A Taste of Heaven

by Alexis Harrington

  “Do you have kin you could wire for the money?”

  Libby shook her head, feeling more distinctly unwelcome with each passing minute. She let her gaze drift across the yard to the empty range beyond. “There is no one else. And I need work.” They assessed each other. She was out of options, and apparently, so was the foreman.

  Finally, he pushed away from the post and shrugged. “You're welcome to stay, at least until Ty Hollins gets back. The boys probably told you he owns this place, and he'll be along in a day or two. After that, it will be up to him.” He glanced down at her and Libby saw a trace of regret in his dark eyes. “It’s nothing personal, Mrs. Ross, but I have to tell you straight out that he probably ain’t gonna go along with this.”

  She suppressed a sigh, then straightened and turned to look at the house behind her. “If you'll let me, I'd like to fix supper for you and your men in payment for your hospitality.”

  He smiled at her, his grin creeping up a bit higher on one side of his face, then stretched out his hand to help her to her feet. “That would be a real pleasure. If an outfit can't feed its cowboys, they'll either leave or shoot the cook.”

  She couldn't help but smile back. “Then it would seem that keeping them happy is the smart thing to do.”

  “Come on, I'll show you the kitchen.”

  He led her down the long porch that ran the length of the house to the kitchen. Libby noted a pair of cattle horns hanging over the door.

  Joe ushered her inside. “It’s pretty messed up in here,” he said apologetically. “The boys were right—the last cook wasn't the best. We haven't helped any, either.”

  This structure was also made of logs, chinked tightly against the elements. Was everything in this wilderness primitive? Libby wondered. She looked around at the clutter of dishes and open sacks of meal and flour. Coffee was scattered on the worktable and a big kettle steamed on the stove top.

  “Rory and Dust had to make our coffee this morning. It really ain’t their fault they left the place looking like this. I pulled them off this job—we’ve still got a lot of winter cleanup chores to take care of on the range. There’s horses to break, dead cattle to count, roofs to mend. I figured we’d get to this later.”

  Libby raised her brows at the sight, a little overwhelmed by the clutter. "Yes, I suppose . . . ”

  “You'll be needing a place to sleep, too. Usually the cooks have stayed with the boys in the bunkhouse. Of course, we can't ask you to do that. You come on this way.”

  She followed him through the kitchen to a door that, it turned out, opened into the dining room of the main house. As they walked through the house to the stairway, she was astonished by the hominess of the place, despite its roughhewn construction. The touches were definitely masculine, with heavy, leather-upholstered furniture, and big paintings on the walls of range scenes. In the parlor, a huge stone fireplace dominated one wall and was big enough to cook in. But the place looked, well, comfortable, and that surprised her. When they reached the second floor, she realized that its hallway was a gallery that overlooked the parlor.

  “This house is a lot bigger than it looks outside,” she commented as she followed Joe Channing.

  “Tyler's pa built it when they came up from Texas after the war. He cut down every one of the logs himself.”

  He stopped and opened the door to a large bedroom that had a preserved look, as though it had been waiting in readiness for years, but had remained unused. Lace curtains hung at the windows and the bed was big. She thought of her third-floor room in Chicago. Located under the roof, it had been ice-cold in the winter and like an oven in the summer. And compared to her cot by the stove at Ben's place, this was heaven.

  It wasn't until the foreman spoke again that she realized she'd been standing there wide-eyed.

  "Will this be all right, Mrs. Ross?"

  “Oh, yes.” She sighed. “It's just fine.”

  “Then I'll tell Rory to bring your trunk in for you,” he said.

  She thanked him and after a moment's awkward silence, he tipped his hat and let himself out. When the door closed behind him, she heard his boot steps in the hall as he walked away. She couldn't help but wish that he was the boss here, and that her immediate future was settled.

