still calculating. The horses lead them up one trail. Would another side of the hill be better for wagons? He is looking for markers so that he can find the trail again on his own if needed. When they reach hills, he takes over from Narcissa and drives the horses up and over. One place he even walks aside the horses and pulls on their bridles to get them to the top. Here Lisa's challenge is to have him appear determined – but not crazy. And, she needs to show this wagon exerts a cost. We see it in his face, in his clothing, in the way he holds himself. This is a man near exhaustion.

That's what you saw in the film. What did it take us to shoot those scenes? Fourteen days of hell. First, there were three basic camera positions. The first was easy – stationary. The videographer and Allen would go out to find a spot that worked, they would set up the cameras, and we would ride by with the wagon and horses. We got so we could do those shots in under two hours.

The next position took all day to set up. The idea was to move the camera with the wagon. To do that, the video guys would first lay out a track the camera could slide over, so the shot stayed smooth and even. Just laying the track might take all morning. And somehow it always required more than one take to get these shots. Don't know why, but something always happened. It got so if we saw guys laying out track, we all cringed.

But nothing was as bad as the third position – close ups with sound – while moving. The original script called for four of these. We did two, and almost died in the process. A camera would be hooked to the wagon, along with half a dozen mics, portable lights and shades. Set up was guaranteed to take half a day. And then things went wrong. We would be halfway through a scene, and one of the mics would slide out of position and be visible. Another time the board that was supporting the camera broke and all the equipment hit the dirt. You never heard such screaming and yelling and genuine panic until it was clear the camera had not broken. That was a really bad day.

And what about us – the people on camera? I never understood why, but Lisa never used a body double for Miles or Travis. They were out under the sun for every minute of every walkthrough, every rehearsal, and every shot. I was waiting for both of them to melt. It was a huge strain, and you could see it in their faces, in their walk, in the way they sat a horse. She never had to direct them to show fatigue – it was already there.

For the women, she used me, and only me. She had four assistants, all of whom would have been the right approximate size, but it was always me wearing one matching calico or the other, lying in the back of the wagon, or driving it, or riding a horse alongside. I doubled for Benicia somewhat more than Melanie, but I was out there a lot. The boards in the back of the wagon never got any softer, and the sun never got any cooler. More than once I asked myself why I was even doing any of this. My contract was for food and transportation. Why not just sit in my RV and watch? Curiosity. Just basic human curiosity. I was getting to see how a film was made. I would never have a chance like this again, so... Out I went, back into the sun again.

Off camera, those two weeks were barely endurable. We moved our RVs four times to be closer to where they were shooting, but basically we were just trading one patch of gravel for another. We never saw a tree. There was one area of low hills. Otherwise, it was the same gray rocks, same flat horizon.

The PR people continued to film us and sent out press briefings. See how hard this film crew is working? See their hardships? See their effort to remain close to the Trail and close to frontier life? As they walked amongst the RVs and pointed their cameras at us, we had no trouble looking tired and dirty. Speaking of which, as we neared the end of the second week, not one RV had any water left in its tank. Showers were now impossible. We washed by pouring a couple bottles of water in a sink and taking bird baths. Based on the smell from the cowboys and several of the technicians, it didn't appear everyone was even doing that.

Evenings Lisa had us shooting campfire scenes. Granted, these were important. There was the constant dialog about their progress (or lack thereof), the quality of the trail, Eliza's health, and as always – the wagon. But the real heart of these campfire shots was to see the faces and the posture of the missionaries. Lisa kept the makeup women away from the actors – they wore the sweat and dirt they had acquired all day. It was pretty effective, I thought.

By the time the shooting was done, none of us had any energy left. We shuffled over to the kitchen RV and maybe had a cup of soup. Mostly we went there for the ice cream. I certainly did. I think I lived on ice cream and water, plus an occasional piece of fruit.

Oh and my love life? Allen helped get me out of my sweat soaked calico, then he washed me, helped me into a cotton night gown, and lay beside me while I slept. I was too tired to do more than kiss him, thank him, and put a hand on his chest. I promised him once we got to Boise I would show him just how grateful I was.

I wasn't the only one waiting for Boise. I think we were all counting down the days. I was already counting to fourteen when we were on day three. And you would hear others mention it. "When we get to Boise..." This was followed by talk of beer, or long showers, or thick steaks, or laps across a pool, or sleeping until noon. By day thirteen, all anyone talked about was Boise.

Chapter 27

We all Hate Idaho – Week Three

It was the end of day thirteen when Lisa told us there would be a week three. We were behind schedule, and, we had yet to do the key scene – the destruction of the wagon. So we would be out here another week. At this point you would think she might share out a case of champagne, or ask the kitchen crew to cook up steaks to take some of the sting off her declaration. Nope. Lisa went back to her RV, and we all calculated just how much we hated her, this project, and Idaho. I think I was already at eleven on a ten point scale. Another week out here would be unbearable.

I sat outside the kitchen RV with my soup, thinking I might switch to wine or something stronger. Allen was on one side of me, Miles the other.

"Eight hundred and eight miles." Allen had a soup bowl in his lap, a bottle of water in his hand. "That's the distance from Fort Laramie to Boise. No one had taken a wagon past Fort Laramie. Marcus kept going, not just over South Pass and to the Rendezvous, but all the way to Fort Boise. Eight hundred and eight miles. It has to be one of the most remarkable accomplishments ever. It's worth taking some extra time and getting this right."

"I know what she is doing with these last shots." Miles had a bottle of water in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. "She is reshooting The African Queen."

"I think I saw it." I tried to contribute something to the conversation. "Bogart right?"

"Bogart got his only Oscar for that film. Bogart and Hepburn were both phenomenal, but if you mention the film, everyone thinks of the same scene – Bogart pulling the boat through the reeds, insects all over him, leeches up and down his legs. He leans into that rope, digging his feet into the mud, pulling through one reed bed after another, trapped, and doomed to die in those reeds if he can't get his boat through to the lake. He is out there in the mud day after day, collapsing on the deck at night. Hepburn even jumps in the water once to help, but the focus is Bogart – and his face. Pain, fatigue, desperation. You look at that face and you feel his exhaustion. Huston did a remarkable job with those scenes."

"So," Allen added. "This is where you pull a wagon through the desert."

"She said I would hate her, but get an Oscar. She's mostly right on the first half of that. I was hoping what we had already done would be enough."

"The wagon breaks." Allen leaned across me to talk with Miles. "An axel breaks and can't be repaired. You can imagine everyone tells Marcus to just end the experiment then and there. He doesn't. I can see you doing that scene. You will be great."

"I saw the scene in the script. Yes, it's a great scene, and two weeks ago I liked the idea of doing it. Now?" Miles is looking down at the gravel. "I thought she would cut it. We have all this footage. It should be enough. Why do more?" He pauses, then answers his own question. "The broken wagon is her African Queen." He got up and walked into the night.

I can't say I was too sorry for Miles. He might get an Oscar. I was going to get another week of sun, wind, and dirt. I sat there with Allen feeling pretty sorry for myself.

We filmed the breakdown scene the next day. It took all morning to set up. The prop guys took a hammer to the back axle. By the time they were done, I wasn't sure it would last to the rock pile they set for it to break on. We would see. In the meantime, the camera guys set out three cameras: a close up by the rocks to see the axle break, a mid-distance camera to show the wagon approaching the rocks, and a camera on the wagon to show the jolt as the axle broke and the reaction of the driver – Narcissa. Where was I? In the back of course. Benicia had a headache.

Once the cameras were set, away we went. Melanie slapped the horses with the reins (she was getting pretty good at driving), and we rolled the five feet forward to the rock pile. Up we went, and down we came on the other side. The axle cracked. We could hear it. But did it break? No. So, out come the prop guys and the video guys. The rocks are moved about ten feet farther forward. The cameras are moved. An hour goes by. Melanie and I sit in the wagon. Jolene comes by and gives us each a bottle of water. I think again about giving her a raise.

Try number two. Melanie gets the horses moving again, and, once again we hit the rocks, rise up, and crash down the other side. This time the axle breaks and the back wheels both roll forward and fall at an angle. Beautiful shot. They also catch Melanie jumping off, while still holding the reins and controlling the horses (that was unrehearsed. Her idea – and a good one). And the cameras caught me slide down and slam against the side of the wagon (great drama, and a huge bruise that stayed with me for a week). The four riders rush back. Miles jumps from his horse and hugs Narcissa. Spalding slowly gets off his horse and takes my hand. We all freeze and the scene ends.

