Forget Me Not (22 page)

Professor Lindstrom had been Josephine's tutor when she was nine years old. He'd given her lessons for eight years before she'd decided the violin wasn't for her. She'd rather play the piano like the rest of her friends. But even then, she'd had to practice harder because reading music was so difficult for her. A year later, she gave up on the piano, but she continued to play her violin when the mood struck her. Once, at the Beauchamps' party, Josephine had been coaxed into playing for a roomful of people. Tonight was only the second time she'd performed for an audience.

As Josephine played one of the first pieces she'd put to memory—Bach's violin concerto in E major—she thought back on all those lessons she'd suffered through. All the times she'd been made to read Francesco Germiniani's
The Art of Playing the Violin,
she never thought that any of it would come to practical use. But it had. The reason she'd relented tonight was that J.D. had asked her to play. She wanted to show him she was capable of doing something well.

The concerto came to an end, and Josephine only caught herself missing a note several times. It was amazing what one could retain in the mind, even when unused. On the last note, she opened her eyes and lowered the violin.

Gazes on her were fixed; nobody moved. Dear Lord, they'd hated the classical composition. But she didn't know any popular tunes.

Her eyes fell on J.D. He sat motionless. She swallowed.

“I, um, am a little rusty,” she said without preamble. Then, before anyone could tell her to stop, she vowed to win them over with a Vivaldi
allegro non molto,
appropriately the spring piece from the “Four Seasons.” She went directly into the introduction, her
fingers working hard to press the strings down in order to create the right sounds. The melody was slow and lilting, with a series of connecting chords.

Aside from the varying pitch of music echoing from the horsehair bow across the violin strings and the occasional snap of the fire, the air was still and quiet. There seemed to be divine timing as a log gave a rendering
pop-pop
and flares of orange shot skyward as the tempo of the piece changed to a faster, more intricate pattern. Her fingertips whisked over the fingerboard, stopping some strings and vibrating others.

She concluded the lengthy Vivaldi with a flourish, feeling her hairpins loosen. As she claimed the last dynamic notes of the melody, her braid had uncoiled, its end falling to her waist. She braced herself for another cool reception, but when she looked out into her leather- and denim-clad audience, her heart stopped. There seemed to be tears glittering in the boys' eyes.

With the exclusion of J.D., everyone was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. Boots blew his nose loudly into a square of red, then wadded the linen into his pants pocket.

Not accomplished at organizing witty remarks on a whim, one suddenly came to Josephine, too timely to let slip by, and she spoke it in the hopes of salvaging her pride. “I guess tomorrow's breakfast will be boiled violin.”

Boots spoke in a harsh whisper, his gruff voice clogged with uncharacteristic emotion. “There'll be no such thing. Good gawd, y'all made me think of my burial.”

Mortified, Josephine blurted, “I'm sorry!”

“Don't be. Made me think of it in a good light.” Boots blotted his eyelids with the pads of his thumbs. “I'd like to hope I could be hearing your violin music when I'm on my way down.”

“It made me think of my sweetheart,” Gus said.

Then Rio added with misty eyes, “Made me think of home . . .”

“ . . . and mothers,” Birdie finished.

“Sisters, too,” Seth said.

Josephine was flabbergasted. “You liked my playing?”

There was a round of nods, even a slight one from J.D. Well . . .
well!
She gave an inward smile to herself, then an outward one to the cowboys. “I'm glad you did.”

Boots stood from the crate and ambled to his bedroll. “I'm turning in. I don't want a bunch of rawhides watching me get older . . . and gawddamn sentimental.”

“Been a long one,” somebody said.

“Yup,” another seconded. “Sunup'll be here just when I get the blankets warmed up.”

“I won't be sleeping long when I'll be dragged out to nighthawk,” came a reply from Jidge.

Josephine watched as those who hadn't removed their boots did so now. The blankets were turned down and crawled into. All but J.D., who leaned against his saddle, his hat dangling over the horn. He had a cigarette clamped in his mouth, and he took a puff.

Josephine settled the violin back inside its case, then she took the instrument to the wagon and placed it beneath the front seat. She paused a minute to muse. It had been a long day. One that had begun with disaster—Boots getting them lost, then the beans not turning out the way they should have. But it had ended on a better note thanks to Professor Lindstrom.

Josephine smiled, then went to the other side of the wagon, where she could wash her face with water from the barrel and not be seen by those who hadn't yet drifted off to sleep.

A bath was long overdue. Washing up in water
wasn't her idea of getting the grit off. She didn't dare ask J.D. if there would be some kind of accommodation for her. He thought she was trouble enough.

As she ran a wet cloth across her face, she relived his expression in her mind. Tonight, when she'd played, he'd gazed at her with . . . what? Admiration? She couldn't be sure. Respect, perhaps? Hugh had never respected a single thing she'd done.

Rolling up her sleeves, she wiped the dust from her elbows. She would have gone out a ways and really done the job proper, but last night was too fresh in her thoughts. J.D. following her . . . kissing her. She almost wished . . .

No.
She shook her head.

The snap of a twig behind her caused her to turn. J.D. approached, having come from a line of brush in the distance. He dropped his cigarette and ground it beneath his boot.

“Evenin',” he said in a drawl that was as smooth as honey.

