Forget Me Not Read Free Page A

to the deal.
    The woman looked at him for the first time, her eyes widening. He knew he presented a sight. A week-old beard, muck on his Levi’s up to his knees, dried blood on the sleeves and edges of his leather duster.
    He took her stare for what it was: mortified curiosity. It wasn’t the first time he’d been given the up-and-down from some gal. He was taller than most cowboys, and a little too long-legged astride a saddle to be easy on his horses. Most of his punchers were medium-sized; but then again, most of his punchers had come from generations of ranchers. J.D. came from a Mississippi cotton plantation.
    â€œExcuse me a minute, ma’am,” Tuttle said, then went to collect Rio.
    After the sheriffs departure, a silence dropped on the room as weighted as a bale of hay. The woman turned away, keeping her eyes downcast. If J.D. had been more like some of the good-natured men working for him, he would have offered her his sympathies. But he guessed there were times when he was too much of a son-of-a-bitch, just like Boots.
    A moment later, Rio Cibolo appeared, broadly grinning like a jackass coming out of the mess tent after eating a batch of the cook’s pumpkin pies. “Hey, boss.”
    Even at a young age, it was clear Rio was destined to be a lady’s man. He was lean, quick, and wiry, with a mane of sun-bleached blond hair, soft mustache, and blue eyes. Though he could be trouble, he was intensely loyal to the outfit and would herd the horses through hell and back and never complain. Knowingthis, J.D. never went too hard on him. But that didn’t ease the annoyance he was feeling right now.
    â€œYou cost me good, kid. I ought to start calling you George again.” J.D. rearranged the angle of his low-crowned hat with his bruised hand.
    Rio’s eyes widened as his gaze shot from J.D. to the woman. “I expect you know how I feel about that.”
    J.D. did. Rio’s real name was George Ikard, but he’d taken to calling himself Rio Cibolo as of winter because he’d claimed a wrangler bound on infamy ought not be saddled with the name George.
    â€œI expect I do,” J.D. replied. “Keep your rope off of two-legged animals and stick to them that have four, and I’ll forget all about George.”
    â€œSure, boss.”
    â€œTuttle, you tell Denby I’ll be back in five days for him.” Then J.D. added with caution, “And for your sake, he better damn well be here.”
    The sheriff waved him off. “Rio, your horse is down at the livery, along with your rope. I catch you swinging that lariat on my streets, you’ll be looking through bars again.”
    Rio disregarded the warning. He was too busy gawking at the lady. Tipping his hat, he offered, “How do, ma’am? Welcome to Sienna.”
    â€œThank you,” she replied softly.
    â€œIt’s not often we’re allowed the privilege of such a fine-looking woman in our town,” Rio said.
    J.D. walked past Rio, went out the door, and called over his shoulder, “If you’ve got nothing to do but stand around, I reckon you’ll be going up the trail to the Shaw outfit to earn your keep.”
    Every cowboy from here to the territorial borders knew that the Shaw outfit was a tough, gun-toting bunch of drunks. Leaving the sheriff’s office, J.D. let Rio ponder that thought.
    Seconds later, the kid caught up to J.D., who was walking in a brisk stride. “Now, boss, you have to admit she was as pretty as a thirty-dollar pony.”
    â€œI didn’t notice.”
    Rio’s deep laughter implied he wasn’t fully convinced of that.
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    â€œI’m an excellent hostess with impeccable etiquette and a flair for choosing the appropriate table service for the appropriate party. I know how a table should look when presented for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Also, I’m highly qualified to supervise domestics in a