Forget Me Not (18 page)

As she replaced the contents of her purse, she glanced at the group sitting around the fire. The cowboys worked the candies in their mouths, rolling the hard lumps from left to right cheeks, dragging the butterscotch across teeth, and smacking lips. The blatant appreciation brought her joy, and she gloried briefly in this shared moment where she was more than the cook but seemed to be a comrade as well.

“Say, Miss Josephine, you never said who the stew was named after,” Rio remarked, crunching his candy and opting to take another from the blanket he was sitting on.

“Oh.” Josephine had almost forgotten. Closing the clasp on her purse, she left it on the endgate as she made her way toward the fire. “I'm not naming the stew after somebody with whom I have a disagreement. Were that to be the case, there is no one here that I could name. In spite of my failures, you have all been generous with your patience. And I can only say on my behalf that I'm certain my endeavors will get progressively better.” She absently wrapped the string of her apron around her forefinger, then unwound it, mindless of what she was doing. “I've opted to name the stew after someone I feel is very important to this grand undertaking. He is a person without whom I wouldn't be here.”

She glanced at J.D., who was staring pointedly at her. She couldn't retain the contact when she announced, “Tonight's stew has the distinct honor of being called Boots's stew.”

“What was that?” Boots piped in, his eyes crinkled. “You're talking to my bad ear. What was that y'all just said about me?” he repeated.

“I've named the stew in your honor.”

“Good gawd, what for?”

She smiled, undaunted by his bristling. “Because you drive the chuck wagon, and if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be able to get to the cooking sites. Your kind presence is essential to my job.”

She thought she heard somebody to her left mumble, “Boots McCall isn't kind.” Turning, she believed the mumbler was Orley Woodard.

“There, sir, you are wrong,” she returned softly, so as not to have Boots hear what was being spoken about him.

Her gaze returned to the stoop-shouldered man, his cheek puffed by the candy in his jowl. She couldn't be certain because of the fire's red cast on his lined features, but she thought she recognized a blush on his wind-dried cheeks. “Well, good gawd, this puts the pressure on me. I don't want you ever to ruin that stew. If you do, I'm changing its name to Adelaide after Eugenia's mother—and don't mistake my generosity for praise. That woman is as long-headed as a mule, and with a bray to boot.”

A murmur of laughter circled the campfire. Josephine smiled despite herself. She didn't condone slander, having known too well its biting sting. But in this case, she let the matter drop, as she didn't want to spoil the jovial mood of the group.

She dared a glance in J.D.'s direction. He sat with his back butted against the swell of his saddle, knees bent toward his chest, his eyes flat and unreadable. She wondered if he was angry with her for naming the stew after his father—a person he clearly didn't feel was deserving.

Well, she couldn't worry about him. To each his own opinion, and she felt in this instance Boots needed to be reminded of his worth. And that was the
truth. He truly did play a significant role in this venture. In spite of his taking the wrong road, he'd gotten her there just the same. She didn't know how to handle a team and would have been of no use at all.

Josephine turned away, trudging back to the lighted wagon and rolling up her sleeves in the process.

The boys began to break up, Ace Flynn and Print Freeland going for the fresh horses Rio had watered and fed earlier. Others removed boots with sighs, wiggled sock-covered toes, and settled in on their blankets to light cigarettes and play cards as the fire's glow caught them in its light.

Josephine listened as one of them started telling a story. She caught bits and pieces as she rounded up the dishes and placed them in the huge dishpan. Rio came to her aid with hot water he'd set to boil earlier.

They worked together silently, and she suspected he was lending an ear to the tale as well. Some of the words were salty, with a quick mutter of apology and a hasty glance in Josephine's direction, which she calmly ignored. She could have told the storyteller she was no stranger to swearing and save him from embarrassment. But she'd rather not encourage him.

