Forget Me Not (25 page)

When J.D. was finished, he wrapped one bandana around the bandage, then tied the other two together and made a sling out of them for Birdie to slip over his head and tuck his arm into.

Birdie was on his way to being drunk. His eyelids slipped over his eyes, his body went slack, and a smirk crossed his lips. Well, not exactly a smirk. He smiled. Lopsidedly.

J.D. reached for Josephine. Her breath hitched, and she stood motionless. She had no opportunity to move out of the way once she realized that he wasn't going after her but rather the bottle of whiskey resting on the endgate she was backed up against.

He gave Birdie a healthy pour, then stuffed the cork into the bottle's mouth. “I'll make up your bedroll.”

“Obliged, boss.”

J.D. left the remains of the cigar box for Josephine to tidy up. He was about to go around her when she remembered his wound and said, “What about your head?”

He raised his hand, felt around for a second or two, then shrugged. “If I was going to bleed to death, I would have by now.”

“Don't you want to wash the blood out of your hair?”

“As much as I want to wash this dust and mud off me, but I don't see any signs saying there's a bath house in the vicinity.”

She didn't like it when he talked to her as if she were dim-witted. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I'm not amused. As soon as you've got Birdie settled, come back and I'll take a look at you.”

He didn't reply, or gaze at her, as he continued on. She had the urge to stamp her foot and squeeze her fingers together into tight balls. But she didn't. Instead, she lifted the cloth on her biscuit oven, deemed the dough balls risen enough, then put them on the fire. She examined her pot roast—a good-size chuck of beef that she'd salted and covered with flour hours ago. The juices bubbled, and nothing smelled burned. She lifted the lid to the beans. Steam gurgled up from the lumpy mix—minus the little rocks this time. After breakfast, she'd gone through the amount she needed and picked them all out.

When J.D. called him, Birdie staggered toward his bed, refusing the help Josephine offered. She supposed just because his arm was broken didn't mean his pride was.

She lit a kerosene lamp, waved out the match, and went to put the whiskey away. Looking to see if anyone was watching her, she sniffed the cork and wrinkled her nose. It smelled horrible.

“Good gawd, what'd y'all do that for?”

Josephine started. Boots came up to her from the side, his gaze burning on the dismantled cigar box.

Guiltily putting the bottle in the cupboard and closing the door, she explained, “Birdie needed splints.”

Boots frowned. “You should have splinted him with something else, dammit. Now my stogies are going to lose their flavor. Where'd you put them?”

“On the wagon floor.”

“The wagon floor?” His tone soured even more. “The night air is going to ruin them. Give me a jar.”

Josephine hunted one up from a drawer and handed it to him. Stalking off, he muttered about her being greener than a pile of manure. She didn't know what he was talking about, but she didn't care for his tone.

The cowboys began riding in before J.D. came back to the chuck wagon for her to examine him. She spied him smoking a cigarette while talking to Gus Peavy and Jidge Dooly near the remuda where Rio was brushing down their horses.

Josephine called the boys to supper, then took her meal later. She ate what she felt was a marginal portion. Her appetite wasn't as hearty as that of those around her. She found that the rigors of the trail and the trials of cooking preoccupied her too much to sit and relish a supper plate.

When the last of the coffee was gone and Josephine put on another pot for the nighthawks, she passed out the remainder of her precious butterscotch candies, saving one for Birdie and one for herself in case of an emergency.

Having already put water on to boil for the dishwashing, she filled one of the wreck pans half with it and half with cold water to cover the mound of dirty dishes. She rolled up her sleeves and dug in, relishing the small amount of warmth and suds, wishing there was a whole tub of it to soak her entire body.

Rio stood and came over to help while the others conversed in soft tones.

“Nice night,” he said, readying the rinsing tub. A shock of his white-blond hair fell across his brow.

“I suppose it is,” Josephine replied to be polite.

Taking up a towel, Rio asked, “You aim to be a ranch cook, Miss Josephine? Or are you out West looking for a husband?”

