Forget Me Not (8 page)

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The boys had assembled at the dining table, with J.D. sitting at the head. All of them had gotten spiffed up to meet the new cook. Those who had been covered with mud and grime, several reeking with blood from a day's work in the corral, had all taken frigid baths in the creek wearing their long johns. Manners were in place. In an unspoken courtesy, not a single revolver was present. Each had hung his gun belt on one of the series of hooks in the front room. Hats weren't necessarily removed unless a lady was present, so there wasn't a hat to be seen. Along with the hardware, the bands of Stetsons were slung over those hooks as well.

J.D. ate with his cowboys. Here, there was no distinction between boss and hired hand. Normally, ranchmen didn't make a formality of a meal. The eating hour was strictly business with no time for idle gossip.

But tonight was different.

The low hum of conversation circulated around the table, as each man was eager to make the acquaintance of Miss Josephine Whittaker and taste a bite of her delectable offerings. They'd been waiting for an interminable ten minutes—a clear breech of etiquette, as one of Luis Escalante's rules was promptness. But nobody had beaten on the triangle at five o'clock to bring them from the bunkhouse, the corral, or wherever they happened to be. Five o'clock came and went without the signal; it was the boys' stomachs
rumbling for some good victuals that had sent them seeking the house.

J.D. made a mental note to tell Josephine that she had to use the triangle when calling the boys to the table. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. The smell of something peculiar came from the kitchen. He recognized the aroma of tomatoes, but there was a trace of something else. He could swear it was . . . creamed corn. But that couldn't be. Stretching out his legs, he shrugged off the thought. He'd been eating too much of it to get the smell out of his nose.

After waiting another five minutes, J.D. was just about to get out of his chair and investigate when Boots appeared in the doorway carrying a platter of creamed corn on toast.

“Evening, boys,” Boots said proudly, depositing his fare in the center of the table. “Dig on in while it's hot.”

They all grumbled, looked at one another, then glared at J.D.

J.D. lifted himself straighter in his chair. “Where's the cookie? And where in the hell are our steaks?”

Boots gave him a brittle smile. “She took to her bed. Had herself a bit of an accident in the kitchen.”

J.D.'s eyes narrowed. “What kind of accident?”

“An ‘effervesce of tomatoes' is what she called it.”

Sliding his chair back, J.D. stood and went for the closed kitchen door.

“I wouldn't go in there if I was you,” Boots warned. “She made one hell of a mess.”

J.D. turned and shouted, “Then she's got one hell of a mess to clean up before she fries those steaks!”

“She's not frying anything up tonight. Last I seen her, she was on her way to a good drunk.”

“Drunk?”

“Said she needed some sherry to calm herself, but I told her Eugenia drank all we had. So I gave her my corn liquor bottle.” Boots scraped the legs of his chair
out, sat, and began to serve himself. “I suspect y'all'll be taking her back to Sienna tomorrow.”

Boots apparently thought he had things cleverly figured out. Get the cook drunk. Then get her fired.

“I ought to take you to Sienna tomorrow and leave you there, you crafty son-of-a-bitch,” J.D. blazed, then stalked out of the dining room.

4

R
ather than waking to the inviting aroma of coffee brewing, J.D. opened his eyes to the lingering smell of spent wood coming from the banked fireplace in the front room. He lay on his bed, staring through the darkness toward the ceiling. The time was probably in the vicinity of three-thirty. When Luis had been the cook, every morning at precisely three thirty-five, the rich flavor of Arbuckle's wafted through the house and slowly brought J.D. around. He wasn't an instant riser. It took him a good fifteen minutes to wake up enough to get out of bed. On cold mornings, he'd lie back, put his hands behind his head, and think about what needed to be done that day. He'd work up an appetite for Luis's savory sourdough pancakes fried in salt pork drippings with molasses poured on top, and a cup of hot black coffee, strong enough to float an old horseshoe.

For several weeks, J.D. had been getting up and fixing breakfast for the boys. He got too busy around the place to deal with dinner and supper, so Boots had taken on those shifts. J.D. wasn't lame in the kitchen; he just didn't like cooking.

J.D. swung his legs over the side of the bed, then ran his fingers through the stiff growth bristling on his
chin. He figured he'd avoided his razor long enough. He dressed in the near dark. After slipping into a fresh pair of Levi's, he slid his arms into a loose-fitting blue flannel shirt that was worn and soft. He grabbed his boots, shoved them on by the mule ears, then fit his pants over the scarred leather.

His tread out of his bedroom was light, despite the rolling walk he'd adapted as a cowboy from wearing the chunk-heeled boots of his profession. Boots's door was closed, and no light shined from within the room. More and more of late, Boots didn't keep regular hours. Sometimes when J.D. would get up to check on a calf or to investigate what the dogs were barking at, he'd find Boots's lamp lit at any hour of the night. J.D. had asked him why he didn't sleep, and Boots had grumbled that his mind was going and he forgot when to go to bed. Boots would be sixty years old in a couple of months. Though he was getting on, J.D. didn't think the old man's mind was going. J.D. sometimes wondered if Boots stayed up late to figure out ways to torment him. For as long as J.D. could remember, he and Boots had never been father and son, much less friends. In spite of that, it seemed to J.D. that he'd been answering to Boots all his life.

