Forget Me Not (2 page)

Josephine snapped her chin up. “You have to stop the train. My valise has been stolen!”

•  •  •

“McCall, you've got some nerve shoving demands down my throat,” Sheriff Charlie Tuttle challenged while tilting on the back legs of his chair after hoisting one booted foot onto the top of his paper-scattered desk.

J.D. McCall paced with agitation in front of the lawman, absently rubbing his fingertips across his unshaven jaw. Pausing to point, he cautioned, “You should be damn glad it's only words I'm shoving down your throat, Tuttle.” Absently, he gazed at his raised hand. Its swollen back had two long, deep scratches from busting through bush in search of a cow. Another cut ran the length of his thumb—a heifer had kicked him when he was milking her out after her calf had died. His palm was marked with three deep holes from slivers that he'd picked up trying to remove the bars from the door to the cinder-block shed when he'd been in a hurry to let in an angry cow. J.D. didn't bother to assess his right hand, which was throbbing as if he'd punched a block of rock.

He could use a hot bath, a good meal, and several hours of uninterrupted sleep. But that wasn't to be during calving. His life was organized entirely around the instincts and needs of his cows. Though the majority of cows calved just fine by themselves, on any given day a couple of dozen needed attention. J.D. enlisted the help of every available man he had to keep losses at a minimum. But he was short a pair, no thanks to Tuttle.

“Peavy told me you bagged two of my hands last night,” J.D. said, impatient to be on his way. “I want them out.”

“I arrested them with just cause.” Tuttle gave J.D. a hard-set frown. “Did Peavy tell you that Rio bought himself a new rope, and in order to stretch it he was roping posts and making his horse pull it to get the kinks out? Whether or not it was intentional, the kid lassoed a big-wig cattle buyer up from Texas who was none too happy to find himself sitting on his cheeks in the street right there in front of Walkingbars. I had to throw Rio in the cell for assault and battery.”

“Hell, Tuttle,” J.D. scoffed. “You didn't have to keep him overnight. I needed Rio first thing this morning to feed and water the horses. That's what I pay him for.”

J.D. moved to the door with a barred window that separated the sheriff's front office from the jail cells. Testing the knob, he found it wouldn't turn. “Unlock the damn door.”

“Not just yet.”

Tuttle seemed dead set on sparring with him, and J.D. wasn't in the mood. His hands ached to grip anything, mostly Tuttle's throat. J.D. cued into the fact that the sheriff was holding out for something. This wasn't the first time he and Tuttle had gone rounds over the incarceration of one of J.D.'s cowboys. “What's it going to cost me?”

The sheriff shrugged without mentioning a dollar amount. “That itinerant cook you hired . . . Mr. Pete Denby.” Tuttle steepled his fingertips together, his tone growing fastidious. “He's a mean hombre when he's drunk. He spurred his horse up and down Arnica, popping his pistol while swilling lager. Shattered the front window of the mere and just about scared Zev out of his hide. When I caught up with that cook, he jumped off that piebald of his and took a swing at me.” Tuttle punctuated evenly. “I will not be held
accountable for the lump on the side of his head. My fist had a mind of its own.”

“What's it going to cost me?” J.D. repeated. “With this drought, I've got to be moving cattle in less than a week. I need Denby and Rio.”

Flawed as the two men were, J.D. couldn't afford to be without them. His longtime cook, Luis, was killed in an accident with a bull some weeks ago. It had taken that long to get a relief man for the kitchen. Initially, no one answered J.D.'s post on the mercantile's wallboard, as all the good chuck-wagon cooks had been hired out as far back as February. When Pete Denby showed up at the ranch yesterday and claimed he was the best cook that ever threw dishwater under a chuck wagon, J.D. couldn't see any way in disputing that without giving Denby a try. So he'd taken him on, mindless of the reservations he had. Everybody in the outfit had been eating creamed corn on toast and bad Arbuckle's belly wash compliments of Boots, and J.D. had been looking forward to a thick fried steak last night for supper. Only Denby never showed.

As if Denby wasn't his only problem, there was Rio Cibolo, his eighteen-year-old, full-of-guts-and-glory wrangler. Rio was hell-bent on infamy with his rope. The kid could catch anything that moved, and more often than not he practiced on live subjects. J.D. doubted the rope throw was unintentional. Rio liked to get people's dander up and joke about it.

