Forget Me Not (37 page)

With his head cradled on her shoulder, Josephine held him to her, eyes closed, heart filled with wonder.

She had finally done what Hugh had accused her of.

She'd slept with another man.

•  •  •

J.D. nudged the door closed with the toe of his boot, then walked quietly to the washstand and deposited one of the cups of coffee he'd been holding.

The small room was cast in a hazy yellow glow that
came from behind the drawn window shade. The morning time was closing in on ten o'clock. Josephine was still in bed, lying on her side, the curve of her hip barely covered by the sheet. Her eyes were closed; she hadn't been awake for some hours now. Not since they last made love.

The words were hard for him. “Making love” meant you deeply cared about the person; it meant you had passionate feelings for her. He'd never thought of his time at saloons with girls as making love. That had been pure sport. He'd bought and paid for what he'd gotten. But with Josephine things were different.

So now what? He wasn't sure. For the first time, J.D. wasn't sure what he wanted.

Taking a sip of piping coffee and walking toward the bed, he studied Josephine while she slept. Her hair had come undone from her braid, and the waves of fiery auburn covered her shoulders like a shawl. Her skin, the color of ivory, looked pale and soft in the veiled daylight. The sheets were twisted through her legs, the end draped across her middle. He couldn't see her breasts; her hair fell over them.

A contented feeling radiated inside J.D. The kind that worked around his heart after he'd had a satisfying day in the saddle or after he'd helped a heifer birth a calf. He wasn't a man of much luxury. He took pleasure in the simpler things in life. Like watching a sunset or sitting up on the Tepee Range looking out at his spread. He didn't like complications. He liked routine.

So why, then, was he feeling so damn good watching Josephine sleep? To his recollection, he'd never stood back and enjoyed the beauty of a woman while she was dreaming. And just what was Jo dreaming about?

J.D. cocked his hip, took another swallow, then sighed. Maybe he shouldn't have let things go so far.
He'd known he was playing with fire. She wasn't made for his kind of country. She wouldn't be happy here. So why was he thinking otherwise? Why was he imagining her lying in his bed at the ranch?

And why had he told Rio first thing this morning to back away from Jo?

Recalling the incident, J.D. saw himself as a gallant hero—the kind she would have read about in one of her books. He'd cornered Rio and asked him his intentions. Rio had replied, “A man's got to try and steal a kiss from a pretty girl.” It had been all J.D. could do not to punch the kid in the jaw. He'd told Rio that the first kiss he stole from Josephine Whittaker would see him kissing his job good-bye.

Though why J.D. had made such a point to put the other man at bay, he couldn't be sure. All these thoughts about Jo at the ranch would never be. J.D. shook off the memory of how good Josephine had felt in his arms. Of how fine she'd been to kiss . . . to explore. One thing he'd found out, she wasn't inexperienced.

A cord of jealousy tightened around his ribs, making his breathing tight. He had no right to feel the way he did. What she'd done in the past was no business of his. Because he was plenty experienced himself. But that didn't stop him from wondering something fierce. Who had she been with? Had she loved him?

Josephine stirred, slipping onto her back, taking the sheets with her yet not high enough. Her hair fell to her sides, and her breasts were exposed to his gaze.

He lingered a moment, the flames of the fire inside him stirring. Then he wrenched himself away, set his cup aside, and bent down to grab the clock from her valise. The underclothing that she'd wrapped it in was soft and satiny against his fingertips. He was surprised that he had any feelings left at all where the skin was hardened over by calluses one on top of the other.

He turned the clock around so that he could examine
the settings for the alarm time. Twisting the dial several times, he stopped when he had it pointed directly on the ten.

Collecting his cup, he put the clock on the washstand next to the coffee he'd brought Josephine. The boys had been up for a half hour; some were downstairs nursing their bottle fatigue over breakfast and a pot of Arbuckle's, while some had gone to the livery with Rio. Boots was up and about, and the last J.D. had seen of him, he'd been walking across the street toward the bench to wait for the train.

J.D. didn't want anyone knowing where he'd spent the night. It was better to leave Josephine alone, have her wake up on her own, then join them in the saloon as if nothing had happened last night.

With a final lingering gaze, J.D. turned and left the room.

•  •  •

The blare of the alarm's bell bolted Josephine upright. She was momentarily disoriented, and it took a few seconds for her eyes to focus. Then she kicked the covers off and tripped out of bed with the intention of stuffing the clock beneath the pillow. But the peal ran down by the time she reached it; she nearly knocked over a cup of coffee on the washstand in the process.

The room quiet now, she grew more alert. Gazing around, she looked for J.D. Not a trace. The aroma of coffee filled the corner where she stood, and she laid her fingertips on the handle of the mug.

J.D. had been there.

Walking slowly back to the bed, she sat down on the rumpled coverlet. How was she going to face him? She was almost glad he wasn't there. She'd have time to collect herself.

She'd never,
ever
done anything as impetuous as she had last night. What must he think of her? That she fell into bed with whatever man was available when the mood struck her?

Josephine mulled over her options as she reached down for her valise. Lifting the case onto the bed, she rummaged through it, her trousers and shirt on top. Folded on the bottom were the skirts and blouses of the original owner.

Pausing, Josephine thought about trying them on, then opted against it. She didn't want J.D. to think she was chasing after him.

