Forget Me Not (30 page)

T
he next day started out clear with one big cloud serving as a canopy for them to pass under. But by the time Boots tucked the wagon into a small area of grass, relatively far from any trees, the whole sky had closed in with heavy, purple, inky black, and saffron clouds.

It was nearly as dark as nightfall when the rumbling came from the distance. Its cacophony was bold as brass and crashed like metal cymbals. And yet no rain fell. Just this ominous sound that had the mules braying and pawing the ground while the dogs barked at the eastward wind.

When dinner was finished, the lightning began. The massive, many-fingered bolts that splintered the stormy black were still a long way off but nonetheless dramatic to view above the lower treetops that angled down the hill they'd stopped on. Josephine had been in her share of electrical storms in New York, but she'd always been ensconced in the safety of her own home. Being so exposed left her uneasy.

She stayed close to the chuck wagon, while Boots held out his palm to give the mules treats to quiet them. Josephine tried to put her mind on other things besides the brewing storm.

She gave the calf its bottle, hesitantly petting the wiry hairs on its head to calm it from the storm. As the milk dribbled down the fuzzy chin, she thought of how her cooking had gone thus far today.

Breakfast had been fried hasty pudding, a cold and clotted leftover from yesterday that she hadn't thought tasted that bad with molasses poured on top like the cowboys had asked for. Her cooking was improving by little degrees. And after she put the empty milk bottle away, she intended to try her hand at pie making, storm or not.

With each move she made to gather ingredients, she had to keep hitching her waistband to keep it from sagging. Since she'd taken in her corset the day before, J.D.'s pants no longer fit her in the waist, and even the hips seemed too loose. She would have put on the skirt if it fit, but she found that she rather liked the ease in which she could move without the layers of fabric.

She found the cans of peaches in the wagon and decided to make five peach pies, following Luis's recipe to the tee. She read it over a half-dozen times, just to make sure she fully understood the instructions.

Josephine had mixed the dough, then used an old bottle as a rolling pin. She rolled out the pastries a few times after attempts at perfect circles failed. She kept getting tears on the dough when it stuck to the glass as she rolled it back and forth. It was sheer trial and error that made her figure out that if she started in the middle and rolled outward, the chances of getting cracks and holes were less.

Two hours later, and with one big flour mess to clean up, she set the lopsided pies in the Dutch ovens to bake.

In the valley that swelled like a bowl beneath them, a huge lightning bolt seemed to strike backward, from the grass to the pitch sky. Josephine had never seen
anything like it. She shivered. The mules fought against their hobbles.

For a time, Josephine sat on a blanket with her back next to a wagon wheel, just watching as the black pall of clouds shut out all remains of the sun. Recurring flashes of sheet lightning filled her entire view and lit up the sky almost as bright as daylight.

The cowboys took turns in large groups riding among the cattle to pacify them. Those mules were going crazy, and she wondered if she should find Rio to have him check their restraints. But the wrangler was busy with the remuda; she could barely see him in the distance as he and two of the dogs circled the horses.

Boots had disappeared, and the handful of cowboys by the coffeepot left when J.D. rode toward her and dismounted as she was setting the pies from the ovens to cool. She'd lined them up with pride, and although they looked a little lumpy, they smelled wonderful.

“What's that you've got there?” J.D. asked while removing his rawhide gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of his chaps.

“Pies,” she said with a fair amount of pride. “Peach pies.”

J.D. drew up, lowered his head, and inhaled. “They smell real good.”

He'd been nice as could be to her today, and she felt a niggling remorse for having jabbed him. But he'd forced her to it by saying he'd probably be a bad husband and practically blaming his parents for it. He didn't realize that he had the power to be who he wanted.

For the long years of her marriage, she'd told herself that Hugh was only being the kind of husband society expected him to be. Controlling and domineering toward his wife. Only now she knew better. He'd chosen to treat her poorly, and for that she resented him. But she was angry at herself more for having allowed herself to be overshadowed by him. She
should have made changes years ago, but she'd been afraid.

