Read Online Forget Me Not by Stef Ann Holm - Free Book Online Page B

necessarily removed unless a lady was present, so there wasn’t a hat to be seen. Along with the hardware, the bands of Stetsons were slung over those hooks as well.
    J.D. ate with his cowboys. Here, there was no distinction between boss and hired hand. Normally, ranchmen didn’t make a formality of a meal. The eating hour was strictly business with no time for idle gossip.
    But tonight was different.
    The low hum of conversation circulated around the table, as each man was eager to make the acquaintance of Miss Josephine Whittaker and taste a bite of her delectable offerings. They’d been waiting for an interminable ten minutes—a clear breech of etiquette, as one of Luis Escalante’s rules was promptness. But nobody had beaten on the triangle at five o’clock to bring them from the bunkhouse, the corral, or wherever they happened to be. Five o’clock came and went without the signal; it was the boys’ stomachsrumbling for some good victuals that had sent them seeking the house.
    J.D. made a mental note to tell Josephine that she had to use the triangle when calling the boys to the table. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. The smell of something peculiar came from the kitchen. He recognized the aroma of tomatoes, but there was a trace of something else. He could swear it was . . . creamed corn. But that couldn’t be. Stretching out his legs, he shrugged off the thought. He’d been eating too much of it to get the smell out of his nose.
    After waiting another five minutes, J.D. was just about to get out of his chair and investigate when Boots appeared in the doorway carrying a platter of creamed corn on toast.
    â€œEvening, boys,” Boots said proudly, depositing his fare in the center of the table. “Dig on in while it’s hot.”
    They all grumbled, looked at one another, then glared at J.D.
    J.D. lifted himself straighter in his chair. “Where’s the cookie? And where in the hell are our steaks?”
    Boots gave him a brittle smile. “She took to her bed. Had herself a bit of an accident in the kitchen.”
    J.D.’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of accident?”
    â€œAn ‘effervesce of tomatoes’ is what she called it.”
    Sliding his chair back, J.D. stood and went for the closed kitchen door.
    â€œI wouldn’t go in there if I was you,” Boots warned. “She made one hell of a mess.”
    J.D. turned and shouted, “Then she’s got one hell of a mess to clean up before she fries those steaks!”
    â€œShe’s not frying anything up tonight. Last I seen her, she was on her way to a good drunk.”
    â€œDrunk?”
    â€œSaid she needed some sherry to calm herself, but I told her Eugenia drank all we had. So I gave her my corn liquor bottle.” Boots scraped the legs of his chairout, sat, and began to serve himself. “I suspect y’all’ll be taking her back to Sienna tomorrow.”
    Boots apparently thought he had things cleverly figured out. Get the cook drunk. Then get her fired.
    â€œI ought to take you to Sienna tomorrow and leave you there, you crafty son-of-a-bitch,” J.D. blazed, then stalked out of the dining room.

C HAPTER
4
    R ather than waking to the inviting aroma of coffee brewing, J.D. opened his eyes to the lingering smell of spent wood coming from the banked fireplace in the front room. He lay on his bed, staring through the darkness toward the ceiling. The time was probably in the vicinity of three-thirty. When Luis had been the cook, every morning at precisely three thirty-five, the rich flavor of Arbuckle’s wafted through the house and slowly brought J.D. around. He wasn’t an instant riser. It took him a good fifteen minutes to wake up enough to get out of bed. On cold mornings, he’d lie back, put his hands behind his head, and think about what needed to be done that day. He’d work up an appetite for