J.D. had inherited Boots's bad temper, and the rage that J.D. sometimes felt made him distance himself from people when he was angry. That was why, after last night's exchange with Boots in the dining room, J.D. had left the house rather than confront Josephine. He'd gone for a fast ride on Tequila to burn off some energy. He'd been in such a vile frame of mind, he hadn't been able to trust himself around anyone. He was liable to knock somebody for a loop. And he sure as hell would never hit a woman. Or his father. Though there had been times he'd been damn close to jumping on Boots's back.

They fought often, and were they ever to apologize to each other, they'd have to chip through layers upon layers, years upon years of fighting and walking away,
just to get to the root of the problems between them. Both were bull-headed, and J.D. doubted he and Boots would ever have a kind thing to say to each other.

Faint light from a thin wedge of moon lent the front room slight illumination. Rawhide had been pretty much incorporated into everything. It made the woven bottom of the springless bed J.D. slept in and was the cushions and backs of the chairs he and the boys sat in for a spell at night after supper. Cowskin made up the soft rug spread at the stone hearth. Wagon wheels and a sanded plank of wood had been converted to tabletops for card playing. Old horseshoes came in handy for just about anything in the house or the tack room.

J.D. went to the mantel and opened a box of matches. He struck one and lit a kerosene lamp. Turning up the flame, he proceeded toward the kitchen. When he pushed the door inward, he stopped short, lifting his arm to cast light about the room.

“Good gawd,” he whispered, then cursed himself for uttering Boots's favorite expletive.

There were tiny pieces of tomato pulp everywhere. Nothing had been cleaned up from Josephine's “effervesce of tomatoes.” J.D. hadn't been sure exactly what Boots had been talking about. Now it was all too clear.

Stepping into the kitchen, J.D. put a flame to all the lamps. When the wicks were hissing with a bright glow, he stood back to view the damage. Nothing was free from red stains. Walls, ceiling, stove. The counter where the tomato cans still sat, a bowl of flour, the cornmeal canister, and a bunch of kitchen utensils. At least the meat he'd brought Josephine had been stored. Boots had probably done that. Actually, he'd probably relished doing that while his creamed corn was on to boil.

J.D. went to Josephine's door and knocked.

No answer came.

He knocked again—louder—and waited a few seconds.

Still no response.

Maybe she'd lit out in the middle of the night. But even he didn't think she'd be fool enough to do that. Just the same, he turned the knob and let himself in.

Light from behind him poured into the small room. Josephine slept on the unmade bed. She hadn't made any attempt to do up the sheets. One was sprawled beneath her, and one came up haphazardly to her waist. She was sleeping in her underwear. A frilly white camisole, petticoat, and drawers. She lay on her stomach, one knee bent. Her bare foot, with its well-shaped toes, peeked out from the edge of the sheet.

Proceeding farther, he stepped on something. He picked up a hairpin and straightened, his gaze falling to her once more. She had unbound her hair. He was surprised by the unsettling hint of appreciation slamming him in the chest as he viewed the mass of brown curls falling past her bent elbow. He wouldn't have pegged Josephine Whittaker as the type of woman possessing provocative hair. She was too restrained to be sensual.

Her cheek rested on her pillow; her lips were parted. The creamy expanse at the side of her neck looked soft . . . kissable. Her skin had the look of polished ivory. A pale hand with slender pink nails rested palm down on the pillow, right in front of her nose.

He gave her entire body a raking gaze. She was curvy. Her derriere had a swell to it that would fit nicely in a man's hands. An unwanted attraction toward her tightened his muscles. His skin felt hot even though the air was cool. He was by no means blind to her, but he was puzzled by his body's strong reaction. In a hasty rationale, he reasoned he'd been too long without a woman. Perhaps he should have
gone into Sienna and visited Walkingbars with the rest of the cowboys more than he did. If he had, he wouldn't be looking at Josephine the way he was.

Josephine Whittaker came from exactly the same stock as his mother. And Eugenia hadn't been able to make a go of it in the West. Eastern women had no call to be marrying western men. Though Boots and Eugenia had been married in Areola, Mississippi, Eugenia's heart had never left Boston. He couldn't blame her for going back. At least she hadn't stayed and been a martyr.

Right now, J.D. didn't have the time to think about getting married, and he didn't have the time to be lonesome. Should he ever sit down and really consider what he wanted in a woman, he wouldn't be having Josephine in mind.

J.D. glanced at the washstand, where there was an empty glass and Boots's corn liquor bottle, corked and nearly full. However much Josephine had drunk, it hadn't been a lot.

He went to the bedside and bumped his toe on the leg of the headboard. “Get on up, cookie.”

She didn't budge.

“Come on, cookie, it's time to get up.”

She muttered. Moaned, actually. A low, throaty sound that brought his gaze back to her face. Her eyes remained closed, but her breathing was no longer the steady rhythm of a deep sleep.

“Wh-what is it . . . Annabel?” she whispered hoarsely. “Is Hugh drunk . . . again?”

J.D. couldn't help wondering who Hugh was. A brother? Fiancé? Whoever he was, it wasn't his concern. Laying his hand on Josephine's shoulder, he gave her a soft shake.

“Cookie, pick it up. It's time to get out of bed.”

“Wha . . .” Josephine's eyes fluttered open, her long lashes thick, dark fringes. “What?”

“I said, time to get up.” For the hell of it, he gave her bottom a light smack.