“Good evening,” she replied, the cloth still in her hand. She froze for a moment, then propelled herself into action and let the wash rag go so she could dry her face off. Her hair was still a mess. She hadn't thought about its disarray until now—when J.D. was gazing at her face, her disorganized coiffure.

“You didn't tell me you were a violin player when you were selling yourself for the cook's job.” He'd reached her, standing only a few feet away. She noticed he was a lot less dirty. Was there a creek nearby she didn't know about? His hair was wet and combed back, the ends waving softly behind his broad shoulders.

“I didn't think playing the violin could land me the job,” she replied.

“It would've impressed me a lot more than your proclaimed archery skills.”

“Indeed?”

“Sure.”

Josephine fussed with her hair, feeling utterly self-conscious with the way he kept looking at her. Her palm smoothed down what she could, but the fine wisps wouldn't lie flat. “I'll have to remember that the next time I'm giving my résumé to a potential employer.”

Frowning, J.D. leaned toward her and stretched his lean right arm above her head. He braced his weight on his hand and looked down to talk to her. “Why is it a woman like you is looking for work out West? Aside from the fact that you were stranded in Sienna. What made you come out this way alone in the first place?”

She was taken aback by his query. The truth wasn't something she could tell him. She'd never admit to running away. She had no choice but to embellish and hope he believed her. “I'm a woman of independent means. I had no ties keeping me in New York, so why not venture westward and see the rest of the world?”

“I wouldn't call Sienna the rest of the world.” Tobacco and camp smoke clung to his shirt, putting a pleasant tang in the air surrounding them. “Where was it you were heading when you got your money stolen?”

Her honest answer wouldn't be saying too much. “San Francisco.”

“I can picture you there.”

She could, too. But, oddly, she was beginning to picture herself here also. Out in the open with a chuck wagon, a violin, and cowboys who got misty-eyed. The horses, the cows, the dust. Even Boots. She didn't feel so wholly out of place. She wondered why not. Still, the idea of moving on was still an appealing one. A hotel with room service and a big brass tub brimming with warm soapy water was quite alluring.

“So can I,” she admitted.

J.D.'s mouth was dangerously close to hers. “Yep. You belong in a city like that.” His deep voice caressed her, raising the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. Her breath caught in her throat. She stilled, not
moving a muscle. Not daring even to breathe. She waited . . .

Ever so lightly, his lips brushed across hers. A stirring hint of warmth, and a soft graze of his mouth. She had no opportunity to appreciate the kiss or to return it with any ideas of her own. If he'd meant the brief meeting of their mouths to tempt and tantalize, he'd succeeded. More than succeeded. She felt an instant chill across her skin the moment he stood back.

“You better go to bed.” His eyes were dark as he wet his lips; she wondered if the gesture was a conscious one. As if to taste her . . .

“Yes . . .” she managed to reply.

“ 'Night, then.”

“Good night.”

Josephine watched him go. It wasn't until she was tucked beneath the soft blankets inside the wagon that she truly allowed herself to relax. She closed her eyes tight and willed J.D.'s face from her thoughts. But he kept resurfacing in her mind's eye, just when she was ready to doze off. Her last conscious thought was of how J.D. had looked when he'd ridden in for supper with the sun behind his back. He'd been covered with trail dust, his gloves tucked into the band of his chaps and his hat brim hiding the expression in his eyes. If she hadn't known any better, she could have sworn he'd been Rawhide Abilene in the flesh.

12

J
.D. scanned the ribbon of plodding cows with a practiced eye, looking for any signs of flight or trouble. The drag men yelled and whistled to the stragglers, ever pushing. The pack of dogs panted alongside the herd, tongues hanging and dripping saliva, patiently waiting to do their jobs when the need arose.

A mother cow and her fresh-licked calf sneaked off at a right angle from the others to seek relief from the pressure of the relentless pace.

Whistling between his teeth, J.D. called, “Toby! Bring 'em!”

The scruffy white and black dog charged off in a spurt of canine energy with vocal barks. Nipping at the ankles of the unruly charges, Toby brought the bellowing, kicking mother and her calf back to the ranks.

In a gesture of respect, J.D. nodded to Toby. “Good boy.”

Dust rose in choking white clouds that put a film of gray on the herd and the men riding horseback. The chalklike powder cracked J.D.'s lips under his red bandana. His hat brim kept the grit from sifting through his hair, but the long ends were exposed and had become pale.

What grasses had managed to sprout up were dying beneath the sun. Scrub littered the landscape like precious nuggets in a miner's tin—few and far between. Out of the horizon jutted the mountain they'd be cutting into three days at the most. He hoped the winter had been kinder to the hillsides, leaving them lush with budding aspens, cottonwoods, and willows, the ground covered by bluegrass, cowslips, and currants. But until then, they all suffered the parched terrain with quiet tolerance.

Blinking at the dryness in his eyes, J.D. settled into the saddle wishing he had Josephine's violin music in his head rather than the lowing of cows.

Never had he heard such notes played on that fiddle. Luis did the instrument proud with his renditions of western tunes and cowboy lore, but what Josephine had played had been celestial. It made him think of the stars in the sky and see them in his mind without looking heavenward. He wouldn't have thought anyone could have such a talent, but she'd surprised him. She'd surprised them all.