When J.D. went to the water barrel, Josephine took a spoon and stuck it into the hot pie. Steam rose from the tiny hole she'd made, but she had to know for certain that her creation tasted as good as it smelled. She blew on the golden dough and the wedge of peach, then popped it into her mouth as J.D. came back with his face and hands washed and his hair wet above his ears.

She chewed discreetly, then swallowed. Heavenly. Simply heavenly. She couldn't begin to believe it, but she'd baked something that tasted like peach heaven.

J.D. stopped in front of her, reached out his arm, and brought his finger to her lips. She was so stunned, she simply stood there. Frozen. He ran his forefinger across the corner of her mouth and then to the seam. “You missed some.”

Horrified that she'd been found out sneaking a taste of the pies, Josephine was helpless to do anything but lick the remains from her lips, J.D.'s callused fingertip still pressed against the evidence. She tasted pie, but she also tasted the lingering traces of the soap he'd just used.

The electrified moment put her completely out of sorts. His nearness was overwhelming; the intimacy of his finger pressed to her lips upset her balance and rational thoughts. There was no other way to describe what had just transpired between them: this was her first purely sensual experience, and she hadn't even been kissed.

How was it that J.D. could make her feel so coveted while barely touching her? Did he know he did this to her? Was it intentional?

She breathed a sigh of relief when at last he lowered his hand. But she had the feeling he'd enjoyed every second of their encounter. As if it was his way of getting back at her for last night. She'd no doubt upset him; now he wanted to upset her—only his tactic
wasn't as vocal as hers. He chose his charm. His eyes were observing, his mouth impossible with a disarming smile.

Had the sky not crackled with an ominous current she couldn't ignore, she might have said something she would have regretted. A lightning tree of blinding white exploded skyward, thin branches thrusting up to the heavens. Then came a
bang.
Not a rumble or crack of thunder. But a distinct
bang.

It sounded like gunfire.

J.D. must have heard it, too. His eyes instantly left hers, and he cocked his head to the copse of low-lying trees.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Before she knew what was happening, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her behind him. He pulled sideways until they were hidden by the cover of the chuck wagon. Then he unceremoniously pushed her to the ground. She fell on the hard earth with a groan.

“Stay down,” he warned while unholstering his gun and peering around the wheel of the wagon.

“What is it?” Josephine asked in a small, terrified voice. Though she feared his answer. She knew what gunfire sounded like.

“Keep quiet, and don't move.”

She wanted to heed his warning, but she began to tremble inside at the thought of a band of outlaws in the brush shooting at them. She had nothing of value to steal. She would gladly surrender whatever it was they wanted. But in
The Lariat Thrower and the Lawman Strike a Deal
, Beadle's Issue No. 57, the banditos had wanted more than gold trinkets from the women passengers in the stage. They'd wanted . . . it was too horrendous a thought for her to complete.

Another crescendo of thunder split the air, seemingly sizzling the very ground they were sitting on. She could see the calf's feet in the space between the wagon bed and the ground. The small animal danced
a bit, then began to bawl. Josephine felt the sting of a hundred needles coursing through her body. They reminded her of the shock she'd get from touching a brass doorplate after walking across the salon carpet on a breezy day. She quivered, trying to shake off the static, but she couldn't. Her skin tingled; her lips felt numb. Her fingernails hurt.

Bang! Bang!

During a lull in the storm's symphony, the gun report echoed through the clearing. Then everything seemed to happen at once. One of the mules broke free of its hobbles and took off in a run, a thick and heavy branch from a nearby spruce severed from the rough trunk with a splintering crash, and J.D. sprang to his feet, with revolver poised, to chase after whoever was doing the shooting.

•  •  •

J.D. ducked behind a stand of firs, his finger curled snugly over his Colt's trigger. There was a break in the shooting to reload. J.D. had counted off six shots. But that didn't mean he was in the clear. The gunman might have more than one revolver.

As far as J.D. could tell, none of the bullets had made a direct hit into the wagon or the surrounding camp. The shooter had to be a pretty piss-poor shot, or he hadn't been aiming in their direction. The latter more than likely, since nothing had been hit. Still, that didn't alleviate the blood pounding at J.D.'s temples. He didn't cotton to gunfire of unknown origin within the vicinity of his camp.

