A Taste of Heaven (35 page)

He didn't answer, but proceeded to the end of
the gallery and his own closed bedroom door. Libby trotted behind,
afraid to envision the magnitude of the punishment awaiting
her.

Finally, he turned to her. “You've punched me
in the stomach, slapped me with a dishrag, and lashed me with that
tongue of yours more than once. I took it—sometimes I guess I even
deserved it. But to call me a liar, to say that my word is no
good—” He twisted the knob, nearly yanking it off, and flung the
door open. It banged off the wall and bounced forward.

The room stood as they'd left it four days
earlier, with the window open and the bedding in a tangle. The
hard, gold sundown cast a long rectangle on the floor and wall.
Tyler pulled her into the room and kicked the door closed behind
them. Libby hung back, but he hauled her to the bed, and she
recoiled. Twisting and struggling, she tried to get away.

“Hold still, damn it!”

“Tyler, God, please—don't do this—” She
closed her eyes, feeling as though she stood before a firing squad,
and expected him to push her to the mattress.

Instead, he reached out and threw the pillows
aside, and began rifling through the sheets and quilts. All the
while he kept her wrist locked in his fingers. Baffled, she watched
as he impatiently stripped the bed down to the bare mattress.
Cursing violently, he flung that against the wall as though it were
weightless. Then, through the slats she saw a piece of paper,
folded once, resting on the hardwood floor underneath. He bent down
and snatched it up. Releasing her arm, he unfolded it and shoved it
into her hands, crumpling it with the force.

“Here,” he said. “Read it.”

Libby lifted her gaze to his face. Beneath
his anger, she saw pain. “But it was under the bed. How could
I—”

“Read it!”

She dropped her eyes to the pen strokes.

Dear Libby,

Nothing could have forced me from your side
this

morning but an errand in Billings that just
won't wait.

I'll be back as soon as I can.

I love you, too.

Tyler
The words blurred as tears welled in her
eyes.
I love you, too
. . .
He'd heard her the night she whispered to him. She pressed a
shaking hand to her mouth and looked up at him again. “Tyler, I'm
sorry—”

His anger seemed to drain away all at once,
apparently taking with it whatever energy he'd had left. He walked
to the mattress where it lay and sat down heavily, sprawling his
long legs and leaning against the wall.

“Not exactly what you were thinking?” He
looked suddenly haggard. He scraped his hair back with both
hands.

She took a step closer to him, and held out
the note. “But—but if this is how you feel, why are you firing
me?”

Sighing, he dug two fingers into his front
pants pocket and pulled out a tiny box that he closed in his hand.
“I sure pictured this moment differently,” he muttered with a trace
of regret. “Come and sit down.” He patted the mattress next to
him.

Libby approached gingerly, and perched two
feet away, clutching the paper to her breast.

“It's true that I don't want you cooking for
the crew anymore. That's one of the reasons I went to Billings. But
I'm not firing you, Libby.” He edged closer to her and took her
hand in his. “I want to marry you.”

She couldn't quite get her breath. “Marry
me?”

He looked at her fingers laying across his
palm, and ran his thumb along the length of each one. “Yeah, if
you'll have me. I'm not always the easiest man to get along
with—huh, I guess you already know that. But you make me feel good
whenever I'm around you. You gave me back my life.” His tired face
was full of emotion, and tears edged his eyes. “God, woman, why do
you think I turned Miles City upside down looking for you? Just
because I like your biscuits and gravy?” He pressed her hand to his
mouth and kissed it. “I love you so much, it scared me to death
when I realized it. I didn't want to love anyone again—I didn't
think I could. But I don't know how I'd have stood it if you'd
gotten on the train back to Chicago.”

“Oh, Tyler, I’m sorry for the things I said,”
she whispered, her own eyes wet. She reached up and brushed her
hand through his hair. “It was just that—maybe you realize just a
little why I misunderstood when I overheard you and Joe the other
morning?”

He nodded. "And I’m sorry as hell for what
those damned Brandauers did to you.” He opened his hand and held
out the tiny black velvet box he'd pulled from his pocket.

Slowly, she took it from his palm. “For
me?”

“That's the other reason I had to go to
Billings. Nort Osmer has wedding bands, but he doesn't sell
diamonds.”

