A Taste of Heaven (15 page)

U
nder a
slate-gray sky, Libby gripped the lines to her mule team, and
huddled deeper into the boy's saddle coat that Tyler had bought for
her. Actually, she'd insisted that he only advance her the cost of
the coat and a new pair of gloves. She fully intended that he take
it out of her pay when they reached Miles City.

At the other end of the reins, her four mules
shifted and stamped in the cold dawn. Behind her were amassed
almost a thousand head of cattle—so Noah had told her. She could
hear them bawling, and the clicking of their horns as they bumped
into one another sounded like arrhythmic castanets. Above that rose
the sound of the cowboys yelling to the stock and to one another,
and the nervous whinnying of the horses in the cavvy off to her
left. Late yesterday, Joe had switched Rory from the job of riding
drag to handling the horses. Even though the position of wrangler
wasn't a promotion, Rory was as gravely proud as if he'd been given
the job of trail boss. Joe told her that as wrangler, Rory would
also be responsible for digging the fire pits, gathering firewood,
and hitching her mule team, so at least she'd have some help.

Tyler had ridden by several times, apparently
seeing to last-minute details. All the men were wonderful riders,
but he looked especially good on horseback, and she drew a deep
breath at the sight of him. Slim-hipped and wide-shouldered, he was
tall and moved with an easy grace. The low-hanging mist muted and
blended the scene around her, making it hard to tell one distant
cowboy from another. But she could pick Tyler out of the group with
no difficulty at all. She let her gaze wander over him again,
taking in all the details of his face and form, his strong hands
encased in gloves, his clean profile, his quick, appealing smile.
And he was smiling a lot this morning, as if the prospect of a
cattle drive agreed with him. For at least the hundredth time, she
wondered if she'd made the right decision in agreeing to come on
this trip. It was a means to achieve her goal, but that
apprehension she'd felt during her first shooting lesson was strong
upon her.

Over the last three days, her education in
frontier survival had been stepped up and she fell into bed at
night, too exhausted to dream.

Joe had given her a condensed lesson in
driving the chuck wagon and in building a campfire. Tyler produced
another list that told her what provisions to double-sack and load
into the chuck box. And she'd endured several hours of shooting
practice with Tyler standing next to her, issuing instructions.
She'd gained not one shred of confidence that she'd be able to fire
the shotgun, much less hit a target, in an emergency. But at least
he'd treated her with more courtesy and respect.

After that first lesson, he'd maintained a
careful distance between them most of the time, but once or twice
he put a hand to her elbow or her shoulder.

She was so undone by the feel of him, it was
odd to her that those were the only times she hit her targets. And
though she knew she shouldn't, she craved the comfort of his light
touch, and found herself wishing for it again.

Then she'd remember the telltale scent of
gardenias on his clothes the afternoon she'd first fired the
shotgun, and the fear would return, stronger than ever.

Tyler Hollins was her
employer
. Had she forgotten the
peril of letting herself become attracted to the master of the
house? On top of that he was engaged in some kind of carnal
association with Heavenly's prosperous madam.

No, Libby thought, resettling herself on the
wagon seat. This was for the best. The sooner she left Montana, the
sooner she could begin her life again. Her lonely, misadventurous
trip out here to marry Ben had been a false start. She hadn't
really run away from her problems, she'd only brought them with her
to a new place. But the same hope and determination that had
carried her out here would carry her back. Now her trunk was packed
and tucked beneath the seat under her. Within the month, she'd be
in Chicago where she belonged.

Libby glanced at the ranch house where it
waited in the misty green valley for the day when these men would
return to it. The low angle of the dawning sun gave the log
building a tranquil hominess that she'd not noticed until now. She
felt no particular regret that she wouldn't be coming back after
the cattle drive. For all its rugged beauty, Montana could never
have been her home. She was nearly certain of that.

“All right, Miss Libby,” Joe called as he
rode by at a trot. “Give those mules a slap and let's get going.”
He took a lead position next to Tyler at the head of the
procession, then stood in his stirrups and whistled back at the men
behind him. Waving his hat in a wide are over his head, he lifted
his deep voice. “When we get to Miles City, the first round of
beers is on me.”