After reaching inside his vest pocket for his wallet, J.D. tossed a bill onto Tuttle's desk. “That ought to cover things.”

“You can have the kid, but the cook stays.” Tuttle lowered his heel, took the money, and deposited it into a cash box. “Drunk and disorderly, public intoxication, defacing property. That's a loaded offense, and I'm not all that convinced Denby's not wanted elsewhere.”

J.D.'s fingers balled into aching fists. “I paid Pete Denby his wages for a month just to hold him!”

“That's your hard luck, McCall. Denby stays for five days until I get a reply from a Cheyenne judge.”

Sheriff Tuttle got up, slipped his hand into his trouser pocket, and came up with a small ring of keys. Before he could open the door leading to the cells, the street entrance was filled with a woman who, without any preliminaries, uttered frantically, “I've been robbed!”

J.D. was about to jump all over Tuttle's back when his focus veered toward the feminine voice. The lady looked so out of place framed inside the raw-wood doorjamb, wearing her eastern window dressing clothes, that J.D. couldn't help staring. It wasn't every day a woman laced up like that came into Sienna. From head to toe, she was decked out in pleats, sashes, laces, flounces, and straw flowers. The colors were springlike, soft shades of rose and a blue likened to the early-blooming forget-me-nots that grew alongside Buffalo Creek.

She wasn't classically beautiful, but her face was pretty enough to keep his gaze lingering. Thick, cinnamon-colored hair was braided behind her ears, the coils twisted and pinned upward beneath a sassy-looking hat sporting dyed plumes. The shape of her mouth was wide, and her cheeks were structured high with a light dusting of cosmetic color. Her eyes were an amber hue, just like the shimmer of bourbon splashed into a sunlit tumbler. She had a pampered figure, the kind that said she wouldn't last five minutes out-of-doors doing anything more than taking a leisurely stroll.

“Robbed?” Tuttle said, the keys jingling in his fingers. “Where?”

“On the train.” Her voice held a faint tremor, as though she were in serious trouble.

“The Number Thirty-five? Why didn't old man Vernier come tell me?” The keys were put back in
Tuttle's pocket, and he grabbed a rifle from the rack. “How many gunmen were there, ma'am?”

“None.”

Tuttle froze. “But you said you were robbed.”

“I was.”

“How so?”

She answered quickly and with a note of alarm. “I've gone over the course of events from here back to Laramie, and I think I know what happened. After we left the last tank tower, we came upon a herd of buffalo. The train stopped suddenly so that those gentlemen wishing to shoot could do so. But with the screeching halt, floor luggage slid beneath everyone's seat. In the confusion, someone handed me what I thought to be my valise, only it turns out that it wasn't.”

“Then you weren't exactly robbed.”

“My valise had five hundred dollars in it. This valise does not.” She motioned to the wicker case in her grasp. “For all intents and purposes, I
was
robbed,” she insisted. “You have to telegraph the next depot and tell them to search the train for my luggage. A terrible error has been made.”

“Ma'am, for the next seventy-five miles the rail stations are nothing but cow pastures without a telegraph office to be had. Could be whoever gets off at one of them has your case. There's no way for me to track down each individual. Folks are too spread out in this country.”

A strangled cry broke from her throat. “But my five hundred dollars!”

“The best I can do is wire the first town over, which is Tipton,” Tuttle said while replacing the rifle, “and see if we can get this cleared up.”

“What am I going to do in the meantime? I have no more than fifty cents to my name . . . no clothes . . . no . . . nothing.” She rapidly blinked, clearly on the verge of spilling tears.

J.D. folded his arms across his chest and shifted his
weight. Crying women had their hearts in the wrong place. A true survivor wouldn't be weeping over her situation, she'd be cursing it. J.D. could see that this one was about as helpless as they came. He didn't have a high tolerance for women who had no guts.

“Tuttle, at least unlock Rio so I can get out of here with one man,” J.D. said, resigned to the deal.

The woman looked at him for the first time, her eyes widening. He knew he presented a sight. A week-old beard, muck on his Levi's up to his knees, dried blood on the sleeves and edges of his leather duster.

