Free Forget Me Not by Stef Ann Holm Page A

bright glow, he stood back to view the damage. Nothing was free from red stains. Walls, ceiling, stove. The counter where the tomato cans still sat, a bowl of flour, the cornmeal canister, and a bunch of kitchen utensils. At least the meat he’d brought Josephine had been stored. Boots had probably done that. Actually, he’d probably relished doing that while his creamed corn was on to boil.
    J.D. went to Josephine’s door and knocked.
    No answer came.
    He knocked again—louder—and waited a few seconds.
    Still no response.
    Maybe she’d lit out in the middle of the night. But even he didn’t think she’d be fool enough to do that. Just the same, he turned the knob and let himself in.
    Light from behind him poured into the small room. Josephine slept on the unmade bed. She hadn’t made any attempt to do up the sheets. One was sprawled beneath her, and one came up haphazardly to her waist. She was sleeping in her underwear. A frilly white camisole, petticoat, and drawers. She lay on her stomach, one knee bent. Her bare foot, with its well-shaped toes, peeked out from the edge of the sheet.
    Proceeding farther, he stepped on something. He picked up a hairpin and straightened, his gaze falling to her once more. She had unbound her hair. He was surprised by the unsettling hint of appreciation slamming him in the chest as he viewed the mass of brown curls falling past her bent elbow. He wouldn’t have pegged Josephine Whittaker as the type of woman possessing provocative hair. She was too restrained to be sensual.
    Her cheek rested on her pillow; her lips were parted. The creamy expanse at the side of her neck looked soft . . . kissable. Her skin had the look of polished ivory. A pale hand with slender pink nails rested palm down on the pillow, right in front of her nose.
    He gave her entire body a raking gaze. She was curvy. Her derriere had a swell to it that would fit nicely in a man’s hands. An unwanted attraction toward her tightened his muscles. His skin felt hot even though the air was cool. He was by no means blind to her, but he was puzzled by his body’s strong reaction. In a hasty rationale, he reasoned he’d been too long without a woman. Perhaps he should havegone into Sienna and visited Walkingbars with the rest of the cowboys more than he did. If he had, he wouldn’t be looking at Josephine the way he was.
    Josephine Whittaker came from exactly the same stock as his mother. And Eugenia hadn’t been able to make a go of it in the West. Eastern women had no call to be marrying western men. Though Boots and Eugenia had been married in Areola, Mississippi, Eugenia’s heart had never left Boston. He couldn’t blame her for going back. At least she hadn’t stayed and been a martyr.
    Right now, J.D. didn’t have the time to think about getting married, and he didn’t have the time to be lonesome. Should he ever sit down and really consider what he wanted in a woman, he wouldn’t be having Josephine in mind.
    J.D. glanced at the washstand, where there was an empty glass and Boots’s corn liquor bottle, corked and nearly full. However much Josephine had drunk, it hadn’t been a lot.
    He went to the bedside and bumped his toe on the leg of the headboard. “Get on up, cookie.”
    She didn’t budge.
    â€œCome on, cookie, it’s time to get up.”
    She muttered. Moaned, actually. A low, throaty sound that brought his gaze back to her face. Her eyes remained closed, but her breathing was no longer the steady rhythm of a deep sleep.
    â€œWh-what is it . . . Annabel?” she whispered hoarsely. “Is Hugh drunk . . . again?”
    J.D. couldn’t help wondering who Hugh was. A brother? Fiancé? Whoever he was, it wasn’t his concern. Laying his hand on Josephine’s shoulder, he gave her a soft shake.
    â€œCookie, pick it up. It’s time to get out of