Forget Me Not (16 page)

“Mr. Mc—” Josephine stopped herself with a shake of her flour-coated hands. “Um, Boots, could you be so kind as to show me where the Dutch ovens are kept?” She knew where they were but wanted to give him something to do.

“Beneath the box.”

“Could you be clearer?”

“Good gawd.” He stood and walked toward her. “The box. The only box.”

When she didn't move for the box, he swore again.

“That box,” he said, pointing to the four-foot-high cupboard, then shifted the aim of his finger below it.

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

She retrieved the ovens and dumped the meat into them. Then she lugged each one to the fire. Next came the sourdough biscuits.

“If you've nothing pressing, I was wondering if perhaps you could talk to me while I make the biscuits.”

“Talk about what?” he asked suspiciously.

“Whatever you like.”

With a shrug, Boots dragged his wooden crate over and settled in to watch.

Josephine retrieved the sourdough jug, lifted the lid to peer inside, and was instantly taken aback by the bubbling goo rising up the sides of the porcelain keg. Her first reaction had been that it had gone bad, but Boots leaned over and nodded.

“Good batch.”

She glanced at the recipe and began following the
instructions with Boots's “helpful hints,” although she gave them more merit now after concluding he'd been right about the way to cut meat.

Immersed in stirring the salt and lard into the flour, she didn't readily hear Rio ride up to them. The nicker of horses caused both her and Boots to look up at the wrangler traveling with his remuda.

“The boys are about an hour behind me,” he said, dismounting and slapping the dust of his pants. “Something smells good.”

A pulse-quickening panic rushed through Josephine, who swiftly thought he was joking with her. She delicately sniffed so as not to be detected.

He was right!

Something did smell good. It was her browned meat, now covered with the right amount of water, potatoes, some skunk eggs—that's what Boots had called the onions—and a pinch of cayenne pepper. Pleasure rose inside her until it came to the surface in a smile. “My stew,” she declared with a fair amount of modesty.

“What are you going to name it?” Rio asked, heading for the water barrel and grabbing the dipper.

“Name it?”

“The cook always names the first stew on the trail after a member of the drive. Usually somebody he's got a pet peeve with.”

“Oh.” Josephine worked some sugar into the dough as she pushed the mass into the counter to incorporate it. Boots had explained that she had to knead the dough with the heel of her hand, not pound it. She didn't know what “
knead
” meant, but she figured it out by the way Boots was demonstrating with impatience in the air. “Why, I don't have a personal vexation with anybody,” she said, putting her weight into the task of flattening the sourdough, then folding, then flattening again.

“Luis always did,” Rio replied after taking a drink. “Inevitably, somebody came riding in and unsaddled
his horse by the chuck and let hair and dust fly, or a newly hired hand tried to sneak a peek in the pot without permission. Could be not putting dirty dishes and eatin' irons in the pan when he's through. You take your pick, and that's who you ought to name the stew after.”

Josephine thought a moment as she pinched off a piece of the kneaded dough and rolled it into a ball. “Can't I name the stew after somebody for another reason?”

Rio shrugged. “Never been done before, Miss Josephine, but you're the cook.” Then, to Boots, he frowned. “Why didn't you unhitch the team?”

“Not my job.”

Stomping over to the mules, Rio shot back, “At least get the grain out that's under the seat while I unharness them.”

“I got nothing else better to do.” Boots stood from the crate and went toward the front of the wagon.

The oft-repeated phrase that Boots spoke got Josephine to thinking.

Sliding the box out from beneath the seat, Boots declared, “Good gawd. What'd y'all pack in here? Iron weights? It must weigh a ton . . .”

The rest of his words were lost, as the beginning of an idea was forming in Josephine's head.

•  •  •

Something was wrong.

J.D. rode toward the camp thinking he could smell Luis's stew. That same aroma that had welcomed him after a long day in the saddle and made his mouth water. Like it was now. Surely he was imagining things. The afternoon on the trail had taken its toll on him. He was dead tired, covered with dust, and thirsty. He was thinking up things that weren't real.

There was no sign of Josephine as J.D. reined in. Behind him, the muffled lowing of cows drifted nearer. The boys were moving the herd to the bed ground, getting them quiet and settled in for the night.

After approaching the wagon and dismounting a goodly distance away so as not to send any stirred-up dirt into the cook's pots, J.D. led Tequila by the reins. Rio showed up around the wagon's billowing canvas cover.

“Hey, boss,” Rio said around a lump of something in his mouth. J.D. noticed the kid was holding on to a piece of white biscuit dough. “We heard you coming in. Miss Josephine said supper's almost ready.” Rio took the reins into his free hand.

“That a fact?” J.D. replied. Inhaling the strong aroma of coffee, he couldn't help asking, “Who's at the fire? It doesn't smell like Josephine's work.”

“No, boss, it doesn't. But it is. She's got stew. And she's making biscuits.” He gave a wistful sigh. “She's an amazing woman.”

Rather than mull over Rio's infatuation with Josephine, J.D. let his gaze fall on the lump of dough. “Is that any good?”

“Raw, it don't taste too bad. I wouldn't know what to compare it to. Luis never let me near the endgate when he was at it. But Miss Josephine doesn't mind.”

Loosening the leather in the cinch ring, J.D. undid the saddle strap. “She doesn't know she's not supposed to let anybody close while she's cooking.”

“I reckon not.”

J.D. hoisted the saddle off Tequila. “Throw that blanket on top, would you?”

Rio obliged and removed the sweaty blanket from the horse's back. Draping the thick fabric upside down on the saddle J.D. was holding, Rio said, “I'll brush him down for you.”