Libby took a long, final look at the ranch
house. Then she slapped the reins on the mules' backs and the chuck
wagon rolled forward toward the sunrise.

*~*~*

“Got any hot water going?”

Libby recognized the voice, but didn't bother
to look up. The fog had burned off and the sun was bright in the
spring sky, but the firewood Rory had gathered for her was damp.
She poked at her sputtering, smoky fire, already feeling
beleaguered and drained, and it was only noon.

With a bit of effort she hoisted a Dutch
oven, heavy with water and beans, onto the rack suspended over the
fire. The beans probably wouldn't be ready to eat until tomorrow
morning. She realized she'd be able to cook them only during the
short time they stopped for the lunch. Then she'd have to pack up
the iron kettle, and put it on the fire to simmer again at their
next stop. If she'd thought the Lodestar was primitive, cooking out
of the back of a wagon beat all.

“Hot water for what?” she muttered.
“Afternoon tea and scones?”

She didn't mean to be abrupt, but Tyler
sounded altogether too peppy to suit her. And why shouldn't he?
What had he done besides ride ahead of her to scout out this
stopping place, and lope alongside the cattle making mooing noises
while he waved a coil of rope to urge them along?

On the other hand, she had struggled with
these balky mules. With a seemingly perverse sense of direction,
the animals had led the rough chuck wagon over every bone-jarring
rut and hole on the prairie. Inside, everything that could make
noise clattered—the cast-iron cooking utensils, the tin plates and
cups, the shovel, the shotgun, her teeth. And they'd come only six
miles. She realized that this job would be much harder than she'd
anticipated. But she wasn't about to let Tyler know that. He
already thought she was a puny, helpless Easterner.

And now he wanted hot water.

“Not for tea, Libby. I want to shave.”

She lifted her eyes then, and saw him
standing there, holding his razor, a mug, and a shaving mirror.
He'd slung a towel over one shoulder.

“Oh,” was the only reply she could make. He'd
unbuttoned his blue-striped band-collar shirt, pulled out the
tails, and rolled up his sleeves. The sun fell across his lean face
and the shadow of his one-day beard that sparkled with blond, red,
and dark brown bristles. She let her eyes follow the line of his
throat down to his uncovered chest. Something about that display of
skin and muscle between the edges of his gaping shirtfront was more
intimate than outright nakedness. Her gaze dropped past the waist
of his pale buckskin chaps until the glint of his silver belt
buckle made her realize what she was looking at.

Libby felt her cheeks grow hot and she looked
away, but not before she saw his expression. It was the same one
she'd seen the day she shot the coffee can off the
fence—controlled, powerful, territorial. “Th-there is no warm
water. I'll put some on to heat.” She turned to get a kettle from
the wagon, but she was stopped when his hand closed on her arm.

“No, that's all right, I'll use water from
the barrel. I just thought I'd ask. Um, do you have a basin?”

“Well, yes . . . ” Basin,
Libby thought blankly, basin. Where had she— Suddenly she couldn't
think of anything except the way his hand felt on her arm. She
glanced up at his eyes, an act that just about completed her
discomposure.

He released her forearm and lifted his brows.
“Maybe there's one under the chuck box?”

She stepped back, feeling silly and
tongue-tied. “Yes, of course, yes.” She rummaged around in the
compartment beneath the wagon bed, and withdrew a white enamel
basin. Taking it, he nodded his thanks, and walked around to the
other side of the wagon to fill it at the water barrel. Now that
she was so acutely conscious of him, his spurs told her every step
he took, reminding her of a cat with a bell on its collar. Libby
released a deep, quiet breath, and bent over the beans to give them
a stir.

She pushed a long lock of hair back over her
shoulder. Why the devil should he have that effect on her? she
wondered impatiently. Just because he was attractive? That wasn't a
good enough reason, In fact, it might be the worst reason. Wesley
had been handsome. Actually, not as. Tyler was rugged, harder hewn.
But the true measure of a man was in his deeds, not his looks.
Libby straightened and looked back at the boots on the other side
of the wagon box.

