Forget Me Not (11 page)

J.D. scraped his chair back, stood, then headed for the kitchen. Prior to his trading words with Boots, the daring of Josephine's little “cookie” speech had occupied his mind. He hadn't pegged her for the type to make a man feel like he was a skunk. Not that she had done so vindictively. Hell, he'd had it coming to him,
and he knew it. But that didn't make being rubbed like dirty laundry over a washboard any less stinging.

He'd been pushing her. Trying to break her. Trying to prove to himself that she was eastern born and bred and would always be.

For a moment afterward, J.D. had thought to apologize to her, but he lacked the know-how. He was clumsy with words of remorse. He always had been. He spoke his mind without thought, having learned his excessive frankness from Boots.

At least he'd gained some manners from Eugenia, and his strong education came from her insistence that her three sons would excel academically. Rather than sending them to the parish school, his mother hired a private tutor—Mr. Gerald P. Archer, who resided with them and taught lessons to J.D., Lewis, and William.

As J.D. pushed the kitchen door in, he caught Josephine sitting on a stool at the counter, a barely touched plate in front of her and an open book in her hand. He couldn't make out the title because she snapped the soft cover closed and slipped it title-side down on her lap.

Her amber eyes were bright, and shiny tendrils of auburn hair framed her face. Though she had arranged her hair in its previous style of braids and twists, the morning's work over a steaming kettle of water had turned the fine strands at her temples and cheeks into wispy curls.

“You didn't sit at the table for dinner,” he said without preamble.

“Boots said the cook eats in the kitchen.”

“You weren't the cook for this meal. You could have sat with us.”

She fingered the edges of her book. “If it makes you feel any better, I heard most everything that was said.”

“You and half the town of Sienna,” J.D. replied, testing the heat of the big coffeepot on the back
burner. The motion was done more out of habit than actually wanting another cup. For some unexplainable reason, he felt like an intruder in his own kitchen. He needed to do something that made him belong in the room.

The coffeepot checked, his gaze landed on Josephine once more. He was again taken aback by the softness of her features with her hair less severely styled. He had to remind himself that she wasn't his type. He liked a woman who was willowy and strong. One who could handle a gun and help with the stock if the cows broke down a fence on the back forty. His ideal woman was one who could make great pies and still belong to the outdoors and the real work of cattle, horses, and land.

Shaking off his contrary thoughts, J.D. said, “Time to get a move on. We need to load the wagon.”

Josephine stood, hugged the book to her breasts, then replied, “Let me get my hat.” She returned in a moment, minus the novel, tying the ribbon to her bonnet.

Boots came through the dining room door carrying a load of dirty plates and utensils. He puffed on a fat cigar clamped between his teeth, its smoke creating a cloud that rose to the ceiling. He gave J.D. a scowl. “Since I did the cooking, y'all ought to make her do the dishwashing.”

“Don't tell me how to run things, Boots. She'll be washing the supper dishes.”

Boots sidled up to the dry sink and scooted the plates onto the counter; a fork dropped and clattered to the floor, leaving a smear of beans. “Then you best remind me of that,” he snapped, rolling the cigar to the corner of his mouth, “since y'all think my mind is going. I'm liable to forget.” With his hand gripping the counter's rounded edge to keep him balanced, Boots bent down to pick up the fork.

J.D. held the door open for Josephine, and they went out into the yard.

She looked at him with a silent inquiry, then put her gaze straight ahead.

“What?” he asked when she didn't say anything.

“I was just wondering,” she began softly, “why you don't call Boots Father.”

J.D. felt like laughing, only he didn't. Because the laugh wouldn't have been humorous. “I haven't called him Father in longer than I can remember. He's always been Boots.”

“It's an uncommon nickname.”

“The field hands named him that before I could even talk. The story goes it was because he always wore glossy black Hessian boots when he was riding through the cotton.” J.D. didn't give her the opportunity to say anything else on the subject, having already said more than he should. “Hey, Ace,” he called across the space separating him and the corral. “Where's that red with the crippled calf?”

“We grafted her to the paint.”

J.D. nodded.

The boys were earmarking the last of the calves that would be moving out to the spring range. The mother cows that had been separated from their babies were bawling, sending the dogs to lie down a distance away in the bushes. Only Toby came out to investigate, giving a yap now and then when one of the boys whistled. There were those calves that would stay behind because they were born late and newly branded. Some of the yearlings wouldn't make the trip, nor would cattle unfit for travel.

Hunkered down at the wagon, Rio painted grease on the axles. Hazel had jacked up the front and taken off the wheel for repairs.

Pivoting on the ball of his foot, Rio said, “Hey, boss, me and Hazel found Luis's fiddle in the barn. What do you want us to do with it?”

J.D. thought a moment. Luis had been a fine fiddler, entertaining the boys around the campfire many a night. J.D. realized the old cook was going to
be missed in more ways than one. “Put it in the wagon. Birdie knows how to play it passable enough.”

Drawing up to the wagon, J.D. skimmed a thoughtful gaze across it. The interior woodwork was clean and bright. The harnesses and reins were spread out on the grass, the leather having been rubbed with balm to a supple gleam. The water barrel had been filled with sweet well water to swell its seams closed. Hazel must have seen to the sourdough jar and chipped away the hardened dough and splatters of dried batter. Sunshine reflected off the gray porcelain that could hold five gallons of the best biscuit-making goo a cowboy could ever want.