“Obliged.” J.D. walked toward the fire, where a myriad of cast-iron pots sat over the coals. He flung his saddle on the ground to use as part of his bedroll later. Removing his gloves and tucking them into the pocket of his chaps, he turned to see what Josephine was up to. He didn't find her at the drop-down table at the back of the wagon. So he went over to investigate.
He heard rattling inside the bed of the wagon. Walking to the front, he climbed up and sat backward on the seat. He poked his finger through the part in the canvas.

All he could see was Josephine's hind end. She was on all fours. The billow of his shirt fell softly to the wagon bed floor, and if he tilted his head a certain degree, he could see a slice of snowy white around her waist that had to be her corset. His gaze caught the lace-cupped swells of her breasts when she suddenly shifted and scooted toward him without looking where she was going.

She shuffled and moved the heavy supplies, the bags of flour, coffee, and pinto beans. She slid some cans to the left and lined up the molasses jugs next to her thigh. Her knee bumped into the long black branding irons, and she muttered something he couldn't clearly make out. An ax was to her right, and she picked it up.

He couldn't help saying, “I don't suppose we'll need that to cut the biscuits you've got on.”

“What?” Still in her bent-down position, she turned her head toward him, ax in hand. A piece of her fiery hair had come loose from its crown of entwined braids. She didn't wear any ribbons, nor did she have on his hat. He was able to make out the oval of her face and the glimmer of surprise in her brown eyes.

He nudged his chin up a little, gesturing to the implement in her tight grasp. “What do you need the ax for?”

Her gaze landed on the sharp end. “Boots.”

“Yeah, I've felt like chopping him up myself.”

“No,” she returned sharply. “I would never think such a thought about that dear old man.”

J.D. widened the opening in the canvas by taking both sides in his hands. “Then we must not be talking about the same person.”

“Of course we are. I'm getting the ax for Boots.”

“What for?”

“You'll see.”

Josephine raised herself up to her knees and stood. She had to stoop over so her head wouldn't hit the top of the bowed canvas. Stepping over her valise, she came toward him without another word. J.D. held the canvas open for her, then jumped down and lifted his hand. She planted the ax handle in it rather than her fingers. Then she turned around so she could back down by putting one boot on the hub while the other dangled.

Tossing the ax, J.D. reached up with both hands and circled her waist with his palms to pluck her free. At first she wouldn't budge, then she let go, and he swung her to the ground. She twisted free of his grasp, a blush rising across her cheeks.

“That wasn't necessary,” she said, fussing with the stray lock of hair, trying to get it to stick back with the others and not having much success.

“Maybe not,” he returned, inexplicably enjoying the color of discomfiture on her face. Picking up the ax, he handed it to her. Then he went to the water barrel and dipped the ladle inside. After a long, satisfying drink, he laid the dipper down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up, surprised to find her gaze still pinned on him. Most notably his lips. “I thought you were going to give Boots that ax.”

“I—I was,” she stammered. “I mean, I am.”

She took off in the direction of the gully, the unwieldy ax pulling her shoulder down. Once at the edge, she called for Boots, who must have been walking along the dry banks.

The scene that had passed between him and his father earlier replayed in J.D.'s head.
You're not worth much of anything.
J.D. shuddered. As soon as he'd spoken the biting words, he'd been sorry for them. But there was no taking them back, and that made J.D. want to try harder to get along with Boots.

J.D. folded his arms across his chest and leaned
into the wagon's sideboard. Boots appeared, cradling an armload of long and short branches and squaw wood. Aged by years of damage and recovery, his body tilted forward, his hips stiff as he walked up the shallow incline of loose pebbles. His bowed legs seemed pained as he approached Josephine and, without ceremony, dumped his load at her feet. Hands that had once amazed J.D. by their dexterity in whittling fancy figurines now appeared swelled up like hams, making J.D. wonder how Boots could even work the buttons of his plaid shirt. J.D. observed his father, really looking at him for the first time in a long, long time.

Boots was getting on in life. Sure, he grumbled about it, but J.D. never paid him any mind because Boots grumbled about most everything.

Josephine passed him the ax, and Boots grasped the handle in his hand. He reached over and separated a length of wood from the others. Gripping the handle in both his hands, he steadied himself as he pulled the sharp ax head back.

J.D. pushed his hip away from the wagon and began walking. “You're going to whack off your foot,” he offered to Boots, truly not wanting him to injure himself. J.D. intended on chopping the wood for him. But Boots ignored his warning, and the blade came slicing down barely missing
Josephine's
left boot. She jumped back with a gasp.

“Good gawd, look what y'all made me do!” Boots yelled at J.D., tossing down the ax with disgust. The fallen tool kicked up a small cloud of dust.

“You shouldn't be splitting wood, Boots. It's too much for you.”

“Well, that's a hell of an attitude. Why don't you just take me out to pasture, then, and put me down?”

Josephine stepped between them. “Please,” she said, “don't do this.”

But Boots was already stalking off.

“I wish you hadn't said what you did.” Josephine's
gaze was on Boots, who'd squatted on the crate he'd returned by the edge of the fire, but her words were for J.D. “You implied that he was feeble.”

“He is. And I don't mean that in an unkind way. It's just a fact. He's too old to be cutting wood. He could hurt himself.”

Her gaze moved to his, but she didn't speak. Instead, she bit her lower lip.

“What were you really going to say?”

“I'd better check the biscuits.” She turned to leave, but he caught her softly by the upper arm and made her face him.

“It's not my place to interfere,” she said at length.

“But I'm asking.”

She licked her lips. “You have to let him try, and if he fails, the only person he's failed is himself. It's a lot better than not doing anything at all.” Then she ducked from beneath his hold and went to the wagon, leaving him to ponder the weight of her words.

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