Joe resettled his hat and slapped his gloves against his chaps. “We got to go look just the same. With the herd cut down to a few thousand head, we're lucky to all be working—some of the spreads turned out most of their crews. Tyler wouldn't do that. Besides, I expect you'll be back in just a couple-three days.”
“Well, I don't aim to spend any more time on that north range than I can help.”
“That's good, Charlie,” Joe said, giving him a lopsided smile. “The woodshed still needs a roof.”
“Aw, where else could you get a top hand who's a carpenter, too?” Charlie asked.
Joe laughed and shooed him out. “The rest of you boys, off to the southwest line.”
Spurs jingled and the bench legs scraped noisily on the plank floor as the men hurried to their feet, some grabbing their hats, others gulping a last taste of coffee. They filed past Libby, shyly murmuring more thank-yous, or touching their hat brims.
Charlie's mouth moved in what she guessed was a smile behind his mustache. “Got to head out, Mrs. Ross. We're losin' daylight. But we'll be back for one of your suppers as soon as we can, maybe tomorrow night.”
Libby couldn't help but smile back at him. He was definitely full of himself, but in a sweet-natured, harmless way. She followed them out to the yard and waved, watching them ride toward the wide valley under a heavy, pewter-gray sky. The horses blew steamy clouds in the mist, and the sound of their hooves was muffled by the newly green, rain-soft earth. She found herself riveted by the scene. This was very much different from the clatter of traffic on the streets in Chicago. Different, too, from the ceaseless howl of an arctic wind whistling around the corners of a cold, rough cabin, punctuated only by a hacking, gurgling cough—
She shuddered at the memory, then turned and let her eyes scan the dirty kitchen. She'd managed to clean a corner of it last night, but the complete scrubbing that it needed would have to wait just a little longer. The more immediate problem was food.
Charlie had mentioned supper but she didn't even know what she was going to cook for the noon meal. After serving a breakfast of more biscuits and gravy, she needed supplies right away. There was nothing left to eat.
Much as she'd rather not, she knew she'd have to talk to Tyler Hollins about it. She leaned out the open back door and glanced around the yard, looking for a tall man who resembled the owner of the Lodestar. But she saw only the retreating rumps of the dozen horses heading across the yard. Their hooves churned up the sucking mud, and all of their riders appeared tall from this angle and distance.
Suddenly the door to the dining room swung open, making Libby jump, and Hollins walked in. He gave her a double glance, as though he'd forgotten she was there. Then he nodded at her. He was long-legged and lean, and while Libby knew next to nothing about cowboys, or cows for that matter, it was plain to her that he'd been born to this occupation. He looked as though he'd spent his entire life in a saddle. He wore chaps over his jeans, and a plain gray shirt topped with a leather vest. A dark bandanna was tied in a loose knot at the back of his neck, the long tails of which trailed over one shoulder. He was dressed pretty much the same as the men who worked for him, with one chief difference: on his left hip there rested a holster that sheathed a long-barreled pistol. It looked like he had the gun on backward—the butt faced forward. And he seemed even bigger than when she'd seen him earlier.
In Libby's narrow world in Chicago, she'd rarely seen anyone wear a gun except a policeman or a soldier. Her eyes fell to it again, and the dull blue gleam of the trigger was vaguely threatening.
Picking up a clean plate, he went to the stove. He put three warm biscuits on his dish, and ladled gravy over them with her big cooking spoon.
“This could probably save the crew from starving to death,” he said, not lifting his eyes to regard her. He poured coffee for himself from the big blue enamel pot, and took a tentative sip.
Libby wasn't positive, but she thought he sounded a bit less antagonistic. Maybe it was a promising sign. Lacing her fingers together in front of her apron, she took a deep breath.
“Mr. Hollins, there are no provisions left. I need to go to town and restock the pantry, or I won't even be able to cook lunch for the men.”
He looked around at the empty shelves, and then at her. His eyes were agate blue, intense in their shading and expression, and she couldn't help but study him. The color of his hair reminded her of the glossy chestnuts that grew on the trees in the Brandauer yard. It was long on top and waved just slightly where it grazed his ears. She guessed him to be about the same age as Joe Channing, although two faint vertical lines already etched the space between his brows. Probably from continuous frowning, by the looks of him. He had a firm jaw and a long, slim nose that was positioned over a nicely shaped mouth. And, in a land where huge mustaches seemed to be a requirement of the male uniform, his upper lip was very noticeably bare. His features were strong, even handsome, she conceded. But his was not an open face—there was a remoteness in his eyes, a separateness perhaps—and nothing about him suggested a man who was approachable.
He sat on the edge of the worktable and crossed his ankles while he ate from the plate in his hand. “Yeah, Joe told me we're down to bread and water. Well, you'd better ask him what to buy, and how much,” he said, breaking off a piece of biscuit and popping it into his mouth. Upon tasting it, he lifted a brow in faint appreciation, then he took a bigger bite.