“I expect you'll be wanting to get the sourdough starter going,” J.D. said to Josephine. “Flour's on the back of the buckboard, so's the salt. Hazel can heat up some water.”

She didn't look too enlightened when she replied in an offhanded manner, “I'll wait until later to do that.”

“I thought you had to let it ferment in the sun today so it would be good for using in the biscuits tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes,” she quickly said. “Of course . . . I should do that . . . right away.” She bit her lip, then abruptly announced, “I've forgotten something in my room. Pardon me a moment.”

J.D. bent his head against the sun's glare to watch her walk swiftly toward the house. Clad within the baggy seat of his pants, he could just barely make out the urgent sway of her shapely behind as she minced her steps. She disappeared around the side yard, leaving J.D. to ponder once again why in the blazes he'd hired her.

•  •  •

Grabbing the rusty knob to the back door, Josephine twisted it quickly. She winced as pressure squeezed a cut she had on her forefinger. Bringing her finger to her mouth, she sucked on the wound and let
herself into the kitchen. Upon seeing Boots at the sink, she stopped short. She'd forgotten he'd be between her and her room.

Boots turned his head to stare at her.

Lowering her arm, Josephine murmured, “Excuse me.” Then she went on to her room. Once inside, she closed the door and headed straight for her valise at the foot of the bed. Lifting the lid, she snatched up the now tomato-stained cookbook and began to flip through the pages for a recipe on sourdough starter. She reached the end. Nothing. Surely she'd just missed the recipe, so she thumbed to each page and read the title. But once at the end again, to her dismay, there was nothing. There were two biscuit recipes. Baking powder and buttermilk. Neither was sourdough.

Josephine lifted her chin. What was she going to do? J.D. McCall expected her to make sourdough starter, and she'd implied she could.

After tucking the book away, she sat on the messy bed. A flyspecked light blazed through the window where the curtains were parted. From behind her door, she heard Boots rattling pans. He seemed to know something about cooking. After all, he'd made the dinner last night and the lunch today. And with the claim the cowboys preferred his meals above others.

Josephine got an idea. She left her room and strolled into the kitchen ever so casually. “Hello,” she greeted.

Boots's back was toward her, and he apparently didn't hear her.

“Hello,” she said louder.

This time, he turned and barked, “What was that?”

“I said hello.”

“What for?”

“Because—”

“What are y'all doing in here?” His watery blue eyes sported resentment. “Come to spy on me, have
you? Well, you can tell J.D. that I haven't dropped dead.” He jabbed a soapy thumb into his chest. “The ol' ticker is pumping.”

“No, Mr. McCall, I haven't been sent.”

“Don't call me Mr. McCall. That's a hell of an attitude to address somebody old as Mister.”

For Josephine, formally addressing her elders was second nature. She hadn't thought to offend him.

Boots went back to the dishes.

“I'm sorry,” she offered. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

For the first time since she had made his acquaintance, Boots held his tongue, not giving her a glance or a nod. It would appear she'd been dismissed. She had to think of a different way to get his attention. He seemed to say the most when he was criticizing.

“I guess I'd better get back outside,” she remarked while taking a backward step for the door. “I'm going to make sourdough starter. My recipe has been in the family for decades. It's sure to make the best biscuits you'll ever eat.” She tried to remember what J.D. had said about the ingredients. He'd only mentioned flour, salt, and hot water. She hadn't learned anything about measurements other than what she'd read last night. “If you insist, I could tell you how mine's made.”

Unfortunately, Boots didn't insist.

Josephine retook her step and strategically moved forward so she wouldn't have to yell. Without Boots asking, she began to tell him the recipe as if divulging a guarded secret. “First you take . . .” She envisioned the jar in the yard. It was fairly large. “Um, you take ten teacups of flour. And some salt. Then you get water and . . .” Boots still didn't face off with her. “And you boil it until it's boiling hot—”

“Good gawd.” Boots turned his head in her direction. “Y'all haven't got the brains of a grasshopper. To make sourdough starter, you need four quarts of flour, a dash of salt, and warm water—not boiling.
Stir it to a medium-thick batter, cover it, and put the jar out in the sun.” He gave her a slanted look that said he truly did think her brain was smaller than a grasshopper's. “Anyone who tells you different is full of horse wind.”

Josephine might have taken offense at his reference to her intelligence, but he'd just saved her from a disaster. “Well, perhaps I will give your method a try.”

“If you know what's good for them boys, y'all would.” Then he turned to the sink once more.

Josephine thoughtfully chewed the inside of her lip. “Would you like to help me with supper . . . Boots?”

He paused but didn't look at her. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I thought you might want to.”

His body relaxed, and his head seemed to settle onto his shoulders. “If I don't have anything else to do.”

Leaving, Josephine quietly closed the door. It was obvious Boots didn't want her there. His displeasure had been perfectly clear by his grumbling at the lunch table. But in spite of how he felt about her, she could use him to her advantage. Having Boots in the kitchen with her could prove to be an asset. His obstinate opinion on her every move could very well save her from botching things a second time. She'd just cook things the way he said, and everything would turn out as it should.

As Josephine started for the yard, she took a small measure of satisfaction for having just outsmarted Boots McCall. After all, he'd said she had a brain the size of a grasshopper's.

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