Maybe that was where the biggest difference
lay. Wesley Brandauer had felt no sense of responsibility at
all.

Tyler seemed to have taken the whole world
onto his shoulders.

*~*~*

Tyler turned the spigot on the barrel,
and called himself an idiot. He never used anything but cold water
to shave, not even at home. He'd only dreamed up that excuse to
talk to Libby, to see how she was doing, to see
her
 . . . 

He propped up the mirror on the lid of the
barrel and raked his hair back from his forehead. While he lathered
his face, he continued to silently berate his reflection. He'd
meant to stay away from her on this trip, hadn't he? He lifted the
razor and began its downward stroke just below his left sideburn.
Sure, circumstances had forced him to bring her along, but Joe,
Noah, Charlie—all of them were looking out for her, he argued with
himself. Maybe, but ultimately he was responsible for her; she was
just a helpless greenhorn. Well, not so helpless, he was beginning
to realize. For someone who'd never set foot in the country—and
Rory said she'd told him that—she was managing surprisingly well
without anyone's help. Just the fact that she'd traveled all the
way out here from Chicago, and come through the winter, said a lot
about her. She'd make a good wife for some man.

Then there was the way she lit up when the
men complimented her cooking. It was as though no one had ever
shown her respect or appreciation before now. And it made him want
to protect her. It didn't take much effort on his part to imagine
her lying safe in his arms in his big four-poster back at the
Lodestar, her soft, full curves limned in a wedge of moonlight
while she granted him the pleasure of slow, moist kisses and the
solace of her body . . . 

Tyler realized that his shaving had come to a
complete stop. Impatiently, he scraped at the rest of his beard,
and in his haste, nicked his chin.

“Damn it all,” he mumbled, and pressed a
corner of the towel to the cut. The woman stirred emotions in him
that he'd buried long ago with a mahogany coffin on the green
bluffs above the ranch house. And he aimed to keep things that way.
He wasn't about to get all moony over Libby like some line shack
cowboy who hadn't seen a female in four or five months. Not that it
could happen, he reassured himself. He had his arrangement with
Callie, and it suited him just fine.

He took a final look at his reflection, then
he glanced up at Libby's very feminine shape as she crossed the
camp with a coffeepot.

At least it had suited him until now.

*~*~*

No sooner had Libby fed the crew and washed
the dishes than she was back on the wagon seat again, driving the
mules to the night campsite. The herd was far behind and wouldn't
catch up until late afternoon. That would give her time to make
enough sourdough biscuits to go around at tonight's supper and
tomorrow's noon meal.

All the men, including Joe and Tyler, were
back with the herd. After Tyler selected this spot, only Rory had
come along with her to put the cavvy in the rope corral and dig her
fire pit. He rode in dragging a dead branch he'd lassoed for
fuel.

Libby was glad for his help. It didn't matter
how determined she was to prove her ability and avoid Tyler's
displeasure—she couldn't pretend that she wasn’t tired. Her skirt
was damp to the knees from dragging it through the wet grass. She
wasn't accustomed to hauling water to wash dishes, or cooking food
in progressive shifts. By the time they finally got to Miles City,
she hoped she'd have enough energy left to step up to the railroad
platform.

Now she stood at the dropleg worktable in
back of the wagon. She had to admit that this was a pretty clever
arrangement. Tyler had told her that cattle baron Charles Goodnight
invented the chuck wagon twenty years earlier, and that its best
feature was the chuck box itself. Its hinged door served double
duty as a work space. She sprinkled the surface with flour and
began rolling out the sourdough. The sound of Rory's shovel digging
into the earth gave her a chill, reminding her of the day she'd dug
Ben's grave.

She glanced up from the dough and watched the
youngster for a moment. He looked strong and healthy. Working at
the Lodestar was obviously good for him, but he seemed so young to
be away from his home and family.

“Rory, have you been at the Lodestar very
long?” She dipped her biscuit cutter in the flour.