But by his very tone he made it clear he didn't think she had much experience with this. Fear of another of his outbursts made her defensive and put an edge on her voice. “I don't need to ask, Mr. Hollins. I used to order food from the grocer every day in Chicago, and I bought vegetables, bread, milk, and butter from the street vendors.” Libby drew herself up a little taller, and even allowed the tip of her nose to rise just a bit. She may have been riddled with doubt and regret since the day she'd arrived in Montana, but cooking was one thing about which she felt no uncertainty. “I know everything there is to know about stocking and managing a kitchen, Mr. Hollins. I did it for years before I—”
“Everything, huh?” he interrupted, and pushed away from the table. “Street vendors don't come by very often around here, so we have to buy enough to last for a while.”
“Yes, I'm sure that's true—”
“And we don't have much use for French pastry or burgundy wine.”
“Maybe not, but—”
“Tell me,” he interjected, “did you argue this much with your last employer?”
That took Libby aback. No, she would never have dreamed of saying much of anything to Mrs. Brandauer beyond “Yes, ma'am,” and “No, ma'am.” But that seemed a lifetime ago now, and something about this man standing before her made her forget that she worked for him. His attitude challenged her to respond.
“Well, um . . . ”
He went on eating, never taking his eyes off her. “How much tobacco are you planning to get? And kerosene?”
“What?” She blinked.
“What about beans, and dried fruit?” He gave her a knowing look and put his empty plate on the table. “Come on, Mrs. Ross,” he commanded.
He turned and walked back through the doorway to the dining room, never once checking to see if she followed. She had to move fast to keep up—his strides were long, and his spurs rang as he crossed the floor. They passed through the parlor to a closed door at the end of the house. When he flung open the door, she saw a room that contained a big rolltop desk, a long table, and lots of empty glass-fronted cabinets. The scent of wood from the peeled-log walls was especially strong here, as though the room was often closed up.
Libby stood back as he opened the desk to reveal pigeonholes stuffed with papers that appeared to have no organization. But without hesitation, he reached for one page in particular and put it in her hands.
“That, Mrs. Ross, is what we typically buy when we stock provisions around here.”
He'd handed her a receipt from Osmer's Dry Goods. The items and quantiti
es listed there, written with a careless hand in brown ink, staggered Libby. Yes, there was tobacco: thirty pounds of plug and ten pounds of rolling tobacco. And a lot of other—equipment was the description that came to her mind: three Colt revolvers and fifteen boxes of cartridges, a roll of rope, twenty boxes of matches, one hundred pounds of soap, and ten gallons of kerosene. But where was the food? she wondered. Oh, there—one hundred pounds of sugar, fifteen tins of Arbuckle coffee, five hundred—five hundred—pounds of bacon and salt pork, five gallons of molasses, three hundred pounds of flour, two hundred pounds of beans, forty pounds of dried apples, two boxes of soda, a box of pepper and a bag of salt. Civilized people didn't eat like this. What on earth could she make of salt pork? It wouldn't surprise her if they expected her to mix the tobacco with it and create some kind of dreadful stew.
“My goodness,” she breathed.
“Not the same as cooking for a family in Chicago?” he inquired, his arms folded over his wide chest. He wore a smug expression that made Libby feel two feet tall.
“My wagon won't hold all this.” She gestured feebly at the list.
“Not if it's that wobbly wreck I saw out by the barn, it won't. I don't know how you got this far with it.”
“Then I suppose you might have something else I can take to Heavenly? If I'm going to go, I'd better get started. Maybe you could just harness the horse for me—”
He looked at her as though she'd lost her mind. “You're not going alone.” The flat declaration hung between them.
“Well, yes, I am. It's part of my job to stock the kitchen. Everyone else is busy.” Libby twiddled with her collar button, wondering why he found that odd. He so obviously expected all the men to do their part, and she meant to do hers.
He lifted his brows and looked exasperated again. “Mrs. Ross, in the first place, the wagon I'm thinking of needs a team of four horses to pull it. You'll have to get one of the boys to drive you. Secondly, even if you were going to Heavenly just to buy hairpins, someone from the Lodestar would go with you. I won't allow a woman to go anywhere alone around here, especially a city-bred woman.”
He said “city-bred” in a way that made it sound as though she wouldn't even have the wits to come in from a rainstorm. “Why ever not? I drove to town by myself from Ben's place, and that was sixteen miles from Heavenly. And anyway, all of your men are—”
He closed up the desk with a soft thud. “Luck got you there, not skill. And you weren't my responsibility then. But you are now, and will be as long as you're at the Lodestar.”