She opened the spring-hinged box and found a
beautiful engagement ring inside.

“I can't change the past, but I’d like to
make up to you some of the things you missed, if you'll let me.
Will you, Libby? Will you marry me?”

With a cry, she flung herself into his
embrace and threw her arms around his neck. “Yes, oh, yes, I
will!”

He buried his face in her hair. “Thank God,”
he mumbled with a voice that broke. He held her tight for several
moments, rocking her. She felt a deep, shuddering breath wrack his
body, and she knew without looking that his tears were wetting her
hair.

They remained entwined for a while in the
hush of the sundown, not moving. From the open window, she heard
the last of the day's larks call out as they winged to their
nesting places for the night. Libby had never felt such peace and
security.

Finally, Tyler took the ring from the box and
slid it onto her finger. Pressing a kiss to her knuckles, he looked
up from her hand and murmured, “You're mine, Libby, now and
forever. Don't forget that.”

The timbre of his voice changed, and a
delicious shiver flew down her spine. “And will you claim what is
yours?”

His eyes, now smoky again, locked with hers.
“I didn't ride fifty hard miles today for any other reason.” He
looked down at the front of his dusty shirt. “I'm not too clean
though.”

“I don't care. I’ll take you clean—or dirty.”
She cupped his face in her hands, feeling the scratch of his
day-old beard, and drew his mouth to hers. “I love you, Tyler,” she
said softly, her lips less than an inch from his.

Tyler groaned. “I love you, too, Libby.” He
consumed her soft, pink mouth in a kiss, while he sank his fingers
into her hair. Her innocent seduction sparked a fire in his blood
that made him grateful this was not their first time together.
Fierce hunger drove out some of the forbearing gentleness that he'd
needed for taking her virginity.

Now a hot, predatory instinct licked through
him, a powerful desire to possess her and make her his. To take her
here, now. He deepened the kiss and laid her down on the bare
mattress. His tongue sought the slick warmth of her mouth as his
lips moved over hers with rising urgency. Each little noise that
rose from her throat only made the flames in him burn higher.

He rose on one elbow and tried to open the
buttons on her bodice, but in his impatience, he only popped off
the first two.

“Here, let me,” she said, and he watched with
ravenous eyes as the front of her dress parted to reveal her
camisole underneath. Reaching for its pale blue ribbons, he pulled
on them to open the garment, and swallowed hard at what he saw.
Smooth, full breasts with dusky rose nipples. Soft, white
shoulders. A long creamy throat. Her body warmth coursed her sweet
vanilla scent to him in waves.

“God, Libby, you take my breath away,” he
said thickly. "I just can't . . . help
myself—”

Supporting her breast with his hand, he
dipped his head to close his lips on her nipple. Libby gasped
softly, shattered by the nearly unbearable pleasure of suckling
him. She threaded her fingers through his thick hair, quickened by
the slight rasp of his beard on her tender flesh.

He pulled back and she greedily reached for
the front of his shirt, but he grasped her hand and pulled it lower
to his fly buttons. Behind them, Libby felt the proof of his
arousal, and his heat. Drawing a ragged breath, he pressed into her
palm, pushing hard, and an answering hot pulse began low in her
abdomen.

As if sensing that, Tyler reached beneath her
skirt, trailing his fingers up the inside of her leg, past the top
of her stocking and on to the thin muslin of her drawers. He put
his hand between her thighs, and she knew he must feel the damp
heat gathering under the fabric.

“Tyler,” she moaned.

"Yes, honey,” he answered.

He sat up then and kicked off his boots, the
spurs digging into the hardwood floor. His shirt he threw to the
other side of the room. Shucking off his chaps, he unbuckled his
belt and opened his pants. Libby was mildly surprised to see that
he'd not bothered to put on underwear, but that fact was curiously
arousing.

He lay down beside her, naked, fully erect,
and beautifully male. The clean, carved lines of muscle and bone
were as graceful as any sculptor had ever dreamed of.

“Touch me, Libby,” he whispered urgently.

A bit timid, she reached for his hard
fullness and closed her hand around him, repeating what he'd liked
their first night together. A hard-edged moan rose from his throat,
and she felt quite pleased with herself and his response. She
continued for another moment, until he pushed her hand away.