He took her stare for what it was: mortified curiosity. It wasn't the first time he'd been given the up-and-down from some gal. He was taller than most cowboys, and a little too long-legged astride a saddle to be easy on his horses. Most of his punchers were medium-sized; but then again, most of his punchers had come from generations of ranchers. J.D. came from a Mississippi cotton plantation.

“Excuse me a minute, ma'am,” Tuttle said, then went to collect Rio.

After the sheriffs departure, a silence dropped on the room as weighted as a bale of hay. The woman turned away, keeping her eyes downcast. If J.D. had been more like some of the good-natured men working for him, he would have offered her his sympathies. But he guessed there were times when he was too much of a son-of-a-bitch, just like Boots.

A moment later, Rio Cibolo appeared, broadly grinning like a jackass coming out of the mess tent after eating a batch of the cook's pumpkin pies. “Hey, boss.”

Even at a young age, it was clear Rio was destined to be a lady's man. He was lean, quick, and wiry, with a mane of sun-bleached blond hair, soft mustache, and blue eyes. Though he could be trouble, he was intensely loyal to the outfit and would herd the horses through hell and back and never complain. Knowing
this, J.D. never went too hard on him. But that didn't ease the annoyance he was feeling right now.

“You cost me good, kid. I ought to start calling you George again.” J.D. rearranged the angle of his low-crowned hat with his bruised hand.

Rio's eyes widened as his gaze shot from J.D. to the woman. “I expect you know how I feel about that.”

J.D. did. Rio's real name was George Ikard, but he'd taken to calling himself Rio Cibolo as of winter because he'd claimed a wrangler bound on infamy ought not be saddled with the name George.

“I expect I do,” J.D. replied. “Keep your rope off of two-legged animals and stick to them that have four, and I'll forget all about George.”

“Sure, boss.”

“Tuttle, you tell Denby I'll be back in five days for him.” Then J.D. added with caution, “And for your sake, he better damn well be here.”

The sheriff waved him off. “Rio, your horse is down at the livery, along with your rope. I catch you swinging that lariat on my streets, you'll be looking through bars again.”

Rio disregarded the warning. He was too busy gawking at the lady. Tipping his hat, he offered, “How do, ma'am? Welcome to Sienna.”

“Thank you,” she replied softly.

“It's not often we're allowed the privilege of such a fine-looking woman in our town,” Rio said.

J.D. walked past Rio, went out the door, and called over his shoulder, “If you've got nothing to do but stand around, I reckon you'll be going up the trail to the Shaw outfit to earn your keep.”

Every cowboy from here to the territorial borders knew that the Shaw outfit was a tough, gun-toting bunch of drunks. Leaving the sheriff's office, J.D. let Rio ponder that thought.

Seconds later, the kid caught up to J.D., who was walking in a brisk stride. “Now, boss, you have to admit she was as pretty as a thirty-dollar pony.”

“I didn't notice.”

Rio's deep laughter implied he wasn't fully convinced of that.

•  •  •

“I'm an excellent hostess with impeccable etiquette and a flair for choosing the appropriate table service for the appropriate party. I know how a table should look when presented for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Also, I'm highly qualified to supervise domestics in a large household.” Josephine tried to sound as if she knew what she was doing, but she had no experience seeking employment.

The woman at the hotel counter stared at her as if Josephine were an oddity. A thickset bulldog with a smashed face sat next to the proprietress's skirt. She was certainly not the Adalyn Hart who ran the Line House in
Rawhide's Wild Tales of Revenge in Sienna.
This woman's name was Effie Grass.

Regrouping her rambling thoughts, Josephine hastily went on. “I have an eye for fashion and extensive knowledge in the harmony of colors in dress.” Then, to send her point home, she declared, “Rich colors are for brunettes or dark hair, delicate colors are for light hair or blond complexions.”

“You don't say?” Effie's blouse and skirt were sparrow brown. A poor match next to her salt-and-pepper coiffure of two braids pinned high on her crown.

At least Josephine had triggered Effie's interest, which had been bouncing back and forth between Josephine and the runny-nosed dog. She plunged on while she had the opening. “I'm a master at archery. I've held the position of Lady Paramount at the Manhattan Archery Club. I won the title in the Columbia round, successfully parlaying twenty-one out of twenty-four arrows in the bull's-eye mark.”