Lisa, for the first time ever, stands and cheers, as do the assorted technicians. Great scene. And better yet, Lisa tells us we are done for the day. I head straight for the kitchen RV and open myself a bottle of white wine. Allen rubs my arm where it is bruised, and then we walk to his trailer where he does some more rubbing.

Are we done now? Nope. The next day we shoot the argument scene. All four men get down on their hands and knees and agree the axle cannot be fixed. Three men say the solution is obvious – transfer as much food and as many Bibles as possible to the horses and move on. One man says "no." It's an interesting scene and ends with four people walking off, and two people staying with the wagon. Marcus and Narcissa stand and talk. Then she helps him unload the wagon. You see a pile of boxes built up on the gravel, and then you see Marcus take a hammer and a saw. He starts cutting. End of scene.

For the next five days everything is about Marcus and the prop guys. Let me start with the prop guys. That first night they cut off the back half of the wagon. They leave one board on for Marcus to take off on camera, but they do all the real work. Fine. But they aren't done. Lisa has them tear at the wagon a little more each night. The idea is to show the strain on Marcus by showing the strain on what's left of the wagon, now really just a two wheel cart. It's a visual metaphor. One day the canvas cover starts ripping. The next day it tears off completely in the wind (they had a small rope pulling on it to "help" the wind). The ribs that held up the canvas start breaking. Then one of the side boards falls off. Every day we see more damage to the wagon. Every day it appears closer to complete collapse. Will this two wheel version make it to Boise? It doesn't look likely. Feel the tension build.

While his wagon is falling apart behind him, Miles is now walking to Fort Boise, his hand on the reins of the two horses now pulling a disintegrating cart containing all their possessions – personal and religious. Narcissa rides beside him. She talks. He tries, but his throat is so dry, his muscles aching, his movements slower and slower. Each day the wagon is in worse shape, and each day Marcus has to leave some of their belongings at the side of the trail. On the third day he has to leave one of Narcissa's cases. It contains her clothes, and a few items for their home. They are both in pain at the loss.

Each night he comes into camp hours after the others have arrived. The guides and the Spaldings have set up camp and eaten dinner. The guides have left some food for the Whitmans. The Spaldings leave nothing. Marcus sits by the fire, now leaning on Narcissa. She wraps her arms around him and gently uses just a touch of water to clean his face. The camera is close up, watching her work, watching their faces. His eyes slowly close even as she holds him.

The filming takes five days. After the final edits, the wagon sequence occupies just over four minutes. See him stagger, see him persevere, see her stand by him, see this pathetic remnant of a wagon rattle for yet another mile or two. And then, see him lead those horses over a hill and see – yes, there it is – see Fort Boise. One of the greatest feats of endurance has been accomplished.

Lisa let the actors all freeze in place, fade to black, and then she walked out across the gravel to Marcus. She stood looking at him, and then she shook his hand. Every member of the cast and crew followed her example. Marcus stood and shook all their hands, but it looked like he really just wanted to sit down right there and rest. Two of the prop guys actually had to steady him as they led him back to our RV. Lisa followed him in and laid him out on his bed. He slept that evening while the rest of us celebrated.

Chapter 28

Thank God for Boise

We had one more night in the desert, but we were all fine with that because we knew it was the last night. Suddenly what had been unbearable was bearable. We were practically giddy back at the RV lot. Some of the people had work to do. The prop guys got the remnants of the wagon back in their truck. The cowboys got their horses back in their trailers. The video and sound guys got equipment stored. But it didn't take long for people to gather around the kitchen RV. Lisa had sent Shirette into Pocatello with specific orders, and she had come back with steaks to grill, a case of champagne, six watermelons, and gallon after gallon of ice cream.

I helped the girls grill, but I also kept my champagne glass full. I had earned a right to be part of this celebration. We all had. By sunset all the equipment was packed, everyone had eaten, and the champagne was long gone. Out came a boom box and we danced on the gravel. We didn't dance long. Happy or not we were hot, dirty, and exhausted, but we did dance. I had at least six gaffers spin me around, and if their hands landed here or there, I let it go. It was fun. And the big moment? Miles came out from his RV, his face washed and his hair combed, once again the leading man, and he and Melanie danced. The rest of us stopped and watched. This was Marcus and Narcissa. In our imaginations they had made it to Fort Boise, proud of their accomplishment, pleased with their partnership, newlyweds in love. At the end of the song he kissed her, and we all cheered. It was that kind of night – happy, drunken people feeling all the emotions audiences would soon feel when they watched the film.

Allen had a surprise for me back at our trailer. He had poured over a case of bottled water into the trailer water system. It might be the shortest shower ever taken, but we could have a shower. I can't begin to tell you how good it felt, and how good he felt. We had our own celebration in his Airstream.

In the morning I walked back to my RV and discovered Lisa sitting on the couch with Miles. I would be driving for two.

"Jess, when the cowboys leave, follow them out of this maze of gravel roads. They said they would lead us back to the Interstate. You are the lead RV today. I want to talk to my star for a while."

"Will do." It was a few more minutes before the cowboys drove out with their horse trailers. I followed, twenty five miles an hour behind a cloud of dust. But we were finally getting out of the desert. I smiled all the way. I also got to eavesdrop on an interesting conversation. Here are a few of the key moments.

"Everyone hated that extra week, but we needed it. You needed it. When you see those later scenes, you will notice a huge difference. It's in your face, but it is even more obvious in your posture. Your whole frame changes."

"Lisa, I was dehydrated, my head was pounding, and I could barely see with the glare coming off some of the rocks."

"Yes. It was great."

"Lisa."

"Really. You looked fabulous. And terrible. I hear you think I was doing an African Queen on you."

"Weren't you?"

"Bogart never went near the water in Uganda. Can you imagine what might be in a real reed bed? Huston took them to Uganda long enough to shoot one scene in a local church. Really just long enough to claim they shot 'on location.' The reed beds were in a studio outside London. It was all bluff and bluster. But you, you did the real thing."

"I've got the sun burn and bruises to prove it."

"And the film footage. That hill climb will be studied frame by frame in every film school. You stand at the bottom, already sucking air, sweating flowing down your face. You pause, and then your face changes. You are going to do this. You will get that wagon up that hill. You wrap the reins double around your big, manly fist, and you start climbing. And you fall. God I loved it when you fell. The videographer on top the hill almost dropped his camera he was so excited. You fall onto one knee. It's all rocks, and we can see your pain. But you get up, still holding the reins and pulling the horses. You take three steps and fall again. This time you stay down. Your knees hurt, you can't catch your breath."

"I was waiting for you to call 911."

"And then you look up the hill."

"I was looking to see if he was still filming. I was hoping he had stopped."

"We see the weakness in your eyes, the pain, but also the determination."

"I was pissed at you."

"You got up, took two small steps, and then got back in your rhythm. One step after another, your arm reaching back to the horses, urging them up with you. You make the climb. You conquer the hill. And the look on your face at the top... That look will be the standard of excellence for every actor in the world."

"You are so full of it. I was just looking for some place off camera to puke."

"You wait. That hill climb gets you your Oscar. The funny part is, it's not the best scene in the film."

My turn. "Yes it was. Really." I am talking over my shoulder while also trying to see through the cloud of dust.

"No." Lisa is emphatic. "The key scene in the entire film is the last campfire scene. It is almost too good. It really is the climax to the film, and it comes about twenty minutes before the close."

"We did ten or twelve campfire scenes." Miles is obviously not convinced.

"We did thirteen. We will probably use five. Early to show your energy and enthusiasm, and the look on your face when Melanie sits down on your legs. You are one horny guy. Then three in the desert of show your progression from confident man, the guy still holding his new wife, to the mess you were in the last scene. You stagger to the blanket. You don't sit down, you fall down. You would drop all the way, but Melanie comes up behind you and sits against your back, holding you up. You let her. For the first time, you let her hold you. Then you sit while she wets a cloth, and slowly wipes the dirt from your face, one arm wrapped around your chest from behind, the other reaching around to hold the cloth to your face. You let her. You need her. You appreciate her. You reach up with one hand and put it over the hand that is holding your chest. You are too tired to talk. Your hand is saying 'Thank you. I love you."

"She actually did a nice job. It felt good."

"It took the film to a whole new level. Yes, you were lovers. Yes, you were good to each other. But this is the first time you need her. She responds, and you accept, and suddenly your love takes on a whole new dimension. It is that moment, and the looks on both your faces, that make the film. When audiences leave the theater, that is the scene the women will be thinking about. Most men will be thinking about the hill climb, but even a few of them with think of the campfire, and the feel of a woman's hands."

