Forget Me Not (12 page)

A
fter exchanging words with Boots about the recipe, Josephine went outside and prepared the sourdough starter without mishap. Then she helped J.D. stock the wagon with all the freshly cleaned cooking implements and the supply order he'd had filled at Mr. Klauffman's store. There was an entire drawer devoted to remedies. She asked J.D. about them, and he told her what they were: quinine, calomel, black draught, and horse liniment—to be used on either man or animal. Whiskey was for snakebites and doctoring. Josephine hoped they wouldn't have to uncork the bottle.

There were so many hidey holes on the wagon to be packed, she lost track of them. Josephine wasn't able to stay until the end. J.D. told her it was time to prepare supper.

Inside, she loaded the stove with wood and left the dampers to the specifications J.D. had used for the breakfast meal. She had barely struck a match to light it when Boots came sauntering in, a tabby cat padding after him. He slid a stool toward her, picked up the cat, and sat down.

“I would've been helping Peavy with the calves, but
they've got it covered,” he said gruffly. “So I figured I'd watch y'all make a hell of a mess again.”

She held her tongue.

“For frying steaks, you need to close off that oven damper,” he criticized, his big-knuckled fingers spreading through the cat's fur to stroke its back. “Otherwise they aren't going to cook right.”

She gave him a half smile and did as he suggested.

Josephine hadn't been looking forward to facing the slab of beef, but she'd had no choice. She'd set it on the counter, picked up a knife, and would have begun arbitrarily cutting if Boots hadn't stopped her.

“Good gawd, y'all cut it with the grain like that, it's going to taste like it was sawed right off the horn of some old bull. You bring the blade
against
the grain.”

She wanted to believe him. But suddenly, her oh-so-smart plan had a major flaw. He might tell her how to do the job because he wanted to show he was right; but by the same token, he wanted her to be let go from her position. It could be he'd purposefully steer her wrong.

She glanced at him. There was no mistaking he was crabby by the way his brows shot down at the bridge of his sunburned nose. But he stroked the cat with a light, gentle touch. He'd said he disliked cats. Seeing him contentedly petting the tabby curled up in his lap was a contradiction of that statement. Perhaps he was known for saying one thing but really meaning another.

“What's the matter?” he scoffed. “Is your thinker plumb puny? Cut the beef the way I say.”

She gave him a final appraisal and immediately made up her mind upon seeing the hostility in his narrowed eyes. Whatever he said, she'd do the opposite. “Thank you,” she replied, turning her focus back on the meat, “but I think I'll do it my way.”

“The wrong way,” he assured in a cross tone.

Despite her decision, Josephine vacillated with the butcher's knife in her hand. She tried to rationalize
beef cutting. There didn't seem to be a right way and a wrong way. Meat was meat. With a shrug, she lowered the blade and cut it the way she'd originally planned.

Once she'd had the meat in jagged slabs, she closed her eyes a moment to recollect what the recipe had said about frying steaks.
Salt and pepper. Roll in flour. Drop into a hot pan.
With a nod of her head, she set out to work, while Boots gave her a lecture on how to cook the meat, all the while adding cheeky commentary about the digestive benefits of creamed corn on toast as opposed to beef.

After the last potato had been peeled—a process that had sliced the skin off one knuckle and given her a cut on another—Boots changed the subject from corn to the present vegetable in hand and said ungraciously, “Y'all can't cut those too big.”

“Yes, I know,” Josephine said, agreeing with him even though she didn't. She cut each potato into quarters, dumped the mound into the large pot, poured water from a pitcher over the top, and set them on the back of the stove between the skillets of frying meat.

“Those were too big, you numbskull,” he warned.

Putting her hands on her hips, Josephine had all she could stand. He could lead her down the wrong path if he liked, but she'd rather not be called a name. “I believe you have an ulterior motive here.”

“Y'all're damn right I do,” he admitted to her satisfaction, but his next reply was anything but satisfying to her. “I've got to eat what you're cooking, and I don't like tough meat or lumpy potatoes. J.D. made up his mind to keep you on, so if I can't have my creamed corn on toast, I want to sink these old teeth into a decent steak. But what y'all've got going in here is like to break them off to the root.”

