Forget Me Not (5 page)

After Dillard's death, J.D. took out a lien and got the title to what would become the core parcel of the McCall Cattle Company. Through the years, he bought more cattle and more land, vowing to make himself a success Boots could be proud of. After all, he'd taken a bankrupt ranch and made it financially sound. But Boots had his own views of success, and J.D. should have known better than to try and impress him.

Even though Boots was his father, J.D. had never gotten along with him, and now he didn't even pretend to. Boots was an iron-rod individual, highhanded and presumptuous—the worst of which was always reserved for J.D. Boots was going to have a
mouthful to say as soon as J.D. pulled into the yard with Miss Forget-Me-Not. And when the boys got a look at her, J.D. could guarantee she'd have no trouble keeping her wood box filled with fuel as they vied with each other to stand well in her favor. Therein would lie the heart of his problem.

The presence of a woman would more or less handicap the cowboys in their language. Salty tales would be watered down to nothing, and discussions of sexual experiences would have to be corked up tight. The boys would feel obligated to come in for chuck wearing clean pants and shirts. And should a creek be handy, their faces would be shining and their hair slicked down. Hats would have to come off during the meal. All this emphasis on proper appearances would make for poor digestion.

Steering the team up and over a ridge called the Point, J.D. made the descent toward the ranch on a trail scattered with pebbles. Almost everything he could see in the distance he could call home. The bunkhouse, barn, and horse corrals. The shingled roof of the house where he and Boots lived was on the far side of Buffalo Creek. Farther down the creek stood a cabin where One-Eyed Hazel lived. And up behind the house, toward the hogbacks on Sienna Butte, was the shimmering blue patch of the catch pond that provided them with irrigation water. J.D. could track the gurgling flow though a system of ditches Boots and One-Eyed Hazel had dug over the course of three summers.

The horses picked up their feet lightly as J.D. guided them beneath the gateway of three sturdy pine poles—two as vertical posts and the third as the cross pole. A sun-bleached cow skull hung over the gateway, below which was chained on both sides a wooden plank with the ranch's name and brand—an interlocking M and c—burned in the front. The drive was a mile long, with the west pasture to the left. Handsome red cattle with clean, curly-haired white faces
and white-lined backs grazed on the spring shoots of grass. The breed had a blockiness to its body, with short bones. J.D. looked forward to a thick slab of well-cooked meat on his plate for supper tonight.

“How do you fry your steaks?” J.D. asked, breaking the silence that had stayed with him and Josephine for the last fifteen miles.

“The usual way,” she replied in a voice that seemed faraway.

“I meant thin or thick? Fried quickly or slow?”

Her wide eyes darted nervously to his, and they exchanged a subtle look of apprehension that had nothing to do with their current discussion.

J.D. didn't much trust the staying power of eastern women on the range. His mother had barely lasted a year at the ranch before returning to his grandmother's home in Boston. Women came West for only one reason that J.D. could see. To marry cowboys and cattlemen. And if that husband died or was badly injured, a woman had three choices: she could return to the East, move to town and wash clothes or serve drinks, or take over the spread.

In J.D.'s mother's case, she'd packed up before Boots cashed in his life for a tombstone. J.D. couldn't blame her for leaving. If Boots had died, Eugenia wouldn't have settled into town, and she didn't have the will to run a large spread. J.D. sensed that Josephine Whittaker and his mother shared something in common.

At length, Josephine said, “I haven't quite decided yet which way I'll fix the steaks.”

J.D. veered his eyes forward and made no comment. Anything he said was bound to come out wrong.

As he brought the team to a halt at the open barn doors, they were met by a whirlwind of vocal dogs. Several cats of various colors lurked in the background of the dimly lit interior.

Boots sat on a tree stump in front of the comfortable
frame house with wide verandas, whittling on a short stick. He rose on stiff legs that quivered until he got the kinks out. His joints were crippled up from too many bad horses and too much bad weather. He couldn't ride anymore, and that made him as nasty as a loco steer. In his frustration, he would sometimes stomp from the house and have Hazel hitch up the buckboard so he could find the boys and cause some sort of trouble.

