Forget Me Not (43 page)

Josephine dashed to his side to help him, putting her hands beneath his arms. “Are you hurt?”

“Of course I'm hurt! Y'all'd be hurt, too, if your bones were nearly sixty years old. But gawddammit, my mind is not gone yet, and I'm tired of everyone treating me like I was an invalid.”

Once on his feet, he shrugged away from Josephine as if she pained him even worse by her concerned touch.

“I'll get Hazel to ride after her,” Josephine said, then ran toward the barn.

One-Eyed Hazel had been trenching pasture irrigation that morning. His saddled paint horse stood tethered to a tree branch outside the barn while he rummaged around inside for the tools he needed.

Josephine came up to the wide-open double doors just as the horse behind her nickered. She wouldn't have paid it any mind if not for the sound of Boots's voice.

“Stand still, you bonehead.”

Whirling around, Josephine stared in horror as Boots stood on the porch steps where he'd maneuvered the horse. He wasn't capable of mounting on flat ground, but at this level he could swing his leg over the saddle and take a seat.

“Boots!” she called. “What do you think you're doing?” Then she yelled, “Hazel!”

“To hell with Hazel. I'm not sitting on my duff around here anymore. If I can't ride, then y'all tell Hazel to get his shotgun and shoot me in the head.”

With that, Boots kicked his blunt heels into the horse's flanks and took off in a lope down the drive of the ranch.

Josephine put her hand to her mouth, then rushed into the barn and yelled again. “Hazel! Hazel! Come quick!”

He came out from a shed area in the back, a shovel in his hand. “What?”

“Boots is riding your horse. I didn't close the gate, and—he's gone to get Freckles.”

Hazel threw the shovel down and was instantly by her side. Rounding the corner of the barn, Josephine shaded her gaze with a cupped hand. “There he is!” She motioned to the horse and rider in the fore pasture.

Boots had slipped the coiled lariat free of the saddle and was attempting to lasso the calf. With amazing dexterity, he managed what he'd set out to do; but just as he caught Freckles by the neck, the horse hit a hole
and fell. Boots toppled over the paint's neck and landed like a rag doll on the short grass.

Josephine and Hazel ran. They reached Boots, and Josephine collapsed onto her knees by his side.

Boots lay on his right hip and ribs, his right arm above his head. A swath of steel-gray hair covered his scratched forehead; blood trickled from his nose. His eyes were closed.

Her hand touched the sleeve of his shirt, the skin beneath the fabric warm. She and Hazel gently rolled him over.

Gazing into Boots's battered face, Josephine cried, “Oh, Hazel! Find J.D.” Her voice broke with a sob. “Hurry . . .”

•  •  •

Boots's room was neat and orderly. The framed tintypes on his bureau individually displayed his sons in their Confederate uniforms. A single reproduction of Eugenia McCall had been set off to the side on a crocheted doily.

Furnishings were old and worn yet comfortable. A reading chair was upholstered with tufted burgundy leather, the seat indented in the middle. Blue-checked linen made up the coverlet, as well as the pillows on the bed. The curtains had been drawn, and a lantern glowed softly on the bedside table.

J.D. sat next to Boots. He held his father's hand; the skin was as dry as the riverbanks, and the bones in his fingers seemed to be as fragile as those of a sparrow.

Having been doctor to both cattle and people out of necessity, J.D. had assessed Boots's condition before he and the boys had moved his unconscious body inside.

Boots had some broken ribs, the lower two or three on the right. J.D. had wrapped them, but not so snug as to constrict Boots's breathing. J.D. couldn't be sure about the hip until Boots regained consciousness. He'd cut up his cheek, and the blood had spread to
make that damage look worse than it was. He hadn't required stitches, but the gash at the cheekbone still lightly oozed blood.

J.D. picked up a damp cloth and wiped it across skin the texture of parchment. He paused at the temple, stroking his thumb over the band of skin that stayed white from the brim of his hat.