Sprinting down the embankment, J.D. kept hidden in the tall brush until he came to the edge of an area that opened to a small clearing made from fallen trees. Many stumps littered the grass, the once towering trees now fallen and decaying. Scanning the terrain for signs of movement, J.D. tightened his finger over the curl of metal when he caught a glimpse of a hat. But he didn't move in and start shooting without asking questions. It was a good thing, too.

The man in the clearing was Boots.

His holster sagged at his hips, slung real low and with deadly-looking intent. He trudged over to one of the horizontal pines and set up some battered, rusty cans, then backed off to take aim.

“Where in the hell did you get those bullets, you old son-of-a-bitch?” J.D. bellowed into the ruffling wind as the storm kicked up another flash of lightning.

Boots spread his bowed legs apart, cocked his hips somewhat, and raised his Remington with a shaky arm. Before he could take a shot, J.D. leveled the sight on his Colt barrel, aimed, and picked off every one of those cans with a precision that sent several skyward before they tumbled into the grass.

Turning with a start, revolver drooping to his side, Boots scanned the brush with hooded eyes. J.D. stepped over a log and showed himself, the realistic thought running through his mind that Boots had a loaded gun and might use it against him.

But Boots didn't go off half-cocked usually, and for that J.D. was somewhat reassured.

“Where'd you get those bullets?” J.D. demanded once he was within Boots's hearing distance.

Boots clammed up—a rarity for him. He looked at the dull silver revolver in his grasp, then at J.D., as if he were hoping the gun would vanish into thin air and he wouldn't have to answer for his actions.

Reholstering the Remington, he took on a defensive attitude, papery hands braced on his narrow hips. “I found them in the wagon.”

“Found them, my ass.” J.D. tugged his hat lower. “You stole them from one of the boys' duffles. Peavy and Freeland carry Remingtons. Which one of them did you rob?”

Boots's mouth thinned. “I found them, gawddammit. I'm no thief.”

J.D. wouldn't get a straight answer from him. He'd figure out which one of the two men was short bullets,
anyway. Not knowing right now didn't make any difference.

“You could've been struck by lightning, you old fool.”

Boots shot back with the rumble of the thunder, “And wouldn't y'all just be dancing on my grave if I was.”

“Contrary to what your opinion may be of me, I don't wish you six feet under. But I do want you out of here right now.”

“Don't give me orders.”

“Somebody has to. You're not thinking. What in the hell possessed you to come down here in the middle of an electrical storm?”

Boots kept quiet, a thinly disguised mask over the pride that marked his age-lined facial features. A realization dawned on J.D. Boots had wanted to prove, if only to himself, that he was still man enough to be a crack shot with a gun. J.D. knew Boots could defend himself in an emergency; but other than that, he didn't want Boots to have a gun at the ready in case it accidentally went off. That conversation at the river about him shooting Yankees must have put the sharp-shooting idea into his head.

Folding his arms over his chest, the hem of his duster flapping at his calves, J.D. asked, “Just how many of those blue-bellies did you kill, Boots?”

His cornflower-blue eyes shot to J.D.'s. “Good gawd, y'all never asked me that before.”

“I reckon I was too long in getting around to it, then.”

Boots took hold of his weighted holster belt and pulled it up a notch to keep the revolver from slipping down to his ankles. He opened his mouth to speak, then must have thought better of it, because his lips closed together. Instead, he began to climb the hillside.

His balance was unsteady. He reached out to
branches to give him a lift as he sought sure footing. J.D. followed him upward, the notion to extend a helping hand at the back of his mind, but he didn't act on it. He'd already taken the shine off Boots's makeshift shooting gallery; he couldn't very well add insult to injury by suggesting Boots was too feeble to take an incline on his own.

The lightning had become less frequent and the thunder less potent as it drifted toward the horizon. A few grumbles, a far-off flash of light, and the rustle of leaves played through the embankment as J.D. moved slowly behind Boots.