I think she was right. Of course the purpose of the conversation was not just to describe highlights of the film. It was a kind of peace offering. She had pushed the actors very hard. I guessed she would have conversations like this one with all four main actors. I assume she wanted them to work with her again some time. And if nothing else, she needed them to say good things so other actors would work with her. So these were fence-mending conversations. But I think what she said was probably true. I had no idea if anyone would get an Oscar for this film, what would I know, but the scenes she described had been special. Adjust the lighting, add a soundtrack, and I guessed people would respond. Maybe critics too.

Meanwhile, we finally found asphalt. A few miles past that was I-84 and we were on our way to Boise. What were we going to do there? Lisa promised us two days of minimal PR, late mornings, long showers, an open bar, and a pool party every night. Oh, and since our costumes were dirty sweaty messes, we could wear our own clothes while the wardrobe people did load after load of laundry. Imagine. A sundress and no hat. I was in love with Boise before we ever pulled into the hotel lot.

Did Boise turn out to be everything we had hoped it would be while we sweated away our days in the desert? Yes.

First step once we were parked in the lot – call the girls and call the office. Boise had four bars. I could even facetime. I reported in, my daughters and Bonnie told me things were going fine. I think Britney was hoping to see Miles, but he had already gone in to the hotel. Sorry. Just me.

Next step – hug the kitchen crew. As bad as the desert had been, it would have been so much worse except for their efforts. They were pleased by my compliments, but I think the girls were more pleased by the prospect of pool parties with Hollywood stars. And with four bars on their phones, they would be able to text endless pictures. Their teenage dreams were fulfilled.

Big step – find Allen, check into our room, and shower for at least an hour. Registration took forever, but he filled the time by feeling me up. I returned the favor once we were in our room and in our shower. Give me a bar of soap, and watch me work.

How good were the pool parties? The first one was just us. They wheeled out two bars, and Lisa had a local caterer spread out a buffet, so even our kitchen crew got to enjoy an evening (Nice move, Lisa). We ladies all dressed nice, and the men were all appropriately grateful. My man certainly was. We were still more thirty than hungry, and we were careful to match every glass of wine with a glass of water, but the buffet was pretty good and we ate it down to nothing pretty fast. Lisa ordered refills of everything, and all of us took at least a moment or two to thank her.

I am not sure if Allen and I were the first to leave, but we might have been. We had a king sized bed and an air conditioned room. And, since there was no morning call to work, we could take our time and get plenty of sleep mixed in with the action. If it gets better than that, it doesn't get much better.

Day two was more sleeping, more eating, more drinking, and for us lucky ones, more sex. And, more showers. When evening came, we did have our one work assignment. The PR people had invited the usual round of media people and political leaders. But we didn't need to wear our costumes (I was sure the wardrobe ladies were going to need at least another day to get them clean), and most of us could focus on eating and drinking while the stars held the attention of the guests.

The most interesting part of the evening came when Lisa invited all of us into a back room to look at some of the uncut footage. She sat the local media people up front with the stars, and the PR people took their pictures, while Lisa talked about each of three scenes, and then showed them. Only the videographers had seen this footage before, so we were all interested. What did she show? There was the dinner scene at the Rendezvous with Kit Carson and Jim Bridger, a wide angle shot of the wagons passing along the North Platte, and then the scene with Miles climbing the hill. I swear there were gasps as Miles fell, and cheers when he got up the second time. When the footage ended and the lights came up, Miles got a standing ovation. The rest of us went back to the bar, but the media people stayed in the room with the stars. PR was ready for them. Each guest was given a memory stick with the same footage. Rather than our people releasing this footage, it would come out from local media outlets, accompanied with texts like "while I was speaking with Miles Martin and Melanie Davis last night..." You want viral? By noon the next day our PR people had the widest smiles possible on a human face.

The rest of us had another night in a big bed, another breakfast not accompanied by wind and dirt, and another day in our own clothes. Like I said, we loved Boise.

Chapter 29

To the Mission

The next morning, Lisa gathered us all in the dining room at ten. Some of us were still coming down to breakfast. She let us order and even get started digging into our pancakes (I have no idea why, but everyone seemed to think pancakes were God's special food. Almost all of us ordered them while in Boise). We were to say good bye to Travis and Benicia. (They stood, and we all applauded). Boise is where the two missionary couples split up. That scene would be shot back in the studio, along with much more of the indoor footage. Lisa still hadn't done any of the Back-East footage (the marriage, the first days traveling), and there was still some green-screen Trail footage to do there. So Travis and Benicia would fly back and have a week off until all the rest of the cast and crew flew to LA for the studio work and all the editing.

The rest of us would drive up to the mission this afternoon. With luck, we could get the shots we needed there tomorrow, and then drive to Portland for the final remote. Wardrobe would give us our costumes this afternoon, and we would wear them tomorrow at the mission and again for the drive to Portland. We would be in a good hotel outside of Portland, probably for two or three days for the final remote near a winery (the big finale).

I am not sure any of us liked the idea of getting back in our RVs, but it would just be for another night or two, and then we would be back in a hotel. Okay, but as she talked, I also thought through some of the changes that would take place pretty soon. I had been so stressed in the desert, and so anxious to get out of there, I hadn't considered what lay just ahead. Suddenly the end of this project wasn't weeks ahead, it was just days ahead. The kitchen crew would leave us in Portland. Allen would leave us in just a day or two after the mission scenes. Lisa would leave me behind in Portland when everyone else flew down to LA. The studio had its own caterers and transportation staff. In three or four days, I would no longer be needed. And, it might well be that I would be alone again. The pancakes suddenly tasted very dry.

Lisa gave us until noon to finish our meals, get ourselves packed, and get out to our RVs. Allen and I walked up to our room hand in hand, but as we packed, I kept my back to him while I talked.

"Did you have any trouble getting clearance for us to film at the Mission?"

"It's an historic site, so we can't do any damage, but as long as we just walk around and film things, I think the folks up there are happy to have the publicity."

"That's good." Was I really worried about film clearances and such? No. Lisa would have had that hashed out months ago. What was I worried about? Wasn't that obvious? But I didn't want to talk about that. I know we complain that men won't talk. But that morning I didn't want to talk. I packed with my back to him, my head down as I put clothes in my bag. I refolded one dress five times. As I folded it the sixth time, I could feel him come up behind me. Both arms came around my waist, as he leaned into me.

I put my hands on his arms. "Tighter." He used one of his hands to pull the hair away from the back of my neck, and started kissing me there. I straightened up somewhat, but kept my hands on his arm. I wanted him holding me. And, yes, I pushed my ass into him while he held me. I wanted his attention. And maybe I wanted an edge.

How was this going to end? Probably not well, and probably soon. He was a forest ranger. He counted wolves in Montana. I managed hotels in the Midwest. Getting started with him had been a terrible idea. But. But I loved holding onto that broad back. I loved looking up at him. I loved the way he was holding me right this minute, even though it might be our last. A day or two at the mission, and I might lose him to wolves. Shit.

"Do I get to see your face?" He was alternately kissing my neck and nibbling on my ear. It felt really good. As I turned around to face him, I was blinking. Not quite crying, but this was not one of my happiest moments. I wanted this man. Did I get to keep him? How? He held me tight to him, and looked at me. My turn to say something.

"Allen, you know I am yours, right?"

"Yes." He was still looking at me. "Jess, you know I love you."

"I figured that out when you filled the RV water tank from all those little bottles."

"Nothing says love like forty eight water bottles." He held me, we kissed, we stood together. Things were suddenly happening much too fast, but I had him for two more days. I just told him, "tighter."

The drive to the Mission outside Walla Walla was just over four hours. But we stopped at a campground along the way and emptied our waste tanks (long overdue) and filled our water tanks. Whether we were gone one night or two, we would have plenty of water for showers.

The drive itself was easy. Interstate most of the way. We were practically driving over the ruts of the Oregon Trail, through the Blue Mountains to Pendleton and then north to the Mission. At seventy miles an hour, it was scenic. That might not have been the word chosen by the Emigrants as they pulled their wagons over those mountain passes. The Whitmans had not used a wagon on this stretch. At least not their first time through here. Marcus had left his broken wagon at Fort Boise. They had come this way using horses and mules. Seven years later, when he had come back with the first huge wagon train, he had taken a wagon through these passes. And that time there were a thousand other Emigrants to help. But that was 1843. Our film was about 1836 and a pair of newlyweds following two guides through the passes, and then north to teach Christianity to the Cayuse tribe.

What did we find at the mission when we arrived that evening? Nothing. Atop a round hill is a stone obelisk – about ten feet of granite sticking into the air, a small walkway around it, and several benches to sit and enjoy the view. There are no buildings. No sign, not even ruined foundations, to show where the buildings of the mission had been. But the view from the hill was nice. There were farm fields – fertile soil – and forested areas. It looked like a good place to live, although we saw few homes. Big farms out here, few families.

