Forget Me Not (35 page)

She hesitated a moment, her fingers on the key. She should go back to bed . . .

“Kiss my ass if you can catch it!” The distinct challenge roared through the hallway, and Josephine backed away from the door. Her heartbeat skipped a measure. It sounded like somebody was right outside her door, but there were no footfalls.

Slowly, she crept closer again. That same voice was now a little muffled when it said, “You goddamn cowpoke.”

It had to be coming from the stairs. Then, to confirm her suspicions, boots fell hard on the treads and descended below.

Josephine ran to the bed and sat down, worrying her fingers together. There was going to be a fight . . . she knew it. Would guns go off?

In
Rawhide's Wild Tales of Revenge in Sienna,
Rawhide had had to shoot his way out of a barroom brawl, with Pearl tucked next to his hip as they walked backward through the saloon. The daring hero had shot up all the bar glasses on the shelves before gunning the chandelier chain in two, creating havoc as he fled from the scene.

Josephine's eyes strayed to the door. What if J.D.
was down there? And Boots . . . and the others? She was certain they could fend for themselves. But, still, that didn't alleviate her fears. Trouble was brewing, trouble of a Beadle's kind. This she knew . . . this was the one thing the books couldn't have embellished. Because she'd read Rawhide Abilene say that very line about catching his behind to one of the no-accounts at the bar . . .

•  •  •

J.D. had been playing cards most of the night after the novelty of the snake had worn off. Rio had lost himself some seventeen dollars before he quit and went upstairs with Lottie.

All of the boys had taken at least a half-dozen tries, but no one had been successful. Even Boots put his dollar in, but he hadn't been able to keep his hand on the glass when that rattler struck out. The mug on the bar had built up with a good deal of ante, but no one was winning it. J.D. suspected the spoils weren't going to be all Henry's good fortune but some of those runners, for one of them had probably caught that rattlesnake and had a stake in it.

Amusements like these weren't uncommon. Even the toughest hombre had a hard time not flinching when that forked tongue slithered back and forth and the fangs were bared as the diamond-shaped head jutted forward. Reflex kicked in, and the mind reacted to the danger by automatically moving away. J.D. had learned his lesson some seven years ago when he'd fallen victim to the game. Since then, he'd never bucked the odds, and it had saved him a lot of money.

Once most everyone was having a high time on liquor, the runners and the cowboys had mingled together for a game of twenty-one. J.D. had watched for a spell to see if the game was clean; when he deemed it fair, he joined in.

Boots had taught J.D. how to count by playing blackjack. It was one of the things he hadn't learned
from his tutors. Boots wasn't much of a talker when he played. Mostly, he'd chew on a toothpick and study his cards, sometimes so long he made J.D. antsy. By the time he was eight, he knew better than to cut a deck, touch his cards before the deal was done, or expose his own good fortune with a smile. Boots had told him, “Never show your opponent your true feelings, you'll give him the advantage.” J.D. had taken that to heart, for he never much showed his feelings about anything.

Another hand was dealt with the greasy cards. J.D., four of the hide hunters, Gus, Print, and Jidge were the only ones in. Boots had gone to bed an hour ago, Rio hadn't returned from his date with Lottie, and Birdie had gone to his room after he'd fallen into a pit of drunkenness he'd be sorry for when he woke up.

J.D. was tired. The backs of his eyes felt like sandpaper, but he sipped the hot coffee in his cup and stared at the upturned jack he'd been flipped. From where he sat, he had a good vantage of room number two. He could see the left edge of the jamb and tell if someone was snooping around in the hallway.

The music, if he could call it that, had quit a half hour ago when the runner at the grubby piano had fallen facefirst onto the keys and Henry had lost his voice.

Snores broke through the calls for cards at the twenty-one table.

“I'm out,” Jidge said, shoving his cards to the middle.

“Me, too,” Print seconded.

“Hit me,” Gus declared, and he was dealt a ten of hearts on top of his seven of clubs. He swore and threw in his cards.

J.D. nodded for a card and was given a three of diamonds. Visible was his jack, but underneath was an eight of spades.

Two of the runners who'd asked for cards folded,
while the other two stayed in the game. When it came time to show their hands, J.D. went first.

“Blackjack,” he called after a swallow of coffee.

The first runner, a man by the name of Witchal, snorted. “One of us is a dirty, lyin' cheater. And it ain't me. I've got me the eight of spades.” He flipped his cards, and the eight of spades rose to the top like cream.

J.D.'s eyes narrowed. They'd been playing for four goddamn hours, and he hadn't seen a single sign of double dealing or card swapping. What in the hell had happened?

Witchal ran his stubby fingers through his wiry beard, then began to slide the pot toward his side of the table.

“No one is going to call me a cheater,” J.D. said. “So it seems we've got ourselves a problem.”

Witchal had stood, stuffing the coins and greenbacks into the slit of his pocket. Without a word, he began his ascent up the stairs.

“Problem?” he spoke over his shoulder. “We don't have any problem. Kiss my ass if you can catch it.”

J.D. gritted his teeth. Jidge leaned toward him. “You aren't going to let that stinkin' hide hunter walk away with your money?”

“I'll catch your ass,” J.D. threatened, “then I'll kick it up your throat.”

“You goddamn cowpoke,” he shot back.

