Forget Me Not (34 page)

On the ride over, things had been quiet—even Boots had been silent—and it still hung around them as the McCall outfit stepped through the narrow doors of the saloon knowing one of their company had departed. Josephine kept by J.D.'s side, her gaze drinking in the dark interior. J.D. tried to view the place through her eyes, and it looked a lot worse.

The Wampum served as a saloon and eatery, with a hotel upstairs that could accommodate a half-dozen patrons if they took single rooms. A rickety flight of stairs connected the two levels, and decorating the stairwell wall was a bevy of Indian paraphernalia.

Henry Tascosa had an aversion to Indians, even though he'd made a profit off them. When he'd operated the trading post, he'd turned a good business, and this was his way of showing what a redskin would give up for a bottle of firewater or a cup of coffee. He claimed the objects were his trophies: the
buffalo-horned headdress, knife and sheath, beaded moccasins, cedar pouch, vests, deerhide leggings, bow and quiver with arrows, quilled breastplate, and assorted tomahawks.

The saloon was occupied by a group of hide hunters wearing wide-brimmed beaver hats, fancy shirts that at one time had been bright in colors, high-heeled boots, and leather vests. The weather didn't dictate that they wear the heavy buffalo skins they made their living from.

Five men sat in the corner playing a game of cards, while Henry stood behind the bar sipping from a chipped coffee cup that contained anybody's guess.

Silver-haired, Henry had an angular face just boxy enough to make a man uneasy when he stared too long. A large glass jar with the lid affixed rested on the counter before him. Inside there appeared to be a coiled snake. A rattler.

So this was the hunters' new vice: snake betting.

Boots ambled toward the bar, hooked his boot on the rail, and ordered a bourbon. Birdie, Print, Judge, Gus, and Rio followed, while J.D. held back with Josephine.

She wore his baggy shirt and loose-fitting trousers, which was fine by J.D. He didn't want her attracting attention. Although it was no secret she was a woman, what with the style of her hair and the blue hat tied by ribbons under her chin.

One other woman occupied the Wampum. She stood on the upstairs balcony that overlooked the main floor, with her arms resting on the railing. She worked one of the hotel rooms. He'd seen her here last winter and figured she'd be long gone by now. Apparently she made enough to keep her going, though why she'd want to stay in Bircher, J.D. could only speculate. Her hair was the color of brass, and she wore tights that looked like she'd been melted into them.

“Who's that?” Josephine asked in a low tone, her gaze turned upward on the chippy.

“Just who you think she is,” J.D. replied, taking Josephine by the elbow and guiding her to one of the vacant tables. With his cuff, he brushed the ashes and crumbs from the top where he had pulled out a chair for Josephine. “Sit down, and we'll order some dinner. Then I'll get you a room.”

She nodded and sat, her gaze lingering on the woman, then lowering to the group of men in the corner. She didn't hold her eyes there long. “You're going to get a room, too, aren't you?”

“We all are.”

Relief slackened the tension squaring her shoulders. She gazed at the tabletop. “Is there a menu?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

“You get whatever Henry's cooked for the day. Mostly it's stew.”

Josephine brushed off a few leftover crumbs from the table. “I don't care what it is.”

Today, words between them had been going pretty much in this direction. Very shallow, with just enough to keep a thin conversation afloat.

J.D. missed Orley something fierce, but he hadn't said any church words, and he wasn't going to. It just wasn't in him anymore.

Last night, he'd finally let Josephine go, reluctant to lose the feel of her in his arms. He'd let her have one of the line houses to herself, while he and the boys and Boots had settled into the remaining two. Nobody had said anything about the tight arrangements, but it had been on J.D.'s mind.

Josephine was complicating things. He couldn't take for granted how he and the boys did things while she was along. She made him worry about her. He'd never worried about anyone, much less his own welfare. He took what came his way and dealt with it then. But with Josephine around, he had to think ahead and deal with the circumstances beforehand so
as not to put any of them in a situation that would be sticky to handle.