Within the hour, she and Rio had done up the dishes. The stories had turned to joking and joshing on every condition of life from the cradle to the grave. There were two subjects, she noted, they stayed clear of: home and their mothers. Periodically, Rio became the brunt of their jokes. They'd ask him if his hands looked like prunes yet or if he was planning to set up housekeeping any time soon. When they ribbed him in such a way, they called him Little Mary. He retorted by reminding them that all the horses were in his care and it went unspoken that not a one of them—the boss included—could ride without his permission. He also reminded them that
he
could have the luxury of uninterrupted sleep while every man in the outfit except the boss and the cook would have to stand two hours of night guard. This sobered
the bunch. They began to quiet down after that and snuggled into their bedrolls.

Earlier, Boots had told Josephine she was the lucky one because she got to sleep in the wagon where the varmints couldn't sneak into her bed. She'd counted herself lucky, too, as soon as he'd told her. The water damage from the fire had dried out, and she'd put her bedding away just prior to serving supper.

Rio hung his wet dish towel over a bar on the box. “Luis always turned the wagon tongue to the North Star before he called it a night. I don't reckon you're strong enough to do it on your own, Miss Josephine. I'll do it for you,” he offered in a tone that was too sugary for her comfort.

“Thank you.” Josephine tagged behind him, gazing skyward with Rio, trying to figure out what it was he was looking for. “Which one is it?”

“That big one there.” Rio pointed. “Right in the Little Dipper.”

Josephine couldn't tell where he was aiming. She felt his gaze on her profile, then his warm hand as he took her fingers in his and raised her arm to the bright pinprick winking from its dark blanket of smaller speckles in the galaxy.

She couldn't concentrate on the designated star; her energies were focused on the liberties Rio Cibolo had taken with her. Granted, he was an appealing young man with his sunny blond hair and devil-may-care stride, but that was just that.
Young man.
She had to be his senior by at least several years.

“Oh, yes,” Josephine replied, trying to ease away. “I see it now.”

She had some success. She was able to lower her arm without trouble, but Rio remained close by her side. Josephine grew flustered. She wasn't flirtatious by nature, not that she wanted to flirt with him, but she felt awkward with the need to say something. Anything.

“Why don't you show me how to move the wagon? Perhaps I can do it myself tomorrow.”

“I don't mind moving it for you, a'tall. It'd be my pleasure each night.”

“I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble.”

“No trouble,” he drawled in a voice so smooth it melted on the night air like sweet taffy.

Rio moved up to what she assumed was the tongue. It was propped up by the neck yokes, the harnesses hung upon it in an orderly array. Rio kicked out the yokes, realigned them, then took up the tongue and nudged it over with a great show of brawn. Josephine wondered if it was that heavy.

“All there is to it,” Rio announced, then took up a tarpaulin and covered the tack. “Keeps the dew off so the leather doesn't spoil.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Well, it's like I said. No trouble a'tall.” She noted that Rio hadn't shaved, but his pale beard could probably stand to grow a week before it became noticeable. Unlike J.D., whose firm jaw was already shadowed like midnight by this evening's supper. Not that she'd overly noticed when he'd been in line filling his plate. Well, she had noticed. Just a little . . . actually a lot more than she should have.

Rio didn't readily move on. He stood next to her, his eyes on the North Star once more, as if he were looking for something. Josephine folded her arms beneath her breasts. She was beginning to feel the evening's chill and was about to excuse herself politely when Rio said, “You know why we point the tongue to the North Star?”

“No.”

“So that we can take our direction from it tomorrow morning. This is our trail compass.”

“Hmm.” Josephine couldn't think of anything useful to add. “Well, speaking of tomorrow morning, it's coming too soon for me. Thank you for your help,”
she said, then scooted toward the wagon wheel as Rio took one of the lanterns from the sideboard and hung it on the tongue, apparently as a kind of beacon to the men who were tending the cattle in the dark beyond the limits of the camp light.

Rather than climb into the wagon immediately, Josephine went back to the endgate, where a little hot water was left in a bucket. She made a quick perusal of the cowboys and saw that most of them were slumbering with their hats over their faces. Some slept on their sides, making that impossible; but for the most part, heads were cushioned by the swells of their saddles. Boots was asleep closest to the fire, and she imagined the warmth felt good seeping into his joints.