“In you, honey, not on you.”

Garment by garment, he pulled off her
remaining clothes, replacing them with trails of flushed, urgent
kisses on her bare skin. Only dimly did she realize that she rocked
her pelvis against him.

“I know what you want,” Tyler muttered in her
ear.

He let his hand drift down her belly to reach
for her wet, throbbing flesh again. His gentle, probing touch
evoked sensations that were almost painful in their intensity.
Libby gasped as his fingertips caressed the delicate, swollen
tissues, and she pushed up to his hand. Instead of withdrawing as
he had last time, he continued the slippery, rapid strokes, until
she thought her heart would burst from her chest. It was as if a
coil in her wound tighter and tighter, and just one touch would
release the constricting pressure.

“Tyler—oh, God—please, please—”

Tyler knew. The strokes came faster. He
crooned to her in a breathless groan. “This is what you need, right
here. Right . . . here.”

Suddenly, her muscles constricted and hovered
on the brink of quivering silence. Then the one touch she'd been
waiting for tripped the tight coil and her body convulsed with
spasm upon spasm of excruciating pleasure. Libby turned her face
against Tyler's chest and sobbed his name in a high, thin cry.

Ready to explode, Tyler gave Libby no time to
catch her breath before he pulled her under him and parted her
legs. He entered her with one smooth stroke. She drew a sharp
breath, and lifted her hips to receive him. He wanted to keep his
thrusts long and slow. But as soon as he sank into her warmth, he
knew he was lost to her. He'd mark her soul with his body, if he
could. He knew she'd already marked his.

The acute heaviness low in his belly and
groin grew more fevered with each passing second. He gripped
Libby's buttocks and canted her to reach into her more deeply. Her
fingers bit into his hips and she pulled him toward her as he
pushed.

He looked at her lying beneath him—beautiful,
tender. Her eyes were charcoal with rebuilding passion, and her
wordless murmuring only increased his need to relieve this aching,
exquisite torment.

He devoured her mouth with a moist, hot kiss,
“I'll never let you go,” he ground out.

“Then take me, Tyler,” she pleaded fervently.
“Make me yours.”

“Libby—angel,” he muttered against her neck.
He quickened his pounding strokes, and sweat popped out all over
his body.

Suddenly she arched against him with a
wailing sob, her climax vanquishing her. He felt the paroxysms
within her that began a chain reaction in his own body. He pressed
his forehead to hers and plunged forward, as swift, hot pulsations
overwhelmed him.

Libby wrapped her arms around Tyler and held
him close while a shuddering groan was torn from his chest. They
lay still then, both spent and breathing hard.

The evening breeze from the open window swept
over their damp bodies, cooling them and raising goose bumps. Limbs
entangled, they fell into a brief, languorous doze, still joined.
Finally, Tyler slowly roused himself and pulled her over to lie
against him.

He rubbed a hand over his face, and the
scrape of his beard bristle on his palm sounded like sandpaper. A
wry chuckle escaped him. “I probably look like hell, but I sure
feel great.”

Libby propped herself on one elbow to
consider his handsome, drowsy face in the twilight. Maybe he wasn't
at his best. He smelled of horses and road dust. His lean jaws were
shadowed by stubble, and his sweat-soaked hair stuck up in a couple
of places where he'd run his hands through it. But he couldn't have
looked better to her if he'd been wearing a Sunday suit. “You're
the handsomest cowboy I've ever seen.”

He raised his brows, obviously struggling to
keep a straight face. “That's a real, compliment coming from a city
gal.”

“You always made that sound like a disease,”
she complained with a laugh. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this,
Miss Libby,” she went on with a deep, mock-stern voice, “but you
have a bad case of . . . city-born.”

He laughed, too. “All right, all right—I
agree you fared much better than some who've come West.”

She lifted her chin with an air of feigned
arrogance. “Besides, I'm not a ‘city gal’ anymore.”

He gazed at her with quiet reverence, and
combed his fingers through her tangled hair. “No, you're not,
sweetheart. And below that soft, pretty surface, there's a strong,
brave woman. That was one of the reasons I fell in love with
you.”