Rio came over to the table holding a dripping mug of beer. He scraped back a chair and sat. Foam wet his mustache, and he chewed on an untrimmed end at the corner.

“You see that rattler on the bar?” he asked.

As soon as Rio said the words, Josephine's eyes darted to the jar on the counter.

“There's a snake in there?” she said in a rush.

“Yep,” Rio replied. “Henry's takin' dollar bets on who can leave their hand on the jar while the rattler strikes. First man who can wins the spoils.” Rio wiped the suds from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I aim to win.”

“You do that, kid,” J.D. replied, leaning into the back of his chair and stretching his legs out. “If Henry cleans you down to your spurs, don't come asking me for money.”

“I've got plenty of money,” Rio boasted, giving Josephine a sidelong glance. “I'm wallowing in the velvet. In fact, I'll buy Miss Josephine her dinner.”

“No need. I've got it covered.” J.D. crossed his ankles and gave the wrangler a tight frown. The kid may have been long on money at the moment, but he wasn't long on brains. He'd be busted before the sun rose. Between the snake game and the woman who'd just descended the stairs with a sway of her skirts, young Rio was doomed.

“I, um, I'll let you do that, boss, if you insist.” The wrangler gave the chippy a few furtive glances that she enthusiastically returned with a painted smile and a batting of kohl-lined lashes. Rio tipped his hat to her as she paraded by. Without a good-bye, Rio rose and went to the bar to enter into the good-natured laughing the boys were doing with the prostitute.

Boots stood on his bowed legs, bourbon in hand, and did his share of the jesting. J.D. felt a fleeting
sense of injustice. Nobody should be having a good time without Orley. But Orley wouldn't have wanted them to mull around long-faced. He would have wanted them to drink to his memory.

J.D. didn't put down a lot of liquor. Large quantities did nothing for his concentration, other than to fog it to a shade of gray. He didn't like being without his wits, especially in the Wampum Saloon, where anything could happen at any time without any warning.

Henry came over to the table, an army revolver strapped to his thigh. “Hey, J.D. Figured you'd be in around now.”

J.D. put his fingers to the brim of his hat. “Henry.”

The saloon owner's gaze strayed to Josephine, raking across the column of her neck where her collar was buttoned at the base of her throat, then downward to the swell of her breasts. “What have we here?”

A blush crept across Josephine's cheeks.

“She's my new cook.”

Henry laughed. “Shaw outfit had itself a
cook,
too.”

J.D. kept his tone level, but with clear intent. “Don't let your mouth overload your hardware, Henry. She's what I'm saying she is.”

“Sure, J.D.” Henry nodded, though J.D. didn't believe the other man's opinion had swayed. “What can I get for you?”

“Whatever's on the stove, a beer for me, and a coffee for the lady.”

Henry moved on to the corner table, where the runners were boisterous and asking for more whiskey.

J.D. tucked his feet beneath his chair and leaned forward. “I'll have Henry bring your plate to a room.”

“I can eat down here with you,” she replied, unaffected by the loud guffaws filling the small area. “I'm not offended by those men. I've already met them.”

Quirking a brow, J.D. said, “What?”

Josephine fidgeted with a button on her cuff. “My father brought men such as those to our home for business discussions in his study. Of course, they were wearing cutaway suits and top hats, but they were of the same nature. Loud and offensive to get their respective points across. Although I doubt those in the corner have much of a point to make at all. Who are they?”

“Buffalo runners.”

“I've read about them.”

“In the Beadle's?”

“Yes. But those few that trod across the pages were of a more admirable character than I suspect those five are.”

“I told you the Beadle's weren't long on fact. I've never met a runner who was admirable.”

A short time later, Henry returned with plates of stew, the lumps of meat in them tender in spite of their chunky appearance. The boys ate at the adjoining table, the chippy hovering nearby in case one of them called for another drink. Boots had consumed three bourbons to J.D.'s casual eye and was on his way to a good drunk.

Boots had never been a hard drinker, but on the trail he let his suspenders down, so to speak, and tied one on with the boys. He usually never lasted beyond the first half hour of card playing. He would manage to haul himself up the stairs and fall into the first unoccupied room he came to, and he'd sleep through the night until morning.