  After Rory brought her trunk a minute later, she knelt in front of it and lifted the lid. Her throat tightened momentarily at the faint lavender scent that reminded her of another time and place. She quickly lifted out a long white apron and closed the lid again, pushing the memories back in. Tying the starched cotton around her waist she took a deep breath and went back downstairs. The kitchen was as roughhewn as the house. The Brandauers, always eager to be the first with the best, had bought a gas stove three years earlier, and Libby was accustomed to the predictability of gas cooking. Now she faced a huge black iron beast that had a low fire banked in its belly. She'd also had an icebox in the Chicago kitchen, but no such convenience would be found here, either. Of course not, she reminded herself as she poked through the shelves, looking for spices. There was no iceman.

  Libby stoked the fire in the stove, then inspected the supplies. She peered into big dark bins of rice, flour, beans, sugar, and other staples. Mice had been into most of them, and the flour had turned weevily. The perishables—meat, eggs, and butter—were spoiled. If they had ham or bacon, these were nowhere to be found. Nearly everything bore a film of grease and dust. She shook her head as she wiped her hands on her apron. Whoever had run this kitchen before her had been lazy and very careless. No wonder everyone had come down sick. It would take a lot of hard scrubbing to bring the place up to her standards.

  How much food did a person prepare for twenty hungry men? she wondered as she measured the best of the flour. She'd cooked for dinner parties in the past, but the numbers had been smaller, and she'd had help. All she could do was make her best guess. She shrugged and brought out a big enamel bowl and cast-iron skillet. With the salvageable provisions she put together a quick meal of biscuits and a good, peppery gravy. There was no baking powder, only saleratus, and that meant the biscuits would have an alkaline taste. After locating jars of canned cherries, she made three pies. Bacon or sausage would have gone well with all of this but there, was nothing more she could do. If she stayed on, this kitchen would have to be stocked decently.

  Two hours later, as dusk purpled the valley, she stepped out to the porch intending to ring the iron triangle that called the men to meals. But when she looked up, she saw most of them already waiting along the porch rail. Charlie Ryerson stood at the front of the line, as befitted the top hand. The scent of bay rum drifted to her. Scrubbed and combed like they were going to church, the cowboys stared at her with anticipation.

  “It surely smells good, ma'am,” Charlie ventured from behind his mustache.

  Libby wasn't particularly proud of the results but she raised her voice a bit to be heard by those in the back. It was intimidating to address a group of strange men. “I-I wish I could've fixed something a little more hearty, but I couldn't find any meat in the pantry that wasn't spoiled.” She gestured behind her in the general direction of the kitchen. “The best I could do was biscuits and gravy, with cherry pie for dessert.”

  When they didn't move, Libby felt her cold hands grow icy. Maybe biscuits and gravy weren't acceptable? Mr. Osmer had told her they didn't need fancy food. If she didn't make a good impression on these men, she certainly wouldn't be able to win over Tyler Hollins. Well, there was no helping it now—the supper was cooling on the long tables inside, and it was all she had for them tonight.

  “Well, gentlemen, supper is served.”

  It was as though she'd fired a gun. She jumped out of the way as they stampeded through the door. There was a lot of jostling for seats, and the sounds of bench legs scraping over the plank flooring and tin plates clanking against the silverware. Libby stood in the doorway, her mouth open slightly as she watched the men fall on the food like starving refugees. There was no conversation at the tables;
the business of eating took precedence over everything else. But as she passed among them, pouring coffee, nods and bashful smiles were directed at her, and any doubts she may have had about the meal evaporated.

  As soon as each man had finished, he left the table. Libby wasn't used to that—where she came from, people lingered after meals, wanting more coffee, more tea, more service. Most of all, she wasn't accustomed to being thanked.

  “Much obliged, ma'am. That was a good supper.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Ross.”

  “I ain’t had cherry pie since I can't remember.”

  By the time Libby sat down with her own biscuits and gravy, she was almost too tired to eat. With the plate in front of her, she stopped to massage the back of her neck and rub her temples. Even her braid felt heavy resting on her back. She swore this had been the longest day of her life, and she still had dishes to wash. Cleaning the kitchen itself would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Just then, the door opened and Joe Channing walked in. He hadn't been part of the original rush of diners, but had come in later.