To call a cattleman a cowpoke was the gravest of insults. J.D. couldn't be certain who threw the first punch, his heavy gaze still on the runner who'd tromped back down the stairs; but after that, all hell broke loose.

Somebody overturned the table. Cards went flying, and so did fists. A shot glass broke, and the whiskey bottle beaned Jidge over the head.

Witchal ran to the table with the ungainly lumber of the buffalo he hunted. J.D. ducked right, and
Witchal's hammy fist swung through air. With a round punch, J.D. got the man in the hairy jaw, snapping his head to the side. His bulky weight put him off-center, and he fell over.

J.D. turned to see Gus and one of the runners in a heated battle, Gus on the losing end. Picking up a chair, J.D. swung the legs into the other man. Stunned, he gazed briefly at J.D. before crumbling with a moan.

Gus swore, then latched himself onto the back of another man who'd just given Jidge a coldcock. He rode around on him like he was a bronc, his legs hugging the girth of the runner; star spurs jangled like can openers, and that runner tried like all get-out to pry Jidge off him. J.D. backed away to stand below the staircase, trying to see who needed help.

Swerving to avoid being hit by a flying coffee mug, J.D. observed Witchal staggering to the bar. His hands encircled the rattlesnake jar. Then he picked it up, caught sight of J.D., and threw the jar at him.

Oh, shit!
J.D. sprang to the left, just as glass fragments splintered behind him on the paneled wall. The ominous quaver of a ribbed tail buzzed near. Frozen so as not to garner the snake's attention, J.D. lowered his eyes, looking right, then left.

The snake was within striking distance of his boot. It appeared to be two feet of coiled energy, fiercely agitated judging by the rumble of that loose, horny rattle that shook. Its forked tongue darted in and out maliciously. The diamond-shaped head lifted, jutted back, and poison fangs gleamed like two miniature needles just as it thrust forward.

J.D. grabbed for his Colt, but he could see he was too late. He stiffened, waiting for the pricks on his leg, but they never came. The snake suddenly flailed and writhed, its head pinned to the floorboards by a single arrow shot to the side of its neck. After seconds of struggle, it fell still.

“Jesus . . .” J.D. said hoarsely, his revolver dead in his grasp.

He glanced up at Witchal, who was glancing up the stairs. J.D. turned his head to see Josephine standing on the landing. She had her underwear on; his shirt covered most of her, but it was unbuttoned. Her stockinged feet were spread apart, and in her hand was the bow that had been tacked on the wall.

“Jo?” he called up to her.

“I . . . I held the position of Lady P-Paramount at the Manhattan Archery Club.” She trembled visibly, the bow in her hand slipping from her fingers. “But to . . . to be fair . . . I must say . . . that I could have . . . missed just now.”

Then her eyelids slipped closed, and she dropped like a dishrag to the floor.

19

J
osephine felt a wet cloth pressed against her forehead. Whatever was beneath her was soft. Warm fingers stroked her hair from her brow. She wanted to linger in the darkness, lazing in the gentle feel of the hand on her skin. It was with great effort that she opened her eyes.

J.D.'s face came into focus. She blinked a few times, looking past him to the wall behind. Her bearings came to her. She was in her room. Obviously on the bed. The mattress dipped where J.D. sat next to her.

“You're a hell of a shot,” he said, his words echoing through her muddled head. She still felt fuzzy. She was loath to think she'd actually fainted. With everything she'd been through this past year, she had never succumbed to the clutches of feminine weakness.

Everything came flooding back to her. She'd thrown on a shirt as soon as she heard that man on the landing. Then she'd unlocked the door, just to peek through the crack. That's when she'd seen the fight start down below. It had been a furniture-tossing and barehanded brawl, just like in
Rawhide's Wild Tales of Revenge.
She'd crept out a little farther when J.D. disappeared from her view. It was then that the man
at the bar picked up the snake jar. Josephine had run to the landing before the glass crashed.

She couldn't believe it now, but some logical reasoning had taken over, and she'd known precisely what to do in the moment of crisis. It had been as if she'd become Pearl Larimer. Cool and composed. In control and out to save her man.

She'd pulled the bow from the wall, stolen an arrow from the quiver, and taken aim as soon as the glass crashed. Without any hesitation, she'd fired at the snake before it lashed out at J.D.

The bow had been accurate . . . the arrow straight. If it hadn't been . . . she didn't want to think about that.

“I got it . . . didn't I?” she asked, her voice sounding weak to her ears.

“In the neck.”

“Not exactly my intended mark.”

“Close enough.”

“I've never killed anything before.”

“I didn't figure you had.” J.D.'s palm slid down her face and cradled her cheek. His fingertips were rough and callused, but she found his touch light and considerate.

“Did anybody get hurt downstairs?” she asked, licking her dry lips.

“Nah. Henry broke it up. Everybody's gone to bed.” He withdrew his hand, and she missed his warmth. His hair shone in the lamplight, subtle shades of brown and burnished coffee. She liked the way he wore it—pushed straight back from his forehead without a definite part. His cut looked a little better; her stitches had done the job. He wasn't wearing his hat, and she spied it suspended on one of the footboard knobs.

Just seeing his hat there, so casual, so intimate, made her feel safe. She enjoyed being with J.D. McCall. Much more than was prudent. She was drawn to him in ways she shouldn't be.

She couldn't understand or define this physical attraction that seemed to have a path of its own. It had come upon her quickly, without warning, and she didn't know how to sort through her feelings.