The trickle of water squeezing out of the cloth and into the washbowl was the only sound in the room, empty of anyone but Boots and J.D. He'd sent everyone away. He hadn't even allowed Josephine, who wept quietly in the shadows, to remain. J.D. was on edge with the hovering presence of the others. It was as if they were waiting for Boots to expire.

Not that J.D. really believed that. Nobody on the place wanted Boots dead, in spite of how they felt about him at times.

J.D. combed the silvery hair from Boots's creased brow, his fingertips passing over closed eyes to tenderly stroke and make peace. How long had it been since he'd touched Boots as if it meant something? Had he ever? He didn't know . . . he didn't think so.

It was a hell of a thing, to have an accident make J.D. recognize the need for a relationship with his father before it was too late.

But deep down, he was afraid of Boots. Afraid Boots would reject the idea of being father and son.

What had he been thinking, taking off on Hazel's horse like that? The fool. No damn calf was worth it. He was too old to ride. And he knew that. When Hazel had charged up to him and told him what had happened, J.D. had been gripped by a fear so potent and primitive, he swore he'd make amends with Boots if he was given another chance.

Boots stirred, his mouth tightened, and a moan slipped past his parched lips.

“Boots?” J.D. whispered, dropping the cloth into the bowl once more and retaking his father's hand. “Boots . . . how do you feel?”

“Like I'm dying,” came the choked reply.

J.D. sucked in a breath, then calmed down enough to say, “You're not going to die. You just took a bad fall. You'll be all right.”

No reply came. Boots had slipped away again.

•  •  •

Josephine found J.D. in the barn. Dust motes hung in the slants of sunlight that poked between the rafters. The day was nearly gone, and J.D. had spent its entirety in Boots's room. A little while ago, she'd heard the creak of the screen door as J.D. let himself outside.

She'd stayed in the dining room, letting him have his space for a moment longer. But she couldn't stay away anymore. She hurt for him. She wanted to help. Guilt stabbed at her. If she hadn't left the gate open on Freckles's corral, the calf wouldn't have gotten out, and Boots wouldn't have ridden that horse.

Hazel told her he'd given J.D. sketchy details, but Josephine wanted to tell J.D. herself. She wanted to explain that she hadn't meant to be so careless. But he'd shut her out. Just like he'd shut everyone else out of Boots's room.

And there he'd been for half the day, refusing dinner and not answering her when she'd knocked an hour ago. She'd gone away and left him with his father. But now that she'd watched him go into the yard, she had to follow him.

J.D. hadn't closed the doors to the barn, and she quietly walked in. She saw him at the tall workbench where a high stool had been pushed out. He sank onto the seat, stared into space, then shuddered.

She was about to go to him, when he put his face in his hands and broke down. He hunched over, a single tear breaking through the dam of his fingers, winding its way down his wrist to catch on his sleeve.

The heavy door creaked behind her and caused J.D. to look up and discover her. Wordlessly, she went to him. She opened her arms and took him in her
embrace. He held on to her. For a change, it was her giving herself to him to lean on for support.

J.D. closed down his emotions, for she didn't feel his sorrow next to her heart. After a while, he pulled back and looked into her eyes. She felt she needed to say something to give him hope.

“I never told you about how my father died,” she began, unable to resist smoothing a lock of his hair from his brow, but sorry for it afterward because the gesture was too intimate. The wall that had come between them was too tall for soft touches these days. “He lost everything in that stock market crash, and rather than face the facts that he was ruined and start over . . . he chose to die.” She braced herself for his reaction, taking in a heavy breath of air. “He put a gun to his head and shot himself.”

“Jo . . .”

She shook her head, not wanting his comfort or his pity. That wasn't why she was telling him. “Boots, he's a fighter. That's why he got on that horse. He'd rather fail at trying than not try at all. There was nothing you could have done to stop him, even though . . .” She couldn't finish the thought. She couldn't tell him that the accident had been her fault. That the guilt was tearing her up. Maybe Boots would have done something daring sooner or later, but he'd done it because she'd given him the chance. For that, she couldn't forgive herself.

“You can be his son still. I know you want to,” she said quietly.

“I do,” J.D. replied in a whisper. “I just wonder if we let things go too long.”

