Rina got back on the pedestal and turned toward her.
Ilene tugged at the garment, her fingers burning where they touched Rina.
At last, the tights gave way and Ilene felt Rina shiver as her hand accidentally brushed the soft silken pubis.
"Are you cold?" Ilene asked, stepping back.
Rina stared at her for a moment, then averted her eyes.
"No," she answered in a low voice, stepping out of the tights.
She picked them up and held them toward Ilene. Ilene reached for the costume, touched Rina's hand and suddenly couldn't let it go.
She looked up at Rina steadily, her heart choking inside her. Rina shivered again.
"No," she whispered, her eyes still looking away. "Please, don't."
Ilene felt as if she were in a dream.
Nothing seemed real.
"Look at me," she said.
Slowly Rina turned her head. Their eyes met and Ilene could sense her trembling.
She saw Rina's nipples burst forth upon her breasts like awakening red flowers on a white field.
She moved toward her and buried her face in the pale soft flax between her hips.
They were very still for a moment, then she felt Rina's hand lightly brushing across her hair.
She stepped back and Rina came down into her arms.
Ilene felt the hot tears suddenly push their way into her eyes.
"Why?" she cried wildly. "Why did you have to marry him?"
As usual, Nevada awoke at four thirty in the morning, pulled on a pair of worn Levi's and went down to the stables.
As usual, on his way out, he closed the connecting door between their rooms to let Rina know he had gone out.
The wrangler was waiting with a steaming mug of bitter black range coffee.
Their conversation followed the routine morning pattern as Nevada felt the hot coffee scald its way down to his stomach.
The mug empty, and Nevada in the lead, they walked through the stable, looking into each stall.
At the end was Whitey's stall.
Nevada came to a stop in front of it.
"Mornin', boy," he whispered.
The palomino stuck its head over the gate and looked at Nevada with large, intelligent eyes.
It nuzzled against Nevada's hand, searching for the lump of sugar it knew would appear there.
It wasn't disappointed.
Nevada opened the gate and went into the stall. He ran his hands over the sleek, glistening sides of the animal.
"We're gettin' a little fat, boy," he whispered. "That's because we haven't had much to do lately.
I better take you out for a little exercise."
Without speaking, the wrangler handed him the big saddle that lay crosswise on the partition between the stalls.
Nevada slung it over the horse's back and cinched it tight. He placed the bit in the mouth and led the animal out of the stable. In front of the white-painted wooden building, he mounted up.
He rode down the riding trail to the small exercise track he had built at the foot of the hill in back of the house.
He could see the gray spires of the roof as he rode past. Mechanically he put the horse through its paces.
The item he had read in Variety came to his mind. His lip curved at the irony.
Here he was with the biggest-grossing picture of the year and not once during that whole period had anyone approached him about beginning another.
The day of the big Western movie was over. It was too expensive.
At least he wasn't the only one, he thought.
Mix, Maynard, Gibson, Holt – they were all in the same boat.
Maynard had tried to fight it. He made a series of quickies for Universal, which took about five days to complete.
Nevada had seen one of them. Not for him.
The picture was choppy and the sound worse. Half the time, you couldn't even understand what the actors were saying.
Tom Mix had tried something else.
He'd taken a Wild-West show to Europe and, if the trade papers were right, he and his horse, Tony, had knocked them dead.
Maybe that was worth thinking about.
The troop he had on the road was still doing all right. If he went out with it, it would do even better.
It was that or take up the guitar.