“Good gawd, who in the hell is that?” Boots bellowed in a voice that sounded like it came from deep within an old mine shaft. He slipped both his knife and the stick into his pocket with a hand that was swollen by years of hard labor and work's mistakes. He adjusted the weather-beaten brim of his hat against the sun, and a shock of steel-gray hair fell over the collar of his buckskin shirt as he approached.

“The cook.” J.D.'s spurs clinked on the hard earth as he stepped down from the wagon to the continued bark of Toby. He bent and chucked the dog's ear, giving Boots a minute to digest the news while he lavished attention on Toby, a pitiable-looking dog with white fur freckled with gray and tan spots on his body, black ears, and a jagged white blaze up his nose and between his eyes. Despite his sorry appearance, Toby was the best cow dog he'd ever had.

“Cook?”
Boots snapped. Crackling cornflower eyes that saw life like the eyes of a goshawk sized up every inch of Josephine Whittaker. “What happened to Pete Denby?”

J.D. explained as he went around to assist Josephine from the buckboard.

“Good gawd,” Boots cursed again. “Why'd y'all go and hire a woman cook? It'll be just like having your mother around.”

Ignoring Boots's dry commentary, J.D. turned to Josephine and held out his hand. She didn't readily take it. Her expression was so severely restrained, she
must have been waging one hell of a battle for control inside that head of hers. Though he knew she didn't fit in, he was hoping she'd overlook that fact and still be able to fry up something satisfactory for supper.

She slipped her fingers in his, squeezing his hand as she disembarked, as if she needed his strength for support. Once on her feet, she straightened the short coat to her dress and brushed the dirt from her skirt. Boots came forward, Toby trotting alongside with his spotted tail wagging. Josephine took a step backward.

“He doesn't bite,” J.D. offered.

“The dog
doesn't bite,” Boots corrected.

“Just the same,” she replied, keeping her distance from both the dog and Boots.

Measuring his words with gravelly precision, Boots asked, “Are y'all afraid of dogs?” He gave Josephine no opportunity to answer before going into a short version of his cat speech. “It's not dogs that give a man grief. It's cats. I don't like cats. They have no loyalty to the hand that feeds them. Neither does a man's son. And I don't like children, either. About as much as I don't like cats.”

Boots habitually proclaimed his aversion for children and cats, yet he was forever asking J.D. when he'd give him a grandson, usually while rubbing the thick coat of the yellow tomcat curled up on his lap.

“Did you get my cigars?” Boots's tone was impatient.

“They're in one of the boxes from the mere,” J.D. replied.

Rio Cibolo and Gus Peavy sauntered over from the corral, where Ace Flynn and Print Freeland were dehorning and pasting the last of the calves. Upon seeing Josephine, Rio's face lit up in a broad grin.

“Rio, get Hazel to pull the wagon inside the barn,” J.D. said, putting a delay on the introductions. “Tell him not to unload anything. It's all going in the chuck wagon tomorrow.”

“How do, ma'am?” Rio doffed his felt hat and ran a blood-splattered hand through his mashed-down hair. “Pleasure to see you out here. Boss,” he said to J.D., “did you go and get yourself a wife?”

J.D. gave Josephine a sidelong glance to gauge her reaction. She blushed a faint shade of pink that softened her brown eyes. Coyness in a woman wasn't something he liked. Those women who artfully blushed at the tiniest suggestion of coarseness or indelicacy were more often than not spoiled and overindulged. But with Josephine, the embarrassed flush of color on her cheeks looked unpracticed.

“She's the new cookie,” J.D. answered. “Miss Josephine Whittaker. I'll save the formal introductions for the table when all you boys are gathered 'round.”

Peavy fumbled for his hat's brim, removed the Stetson, and clutched it in his hands. “Welcome, Miss Whittaker. Thank the Lord, we'll be eating good tonight.” As soon as he said it, he gave Boots a hasty squint, then nudged Rio to save himself. “You heard the boss. Go get One-Eyed Hazel.”

Rio tipped his hat and went to do as he was bid. Peavy continued to stare open-mouthed until J.D. told him to ask Print what the final tally would be for the drive.