“It's never too late as long as you're both together. You have the chance that I never took. I'm envious of you in that regard. I only wish . . .” She shook off the thought. This wasn't about her. This was about J.D. and Boots. “Just be patient with him. And have faith.”

J.D. didn't say anything, and Josephine suddenly felt awkward. The reality of their situation hit her. Although they'd been lovers, at this moment they seemed like strangers. He was wary of her intentions, and she couldn't blame him. She was no less confused herself.

Suddenly feeling like an intruder, she slipped away from him. “I've got to check on supper,” she lied, needing an excuse to leave.

•  •  •

Boots drifted in and out of coherency for the next several days. J.D. was the only one who tended him, and he reported very little the few times he sat and ate with the rest of them.

The meals were badly prepared, Josephine reverting back to her old habits of not fully reading the recipes. She omitted ingredients, or she put too much in. None of the boys complained, for their appetites had dwindled in the wake of Boots's accident.

Though nobody said anything directly to her, Josephine feared they thought the worst of her. She wasn't sure; perhaps it was just the unsettling guilt that she couldn't shake. But the atmosphere in the house was like that of a tomb.

Everybody spoke in a low voice, politeness was to the extreme, and rather than playing cards in the front room at night, early departures were made for the bunkhouse.

Thursday came and went, the train to California having departed without her. Josephine couldn't leave without knowing if Boots would pull through.

Friday, Josephine couldn't stand the solitude any longer. Around two o'clock, she got out a can of corn and attempted to make creamed corn on toast. It smelled a little peculiar compared to the kind Boots made, but it looked the same.

She arranged the bread on a plate and scooped a portion of the corn mixture on top. Then she went out
the back door and picked a red tulip as decoration. After folding a napkin precisely, she grabbed a spoon and headed for Boots's room.

The door was closed, as usual. She knocked, but this time she didn't wait for J.D. to send her away. After their talk in the barn, they'd walked on eggshells around each other. But the strain was wearing J.D. down. He was snappish with the hands, and he could be short with her.

She let herself into the room as if she had been invited.

J.D. sat beside the bed in the oversized wing chair. His head snapped up upon her entrance, as if he'd been dozing. She made no mention of it as she crossed the room and set the plate on the bedside table.

“I made Boots some creamed corn on toast.”

J.D. frowned. “He won't eat it. He's barely touched the soup I made him.”

“Well, maybe he doesn't like soup.”

“I know what he likes and what he doesn't.”

Josephine refused to be put off. She dragged the wooden chair that was tucked beneath a writing desk over to the bed. Sitting, she folded her hands in her trousered lap.

“How is he today?” she asked firmly, looking J.D. directly in the eyes.

His eyes were bloodshot, and his chin prickled with three days' worth of beard. He looked horrible.

“He's better,” J.D. replied, his voice edged with dryness from disuse. “He had a slight fever the past two days, but it's gone now.”

Hope welled in her. “That's encouraging.” She gazed at Boots, who lay still as the sheets. His complexion seemed just as white. The sour lines that normally marked his mouth had relaxed in his sleep. His breathing was even, his chest rising and falling softly.

“He woke up a while ago, when I gave him some of
the soup. He looked at me . . . like he was looking at me for the first time.”

Josephine nodded her understanding.

Boots shifted his legs, then winced. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared for a long moment at Josephine. “Where the hell've y'all been?”

A smile trembled over her lips. “Here.”

“I thought y'all were going to San Francisco . . .”

“Not today.”

Managing no more than a hoarse whisper, he said, “Tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow, either.”

His nose twitched. “What stinks in here?”

“Your supper,” Josephine admitted.

“I'm not eating anything that smells like dirty socks.” He closed his cornflower-blue eyes and exhaled. “Where's that damn tabby cat?”

Josephine and J.D. traded looks, then J.D. replied, “In the barn, most likely.”

“Go find him for me. I'm tired of y'all leaning over me like I'm a gawddamn corpse.”

He let out a sigh, then the muscles in his face relaxed as he slept once more.