We parked in a lot at the base of the hill, still a convoy of 14 RVs, three trucks, and two pickups with horse trailers. The cowboys got the horses out for exercise. There was also a creek with plenty of water, and lots of grass for them. The big action was around the prop truck. The broken pieces of the wagon were in there, but so was a set of canvas flats. The videographer pointed to where he wanted the "mission" and the men built it there – canvas stretched over frames, painted so you would swear this was a log cabin. It even had a roof with cedar shakes – four more canvas flats that locked together in minutes. The mission was up, resting on the grass in less than two hours.

The other place for action was the kitchen RV. Funny how hungry we were now. We had eaten more in the last two days than we had in the last three weeks, but the minute the ladies had the tables out and the first chicken pieces grilled, there was a line of people. I should have helped, but I didn't. Clarissa had put out some garlic bread. I wrapped six pieces in a napkin, took a glass of wine, and walked up to the Whitman monument.

Good place to sit, think, and look. I took the bench that faced west. The sun was on the horizon. The canvas "Mission" was below me at the bottom of the hill. I watched the shadows stretch out behind it, getting longer and climbing up the hill towards me. Then the shadows were gone, as was the sun.

I don't know why I took six slices of bread. I just ate two and sipped a bit of my wine. Mostly I looked west. Had Narcissa climbed this hill? Had she liked to watch the sun set? Did she look down at her mission and feel pride as it grew? Or did she spend the last of the daylight looking south, hoping for families to pass on the Oregon Trail. Families with women she could talk to, and children she could smile at. What were her evenings like?

I watched Allen climb the hill. I was going to miss that big smile. He sat next to me, his arm automatically around my shoulders, his hand on my upper arm just where I liked it. I lay my head against his shoulder. One more thing I would miss.

"They had a child, right?" I absolutely did not want to talk about us. It seemed easier to talk about that other couple.

"A daughter. She was born that winter. Marcus delivered her. Alice Clarissa. When she was two, she wandered off. Somehow she stumbled into a creek and drowned. She was their only child."

"If something happened to my daughters, I would die."

"She took in children. Boarders. The mission was really more a school than a church. They converted a few Cayuse, but never a large number. She was the only teacher in many miles, so Emigrant families often left children with her to get at least a basic education. So she had them."

"And Marcus? Did she have him?"

"He was the only doctor in Oregon Territory for many years. He came when called. He might be gone for days. Six years after they got here, the mission board wanted a report. How many had he converted? Should they still support his mission? He went back east. He was gone all winter. He talked to the board, he talked to newspapers, he talked to anyone interested in going west. In 1842 a small group of Emigrants came through in wagons. A much larger group was gathering in Independence, Missouri in 1843. Some say a thousand people. Marcus met with them on his way back here. He answered their questions, reassured them, and took the trail with them. Historians usually say the Trail was initiated with that group, and with his help."

"And Narcissa? Did she ever leave?"

"When they first arrived here, and Marcus and some local Indians were building the mission, two British officials brought her down the Columbia to their fort in Vancouver. She was able to sit with other women in a refined setting, tea cups, rocking chairs, women doing needlepoint. So she did have the one opportunity to see the end of the Trail. But she never went back. From 1836 to their deaths in 1847, she never left this mission."

"They are calling this film a love story."

"What else would you call it, Jess? She loved Marcus, she loved being a missionary, she loved her place in the world. How much do you think it meant for the women coming up the trail, tired, hungry, and sick – and probably scared for how their family would fare here – and here is a woman who has been in Oregon for years. One woman has made it. They can make it too."

"But she died."

"Yes."

What could anyone say to that? We sat and looked at the stars. I looked down at the canvas "mission" barely visible in the moonlight. I nestled closer in against his side, and he brought his other hand up to my face. He brushed my hair back behind my ear and kissed me – gently. We walked down to his Airstream and spent the night together. Maybe our last.

In the morning was a big breakfast, and big smiles as people grasped that they were nearing completion of what might well become a classic film. We ate our omelets, drank coffee, and chatted. Small talk from happy people.

Lisa got people organized around nine. We were all in costume. I was back in my heavy calico, but I knew I would not be in front of a camera for this sequence. This was just Melanie, Miles, and two of the cowboys. The cowboys were a mistake. Well, really, a compounding of a mistake. The actors who were to be the guides for the final ride up to the mission had gotten on the same plane as Travis Austin and Benicia and flown back to LA. Some communications foul up. So, do we wait for them to fly back here, or do we use the cowboys? The cowboys had been on camera as body doubles for weeks, so they had some basic sense of how to handle themselves. And Lisa only needed one of them to say two lines:

"Well, Doctor Whitman, will this work for you?" as they arrive at the mission building, and then "We wish you and the Missus the best" as they leave. How hard can this be? Lisa looked over the four cowboys, put two of them in buckskin, and set the scene. Four riders, six horses, two being used as pack animals. Walk up the trail, pause while the Whitmans look over the cabin and look around at the setting, say the line, help unload the horses, say the second line, ride away south. I bet everyone hearing this story thinks, hell, I could say those lines. Maybe you could. This guy couldn't.

Now to be fair, the lines have to be said while looking at Miles, and facing the cameras, and they have to be said with reasonable expression, and with enough volume to be picked up by the microphones being held on poles over their heads. Cowboy number one couldn't do it in three tries. Each time he looked directly into the camera, or scrambled the line, or got the volume level wrong. So, back the horses around, start from stage right again, and try again. Nope.

Lisa rehearsed it with cowboy two. Nope. Worst stage fright in the history of stage fright. Time for lunch. We are sitting around, eating our sandwiches (salmon BLTs which were fantastic) and one of the sound guys just walks up to Lisa and says both lines. A star is born. Wardrobe dresses him, and by the time we are done eating, he is up on a horse and ready to go. He overplays the line on the first try (probably played the lead in some high school play and still thinks he needs to fling one arm around for emphasis), but Lisa sets him straight and he gets it right on the second try.

Miles says his line, helps very pregnant Melanie down from her horse, the two pack horses are unloaded – it has to be clear that much of the load is Bibles - the cowboys get back on their horses, the sound guy says his line perfectly, exit stage right, and the scene is done. From the cheering by the technicians you might have thought we had just seen an Oscar-worthy performance, but then, they had just seen one of their own complete one of their secret dreams.

Lisa quickly sets up the second scene – Marcus and Narcissa, now alone for the first time, at their mission. They talk about how solid their new cabin looks, point to where they will put their garden, their barn, and their church, and then look off to the west and the Columbia River which they cannot see, but they can imagine, the final passage to the bounty that will be Oregon. They get the scene on the first try, they pause, they hold hands, and the scene fades to black. Now there is even more applause. We have just seen great acting, and we have witnessed the last scene before the close. This has a real feeling of accomplishment for all of us.

Now what? There is champagne, good steaks on the grill, and our final night in RVs.

I walked to Lisa's RV and got the finance assistant to cut the final checks for the kitchen crew, and got her approval for them to have two nights in the Portland hotel. Why not let them go to the end of the Trail? They have earned it. Checks in hand, I go over to the kitchen RV, take Jolene's place at the gill and give her her check. I get a huge hug, and she runs off to show her mom and put the check away. Each of the others come to me over the next half hour. They get checks, I get hugs, I have a happy crew, especially after I explain they can go with everyone else to Portland and stay two nights in what I hear is a pretty nice hotel. Their reward for a great job. Shirette tells me she would like to talk later, I nod and go on grilling.

I feel good. Maybe I am back to my place in the world – giving people jobs, and feeding people. I stand right where I am for the next two hours, in the smoke, in the heat, but happy to give people food.

By the time the last of the steaks have been grilled, the sun has set, and out comes someone's boom box. There will be dancing again. Good. I'm in the mood for it. If this is going to end, let it end with a bang. I won't cry. I won't.

Who did I dance with? Lisa. She was pretty good. A bit stiff, but she knew how to use her hips. Anything fast, and her hips had fabric moving in all directions. Anything slow, she had those hips tight against mine. I liked dancing with her, and we kissed a couple times, but I was also looking over her shoulder. I assumed he was around somewhere.

"Have some patience. He will get here soon enough."

"Sorry."

"Before he takes you off to his trailer, we should talk." I think she was talking mostly with her hands. The one on my ass was working overtime. "Remember my question about who brought you to the dance?"

"You did, and I am grateful."

"And who gets the last dance?"

"You do, if you want it." Our faces were about an inch apart. I was trying to determine what she really wanted. Was she talking LA?