The bluntness of his question caught her by surprise. And to make matters worse, J.D. had come near. A quick glance at him, and she wasn't all that sure his presence was unintentional. He grabbed a thick towel, folded it twice, and lifted the lid on the
coffeepot to check the brew. Anybody would know that the coffee couldn't possibly be done yet. He lingered at the fire. Hunkering down, he held that position, well within earshot of anything Josephine would say.

“Well, Miss Josephine?”

Rio's voice pulled Josephine's gaze off J.D.'s wide shoulders. She stared at the wet dishcloth in her hand, then swished it across a plate. “No, I most surely did not travel west looking for a husband.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't need one.”

“But a man out here would treat you right. A man like me could show you—”

“Fall into bed, kid,” came J.D.'s deep voice from behind. “Miss Josephine has to see to me.”

She turned, nearly bumping into J.D., who stood so close to her she could feel his body heat.

Rio didn't readily set down the plate he was drying. “But we're not done yet.”

“You are now,” J.D. replied in a tone that said the matter was settled.

Adding the tin to the stack, the wrangler mumbled his good nights.

Josephine watched him retreat, then turned her attention on J.D. She had thought he didn't want her to tend to him. Secretly, she'd been relieved. But now that he'd come, she couldn't back down.

He remained near, and she took a step toward the light to set her wash rag down. “Well . . . come here, then.” She'd tried to make her voice sound composed, but, to her ears, it had wavered. She had never done any kind of doctoring.

J.D. drew next to her. There was no place to sit, and she didn't know where the sewing things were kept. So she stood there blankly.

Opening the cupboard, J.D. slid a drawer open and collected a rawhide pouch. He brought it out, opened the gathers, and dumped the contents on the endgate.
A small pair of scissors, a single spool of black thread, and various needles stuck in a tiny cloth remnant came out.

“Use the smallest needle.” He pointed to the one he wanted.

She could barely nod but didn't go near the needles. “I'd better wash the cut first.” Moving around him, she dunked her dishcloth into the warm water, wrung it, and came back to J.D. The dried blood in his hair looked terrible, the locks falling over his forehead and making her unable to see the extent of the damage. With a gentle touch, she began to wipe his hair clean with light, even strokes.

J.D. kept his gaze on her as she worked, while she made every effort to avert his direct stare. Her knuckles brushed the smooth skin of his forehead as she used two hands. One to steady his head, the other to stroke the cloth over his hair to push it out of his face. A stubborn lock wouldn't stay back, so she ran her fingers through the length, amazed at how cool and silky the strands felt.

Once his hair was out of the way, she could clearly see the cut. A jagged gash ran from the end of his eyebrow upward to his hairline. In spite of no fresh blood coming from the wound, it looked terrible. Even to her untrained eye, the gap was a definite candidate for stitches.

“What do you think?” he asked, the vibration of his voice moving through her and sending pinpointed tingles across her skin.

“I think you better have a drink of that whiskey.”

J.D. cracked a smile. “And what about the doctor?”

Her eyes flew to his. “I only drink sherry.”

“Or corn liquor.”

“That was an emergency,” she blurted.

“And what's this?”

Cause for a pound's worth of butterscotch candies.
Biting her lower lip, she murmured, “A critical situation. I can handle it.”

“I hope so. I don't want to look like I'm wearing a tapestry on my head. Just do some simple stitches, and that's good enough.”

Nodding, she picked up the needle and threaded it while J.D. poured a small amount of whiskey into a cup. Rather than drink it, he grabbed a flour sack cloth and dipped the corner into the drink. He brought the liquor-laced towel to his cut and pressed.

Gritting his teeth, he closed off a distinct curse. Then he repeated the process. When he was finished, what liquor remained in the cup he drank with a toss of his head.

“Okay, go ahead,” he said, cocking one hip against the ledge of the endgate.

Josephine brought the needle up but found she had trouble focusing on the area that needed her attention.

“Hold still,” she commanded.

