Page 80 of Born to be Wilder

His eyes landed on me, and I placed my hand on my chest, mouth falling ajar.

“Colt enters the saloon. The camera follows him from there to there, then pivots. It catches the madam at the top of the stairs, follows her down, spins here, then here, and meets her back at the bar where she approaches Colt.”

He continued giving directions until he was sure everyone understood the plan, each extra and actor nodding along.

“Wait. I thought Colt died in that last scene? How is he going to show up in this one?” Doris whispered.

“Because they aren’t shot in order. It’s not like a play. The editors piece it all together.”

“Oh, that’s neat!” she said a little too loudly, calling the attention of Dan and Clarice.

We shrank beneath their glares.

“We need to be quiet now. I don’t want to get kicked out and miss this,” Sylvie scolded.

We did as she said, and the rest of the set followed suit, a stillness settling over everything.

“And… ACTION!” the director yelled.

The doors to the bar swung open, and Colt sauntered in like he owned the place. We watched as the scene unfolded just as Anders had said, the cameraman moving effortlessly through all the obstacles.

Then at the top of the saloon staircase, a door opened.

Alice stepped out.

It was all I could do not to gasp, and I wasn’t the type of woman who gasped easily.

She looked like a goddess of the frontier, a woman who owned every grain of dust in this town.

The dress was midnight blue, fitted through the bodice with beading that caught the light and threw it back in small reflections. The neckline scooped low, and the skirt swept the floor as she began to descend. She kept her chin held high, her elaborate upswept wig, dark curls pinned in a tower, making her look even taller than her natural height.

Alice owned the room as she stepped onto the saloon floor, and I wasn’t sure if that was her character or her. Probably both.

She reached the bar and leaned against it as she took Colt’s glass of whiskey—well, brown water—and slammed it with one swig. She set it down, her gloved fingers spinning it slowly as she delivered her lines. Something about the price of whiskey and the cost of a man’s soul. Each word held her sharp, effortless wit that had Colt Stirling himself looking a little dazed.

The scene ended with her walking away, the glance over her shoulder so simple yet powerful enough to drop any man in the vicinity to their knees.

That, that was Alice.

No doubt.

As she walked away, the director yelled, “Cut!” and then the room erupted. The crew, the actors, even stone-faced Clarice clapped.

“One take! You did it in one take! I knew you were the one! You nailed it!” Clarice clapped harder.

Alice didn’t blush. She didn’t act surprised. She just inclined her head like a queen accepting her due. “Of course I nailed it,” she said, then accepted the praise of everyone around her as they reset for the next scene.

After she was fawned over by everyone in the saloon, Alice made her way to us.

“Alice, you were... you were breathtaking,” Doris breathed, covering her mouth.

“You looked like a movie star,” Sylvie added, her voice thick with genuine awe.

“Cripes, Alice! You really did look like a movie star!”

“And this dress.” Doris reached out to touch the velvet of the sleeve. “It’s so beautiful!”

Alice leaned in, a mischievous glint in her eye. “This dress is amazing, isn’t it? And look at my breasts! Seriously. This corset is doing the work of a team of structural engineers. They look so perky you need to be careful I don’t take out your eyes.” She gave them a little push up, glancing down at the cleavage spilling out. Then she paused, her lip pulling down in a frown. “I sure will be very sad if this is one of my last days with them before the surgery. But at least if this is their last hurrah, they will be immortalized on the silver screen for eternity.”