"I want three nights in Portland."

"And then?"

"One thing at a time, lover." She had one hand up behind my head, and held it while she kissed me. I could see Allen approaching us. Had she? She held that kiss even after he had come right up to us.

"Who tells Allen?"

"You do." At that point she turned, took one of my hands, and placed it in Allen's hand. Very public, and very dramatic. Actors.

I kept my hand in his and walked with him away from the dancers. The monument seemed a good place to talk, so that was where we went. We sat on the west bench and looked down on the "mission" as it was being disassembled. We quickly slipped into my favorite position – his arm around me, my head on his shoulder.

"You are done with your part of this production now, right? Will you be going back to Montana?"

"No. I told you I have all kinds of vacation days saved up. I plan to follow you to Portland. I will stay at a far cheaper hotel than yours, but I will be nearby. I plan to see you every night."

"Lisa asked me to stay with her in Portland."

"Is that what you want?" He now had a hand at the back of my head and was looking into my eyes.

"Yes. I will be with her three nights."

"And then?"

"If you come for me, we will talk."

"Will we talk standing up, sitting down, or lying down?"

"I hope all three."

"Can we talk now?"

"We probably should, but I would like to wait. After Portland."

"Who gets you tonight – me or her?"

"You. If you want me." The fool actually picked me up and carried me down to his trailer. I guess he wanted me.

In bed, it was clear he was unhappy, and even a little angry. He would be tender, his kisses light, his hands caressing me, and then he would be rough. For a long time he pinned my arms to my side. He was in me, on me, wrapped around me, his mouth pressing down on mine. He held me so tight I couldn't move. There was no light in his bedroom, and only a little light coming through the door to the main room. I could see his face, but not well. What was there? Anger, passion, desperation, all three? Some emotion I was completely missing? And what did he see in my face? I wanted this man. I think I was holding him as hard as he was holding me.

What a complete mess. And there was no one to blame but me. I wanted this man. And I wanted Lisa. I couldn't have both. What if I ended up with neither?

"Jess, you know I want you."

"Yes, I know."

"Let's just end this. Stay right where you are. I'll drive us out of here. We can be in Montana in time for breakfast." I had a vision of a mountainside, a cabin, tall trees everywhere. I saw a long winding road. No other cabins near us. I saw myself standing at a window, looking out at the road. It was silly, but I felt a chill.

"Allen, I want to finish the film."

"You want to be with Lisa."

"I want you to hold me." I am not sure how I did it, but I got him rolled onto his back. I slid onto him, one leg between his, my arm across his chest, my face buried in his neck. I have no idea how many times I kissed his neck. And he held me, one arm across my shoulders, one across my ass. That hand slowly slid across me, and then back. It felt so good. I reached with the arm that was across his chest, grabbed that shoulder, and pulled my thighs tighter against his thigh, my face tighter against his neck. I kissed his neck over and over. "I love you."

His arms tightened across my back. I pulled myself tight against him, and then gradually drifted off to sleep. I can't begin to describe how good it felt to lie with him like that.

Chapter 30

Portland

In the morning he was tender in the shower, and even "helped" me dress. He did every button on the front of my dress. I wondered how many men had done that for women over the centuries. And did they look at their women with as much longing as I was seeing that morning? As we stood by his trailer door, he put my bonnet on me, and tied the ribbon under my chin. His hands moved to my shoulders when he was done.

"Jess, you know I love you."

"And I love you." It's funny. Looking up at him with the bonnet around my face, the brim shielding out much of my surroundings, there seemed to be a special intensity to that exchange. Simple words, but it was just him and me, our eyes meeting inside a fabric tunnel.

"I will come for you in three days."

"Please do." We kissed, my bonnet now wrapped around his face too. He held me close, and for a moment I wondered if he would let me go. And I wondered if I wanted him to. But the kiss ended, and I stepped out the door.

As I took my first few steps toward the kitchen RV I heard him say, "You are going to love Montana." Will I?

Shirette has a cup of coffee waiting for me.

"Do you have time to talk?" I nodded and took the cup she offered. "It's about the job in St. Paul. We are grateful for the opportunity, but we have never been there. Is it nice? Will my daughters be safe? Will we like it there?"

"Those are good questions. Let's do this. Will you drive the RV back to Kansas City, or would you like us to fly you back?"

"I am afraid to fly." From the look on her face, clearly she was.

"Okay, so you will drive the RV back to Kansas City. Return it to the dealer. What if, on your way back, you stop in St Paul? Stay in the hotel for three or four nights. No charge. The woman running the hotel is Bobbi Steiner. I will tell her to expect you. Look over the hotel, walk around the city. Look at the schools. The University of Minnesota is in the Twin Cities, and I hear it is pretty good. So if this job works, the girls can waitress at the hotel through high school and college. They would be right there for you to watch over them."

"I would like that." She gave me a hug that nearly spilled my coffee. "And my girls will go to college. I will see to that." And off she went to tell the others. I had Bobbi on speed dial and told her about her visitors before I finished my coffee. I was pretty sure this was going to work out for all of us. Bobbi also told me the hotel opened two days early at sixty percent occupancy. This was starting out as a very good day.

Within an hour, Lisa had us on the road to Portland. Our first stop was a PR stop, hence the costumes. We were going to Fort Vancouver at the mouth of the Columbia River. This was British headquarters for the Hudson Bay Company. The first Emigrants had turned to the people there for help. And they had received it, even though the rush of Americans to the territory quickly made it part of the U.S. and forced the British out. Our job for the day? Walk around the fort, listen to local historians tell us about the old days, and make sure the local media got plenty of footage of us.

Could we do that? Easily. We arrived a little after noon, met with the fort people, met with the media people, made sure Miles and Melanie were in the front row of everything, and of course, made sure the local TV stations had their footage in time to make the six o'clock news. And of course there would be a media event later in the evening, "exclusive" interviews with Miles and Melanie, an open bar, and even some peeks at our most recent footage. In short, Lisa made sure we got major coverage for two days in a fairly large media market.

We were all patient walking through the fort. It is actually very well restored, and worth a few hours. But Lisa had hinted our hotel for the next couple nights would be special, so we were a bit anxious to finish with PR and see where we would be sleeping. By four we were on the road, around Portland and into the hills southwest of it. Wine country. The vineyards were everywhere. And the hills were gorgeous -- rolling, often wooded, small towns, wineries, and the feeling that the Pacific might be just over the next crest.

And then we saw the hotel. I don't know how much Lisa was paying for this place, but I bet her partners were going to cry when they saw the bill. Undersized, understated, if you look up "exclusive" in the dictionary, this hotel appears. I am guessing maybe eighty rooms. No more. Large lawn. Hidden parking. Small, elegant porch on the front, but you knew the real action was at the rear. Ten bell hops greeted us. We followed our luggage in to a lobby that could have been a loft. The hotel was built into the side of a hill, with the backside lower than the front. The place was terraced like I have never seen. As you entered this lobby of crystal and marble, you were immediately drawn to the balcony looking down at a sitting area and through the sitting area, a glass wall showing a stone-floored patio and its own marble railing overlooking gardens that seemed to go on forever. So, down, down, and down, each level stunning, and each level reinforcing the beauty of the others. Every single one of us stepped into the lobby and stopped in our tracks. And we got to stay here two nights? Wow.

As I stood gaping, Lisa gave me my room key. I would be staying with her. At the moment, I would be staying right where I was. I had a hand on that marble railing, and I looked down level by level, trying to memorize the place. There had to be some way I could do some of this in one of my hotels.

But Lisa wanted to get us moving.

"Folks, I would like you to follow me for a few minutes. The bell hops will deal with your luggage, and the valets will take care of the RVs. Just follow me, please." And off she went. The curved stairs down to the sitting area were marble (of course). Once we were at that level, we could see a bar hidden under a balcony (mahogany and brass) and a grand piano opposite it. There were leather chairs on this level that you normally see in movies about English clubs. I bet there were thirty, but somehow it still felt intimate here. The carpeting – so thick and soft you had to pick your feet up when you walked. All our hems dragged behind us.

Next, out the doors in the glass wall to the patio. Stone floors, glass top tables, linens everywhere. Seating for eighty. I was betting I would not have heard of half the items on the menu, and would just giggle when I saw the prices.

But Lisa kept us moving. Down a stone stairway on the far right, down four steps, a landing, and about fifteen steps up to a path leading to a gazebo. I'm guessing it was built in Japan and reassembled here piece by piece by a crew that had been in training for years. You looked at it, wanted to take a picture of it, and then wanted to sit in it, hoping it would be okay.