Josephine spotted J.D., who had crushed out his cigarette and was eating his second butterscotch while gazing at the sky. His arms were behind his head, and one knee was bent over the other. He seemed relaxed and contented. But more importantly, occupied. She didn't want anyone following her.

Picking up a cake of soap, lifting the water pot, and flinging a dry towel over her shoulder, Josephine left the wagon. She traipsed off toward the hawthorn bushes that had earlier sported a host of sparrows. Her steps were cautious, her eyes wide, as she made her way through the near-dark. She should have brought a lantern with her, but she didn't want to attract any attention to herself. Especially since Rio seemed bent on getting her attention this evening.

Something scurried to the right, and Josephine gasped. Stopping, she strained to get a better look. She picked up a rock and threw it. Having a good aim, she hit the long, dark image on her first try. Nothing. It didn't move. Cautiously, she inched forward, another rock in hand. She threw it. The snakelike image remained still.

“It's just a stick,” she said to herself, feeling foolish for being afraid. But this was the wide open.

Continuing, Josephine still minded her steps, careful to search for any night creatures that had come out from under rocks. She reached the hawthorn, ducked behind it, and set the water and soap on the ground. After flipping the towel over a dense, thorny branch, she deftly unbuttoned her shirt. Slipping her arms from the long sleeves, she removed the garment and tossed it beside the suspended towel. She longed for a decent bath, to submerge herself and scrub away the trail dust and grit that seemed to cover her from head to toe. She didn't like being dirty. At least she could wash before crawling beneath the covers.

The chilly air caused gooseflesh to rise on her arms as she bent down to get the soap. The moment she did, a big bird swooped into the brush and rustled the leaves, apparently not seeing her. Rising, Josephine screamed as she stared at a pair of large yellow eyes and a pointed beak. She darted from the bushes with her hand over her racing heart. She blindly ran away from the hawthorn and smacked into something solid with strong arms.

“What are you doing?” came J.D.'s nonplussed voice.

She exclaimed, “I believe I just encountered an owl!”

Wings flapped overhead as the bird took off from the brush.

“Yeah, that was an owl. A big one, too.”

“I stared right into its eyes.”

“Is that right?” She saw a white flash of J.D.'s teeth.

“Yes!” Then Josephine frowned. She was being made fun of. “I've never seen an owl up close like that.”

She grew aware of the fact that J.D.'s hands gripped her bare arms and that his chest was pressed next to hers. To say the least, their pose was compromising.

“Is that why you're running around in your underwear?”

“I beg your pardon?” Then Josephine remembered
she was in her sheer shift and satin corset. With pants on. “Oh . . .” And again with more horror. “
Oh
” She wiggled free and took a step backward. She clasped her arms around her waist in an attempt to conceal herself. Her halfhearted actions proved futile. Her nipped-in waist wasn't nearly as scandalous as her cleavage. But to change the course of modest coverage by moving her hands to her breasts would only cause unwanted attention to rove upward. So she remained frozen to the spot.

Before, she'd been wary of the poor light; now it was a godsend.

“W-what are you doing out here?” Josephine stammered.

“Checking on you.”

“I don't need any checking on.”

“No?” His reply was riddled with doubt. “You were running blind before I caught you. No telling where you would have ended up. Maybe halfway back to the ranch.”

She didn't appreciate his humor and said with ill temper, “I was startled.” She shivered. Both from the memory and the cold.

“You better put some clothes on.”

A good suggestion. One she intended to adhere to posthaste. She turned to leave, and to her chagrin the scrape of his boots over the ground indicated he was following her. “You needn't accompany me.”

“But what if the owl comes back?”

“I'm certain it's not. I scared it off.”

“I reckon you did with that scream.”

Once back at the hawthorns, Josephine paused and abruptly turned around to save herself from J.D. approaching any further. But he'd been too close to her behind for her to put any distance between them now. It seemed as if he stood on top of her, his height intimidating. Her mouth went dry. She could smell the sting of campfire smoke on him. A pleasant kind of odor that clung to the cotton fabric of his shirt. The
darkness worked to enhance her sense of smell, while her vision was suffering terribly no matter how wide she opened her eyes.