Forget Me Not (31 page)

Perhaps it was the recklessness of the storm that made J.D. throw caution to the abating wind. “Hell, I don't care how many of them you shot. I killed my share, too. But for what? We all went off fighting for a way of life that was dead as soon as that first shot was fired. It was all a damn waste.”

Boots stopped abruptly in his tracks and pivoted with surprising steadiness. Fire spat from his gaze. “Damn your hide to hell. Your brothers died in that war.”

“And it was a waste,” J.D. said evenly. “They died for nothing.”

J.D. waited for Boots to hit him on the side of the head, but the blow never came.

“I'll tell you why my boys died.” Boots pointed a trembling, bony finger in J.D.'s face. “They died for honor. They died killing the Yankee bastards that were running through our fields and spoiling our womenfolk.” A drop of spittle dotted the corner of his mouth. His shoulders trembled, and J.D. thought he'd never seen Boots look so weary. “I wish I'd shot more of those blue-bellies than I had. But at least I got one, gawddammit.” His next words came out in a rush, and in hindsight J.D. knew that if Boots had realized what he was about to reveal, he would have kept it to himself. “There was one who had your mother down in the fields. She was always walking off
to the cabins like nothing had changed. I told her not to go out alone, but she didn't listen to me. She never did.

“I came on them . . . it was the blue coat that caught my eyes against the gray of the plants. He'd pinned her to the ground and was going to force himself on her. I called out, and when he looked up, I shot the bastard between the eyes. He laid dead on your mother, with her screaming at the blood. Good gawd, I could shoot to kill back then . . . and I could now, too . . .” His gaze lashed out at J.D. “But y'all never give me any damn bullets. Y'all've turned me into a pile of worthless manure.”

Stumbling, Boots blindly groped to steady himself but couldn't grasp the nearest branch. J.D. put his hands on Boots's shoulders, their eyes locking in the process. The fragile emotion in Boots's eyes was gone before J.D. could define it.

“Let go of me,” Boots demanded.

J.D. hesitantly obliged.

Boots managed to get turned around and keep climbing without falling. J.D. remained where he was, disquieting thoughts racing through his mind. Eugenia had never told him about being attacked. In all the ensuing years after he'd come home, and with all the trouble between him and Boots, never once had Eugenia spoken up and said the words that would have profoundly affected J.D.

J.D. mused on private memories, only this time they left a burning imprint on him. One that he couldn't ignore or ride away from.

Josephine had been right. For a long time, he'd been underestimating Boots.

•  •  •

Josephine remained huddled behind the chuck wagon, peering through the spoked wheel to look out for J.D. It seemed she had waited forever, the gunmetal clouds overhead slowly traveling eastward, when Boots appeared. His stride was stiff yet purposeful as
he walked toward her. She rose to her feet and dashed out to meet him.

“Where's J.D.? What happened?”

Boots didn't look at her, nor did he stop. “I expect he's on his way.” He went right on past. She didn't have the chance to chase after him. J.D. came into view as he climbed over the hill. His expression was tight with strain.

“What happened?” she asked, hoping to get a reply out of him.

“Boots was target practicing. No big deal.”

“But Boots didn't have any bullets.”

Beneath drawn brows, J.D.'s eyes leveled on Boots. He sat on his crate, an unlit cigar clamped hard between his lips as he gazed into the flames of the fire pit. Seeing J.D. staring so intently, Josephine didn't say anything further.

Three hours later, under a hazy sky that had no trace of the storm in it, those boys not on the herd watch came in for supper. Rio had taken Dan Hotchkiss and Jidge Dooly with him to look for the runaway mule but had come back empty-bridled an hour ago. The wrangler hadn't been too distressed as he'd unsaddled his horse downwind from the chuck. He'd said Old Wednesday had a taste for sweat-soaked saddle blankets and sweet oats and would come back as soon as she was hungry.

Supper wasn't any big to-do. Josephine had fixed what she knew she could with fairly certain success: beef stew and biscuits. She wanted to win them over with her peach pies. She'd hidden them on the sideboard on the opposite side of the wagon so they'd be a surprise.

As she made the coffee rounds, she was anxious for everyone to finish so she could serve up dessert. Orley wanted another biscuit. Birdie asked if it would be an inconvenience for her to get him the bottle of laudanum from the cupboard. She couldn't refuse him;
he'd ridden in the saddle all day without a complaint. Now that he was reclined, the stress wore across his face like an old blanket: thin and not tolerating much.

After taking care of the two men, she paused at the coffeepot once more. “Anyone else?” she asked.

“What's your hurry, Miss Josephine?” Gus asked as he chewed the bite of stew in his mouth that he'd sopped up with his biscuit. “You've been doing the two-step around the fire all night.”

“No hurry,” she insisted, just as the clatter of tins came from behind her. She whirled around. She couldn't readily see anything amiss.

Then Jidge went and said, “Mule's back.”

Old Wednesday appeared around the endgate of the wagon. The mule strolled toward them with peach pie smeared all over its face. It moseyed over one of the five empty pie tins visible underneath the wagon, with the nerve to put a hoof in one and stomp down. It made a loud smacking sound, tongue coming out and swiping the flaps of hair-freckled lips.