"Here's where we shoot our final scene. Melanie, this is your scene. You will sit facing the entrance. You will talk to a young girl. Cameras will sit high. I want Melanie and the girl, but I also want what's behind her." She then stepped out of the way so we could look behind the gazebo. It was a landscape like no other. You looked down the hill into a valley. A mixture of vineyards and forests. The field of vision was easily a mile wide and a mile across. And when you looked across, you could see, just peeking over the opposite hillside, the Pacific. The colors, the textures, the spacing, it was all miraculous. I just gaped. The video guys, well they didn't drool, but you knew it was a close thing.

The gazebo would hold about twelve or fifteen of us at a time, so we had to back out much earlier than we wished, but it was fun to see the reactions of each new person. The word for the day was "Wow".

"Jim, you and your guys will have all morning to set up while we rehearse the girls. Audio, I don't think the round roof will create a sound bubble, but check. All of you, drinks at seven, dinner at eight. If you brought formal, wear it. We will have assigned seats. Thirty two media people will be joining us. Most will go to Miles and Melanie, but you may have one or more at your table. We will be out on the patio. Questions?"

Questions? What questions? I think we were all in shock. A week ago we had been sitting in gravel and eating layers of dust in our food. And now? I know I wanted to stand and stare, but I also wanted to see our room. What could that possibly be like?

I left Lisa and the others to go see. What did I find? A huge room, large canopied bed covered with a million pillows, a couch, a desk, a pair of chairs, all of the best materials and all matching the décor. I had bought furniture like this for my hotels. I was certain nothing I had bought cost a third of what was in this room. Add top rated wool carpeting, wainscoting on the walls, original art work, vaulted ceiling with cove molding, and yes, of course, a chandelier, and you had a phenomenal room, but it was a room you might not even notice, since French doors opened onto a balcony facing west, showing the same valley we had seen from the gazebo. A glass top table and four wrought iron chairs cushioned with silk covered seats and backs finished the décor. But of course on the table sat fresh flowers, a basket of fruit, and a bottle of champagne with two champagne flutes. Any guest would have a major problem – enjoy the rest of the hotel, or enjoy your room?

I had my phone out and took a hundred pictures for my girls and for my office. Then I sat out on the balcony, but I didn't go near the fruit or champagne. It seemed too perfect to touch. I was still trying to determine how I could get a picture that truly captured the magnificence of this place, when Lisa came in.

She dragged my inside the room and slowly undressed me. She untied the bow on my bonnet, I did hers. We kissed. She held me close and undid the buttons on my calico. I did hers. We kissed while the buttons slowly came undone. There were still a few buttons on my dress to do, when she slid her hands into my dress and pulled it back over my shoulders and down over my arms. She had "peeled" me again, and immediately pushed me back onto the bed and lay over me. Three nights of this? I liked the idea.

I bet we were on that bed half an hour as she bared my chest and had her hands and mouth all over me. I laid my head back and enjoyed it. When she had driven me half crazy, she pulled me up again.

"Let's see you in your formals." I had brought three. But it would not have mattered if I had brought two or ten. What she wanted was to watch me slowly put on one gown, then slowly take it off and then slowly put on another. Each time I was to walk, pose, and come to her so she could slide my zipper up or down, each time with one hand on my ass and her mouth on mine. I put on each gown at least four times. Finally she had me stay with my Bern formal, the baby blue off-the-shoulder tulle with a floral overlay and sweep train. It was beautiful, it was elegant, and it set the exact tone she wanted, since she was going to go in a very different direction.

Once she had me dressed, she put on a red satin number with a V neckline that went down well into her cleavage, while her floor length skirt was slit well up the side. So every time she moved, you were watching to see the satin slide across her breasts or up her thigh. She wanted to keep the attention of the media guests, and – if they had a pulse – she would get it.

The bathroom was huge, and her cosmetics were endless, so we finished our preparations standing chest to chest (and hip to hip) doing each other's makeup and hair. We alternated. One of us would do eyebrows while the other wrapped her arms around the other's ass and enjoyed herself. Then we would switch. And we would laugh, and kiss, and do mascara or lipstick or hair. We were in there forever.

But drinks were at seven, dinner at eight. So at seven thirty (she would make an entrance, of course), we put on heels and walked down to the lobby hand in hand. Down the marble staircase, across the sitting room, out to the patio. She had done this sort of evening before, so where did she stand? In a direct line between the door and the bar. Every person who came through got a hug, a moment's conversation, and a look down her dress. She worked that room like a pro.

Me? I stood with her a while, I wandered off to the bar for a glass of wine, and I stood and talked to the kitchen crew for a while. They were in awe of the place, and in awe of the clothes (Benicia was obviously competing with Lisa for most cleavage), and uncomfortable with their own dresses. But the girls were so cute wearing dresses they might have worn to church. I said some nice things, but what really saved the evening was the younger technicians who were obviously taken with the girls. It only took a smile from them, and the girls (and mom and aunt) were happy with the evening.

What was the dinner like? The hotel had brought out three eight tops to add to the seating, and of course Miles, Melanie, and Lisa each took a table and entertained seven media people for "exclusive" interviews. I ended up with a table of three sound guys, one of whom was the guy who filled in as a cowboy in the last scene. I complimented him, and he went on about that for a while, which made the other two jealous, so then I had to hear about all the effort it took to gather sound outdoors. Which is probably true. So I listened, and nodded at places that seemed appropriate. They lost me after "bandwidth," but I tried my best. I really do respect people like this. I have found whether it is these guys, or IT guys, or the people in security, whatever the function, people generally take pride in what they do. And I respect that. My problem is finding some way to participate in the conversation. In this case I remember Lisa having some concern about sound in the gazebo, so I asked about that. Forty five minutes later I had learned all about their response, and dessert had been served.

Lisa had promised some film footage after dinner, and I was curious what she would select. After gathering everyone in the sitting room, she projected a few minutes of wagons on the plains, the breaking of the axle, and then the campfire scene where Melanie holds Miles and wipes the dirt from his face. I swear I heard gasps. It is such a powerful scene. Both actors were mobbed by the media people after that footage. Even some of our crew crowded around to hear their comments on the scene.

Me? I knew Lisa would be busy for a while, so I went for a walk. Stairs are not easy with heels and a train, but I wanted to see that gazebo again. So I grabbed an armload of skirt and hiked up there. It was dark of course, but the view was still unbelievable. There was enough moon that you could see a reflection off the pacific, and here in the valley there were several homes with that nice yellow light you see coming out of windows. It was something to see.

I was probably out there ten minutes when I heard someone come up behind me – one of Lisa's assistants. Unfortunately, it was the one who had taken Lisa's bags and sneered at me in Kansas City.

"You won't like LA."

"I'm not going to LA."

"Please." Did this woman have any expression other than a sneer? "She will make you an assistant director, or assistant producer, assistant something, all of which just make you a gofer. And two weeks after you get there, you will find her in bed with some other girl."

"Have you noticed how beautiful the view is from here?"

"What?"

"I know it's a cliché to say stop and smell the roses, but Jesus lady, how big a bouquet do you need shoved up your nose? There is a view right from where you are standing, that is better than ninety nine percent of the world's people will ever see. Take a look." I pointed, and waited. She turned and walked away. Moron.

I enjoyed the view for a while more, then gathered up my skirts again and did the stairs back to the hotel and back to our room. What next? Prepare for Lisa, of course. I took off my dress, put on my favorite long satin nightgown, and sat out on the balcony. I opened the champagne and sent the cork flying down the hillside. Two glasses later, Lisa got back to our room.

Lisa confused the hell out of me that night. We had a long talk out on the balcony. About the movie, about her, about me, about LA. I loved sitting out there with her, but I wasn't sure what to make of it all. Did she really want me, or was she playing with me? Would she take me to LA? Would I go? Later, she was all over me in bed. I didn't sleep much, and I didn't want to. The woman knew what she was doing. By morning I was hanging on to her for dear life. I am not sure I have ever kissed someone so often – and so long. And, as she moved her hands over me, I know I stopped breathing multiple times. Would I follow her to LA? Oh yeah.

In the morning, I repaid her in the shower. Portland has lots of water. Afterwards we did each other's hair and makeup again. And again we stood close while we did it. Lisa actually took the belt off a terrycloth robe and wrapped it around our waists, tying it tight, pulling us against each other. We were actually a little too close when it came time to blow dry our hair or work on our eyes, but I have to say, it felt pretty good. We were both plenty warm when we left that bathroom.

What did we wear? Sun dresses. The wardrobe ladies had taken all the calicos and bonnets. Off to cases and on to LA. From now on, we could wear our own clothes. We picked each other's dress, and both of us picked yellow. It was a bright beautiful day, and we would be bright beautiful ladies.