After his fit of temper, Boots stalked off—at the precise moment the steaks sizzled in dry pans and the potato water sputtered over the side of the pot.

Josephine salvaged what she could, then set the
table. The long pine trestle supported a collection of cowhide-bottomed chairs. Many of them were wired up in one place or another, evidence of efforts to repair past abuse. The table was bare of even an oilcloth. Though there weren't enough cups, plates, and silverware that matched, she arranged the items in a relative order.

With a last look at her handiwork, she went and rang the triangle. Now all she could do was hope for the best as she returned to the kitchen.

She took one of the heavy platters of steaks from the countertop and brought it into the dining room to set in the middle of the table. Gazing at the pile of meat, she hoped nobody would notice the underside had been cooked to a crispy black. She made several trips until the table had been spread out with the food. Pouring the coffee from the heavy pot had proved challenging to say the least. Dribbles of the dark liquid splashed onto plates, the table, and the napkins.

Boots was the first to arrive. He eyed the fare with a finicky gaze, then gave her a smug smile before sitting. J.D. arrived next, followed by what seemed like an endless stream of cowboys, until all eighteen of the chairs were spoken for. Nobody but Boots had sat down.

J.D.'s tan hand rested on the bow back of his chair. He'd removed his hat; aside from shaving, she couldn't recall ever seeing him without it. Around the crown of his head, his hair was dented, the longer ends mussed and unruly. In fact, all of the men were hatless. Some leaned into their chairs, others shuffled in their boots, and Rio chewed on the end of his mustache. They all appeared tired and hungry.

And they all were looking at her.

“I reckon now's the time for proper introductions,” J.D. said, shifting his eyes from her to the table. “Boys, this is the new cook, Miss Josephine Whittaker. Miss Whittaker, these are the boys.” Then he
proceeded to name each one individually, starting at his left. “This here is Gus Peavy.”

“Ma'am,” Gus replied with a tip of his head.

“That's Jidge Dooly,” J.D. continued, and so did the “ma'ams.”

“Orley Woodard, Dan Hotchkiss, Seth Winters, Birdie Tippett, Ace Flynn, Print Freeland, Rio Cibolo . . .”

Josephine tried to remember all the names, but there were so many of them.

“And you're already acquainted with Hazel and Boots,” J.D. concluded.

One-Eyed Hazel said, “Ma'am.”

Boots said nothing.

Feeling uncomfortable with the stiff formalities and gazes on her, Josephine offered, “Please sit down and enjoy your supper.”

There was a shuffling of chair legs, and the cowboys all took their places and began to pass the platters around. Josephine could hardly stand to watch as they served up their plates. The only noise was the scraping of spoons in the two bowls of mashed potatoes and the clink of the steak platters as they were passed around the table. She couldn't stay and wait for their reaction, especially when Boots was inspecting every dish with disdain.

Excusing herself, Josephine went into the kitchen.

She should have listened to Boots. He'd probably been right about the steaks because he'd been right about the potatoes. They'd turned out undercooked in the middles. She'd had a hard time mashing them and had been unable to get all the raw lumps out.

Josephine looked at the plate she'd fixed for herself. Drawing the stool up to the counter, she sat down and picked up her fork. A sharp knife was necessary to saw through the stringy meat, never mind that the steak was barely chewable. The potatoes were bland and unpalatable. They needed a sauce or a dollop of butter—neither of which she had. Taking a drink of
coffee, she found that the brew was weak and bitter. At the bottom of her cup was a whole Arbuckle's bean. The coffee she'd had before had never looked or tasted like this. She'd assumed the beans would boil down to nothing, but they were still just as whole as when she'd dumped them in.

After eating what she could, Josephine dropped her chin and closed her eyes. What would Pearl Larimer do in a situation like this? Go into the dining room and proclaim she was a fraud, then demand Rawhide pay her anyway? Not likely.

With a heavy sigh, Josephine pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. She had no answers. Unlike Pearl, she would rather run away from her present set of circumstances.