Josephine dressed in J.D.'s old clothes while going over in her mind just what exactly one said to one's boss after having spent the most incredible hours of her life with him.

“Thank you” seemed hardly appropriate.

•  •  •

The Union Pacific No. 76 chugged into Bircher at high noon. J.D. went up to the conductor and explained the circumstances to him. A boxcar was opened, and the cowboys lifted Orley's sheet-wrapped body inside.

After paying for Boots's fare, J.D. put him on the train. Boots stood on the platform, his eyes bloodshot and his legs a little wobbly.

“Get Klauffman to make the arrangements,” J.D. called up to Boots. “Tell him I'll be paying for the casket. Then you have him send a telegram to Morris Crossing.”

Boots barely paid him any mind, his gaze latched onto the boxcar as the sliding door was shoved closed.

“And get somebody to ride out to the place so Hazel can come into town and get you in the wagon. You hear?”

Boots snorted. “Good gawd, what do y'all take me for? A nitwit? I ought to get me a hot-blooded stallion and ride my way back to the house. But if I get throwed and break my neck, don't go burying me under that gawddamned peach tree. I don't want any bird shit splattering on my tombstone.”

With that, he disappeared into one of the two passenger cars connected to the engine.

J.D. shook his head as he walked off toward the chuck. Jo was already on the seat waiting for him. The calf was tied to the rear making mewing sounds and sniffing the air. Seeing as how Josephine wasn't up in time this morning, J.D. had fed the calf its breakfast.

Jo sat with her back straight, her clothing neatly buttoned, and her frilly hat over her perfectly plaited braid. She looked nothing like the seductive woman he'd been lying next to for the latter part of the night. He'd been imagining her in a dress. A blue calico with white petticoats underneath. A forget-me-not-colored dress for a woman he was likely never to forget.

Pushing himself up, he settled in beside her and grabbed the lines. Their thighs brushed, as did their elbows. She scooted over.

He smiled. “No need.”

She smiled back, soft and tentative. “I suppose not.”

The train's whistle blew, and the engine's wheels began to turn. By little tufts of steam, the No. 76 gained speed and pulled out of Bircher.

The boys removed their hats and waved them at the boxcar that carried one of their departed, then Rio whistled between his teeth for the dogs that weren't staying at the spring range and moved what was left of the remuda out into a run.

J.D. flicked the reins on the mules' rumps, and they joined the procession. The cowboys mounted up and trotted alongside the train for a spell.

“Look behind you,” J.D. said in what he hoped was a casual tone, his elbows leaning on his knees. “In the wagon. Right there in front.”

Josephine turned around, then faced forward. “What am I looking for?”

“Something new.”

She reached in back once more, then came up with what he'd wanted her to find. A gray Stetson that hadn't seen too much wear with a fine leather band. He'd picked it up at the trading post, glad that
somebody had cashed it in last week. “Oh,” she said with awe in her voice. “You bought yourself a new hat.”

He gazed at her with a half-smile. “No, Jo. That's for you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Since the other hat I gave you washed downstream.” His eyes returned to the road. “That one you've got on isn't worth the price you paid for it. That Stetson'll keep the sun off your face.”

“I . . . I don't know what to say.”

“Don't say anything. Just put it on.”

She slipped the ribbon bow free of her eastern hat, took it off, then placed the Stetson on her coil of braids.

“Well?” she asked.

“I like it.”

Her eyes brightened. “Thank you . . . um, boss. It was thoughtful of you.”

His brows furrowed. “You call me boss again, I'm liable to take the hat back.”

She was quiet a moment, then faced forward. She put her feet on the ledge of the box. “I want you to know that last night . . . well . . . it's just that there was only one other, and he . . . he isn't a part of my life anymore.”

The clop of hooves over the earth rang out between them.

“I've never done anything like last night before,” she said with quiet emphasis. “I . . . I just wanted you to know.”

J.D. didn't reply as promptly as he should. He appreciated her candor more than he could ever say. “I'm glad you told me, Jo.”

20

E
ach day ran into the next as they traveled toward Sienna's outskirts. For Josephine, the sunsets came too swiftly. She liked the time spent after supper the best, when the dishes were done and she could sit by the fire and listen to the tales Gus Peavy spun, with commentary from Birdie Tippett, who appeared to be on the mend. J.D. had given him a fresh bandage, and Birdie had scoffed that he wasn't an invalid.

These moments of reverie usually progressed into a familiar order. One of the boys would ask to grind some of the Arbuckle's coffee in the hopes that he'd be the one to find the stick of striped peppermint candy that was packed in every sack. Print Freeland had been the lucky one the other night. Then she'd play the violin for a while, trying to pick up some of the camp songs they would sing to her. She was able to carry the melody of “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie” fairly well.

She made peach pies again their second day out. Unfortunately, she burned the edges this time, and they hadn't looked as good as the ones Old Wednesday had stolen. But they tasted fine enough for everyone to have two helpings.

There wasn't an opportunity for her and J.D. to be
alone together for any length without causing attention. While they rode on the wagon together, they talked. She listened, mostly, to his plans for the ranch. It meant a lot to him. She had never put so much hope into a property; for her, a house had been merely a house. She hadn't thought about land and what it could do for a person. To J.D., his land and his cattle meant the world.