“I'm not moving. That's you who's swaying.”

“Oh . . .” She lowered her arm. “Maybe we should sit down.”

“Maybe I should forget about this.”

She shook her head. “No. I can do it, it's just that you're too tall.” She spied Boots's crate by the wagon hub. “Sit on that.”

J.D. dragged it over and sank onto the wood. His bent legs were in the way, and she couldn't get close enough to him until he spread them. The compromising position made her throat go dry, and she wet her lips before proceeding.

She had to put her palm on his forehead once more and tilt his head toward the kerosene light. She felt his inner thighs on either side of her as she moved even slightly. Trying not to think about the tender skin she was going to puncture, she pretended that his cut was just two pieces of fabric that needed fusing together. A quick prick, and then one stitch. Another, and then another.

She began talking to distract her from thinking
about the reality of what she was sewing. “I noticed you have a faint scar on your chin. How did that happen?”

He was silent a moment, then said, “I got in a fight with my brother.”

“William or Lewis?”

He cocked his head, and she nearly pricked her finger. “Don't move.”

“How do you know about William and Lewis?”

“You spoke about them to Boots our first day out.”

“I don't remember.”

Slowly pulling the thread, she asked, “So which one was it?”

“William.” J.D. grew thoughtful, and she allowed him his silence, hoping he would expound on the incident. A moment later, he did. “I was twelve. Me and him had already developed into a pair of hotheads. We had Boots to blame for that. He taught us that if we didn't stand up for ourselves, nobody else would.

“For a while, I thought about going into the horse-breeding business. It's a cardinal rule that nobody rides the horses without permission. William took off on one of my best stud horses.

“When I found out, I went after him and tackled him to the ground. We hit each other and did a pretty good job of getting our respective messages across.”

Josephine leaned toward J.D. for better lighting. “I can't imagine beating up a sibling over something silly like that.”

Tipping his chin up, J.D. said seriously, “It wasn't silly to us.”

“What did your father do?”

“Hell, when Boots found out, he slapped us both on the sides of our heads. Even though I'd made out better in the fight, it was William who got Boots's praise for taking it like a man.” J.D. became pensive once more. “To Boots, the eldest son is everything.”

“And is that what William was?”

“Yes. Lewis came next. Then me.”

“They both died during the war,” she observed, steeling herself for another stitch. “Did you fight, too?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't have any brothers, so I never experienced what it was like to have a loved one go off to battle. It must have been hard.”

“You have any sisters?” He quickly changed the subject.

“No. I'm an only child.”

J.D.'s eyes closed for a moment, and she wondered how much pain he was in. He hadn't flinched or winced once.

“You ever lived anyplace besides New York?”

“We had a summer house in Connecticut. Other than that, this is the first time I've ever been this far west.”

“And going farther west still.”

Josephine vaguely nodded, feeling as if San Francisco was thousands of miles away. Getting there seemed utterly inconsequential at the moment. She was needed here. And she liked that feeling.

“Have you ever been to New York?” she asked, wondering if J.D. McCall had ever seen her world.

“I came from Mississippi to here. Never been anyplace in between but small towns. I wouldn't go to New York for anything.”

“Neither would I.” The declaration slipped out before she could catch herself.

“You don't have any family there?”

She thought of Hugh, then replied, “No.”

A lull passed between them. As the campfire had slowly died, the cowboys' conversation had died with it. She and J.D. were the only ones still awake.

When she reached the point where she needed to snip the thread, she battled a sudden attack of lightheadedness. If it hadn't been for J.D. reaching out
and putting his hands on her waist, she might have faltered backward.

“I'm all right . . .” she managed, but she could hardly hear herself speak. The firmness of his grip fortified her, and she was glad when he didn't let her go. With scissors in hand, she made a quick snip, and that was that.

Opening her eyes wide, she stood back to view her handiwork. The stitches weren't exactly even, but they'd done the job.
She'd
done the job! And without the butterscotch candy that had been tucked in her pocket.