The only trouble with Boots when he was drunk was that he was more ornery than ever.

As J.D. slid his empty plate to the center of the table and washed down the last bite of his meal with the remains of his beer, Boots slurred, “Y'all're so dumb, you couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the directions were writ on the heel.”

“Boots, shut your yap,” Ace threw back with a
slight slur; then he looked glassy-eyed at his companions while raising his glass. “Let's drink one for Orley.”

That sobered them up to a degree, and even Boots joined in without further slander.

Josephine set down her fork and, to J.D.'s surprise, quietly lifted her coffee mug in salute before drinking the last of the brew.

Rising, J.D. went to Henry at the bar, paid for a block of rooms, then collected the key to number two. He went back for Josephine. “Come on. I'll get you settled.”

She rose and followed him up the stairs. When he reached the top, he turned to see her lagging behind, staring intently at a quiver of arrows and a bow suspended on the wall.

When she came to him, he proceeded down the hall a few short yards, inserted the key in the lock, and swung the door inside.

“It's not much,” he offered by way of an apology.

The air in the room was stale, but at least the bed was made, so the sheets must have been laundered. Sometimes guests weren't so lucky. The wrought-iron frame for the bed was banged up, the coverlet and extra blanket sporting a few moth holes. Other than that, it wasn't bad. There was a pine washstand and basin of water that had a few dead gnats on the surface. The window shade was drawn, but pinpoints of light from the late-afternoon sun speckled through. Besides the bed and the washstand, no other furniture filled the room.

J.D. went to the door and checked the lock for soundness. If somebody wanted to break in bad enough, they could. He made sure the key worked on the inside, then clasped Josephine's hand and laid the key in her palm.

“I'm going to the livery to get your valise,” he said while turning away. “You lock the door after me and don't open it for anyone.”

He crossed the threshold, closed the door, then waited to hear the lock's tumbler engage as she turned the key. When the bolt clicked into place, he took the stairs.

•  •  •

Josephine had fallen asleep shortly after J.D. returned with her valise. She'd looked to see if a flock of bedbugs inhabited the mattress. Deeming the sheets free of vermin, she'd stripped down to her underwear and crawled in. In spite of the ruckus going on below, she'd drifted into a heavy, dead sleep. When she awoke, the room was dark.

She'd left a lamp by the side of the bed, so she sat up and struck a flame to light it. A soft orb of yellow flickered to life, and she turned up the wick. Padding on stockinged feet to the window, she lifted the shade's jagged edge and looked outside.

There were no lamps to illuminate the street. Just a moon that wasn't full and gave off barely enough to see that nothing stirred.

Letting the shade fall into place, Josephine went to her boots and checked to make sure her seven dollars and twenty-five cents was still tucked inside. Of course it was. But she'd had to make sure. She brought the money out and stared at it. Of all the money she'd had at her disposal, this was the first time she could recall ever actually touching the currency. All of her shopping trips had been put on the boutique's ledgered accounts—which Hugh had taken care of at the end of the month.

This was a monumental step for Josephine. At last she knew the value of hard-earned money, and she truly appreciated it.

After tucking the money away once more, she sat back down on the bed and pondered what to do. She fumbled for her alarm clock. She had to unwrap it from her extra pair of drawers; not having to wake up to its insidious bells in the morning, she hadn't even wanted to hear the dreaded thing ticking.

She was depressed to read the hands: three-fifteen. Good Lord, was she becoming accustomed to waking at this hour without the clock to give her a boost out of bed?

Sighing, Josephine stared at the locked door. She hadn't heard anyone come up to bed. They might have, but she'd been so tired she hadn't noticed.

A chorus of loud male voices rose from below, and Josephine strained to hear what they were saying. She couldn't be sure who they belonged to. Was that Rio's laugh?

Josephine walked softly to the door, wincing each time the bare floorboards creaked, and pressed her ear against the wood. The voices came again, only this time more heated. What was going on down there?