I want to go home.

But she had no home. What she had shared with Hugh was no longer welcome to her—as if for a moment she would think about going back to him. Never. Her childhood home on Madison Square had been sold upon her father's death to pay his debts. There was nothing in New York for her anymore. But New York and its society was all she knew. She was lost out here . . . lost in a house full of men who expected too much from her. She never should have lied. But if she hadn't, where would she be now?

“Coffee,” somebody called from the dining room.

Josephine straightened and wearily rose from the stool. Using a folded towel, she lifted the heavy pot from the stove and brought it into the dining room.

Nearly every man around the table indicated his need for a second cup by sliding his mug toward the right of his plate. She obliged. Not a one said the meal or the coffee was horrid. She had a good mind to say it herself and get it over with.

J.D.'s was the last cup to refill. Their gazes met. She thought for sure she was in for a reprimand. But he merely said, “Next time, grind the beans and make the coffee twice as strong.”

She nodded, then took her leave, wondering idly why he hadn't mentioned the bad steaks and potatoes. In the kitchen, she returned the pot to the stove. If she'd done this poorly for Hugh, he would have let her know in exact words how displeased he was.

Unbidden, his voice surfaced in her mind.

What good are you? You've got no money anymore. Your name is associated with scandal now that your father killed himself. You aren't a good wife, Josephine. You're a nothing. You can't even give me children. The sight of you repulses me.

The crackle of the stove's dying coals brought her back to the present. What she'd envisioned as a consummation of passion and romance had turned out to be a marriage of limitations and dependence. For her, there had been no magical bridge from her parents' home to Hugh's Fifth Avenue residence where she would become an adored wife and the pride of her husband. Her courtship had been a sham. The moment she'd said “I do,” she'd become nothing to her husband.

It was because of her disappointment in Hugh—and in herself for believing him—that she'd begun to read the Beadle's books. She'd dreamed of being one of the heroines, free to love and be loved by a man who would release her from the spell of disillusionment. She'd so wanted to be swept away from the cold and lonely house, into the arms of . . . Rawhide Abilene.

But after six years of marriage, and being the recipient of Hugh's ultimate betrayal and ugly accusations, she'd had to accept that where love was concerned, happy endings were the myths of novels.

•  •  •

J.D. walked through the quiet house carrying an alarm clock. The lights in the bunkhouses had been turned down an hour ago, as were the lanterns in the front room. Navigating his way through the darkened
area, J.D. went into the shadow-cast dining room. Josephine hadn't reappeared from the kitchen after supper. They'd all left the table with the dishes spread out, coffee cups empty, and hearty appetites not nearly satisfied. Though the steaks had been tough as bullhide chaps and cooked to black on the bottom, they hadn't been as bad as Boots's corn specialty. At least he and the boys had been able to sink their teeth into something without it going soft in their mouths.

The table had been cleared and wiped down to the plain boards. Not a sound came from the kitchen, and J.D. wondered if he'd come too late. Josephine might have ignored the dishes and gone to bed. But as he neared, a faint yellow fan of light spread from beneath the closed door. He let himself into the kitchen, stopping shy of the counter when he saw Josephine.

She sat slumped over on the stool, her slender arms flat on the ledge of the dry sink, acting as a pillow for her head as she slept. The stove had been cleaned, and all the dishes and utensils had been stored. Fanned open at her elbow was the same book, the pictures and print appearing suspiciously like a dime novel. Her face was toward him, the lashes of her eyes thick and sweeping against the light blush color the sun had painted on her cheeks today.

In order for her to be sleeping so soundly, she had to be physically exhausted. He knew firsthand how it felt to be so tired. More than once he'd fallen asleep in the saddle.

J.D. approached her, thinking maybe he'd worked her too hard, But he told himself he'd asked nothing less of her than he would have asked of Pete Denby. Then again, Pete Denby wasn't a woman.

After setting the clock on the counter, J.D. let his hand fall on her shoulder, and he gave her a light shake.

“Miss Whittaker,” he said in a low voice. “Um, Josephine, call it a day and go to bed.”