Forget Me Not (4 page)

“Where's my notice?”

Mr. Klauffman replied, “I took it down when you hired Denby.”

“Dammit to hell, make up another one.” J.D.'s voice was so inflamed and belligerent, Josephine started. “I need to be moving out the day after tomorrow if I want to keep my cattle alive, and I'll be damned if my outfit is eating Boots's slop for the next couple of weeks. I need to hire a cook right now.”

Before Josephine could think, she blurted, “I'm a cook.”

2

J
.D. McCall pinned Josephine to the spot with his piercing gaze. Up this close, she could see that his eyes were a clair-de-lune color, just like the pale, grayish-blue glaze on the Chinese porcelains she owned. Or, rather, used to own. His deep brown hair was very long—several inches past his wide shoulders—and had some wave to its length. She sensed he wasn't as old as the squint lines at the corners of his eyes and the short-bearded jaw made him appear to be.

“If you're a cook,” he said, “I'm a preacher.”

“But I am,” she insisted. She couldn't lose this opportunity.

“She
is
a cook, J.D.,” Mr. Klauffman jumped in. “She told me so.” Then he cleared his throat, giving Josephine a hasty glance. “J.D., this is Miss Josephine Whittaker. Miss Whittaker, this is Mr. J.D. McCall.”

Mr. McCall's sarcasm didn't fade. “Five days ago you were crying on Tuttle's doorstep. What are you still doing in Sienna?”

She found it surprising that he remembered her. But she wasn't in a big city anymore, where one person blended into the next on the crowded streets. Here, she unintentionally stood out among the meager inhabitants who moved with a slowness she hadn't
been able to get used to after years of hustle and bustle.

Josephine didn't think Mr. J.D. McCall would feel sorry for her if he knew the dire truth of her situation, so she twisted it a little.
A lot
. “I've decided to stay for a while. I like it here.”

“Your money didn't turn up, huh?”

Against her wishes, she felt her face hotly color. “No.”

“You're stranded,” he stated bluntly. “But it just so happens you're a cook.”

“Yes.” Her monotone answers would get her nowhere, but before she could recover enough from his astute declaration and list her attributes, his firm mouth broke into a smile.

To her utter chagrin, he laughed. At her. “I wouldn't have figured you for the type who could fix a meal for eighteen men with big appetites.”

She felt as if he were baiting her, trapping her in her ignorance. With a sense of conviction she didn't know she could fake until now, she said in a purposeful tone, “I most definitely can plan a menu for eighteen.” Then, to dramatize her declaration, she laid her palm on the top Bible of a stack on the table next to her. “I promise.” And that was the God's truth. She could
plan
a menu. In fact, she had planned them for more than eighteen dinner guests. Only she hadn't prepared the meal. But that wasn't what she was attesting to.

“Get your hand off that book,” J.D. said dryly. “I don't have any use for religious bull.”

Her hand numbly slipped away.

“You don't have the stamina it takes to wrangle grub for men with the ferocious hunger of a wolf. That takes a lot of strength, know-how, and guts.”

“I have guts,” she prompted, though she was loath to speak a word that conjured the image of entrails rather than fearless daring. She racked her brain for
an appropriate line from
Rawhide's Wild Tales of Revenge
she could use in her favor. Under the stress of pressure, she couldn't think swiftly enough.

“You have too much meat on you to tackle the job. I need someone who can lift a ten-pound sack of beans without falling apart at the seams.”

His implication was horrifying. She'd never in all her life been told she had large proportions. She, like her lady friends in Manhattan, was considered quite in vogue with her voluptuous figure. It was offensive to be too thin on the bones; she'd never had that problem.

“I find your reference to my personal nature defamatory,” she stated plainly, in disbelief that she had the backbone to stand up for herself. But if she didn't, he would think she was spineless, and he wanted someone plucky. “You know nothing of my character. I'm in fine physical form. On my behalf, I would say that I won the Manhattan archery title in the Columbia round after successfully parlaying twenty-one out of twenty-four arrows in the bull's-eye mark.”

“I don't need someone to shoot the beef, just cook it.”

“I can do so. Quite admirably,” she added for good measure.

“You're a woman. And unmarried women on a ranch go against the grain and are nothing but a set of problems.”

J.D.'s bluntness nettled. In New York, a future of economic security had required marriage for women. She'd thought—
hoped
—that out here her status wouldn't matter. But apparently conventional necessity knew no boundaries.

Mr. Klauffman remarked, “The Shaw outfit had itself a woman cook some time back.”

“True. And that cook's duties weren't limited to the kitchen,” J.D. countered dryly.

Josephine took brittle offense. Clenching her teeth,
she swallowed hard, trying not to reveal her outrage. She glared at him with reproachful eyes. “If I were of a mind to do more than cook, I would be at the Walkingbars saloon this very moment.” On an impulse, she tacked on, “I was assured Billy would hire me on the spot.”

She hoped that by announcing she was wanted elsewhere, he would give her more regard and not let her slip through his fingers.

J.D. McCall grew thoughtful. He stood very still, with his eyes narrowed in on her. The pent-up tension wound in his muscular body was enough to make her run, but she couldn't. He was her last hope.

“J.D., it's her or Boots,” Mr. Klauffman said, coming to her aid once more.