  “Thanks again for supper, Mrs. Ross. You did a fine job on such short notice.”

  Libby never thought of herself as Mrs. Ross. It was hard enough for her to remember to introduce herself with that last name instead of Garrison. The only other name she'd ever imagined for herself Brandauer. “You can call me, Libby, Mr. Channing.”

  “I'll do that ma'am, uh, Miss Libby, if you'll call me Joe.”

  She gave him a tired smile. "All right, Joe."

  *~*~*

  Later that night, Libby lay in the big bed upstairs. She was bone weary but sleep wouldn't come. Until last summer, her life had had a relentless sameness. She hadn't been happy, but there had been security in the monotony, knowing that today would be the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow. Then Mrs. Brandauer had discovered the secret of Wesley and her.

  That had led her to Ben Ross's shack, and the horrible months that followed. Now she slept under a strange roof that belonged to a man she hadn't met, a man who might put her out on the road as soon as he returned.

  She pulled the linen sheet closer to her chin and closed her eyes, hoping she wouldn't see Ben's shroud in her dreams.

  *~*~*

  It was almost midnight when Tyler Hollins pushed through the swinging doors of the Big Dipper Saloon, tired, saddle-sore, and dirty. A few late-night customers lingered in the smoky retreat, and a listless card game was underway at one table. The primary goals on his mind were a beer and a bed. He got his beer and settled at the corner table, crossing his ankle over his knee.

  “By God, Ty, you look good enough to eat,” Callie Michaels called across the room. Callie owned the saloon and she considered him to be one of her special customers. She made her way to him, her rust-colored hair shining like a dark penny under the kerosene lamps, her hips swaying in her garnet dress. Unhooking his ankle, she wiggled into his dusty lap.

  She snaked an alabaster arm around his neck and leaned toward his ear to be heard over the clanking piano. “How about if we tell the rest of these bums good night and go upstairs for a midnight snack?”

  He chuckled. No one could accuse her of being shy. “You’re a shameless female, Callie, but that’s part of your charm.”

  “I’d say it’s about half,” she replied, and looked him over with a gaze of candid appreciation. “It’s good to have you back—things just aren’t the same when you’re gone. You give those gals in Miles City a sample of your charms?”

  “You aren’t going to start getting jealous after all this time, are you?” he asked, going along with the game. She had a smile that unsettled some people, and in fact, had once unsettled him. It made her look as though she had a secret that no one else knew. Hell, maybe she did.

  She waved a smooth, white hand in a dismissing gesture. “Me? No, sir. But I know your habits, and I just got to wondering if you strayed from them when you’re away from home.”

  He bounced her once on his knee. “The only thing I did in Miles City was sit through a lot of meetings with cattle buyers. I’m dead tired and I want to go to bed.”

  Her whiskey-colored eyes darkened with promised sensuality and she rubbed a breast against his shoulder. “Well, then, come on, Ty. Let’s go up to my room.”

  On another night he might have. His relationship with Callie was straightforward and uncomplicated, just the way he wanted it. She satisfied his physical needs and appeared pleased with his ability to do the same for her, and with the twenty dollars he gave her. But it was late and he was too tired for the amount of energy she burned up.

  Suddenly, nothing was more appealing than getting back to the private solitude of the ranch. He'd been gone less than two weeks but it felt like an eternity, and something in his soul was left wanting by his absence. He reached for his beer and drained it.

  “Next time, honey. Tonight you'd probably kill me.” He patted her backside to move her off his lap.

  Pouting in her disappointment, she stood slowly and raked his form with a sultry gaze. Running a hand over her hip, she gave him a slow smile. "But, darlin', can you think of a better way to leave this life?"

  He laughed then and shook his head. Walking to the doors, he threw a good night to her over his shoulder.

  It was five miles to the house and only a half-moon lit the way, but Tyler and his pinto knew every inch of the wagon-rutted road.