Chapter 31

The Last Scene

We did have work to do. After breakfast out on the patio, there was the final scene. There was a reason we were in this hotel with this gazebo. It would be the setting that closed the film. As we ate the best omelets I have ever tasted (sorry, Shirette), we were joined by three mothers and three beautiful girls aged seven or eight. One of the three would be in the film. At the moment, no one knew which one.

Lisa asked me to do the walkthrough and rehearsals while the video and sound guys worked out their settings and Melanie went through makeup. So, I was introduced to the girls and their mothers as Jessica, the rehearsal lady. We talked for a little bit, mostly stuff to relax the girls, but I found they were actually pretty comfortable about this. The mothers seemed more stressed, but I will give them credit, none of them tried to interfere or insert herself in the process. So, no stage mothers.

By the time we were all comfortable, the video and sound technicians seemed ready to go, so we walked up to the gazebo. I brought all three in with me, and I had them sit while we talked some more, and then I asked two to leave. We would do the first walk through. As happens in these situations, Lisa and Jim wanted to try a couple different angles. So the first girl (Pamela) and I slid from one side of the gazebo to another while they worked out what would be best behind us. That done, there was the question of how Pamela and I should relate to one another. They finally got it down to two arrangements. In one, Pamela sat right next to me, and I had an arm around her. In another, she sat a few inches away, and we held hands. Which was best? They couldn't decide. So we rehearsed the scene both ways. And, since they still didn't know which girl would photograph best, we did the scene both ways for all three. So I did the scene six times as we walked through it and got sound levels, and then six more times as we rehearsed (and the girls auditioned).

What was the scene? It was Lisa's idea. She wanted to close on a note that audiences might find attractive - uplifting. So, we were to pretend that I (and then Melanie) had been telling the girls a story. Here are the lines:

PAM: Did all that really happen?

ME: Yes. They lived just up the Columbia River.

PAM: Was she really beautiful?

MW: Yes. Very beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman in America.

PAM: Did they have children?

ME: They had a daughter. Her name was Clarissa Alice. But some people say they had millions of daughters. All over Oregon. And each of those girls? They are strong, they are brave, they are beautiful. And when they love, they love with all their hearts. Just like Mrs. Whitman.

At this point, camera magic is supposed to happen, and we back away from me (Melanie) and the girl, and see the valley beyond, continuing to expand to show Oregon in all its beauty. I assume music comes in somewhere along the way.

So, that's how the film ends. I did my twelve takes and got out of the way. Lisa picked the first girl, Pamela, to be in the scene with Melanie, but the other two girls were pretty good about it. Melanie, of course, looked like an angel. Her blond hair actually shone a little too much, and they had to adjust one of the lights, but even standing back behind the technicians and the director, you could see Melanie brought a real gift to the scene. And when she turns and takes the girl's hands to say the final line, the expression on Pamela's face does look like she is being touched by an angel. It was pretty impressive.

We were done by about one. This part of the film was completed. Technicians repacked everything for the drive back down to LA, I called RV World and told them where they could find their trailers, and a few people even left that day. Me? Lisa had said she wanted three nights in Portland. To me, that meant two more nights in paradise.

I had lunch out on the patio with the kitchen crew, and then we all took a walk through the gardens. I have great gardens in Galena, and I know what that costs. These gardens? Well, they had the advantage of terrain – the gradual slope – but they also had the advantage of a garden crew that had to be second or third generation. It took us two hours to walk down the hill and then back up, because we stopped about every three feet to look at one more display that would have been the center piece of any other garden.

At one point Jolene asked if there were gardens like this at the hotel in St. Paul. I said there was landscaping, but things would be different there because of the climate. I didn't say I had no idea where to find gardeners like this, nor did I have any idea how I could pay them. What we were looking at just didn't occur at regular hotels.

Walk done, we all went back to our rooms to put our feet up and then get ready for the evening. Lisa's schedule for the night was – start drinking whenever you want, dinner at six, trivia party at seven thirty. Lots of people would be catching early flights, so the basic premise was to get things moving early in the hopes people went to bed at a reasonable time. Maybe.

Lisa was waiting for me when I got back to our room. She had a plan for how we would spend the hour or so before dinner.

"I brought two gowns that reminded me of Narcissa. Maybe she even had something like this, although they are a little fancy for a mission." Maybe they were from that period, but I doubted anything this nice had ever been seen in a mission. What she had was two taffeta ball gowns, one deep blue, the other a darker shade of purple. The purple was to be mine, but first, there was the preparation, starting with a corset. The agreement was we would each lace the other. We sat on the bed, one behind the other, and pulled. She did mine first, and had a great time pulling tight, and laughing when I complained. She took her time. When she reached the top, she tied the knot, and then reached around to hug me from behind, her face resting on the back of my neck. She seemed in no hurry to move, and I certainly didn't object, but eventually we traded positions, and I got to laugh at her complaints. I laced her up tight, and then wrapped both my arms and legs around her. Eventually we rolled around on that bed like school girls.

If it had just been the two of us, I think we might have stayed right there all night. But she did want to go to dinner, so finally she got me up, and we put on slips and petticoats. The petticoats gave real volume to the skirts when we finally got them over our heads. In addition, both skirts had an endless series of ruffles. These dresses were going to take up a lot of room. The bodices were nearly identical - just a hint of sleeves with a scoop neck that was stylish, but still formal. You could imagine a woman wearing such a gown to a party in 1840.

We did a little work on our hair, and touched up our makeup, I think mostly because it gave us an excuse to stand together and smile at each other. The taffeta had a nice feel to it, whether my hands were on her back, or pushing down the ruffles on her backside. I was hoping dinner would not take too long.

We put on low heel shoes and walked hand in hand to the patio. I think people could hear us coming. There was no shortage of rustling as we moved, and I found myself digging my free hand into my skirt to move it even more. Just two girls playing dress up.

Dinner was fun. We each took a glass of wine and stood to be admired. All the other women were wearing nice dresses, but nothing fancy. Lisa got the attention she wanted. We turned when asked, and stood for pictures, and Lisa explained over and over that she thought the gowns might have been worn in 1840 (maybe by a countess). It was an interesting touch for an interesting evening.

Eventually we were all seated. Lisa and I sat next to each other, our skirts pooled around us. The waiters had to serve from the far side of the table, or reach past us. Seating was not formally assigned, but I think it no accident that the two men at our table were the head videographer and the head sound guy. Wherever Lisa sat was the head table, and it drew the department heads. Our conversation? Mostly plans for the studio shoots. I noticed as the men talked about the future, they sometimes looked in my direction, not asking, but clearly wondering, whether I would be at the studio too. Lisa pretended not to see those looks.

While we ate, one of Lisa's assistants finished her meal and went into the sitting room to set up a projector. Video trivia? She worked away, but I saw no rush to join her. The food was fabulous, the service prompt, and we got to see the sun set over the gardens while we ate. There was no reason to hurry away from that meal.

Eventually Lisa went inside, and all her staff followed her. Trivia time. Lisa pointed to a case of champagne sitting on a table.

"There's the prize. Here's the game. Colleen will give each team one piece of paper, and one pencil. Draw an outline of the forty eight states, then show the Oregon Trail. On the trail, mark the three forts – Laramie, Bridger, and Boise. Then mark South Pass. Then name the rivers along the route. You know you will be asked all this a million times when we get back to LA. Let's see if you are ready. Four teams – sound, video, support, administration. You have half an hour. Any person who gets a phone out to check, automatically disqualifies your team. Questions? Good. Time starts now."

Two things I liked about that contest. First, it was an interesting challenge. We had traveled nearly two thousand miles. We had seen and done a lot. This seemed a good way to refresh our memories. Second, the kitchen crew jumped right into it. They decided they were "support" and joined four prop guys and the wardrobe ladies. They were included. The two younger prop guys seemed particularly happy to include Jolene. Off to one corner went each of the groups, and the drawing began.

What did we get half an hour later? Laughter, mostly. Lisa's assistant took a picture of each drawing, and projected it on a wall. You have never seen such sad maps. And of course that fed Lisa's comments. A short selection: 1- "I'm not sure if that is Florida, or if this is a picture of a lame horse. 2- Did anyone remember starting out in Kansas City, and do you remember it being a suburb of Chicago? 3- Nice job on South Pass – it looks like Mexicans can use it as they drive to Tijuana. 4- I could swear Boise was somewhere near Idaho." You get the idea. She milked the laughs for about fifteen minutes.