From the display on Mr. McCall's face, she thought he was going to tell her to stop pretending to be something she wasn't. But he didn't. In his hard expression there was a flicker of indecisiveness, more than a little resentment, then a shade of resignation, but not without anger—which she couldn't be all that sure was directed on her rather than himself.

“Can you fix fried beef?”

“It's my specialty,” she returned without blinking.

“All right,
cookie.
I'll give you the job. Only because there isn't another dough wrangler to be had.” He turned toward Mr. Klauffman. “Zev, keep my notice on that board, and send anybody who answers it my way. Miss Whittaker's position is just a temporary one.”

Which was exactly what Josephine had in mind. She didn't want to be stuck out at a ranch any more than Mr. J.D. McCall wanted her there.

“My wagon's out front.” Spurs jingled as the tall cowboy shifted the position of his boots, transferring his weight from one lean leg to the other. “Load it up with the supplies she'll need. I'll be back in an hour.”

Then J.D. McCall strode to the door and was gone
before the danger of the situation finally occurred to Josephine.

“I don't know if I did you a favor, Miss Whittaker, or delivered you to the devil's own,” Mr. Klauffman murmured in the ensuing calm. “That J.D. McCall is just like his father. And Boots is a son-of-a . . . gun.”

“You needn't worry about me, Mr. Klauffman.” But Josephine was worried. She had the eerie feeling of having been pelted by a storm when there had been no gray clouds in the sky.

Despite the store being empty, Mr. Klauffman whispered, “I don't mean to pry, Miss Whittaker, you being a fine lady and all . . . but can you really cook?”

In an equally soft tone, she replied, “No. But I can read.”

“Ma'am?”

“Could you loan me one of your cooking books?”

“Miss Whittaker, I most certainly could give one to you. Consider it going toward the ring.”

“Thank you, Mr. Klauffman.”

“I'll get started on that order.”

She nodded, wishing she had a candy to suck on so she could think. Her gaze fell on the jar of round golden treats.

Mr. Klauffman apparently read her mind. “How about I throw in some butterscotch candies for you?”

“That would be nice.” She would need them for fortitude.

An hour later, she rigidly stood in front of the general store waiting for Mr. J.D. McCall to return. Everything Josephine Whittaker owned was packed in the valise at her feet: a set of ladies' plain clothing that didn't fit her and a book of cooking recipes she didn't quite understand.

•  •  •

J.D. slid his glance to the woman beside him. After the way she'd gone on at the sheriff's office about her stolen valise, and when she'd talked up her qualifications to handle the cook's job, he figured her for a
chatterbox. But she wasn't. She'd been real quiet ever since he picked her up at the mercantile. Maybe she was having doubts, just like him.

Miss Josephine Whittaker sat stiffly, her spine as straight as a branding iron handle. The confining style of her hair didn't allow any tendrils to escape and catch on the breeze. Her feet were crossed at the ankles of scuffed black shoes; her lace-gloved hands with the dirty tips were folded into a tight ball and rested on her lap. As rigid as she was, he could put his forefinger to her shoulder and probably knock her over without any effort.

Damn, but compassion had gotten in the way of his better judgment. Seeing her in the same suit she'd had on that day in Tuttle's office, only now looking worse for the wear, he'd taken pity on her. Under circumstances other than crucial, he never would have hired a woman, much less a lady. But they were in the third year of a desperate drought. The prior summer had been hot and dry, the rivers seemingly boiling mud. Hope for a wet winter had been dashed when they'd received no significant moisture, either by rain or by snow. A month ago, he'd had no choice but to cut his herd down to two-thirds its normal size so as not to damage the fragile land. What grass had sprouted was being grazed to the nub. If he wanted his cattle to survive, he'd have to move them to the spring range as soon as possible and chance that the mountains were lush.

He couldn't wait around for another cook to replace Denby. His stock would be dead by then. So he was just going to have to make do with who he had. Like Zev had said, it was either her or Boots. And the boys had threatened to up and quit if they had to face another plate of creamed corn on toast—though not a one of them spoke up in disfavor of the unpalatable dish, because Boots was likely to do something like spit in the skillet as retaliation.

J.D.'s gaze left Josephine for the rambling road. He
doubted she could cook a decent meal. But she was a female, and he assumed what she didn't know she could pick up on instinct alone. Whatever she put together had to be better than Boots's specialty.

Rather than dwell on Boots, J.D.'s thoughts moved to the surrounding terrain.

He owned twenty-nine thousand acres of range broken here and there by steep ridges and deep gulches. Sagebrush, ponderosa pine, and knotted cedar dotted the land. The McCall Cattle Company was pieced together from dozens of homesteads. As much as it bothered him, he'd profited from the despair of families seduced by their government into buying—homesteading—plots of land too small to support them. When the nesters called it quits, somebody had to buy them out. J.D. made fair offers, and slowly he'd acquired a respectably sized ranch.

When J.D. had come to Wyoming after the Civil War, he'd gone to work for a man named Dillard on Buffalo Creek. J.D. worked his way up from wrangler to foreman, but when Dillard died, he owed J.D. a couple years' back wages. J.D. could have moved on instead of staying those two years, but he'd had a roof over his head and three square meals a day, and he'd at last found something he enjoyed.