  When he cleared the last rise, he reined in his horse and looked at his home. The meetings in Miles City left him feeling like vultures had picked at his bones. The buyers were eager to take advantage of the winter-borne disaster that had befallen cattlemen all over the Great Plains. At the railhead in Miles City they were calling it the Big Die-up, and the cigar-smoking opportunists knew it. There was still plenty of Texas cattle they could buy instead—they didn’t need him. A couple of times, he'd almost walked away from them. He'd wanted nothing more than to get back on his horse and come home. But he'd known he couldn't, that he needed fast cash to rebuild the herds. So he'd hidden his anger and tempered his pride, and he'd agreed to the piddling offers. Because this land spread out before him made it all worth it.

  His hands braced on the pommel, he leaned forward slightly in his saddle. As far as his vision could reach, the grass lay frosted in moonlight, accented with lingering traces of snow. The house and outbuildings were quiet in the midnight hush. This belonged to him. He was its master, he was its son.

  It was hard for him to believe now that he'd once walked away from it. That only a promise made to his father in the last hours of his life had brought him back to stay. But that had been a long time ago. Tyler had been young and idealistic then, with no experience to make him value what he already had. He'd also had no idea of the grief that lay ahead.

  He urged the horse forward, down the slope to the last quarter mile home. The ranch slept, but he was met by his dog, Sam, who gave one loud bark in greeting. Sam's tail wagged with joy that shook his entire length.

  Ty got off his horse and patted the front of his shirt. The delighted dog stood to put his two huge forefeet on his master's chest. He laughed at the canine smile, then pulled his head back as his dog's tongue lapped at his chin. “Okay, Sam, that’s enough. I can get my own bath.”

  After he unsaddled the pinto, fed him, and turned him loose in the paddock, Ty went to the kitchen for a piece of soap and bucket of warm water from the reservoir on the stove. Standing on the back porch, he was filled with the contentment of homecoming. The only sound was the wind sighing through the miles of rich grassland that surrounded him on this landlocked island he loved.

  He pulled off his clothes, then lifted the bucket and poured some water over his head to rinse off the travel dirt. The breeze that stirred the grass felt like a winter gust on his wet skin. Shivering, he hurried with his makeshift bath. He hadn't remembered to get a towel and he looked inside the kitchen door for one. What he found instead was a white apron on a hook by the stove and he dried himself of
f with that.

  A delicate scent whispered to him, giving rise to a fleeting memory of windblown sheets flapping on a clothesline. A face he hadn't seen in years flashed through his mind, then was gone. Puzzled, he decided the fragrance must be Callie's perfume on his shirt. He picked up his clothes off the porch rail and padded naked through the kitchen to the stairway. He didn't bother with a candle. He knew there would be enough moonlight coming through the hall window to let him find his bed.

  When he came up to his room and fell on the big four-poster, he only had time to pull a corner of the quilt over himself before he was asleep.

  *~*~*

  Libby Ross carefully closed her door and tiptoed back to her bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she put her hands to her hot face.

  Being a stranger in the house, and thus alert to every sound, she'd heard the dog bark outside and a noise in the kitchen. When she detected the quiet creaking on the stairs, with her heart stuck in her throat she got up and opened her door a crack to peek into the hallway.

  She was unprepared for the sight of the long-muscled, naked man who passed her room and went into the one next to hers. An oblong shaft of moonlight fell across his lean body, leaving his face in the shadows.

  But she had no doubt as to his identity.

  Chapter Three

  Ty rolled over and burrowed into the feather mattress, pulling the quilt with him. His eyes still closed, he was caught in the comfortable void between sleep and wakefulness that is sometimes more satisfying than sleep itself. He knew he was back in his own bed, and after ten days of hard travel and rented rooms, it was sweet luxury he could have wallowed in for hours. But responsibility prodded him, forcing him to full consciousness. He trusted Joe to keep the operation running in his absence but there was so much to be done, and he knew human nature made the men slack off if he wasn't around. He needed to see what had happened while he was gone.