Callie walked for hours.
The sun rose to its highest point then began its descent back towards the horizon, casting long shadows.
On one side was a wide open plain, dotted here and there with grazing cattle. In the far distance she could just spot the tips of snowcapped mountains, turning slowly pink as dusk began to fall. To her left was a wide copse of trees, not quite thick enough to aspire to be a forest, but just enough to provide a little shade, for which Callie was grateful.
Despite her trusty boots, her blisters had blisters, and yet Callie was strangely content. Other than the squawk or shuffle of an animal in the undergrowth now and then, the countryside was shrouded in complete silence. In spite of her precarious situation, Callie could feel her mind drifting in to a welcome stillness as she tramped on and on.
After the fire, Callie and her six brothers had been shunted from distant relative to distant relative. The strangers ranged from warm and sympathetic to horrified at having seven extra mouths to feed but willing to do their Christian duty. It was all right for her brothers: boys had roles. They could clear land, muck out stables, break in horses to earn their keep. In her own home, Callie had worked right alongside them, but in every subsequent household they had lived, the suggestion that she put on her khaki skirt with the split for riding astride and help to bring in the cattle, had been met with horror.
As soon as she could escape each day, she would pack an apple or some bread with butter she had spent the morning churning, and walk. Sometimes, she would come across her brothers in the fields, repairing fences or attending to cattle, and she would watch them work. She enjoyed the quiet concentration with which men passed their day.
It was on those afternoons that Cassie's mind was able to run free. She walked aimlessly through silent countryside for miles and miles, lost entirely in imaginary worlds of dragons and knights and cowboys and queens. Late at night, working by candlelight, she would write up anything she could remember.
There was no silence to be found in Hollywood. Even away from the cacophony of movie studios, there was still the constant rumbling of traffic, clanging of street cars, musicians practising, and people making deals, promises, contacts on every street corner. Up in the remote hills where she lived, the family from whom she rented were great opera fans. They often flung open their windows to fill the air with the latest Strauss or Kienzl.
It was no wonder she hadn't been able to come up with an exciting original story in so long, Callie thought now. In the daily bustle of the city, there was no room in her mind for anything which didn't already exist. Now, tramping in contented solitude through the amber glow of the fading sun, Callie felt her imagination spark to life.
That was when she heard the growl.
Callie drew gently to a stop, her every sense on high alert. She scanned to the undergrowth carefully. It wasn’t until she slowly turned towards the trees that she saw it.
The wolf was at least four feet long. His pale, silvery-grey coat was thick and gleaming, his haunches broad and piercing blue eyes seemingly too soulful to belong to a beast. He was crouched by a silver birch, watching her intently. The growl hadn't been a threat but a warning, which Callie heeded.
Moving with deliberate steadiness, Callie planted her feet firmly, wide apart, and raised her knapsack over her head to make herself seem tall enough to be inadvisable prey. Without breaking eye contact, she began to step slowly backwards. The wolf watched her curiously. He was well-fed, she could see with relief, which meant he was unlikely to attack unless she startled or threatened him.
When she was several yards further back and he hadn't moved a muscle, Callie let go of the breath she had been holding. She was filled with awe at what magnificent a creature he was. Now that he hadn't eaten her, she felt privileged to have shared his world for a few moments.
Callie saw the wolf's hackle rise before she heard what had disturbed him. The rattling roar of a motorised bicycle was so incongruous that Callie would have been certain she was mistaken had the wolf not to his feet, his growl raised to a threat level that turned Callie's insides to lead.
The motor bike tore up behind Callie and a strong arm propelled her into the air as the wolf give a sharp bark and turned to bound back into the trees. Callie was pinned painfully to the side of the burning hot metal of the bike. She struggled wildly, trying to get enough grip to elbow her captor in the ribs.
'Sit still,' a male voice commanded over the rumble of the engine.
Callie dug her nails into the back of his hand. With a yelp of pain he released her and she went tumbling onto the road. Her temple collided with a rock and she gasped, breathing in dust and rubble as she rolled over and over.
The sudden imbalance caused the bike to careen madly, finally puttering to a stop in a thick thorny bush. The rider was deposited in an undignified heap.
