Page 74 of Born to be Wilder

“Aaaaand—action!”

The hooves again. Jackson coming down the street. The camera making its slow pan across the scene—storefronts, extras, boardwalk—sliding toward us in that smooth, inevitable way.

Jackson pulled up Betty right in front of us, the mare happy now that her bit was fixed.

The camera spun toward him, framing us right behind it.

The moment it pointed at us, Sylvie locked up like an engine in winter.

Every muscle. Every joint. Staring directly, unblinkingly, with the full force of her eyes, straight into the lens.

“Cut!” someone yelled.

“The woman in the navy dress,” the director called.

Sylvie’s hand rose slowly. Me?

“Yes. You. The one staring directly into the camera and RUINING MY SHOT!”

“I… I’m so sorry. When it moved toward me, I just… Everything went blank, and I⁠—”

Toby rushed over, his blue pants swishing together with his hurried steps. His face had returned to that shade of tomato red. Or perhaps it was always that color, though I doubted it.

It was us. It was definitely us.

“Townswoman Number Fifteen! What did I say? What. Did. I. SAY!? Don’t look at the camera!”

Sylvie held up her hands. “I’m so sorry. I won’t, I promise. I just panicked⁠—”

Toby turned back to us and hurried away, hands thrown up in the air in exasperation, like we’d stolen years from his life, or at the very least, added years to his estimated retirement date.

On the reset, I turned to Sylvie, put both hands on her shoulders, and squared her toward me.

“Okay,” I said. “This is our shot. Our one shot at getting ourselves immortalized in film. We can’t screw it up again! Don’t look at the camera. You aren’t Sylvie. You’re a townswoman. A schoolteacher. You’re thinking about Darla and how to help her with her cursive. That damned Darla can never get her Rs right. And your husband. Is he cheating? Maybe you think he’s been spending too much time at the saloon. Wondering if he’s been sneaking off with that harlot Mary everyone whispers about. You understand? You’re not Sylvie. No cameras. You’re Evelyn Pewster, schoolmarm. Scorned prairie wife. Got it?”

She blinked back at me. “Evelyn Pewster. Schoolmarm.”

I nodded along with her. “And you’re here with Buck because she just saved you from a would-be bandit this morning on your way to town. She was dashing. Incredible. Shot the balls off three men who woulda had their way with you.”

Doris pulled a face. “Eew.”

I spun toward her. “Buck doesn’t mess around. And she wasn’t gonna let those filthy animals get their mitts on Evelyn Pewster.”

“Wow,” Doris whispered. “Buck is really something.”

I cocked a hip, guns pushed forward. “She sure is. Now, everyone in character. Let’s nail this scene.”

“Quiet on set!” Toby called. “And… ACTION!”

Jackson came flying toward us again, Betty tearing down the dirt street. The camera panned. This time Sylvie kept her eyes off the lens—I could see the effort it took, the deliberate redirecting of her gaze toward the scene.

Jackson reined up. Pulled his gun. Called out.

Colt Stirling sauntered out of the saloon. We watched them like we would have in real life, all the other townspeople staring at the two men in a tense exchange. Their acting talent on full display as they unleashed cold, raw fury on each other so that I nearly forgot I was on a movie set.

Colt’s hand dropped to his holster.

Jackson’s followed.