Boots's fingers, bent and scarred with nails craggy and jagged, scratched his white-stubbled chin. “Can y'all fix creamed corn on toast?” he asked Josephine. “A good cook can make creamed corn on toast.” Then he abruptly changed the subject. “My wife, Eugenia, looks a lot like you. She was no cook. She never lifted her finger for a thing but to ring that gawddamn servant's bell she kept in every room of the house.”

Raising her chin a little, Josephine looked Boots right in the eyes—a gesture that even the toughest cowboy sometimes had trouble doing. “Rest assured, I am a cook.”

Boots's pale brows arched. “Good gawd, but y'all're a sassy little outfit, aren't you?” Once again, he gave her no room to reply. Boots rarely gave anyone a chance to add their two cents' worth after he'd had his say. “I'm going to see what Seth and Jidge are up to in the shed. I have to be busy or I get picky,” he said, more to J.D. than Josephine.

J.D. watched Boots amble off in a walk that was slow and shuffling yet steady and determined. Then J.D. reached in the bed of the wagon and grasped Josephine's valise. “I'll bring your bag into the house and show you where you'll bunk.”

She lagged behind, and he looked over his shoulder. She stood like a statue, her eyes dark with concern.

“Bunk?” she asked woodenly. “Am I to share the residence with you?”

“Unless you'd rather bunk up with the hands.”

“No.”

“Then you're stuck with me and Boots. Come on.”

•  •  •

Josephine's first view of the clean, painted home and splashes of spring flowers had left her with an inward sigh of relief. All she'd seen on the ride out had been endless piles of flat cow droppings, swooping birds feeding on a decayed carcass of a rabbit, and animal bones.

As Josephine followed J.D. around the side of the white house, the ugly dog trotted along trying to sneak a sniff of her skirts when she didn't shoo him away fast enough. White bed sheets hung lifeless on a line, and scattered here and there were half-barrels containing purple and yellow crocus, buttery-colored daffodils, and strawberry-red tulips. She wouldn't have expected such a feminine touch and wondered if there was another woman on the premises.

“Mr. McCall, are any of the men married?” she ventured.

“No.”

“Who tends the flowers?”

“Our chore boy, Hazel. Though he's no boy. He's older than Boots.”

Boots—the man who was disagreeable and surly. He'd spoken with a drawl distinctly southern, but he'd had manners that definitely were not from the Old South. He and Mr. McCall bore a certain resemblance, but if Mr. Klauffman hadn't told her Boots was the father, she might not have known. J.D. McCall, despite his sullen temperament, was easier to bear.

J.D. went up a set of back steps and held the door open for her.

“Toby, stay,” he ordered the dog, then fell in behind her.

As she entered the house, her first impression of its hominess came from the kitchen. The room was impressively spacious with a row of eastern-facing windows covered by a plain Swiss muslin. There was a large black stove with a wall pipe—just like the kind Mr. Klauffman sold—a tall cupboard with legs and panels of tin in front that had holes in the shape of stars punched in it, a work counter and basin, numerous shelves with enamel pots and pans, but there was no indoor pump.

“This is the kitchen, in ease you didn't know.” There was a hint of mockery in his tone that she didn't quite care for.

“Yes, I know,” she returned briskly.

He continued on through a narrow doorway, but Josephine lingered a moment, inhaling a deep breath. She could manage this, she told herself, taking in the intimidating cookery and utensils. She
had
to manage this.

Exhaling, she strode after J.D. The room he'd gone into was small with a single window for light. The floors were bare, and the ceiling was exposed wooden beams. Sidled up against the window wall rested a
narrow iron bedstead that was unmade; its faded red chintz spread was folded at the foot of a thin mattress. There was no wardrobe, just a shelf and hooks made out of bent horseshoes. A washbasin and towel rack were supplied on the corner stand

J.D. stood back and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. Josephine swallowed. He intimidated her greatly, but she vowed not to let on that he did.

“Those must be your sheets on the line. I'll have Hazel bring them in.”

“That won't be necessary.” She didn't want a man named One-Eyed Hazel doing her any favors. He was surely a swarthy fellow, missing teeth as well as an eye. “I can get the sheets.”

“Suit yourself.”

Josephine backed away from the door so that J.D. could leave. She was in dire need of breathing room. She felt as if someone was tightening her corset until her ribs were fused together.