In the end, the case of champagne went to the support team, all of whom promptly said it was Jolene and Marlena who had gotten most of the map correct. A pretty nice outcome. And, Shirette and Clarissa walked off with a bottle of champagne in each hand. The girls got hugs from the rest of the team (fairly long hugs), and then they followed their mom down the hall.

Lisa chatted for a while as people slowly left, and then took my hand and led me outside and up to the gazebo. Armloads of ruffles made it a complicated climb, but we managed. I wasn't sure what she had in mind, but I was happy to be back up there, once again looking down into the lights of the valley. For the first few minutes we stood locked together, our arms around each other, our legs up against each other's skirts and petticoats. We kissed again and again, and then just leaned our heads on each other's shoulder. In between kisses, we said the obvious – "I love you."

At some point, Lisa got us seated, our arms still around each other, our heads together as if we were telling each other secrets. There were long stretches when we didn't talk at all. When we did talk, it was in whispers. I think I started.

"Thank you. Thank you for bringing me along. Thank you for holding me. Thank you for each kiss."

"I have loved every day with you." Long silence, our heads unmoving, but our hands constantly caressing each other. "Do you like it here?"

"This place is unbelievable. It's like every view is a gift."

"You have seen much of the world. Europe, the Middle East. If you had to choose one place you would like to go to right now, where would it be?"

"St. Paul. Our new hotel is just open and I hear it is..." And I thought my heart would stop. What had I just said? Why had I said it? And my brain just shut down. No words. I desperately needed to say something, and I couldn't. Instead, I buried my face in her neck, kissed her, and wrapped my arms around her as tightly as I could.

"Jess, it's okay. This isn't a test. I was already pretty sure the answer was not going to be LA or Montana."

"But I would love LA."

"You might, or you might not. But it's not the right place for you. You're a mission girl like Narcissa. But your mission is to revive old buildings and old towns, and maybe revive some people along the way. My mission, after twelve years of making dick flicks, is to show what love really is. I want them to see the beauty, and strength, and complexity of love. I think I have a start on that."

"And us?"

"First, I will drive you crazy all night. And then, like all entertainers, I will leave you begging for more."

"Will there be more?"

"Jess, sequels are the life blood of my business."

Did she drive me crazy all night? Oh yes. And yes, there were several times when I broke down and cried, but I didn't waste a lot of time on that. I had her now, I held her now, I loved her now. I clung to her. I kissed her. I caressed every inch of her body.

In the morning, after a shower that mostly consisted of us holding each other while water ran over our shoulders, she asked me to put the purple gown back on. A final gift from her, and a nod to Narcissa. The corset was another kind of gift. She laced it as tight as possible, and knotted the cords, a final hug from her that I would feel all day. Lisa put on a little black dress. Something comfortable for the flight, but still cut so that as people walked past her in first class, they would notice her. (Did you see that Lisa Lang is on this flight?)

We had a light breakfast and then stood on the front porch while bell hops brought out her bags and loaded them into her airport limo. It seemed everyone else was leaving then too, her staff to catch that plane, getting into their own airport limos, the kitchen crew to take their RV to St. Paul and then Kansas City. I took a minute to hug and kiss the kitchen crew. It really had been the perfect arrangement. I was grateful to them for the quality of work they had done, and they were grateful to me for the opportunity. Our smiles were genuine.

Finally it was just Lisa and I standing together at the edge of the drive, kissing and talking.

"You told me three nights in Portland."

"This gives you a night on your own. Time to think about your forest ranger."

"I'll be thinking about you."

"Think about a visit. Hollywood throws a party every April. You would look lovely wearing that dress as we walk the red carpet."

"It would be fun to see Miles get his Oscar."

"I think we have a good chance at five or six."

"And one for director. Maybe I didn't go to film school, but I would bet my Toyota that you had us in the desert a third week because you knew you could get Miles to a new level."

"Maybe." She just smiled. "But you know the scene where Melanie holds him and wipes his face? That is the scene I will be remembered for, and I had nothing to do with it. That was all Melanie."

"You're the one who put her there."

"Thank you. April. Hold my hand as we walk the carpet." She held me for one last kiss. The other airport limos had left. Hers was waiting, the driver actually out and holding her door. She made him wait while she kissed me, holding me tight, and then tighter. Her hips and thighs were as tight to me as she could get them. My temperature started climbing and my breathing pretty much stopped. I wanted her so badly right then and there. And I saw her smile. She was teasing, obviously. Leave them wanting more. Her face said it all.

What did my face say? I don't know, but my mouth said, "Can I see you before April?"

"Think about Casper in December. We can practice our red carpet routine."

One last kiss and she was in the limo. Her skirt slid well up her thigh as she got into her seat. She saw me looking, and smiled. A Hollywood exit.

As the limo pulled away, I stood and waved. Window washer. Maybe she waved back. The windows were tinted. I stood on the porch for a while after the limo disappeared. Now what? Allen would arrive tomorrow. Today was mine. I turned and just started walking. After I had taken five steps, I knew where I was going – the gazebo.

Armloads of ruffles later, I was there. I sat where I had sat when rehearsing the final scene. All three girls had been so cute. They all looked up at me so innocently. They weren't acting. They were asking. Did she have children? Yes. Millions of them all over Oregon. All strong, beautiful, and brave. And when they loved, they loved with all their hearts.

Did I love Allen with all my heart? I did love him. But with all my heart? Enough to live in his cabin in Montana? Staring out the window at the long, empty road?

Fists full of taffeta, I walked down the stairs and then up to the lobby. Yes, they would bring my RV around, and send bell hops down to my room. It didn't take me long to pack, and I had my bags ready when they arrived. For reasons that I didn't fully understand, I kept that gown on. It wouldn't make driving any easier, but I wanted to wear it, so I did.

Twenty minutes after my time in the gazebo, I was driving east. I know you are not supposed to do it, and I hate it every time I see it, but I called Allen as I drove.

"Allen, I have checked out of the hotel."

"Great. Where can we meet?"

"I'm driving east."

"Jess?"

"Allen, I love you, but right now I just want to drive east."

"Can I see you again?"

"I would like that. Maybe in a week or so in St. Paul."

"St. Paul?"

"The new Heritage Hotel on the river."

"Okay..." He sounded confused, not that I could blame him.

"Thanks, Allen. I love you." And I hung up. I know I wasn't being fair to the guy. And I really did love him. But when I thought of the future, I thought of St. Paul, not Montana. That had to mean something, right?

I drove the Interstate east, but after about four hours I turned off and drove north. The road was narrow, barely used. The parking lot was empty. I get it. Not much to see. Just a granite stick on the top of a hill. But it was a place I wanted to see again.

I climbed the hill, lifting my skirts. A nicer gown than Narcissa would have worn on her hikes up this hill, but the same fit and length. Certainly a different view. She would have looked down and seen buildings, and maybe several of the children she cared for. Her husband might have been down there working, or he might have walked up here with her. If so, I hoped he had held her hand. She had sat on his lap when they were newlyweds. Did she still tease him? She was thirty nine in her final year. Her last summer. She might still have had the energy and desire to stand close, maybe to bring his arm around her waist or up around her shoulders. Her hands on him as they talked. And they would talk. Two missionaries. Both here to do God's work.

Lisa was right, telling her story. And his. Two special people. They dared all, risked all, and for eleven years accomplished everything together.

It would be interesting to see how Lisa was going to frame their meeting back east. The doctor who was surgeon to mountain men, and the lady who studied for missions, and waited. Twenty seven, almost twenty eight. She waited. And when the right man came, when his mission matched her mission, she loved him with all her heart.

I sat on the bench by her monument, watching the grass bend in the wind, and imagining Narcissa walk around the grounds below me. When the sun set, I got back in my RV and drove towards St. Paul.

Author's Note:

There are a number of really good books about the Oregon Trail, including copies of personal diaries from those who have taken the trail. Let me recommend two books in particular:

If you wish to actually follow some of the trail, try Traveling the Oregon Trail by Julie Fanselow, Falcon Press, 1992. It has detailed descriptions and lots of photos.

If you are interested in the history of the period, try Across the Wide Missouri by Bernard DeVoto, Mariner Books, 1998. This book is one of three written about the West by DeVoto back in the 1940s. This volume includes all the early explorers and has a long section on the Whitmans. DeVoto is no dry historian. There are historical figures he really dislikes. The guy has an attitude, and a style. This book is 450 pages of small print, but worth the effort. It won the Pulitzer for history. It takes a few pages to get used to the guy, but there is a reason why this book is still in print. Give DeVoto a chance if you have any interest in US history. Every good library will have a copy.

For maps of the Trail, use this Park Service URL: www.nps.gov/oreg/planyourvisit/maps.htm