Horror couldn't begin to describe how Josephine felt. Those pies had been the pride of her heart, and she had baked them for the boys' after-supper surprise. All her hard work had fallen victim to a smelly mule with big, ugly, yellow teeth.

It came as a mindless reflex. Josephine bent down, grabbed a long piece of firewood from the stack by the pit, and hurled it Old Wednesday's way. Rather than hitting her mark, she merely threw dirt and dust over the food and cooking utensils on the endgate. The pan of biscuits fell as the scared mule made a quick-turning getaway.

Josephine, who had heard firsthand the score of expletives her father used to rattle off when he voiced his darkest ire, let out a string of cuss words hot enough to singe the animal's tail off.

She was barely aware of Boots's “Good gawd, the cookie can swear like a buffalo hunter” as she took off
after Old Wednesday. She didn't give any conscious thought to the inappropriate vulgarity of what she'd said or what she'd do to the mule if she caught it.

Josephine ran toward the spruces, the mule's backside disappearing into the tufts of greenery.

J.D.'s voice caught up to her. “Slow down!”

She couldn't. From where the spurt of energy came, she didn't know. But she had a fiery stamina and determination that fueled her steps. She could actually run fairly fast as she hopped over the twigs and small rocks in her way. With no clinging skirts and layers of petticoats to tangle in her scissoring legs, she was more agile than she imagined. There was only one drawback: her pants were slipping.

Knocking a branch out of her way, Josephine grabbed her waistband as she entered the thicket in search of Old Wednesday. She couldn't see mane or tail of that dingy mule in the dense shrubbery.

Strong fingers clamped over her right shoulder, and Josephine was jerked backward, just as her trousers fell down her hips to ride precariously low on her thighs.

She felt a hard chest behind her as J.D. crushed her to him in an effort to get her to stop. Something lanky and metal bit into her shoulder blade, and she winced beneath the discomfort of the bridle. She would have struggled if she thought it would do her any good. Going against J.D. was futile. He had the upper hand over her in strength ten times over.

“Where do you think you're going?”

Unable to face him, she huffed, “After that damn pie-snatching mule.”

“Then what?”

She didn't know. Maybe yelling at it would make her feel better. She turned beneath his arm so she could look into his eyes. The pants inched a little farther down. “I'll worry about that when I catch it.”

“You aren't catching any
damn
mule.” His laughter
was teasing. “I didn't think you had it in you to cuss like Luis.”

Josephine ducked out from his grasp. “I usually keep peppery words inside.”

“No need to on my account.”

She clutched the waistband and tried to wiggle the unyielding fabric up her drawer-clad hips. Funny how the pants wouldn't return to their former position the way they had come down. She'd have to unbutton the fly. But surely not in front of J.D.

“Pardon me.” She stalked off. She heard him follow her by the jangle of the bit and bridle that rode over his shoulder with the reins obviously riding down his back. Her retreat was difficult at best, the hems of her pants stacking at her booted ankles. When he didn't let up in his pursuit, she turned around, both hands on the waistband. “Do you mind?” she blurted out.

He answered in a low tone, “Mind what?”

Disregarding the eyes blazing down into hers, she explained, “In case you hadn't noticed, I'm having some trouble here.”

“I noticed.” He took a casual step toward her, the breadth of his powerful shoulders seeming wider than ever. “I noticed at supper, and I noticed when you ran off. And I'm sure as hell noticing now.”

The rich timbre of his voice melted through her. Warm and sugary, like he could be a butterscotch candy in her mouth. A familiar shiver of awareness jolted her. He took another step closer. She couldn't move . . . she couldn't think clearly.

When he dipped his head toward hers and kissed her, she forgot about holding on to her pants. Her arms came around his neck, and she gave herself over to the insanity of the moment.

17

J
.D. savored Josephine's mouth against his as she returned his kiss with reckless abandon. They were chancing a perilous journey, but it would seem neither of them cared about the repercussions of such an uncharted course.

The soft, feminine weight of her arms around his neck was a seductive invitation. Her fingers slipped into his hair, knocking his hat askew. The feel of her fingertips as they moved through the strands to touch his scalp with a light caress heated his insides.

His lips seared a path down the arched column of her neck. She swayed into him as his teeth caught her lobe, and he pressed a kiss to her ear. Soft curves molded next to him. Wherever they touched, his body ignited from the contact. He was conscious of her every contour. The lushness of her breasts, the span of her waist, and the flare of her hips veiled only by the thin cotton of drawers.

Recapturing her mouth, his kiss was more demanding this time. His hands spread down her back, to the nip of her waist and the softness of her underwear. He'd never kissed a woman half-dressed in man's clothing. Oddly, he found Josephine more erotic
dressed thus than he had any of the women at Walkingbars in their fancy silk wrappers.

Enjoying the kiss, the sensations of her mouth against his, and the feel of her next to him, he wrapped his arms around her midriff. Disjointed thoughts ran rampant through his head like a stampede. The way she kissed led him to believe she wasn't a total innocent. He wouldn't think anything less of her if she'd fallen to temptation before. But he didn't want to start something with a woman who thought she knew what she was doing, only to regret an encounter the next morning. J.D. figured he had to ask her what she wanted to do. He'd give her the out if she opted to take it.

He murmured against the sweetness of her mouth, “Where's this going?”

“Going?”