He scrabbled to his feet. The man was tall and broad shouldered, with unruly chestnut hair worn a little longer than the current fashion, and dark brown eyes that flashed with anger. He wore the blue denims and checked shirt that marked him out as a ranch man. A battered cowboy hat hat sat on top of a wiry bush a few feet away. 'What do you mean scratching me like that?' he demanded.
Callie stood up a little unsteadily. The world span and righted itself. Every bone felt rattled, she was quite certain she would be bruised from head to toe come morning. She brushed at the itch on her cheek and her hand came away smeared with blood.
'You could have gotten us both killed,' she shouted.
'I was saving your life,' he shot back, 'in case you hadn't noticed. Would you rather I had let you get eaten by a wolf? You're lucky I spotted you.'
'Lucky!' shouted Callie. 'It was lucky he chose to run away when you startled him. You think that hunk of metal could outrun a wolf? We'd both have been his dinner and your ridiculous bike.'
The man's lips twitched into a grin.
'He wouldn't have eaten the bike,' he countered.
'He might have,' Callie shot back.
'Judging by your dress I reckon you're a city slicker, so I'll forgive you for not knowing that wolves don't eat metal.
'Everett Williams,' he added, raising a hand to tip the hat he did not currently wear.
'Callie O'Keefe.'
'I ain't never seen a flapper in real life before.'
'Well don't wear your eyes out. You don't know when you might need to spot the next damsel in distress.'
'Damsel in distress, eh? You mean like the new PG Woodhouse novel?'
'You've read it?' Callie asked in surprise.
'I read,' Everett said coolly and Callie rolled her eyes.
'I'm just surprised a copy has made its way out here already. It was only published last month.'
'I haven't read it yet,' he admitted. 'It's waiting for me at the mail office in Butte. I was on my way to pick it up when I stopped to save your life. What's a stranger doing wandering around here alone at this time anyhow?'
Callie rummaged in her knapsack for the postcard. ‘I'm looking for this rock — do you know it?’
A curious expression flickered over Everett’s face as he stared at the postcard.
‘What do you want to know for?’
‘I’m looking for somebody,’ she said. 'There's a story that features the rock, that would make an excellent picture, if only I could find the author.'
Everett stared. ‘You mean to say you work for one of them film factories over in Hollywood?’
Callie nodded. It was more or less true. Everett blinked in awe and Callie concealed a smile. Even a rough cowboy such as himself was thrilled at the mention of movies.
‘Do you know Charlie Chaplin?’
Callie did, as a matter of fact. She had met him a handful of times thanks to Hildy’s association with Mabel Normand. Even before Hildy told her how he mistreated his wife (and the fact that Mildred had been practically still a girl when they married), Callie had found the little Englishman offensively rude. She had learned, however, that this was not information people wanted to learn of their beloved Little Tramp.
‘A little,’ she admitted.
‘And Mary Pickford?’
‘I like Mary.’
‘Is it true Theda Bara sleeps with a snake and communes with the dead?’
Callie bit back a giggle. The famous vamp was actually Theodosia Goodman, from Cincinnati. She was friendly and fun and considered the persona her boss William Fox had invented for her play for the public an absolute hoot. The only time Callie knew of her to commune with the dead was when she asked for blessings to help her beat Mabel in their long running Scrabble tournament.
‘Theda has at least three snakes and drinks animal blood every morning to keep her skin clear,’ Callie said solemnly.
‘Well, horsefeathers,’ Everett said in wonder. ‘So — you wanna find this author and take him to Hollywood?’
‘No, not quite,’ said Callie in alarm. ‘We have plenty film writers in Hollywood. I just need his permission to use the story. And to change the title, the title is terrible.’
'Sounds to me like it describes the story pretty well.'
'Not really,' grinned Callie, 'but I'll discuss all that with the author when I meet him.'
‘I see. Well, maybe I can help you.’
‘You can?’
‘I said maybe. Let me think on it. I’ll take you back to town in the meantime.’ Everett yanked the bike from the bushes brushed the worst of the leaves and dirt from it, and bowed deeply. 'My lady,' he said, holding out his hand.