His responsibility? She'd left Chicago, heartbroken and disgraced, had traveled thirteen hundred hard miles, survived the horrible winter with Ben, watched him die in that tiny cabin, and buried him by herself. No one had been responsible for her then, or really even worried about what happened to her. She wasn't going to let this man treat her like a helpless child now. “You are not responsible for me, Mr. Hollins. I can take care of myself. Besides, there's no one—”
He gave her a look of absolute authority, and his words dropped to a decisive tone. “I am responsible for everyone and everything on this place, from the smallest calf on up to you and Rory and Joe. And that's my job, Mrs. Ross—”
Libby winced.
“What's the matter?” he snapped, seeing her expression.
The impatient note in his voice was intimidating, but she braved it through. “Mr. Hollins, really, I wish everyone here would just call me Libby.”
He stared at her, then combed his fingers through his chestnut hair. Just briefly, his autocratic confidence slipped and he seemed almost self-conscious.
“Well, uh—Lib— No, let's just leave things as they are, Mrs. Ross.”
She felt her ears and cheeks burn with embarrassment. Certainly, he was right, she thought. Better that they remain as formal as possible. But she wasn't used to it, and oh how she wished her name was still Garrison. It would be again, she promised herself, just as soon as she left Montana.
He gestured at the receipt she still held. “Get what's on that list, and anything else you think you'll need. Nort Osmer will add it all to the Lodestar account. Now go ask Joe to have someone hitch the wagon and take you to town.”
“Mr. Hollins, I've been trying to tell you that they've gone, all your men. I watched them ride away just a few minutes ago. I believe I heard Joe say they were going somewhere he called the southwest line. And Charlie went someplace else with three of the others.”
“Damn it, that's right,” he groused. “The north range.” He let out an exasperated sigh and looked around the office, as though he might find a way out of this predicament in the log walls. Finally he brought his eyes back to her.
“Well, saddle up, Mrs. Ross. We're going to Heavenly.”
Chapter Four
Tyler and Libby jounced along without speaking, following the rutted road that led to Heavenly. The silence was broken only by the rattling wagon, and the jingle of harness. The low clouds lifted a bit as the morning and miles passed. But the wind, blowing down from Canada, still held a piercing chill.
Tyler maintained a firm grip on the lines of the four horses, but his mind kept straying to the woman sitting next to him on the narrow seat. It was impossible to ignore her when they kept bumping thighs and hips and knees.
He was accustomed to dealing with the vagaries of nature, from bad weather to the unpredictability of cattle and horses, and everything in between. But to come home and find a woman in his house? He felt like he'd been poleaxed. Worse still, it looked like he was stuck with her for a couple of weeks, probably until Joe found someone else to cook for them, both at the ranch and on the drive. But even a week or two would be too long. And she wanted to be called by her first name? Absolutely not. At least, be wouldn't do it. That was her first step in establishing herself permanently in the kitchen, and he wasn't about to allow that. His life was arranged precisely as he wanted it, with his privacy and routine intact. The last thing he'd welcome was someone to disrupt it. Or worse, to change it.
The Lodestar was no place for a woman anyway, he reiterated to himself, shrugging deeper into his sheepskin coat. Who could know that better than he did? This one was city-bred, to boot; soft and delicate, and not accustomed to the everyday hardships of life on the frontier. He let a sidelong glance slide to her again. She was small and fine boned, and she sat on that wagon seat like she had a broom handle for a backbone. With both feet planted together firmly on the floorboards, she'd tucked her gray-striped skirt under her to keep it from billowing. Her head was protected from the biting wind by only a thin wool shawl, and her gloves were carefully mended in several places. He could see that she was cold. That she'd made it through the winter surprised him.
He forced his gaze back to the road and wrapped the reins more securely around his gloved fists. A pretty, unattached female would only be a distraction. And she was pretty. He'd already noticed the men acting like a bunch of wall-eyed calves when he looked out his office window and saw her waving to them in the yard. Charlie especially seemed to be suffering from calico fever. Damn it all, work was bound to come to a grinding halt as long as she was there. He needed every man's mind on the business at hand, not on this woman with honey-colored hair and big gray eyes.
Even though the Lodestar was in better shape than most of the other ranches in this section, the winter had cost him dearly. God, the snow. Remembering the blinding whiteness, he tightened his jaw. In his thirty-two years he'd never seen anything like it, anywhere. It had begun falling on Christmas Eve and didn't stop until the middle of February. During those weeks, the temperature dropped to twenty below. In the house, he wore nearly as many clothes as he did to go outside. And while the winter crew was just across the yard in the bunkhouse, he felt like he was the last person on earth, alone in the bleak, frozen wilderness.
But the wind had been his biggest torment. He'd lost track of the nights he'd lain awake, worrying about his stock and listening to the wind. It howled like a banshee
through the valley, driving blankets of snow ahead that drifted as high as the windows on the second floor. Sometimes its voice would change. It would wail over ice-hardened cutbanks and through bare-limbed trees like a high, thin scream. Or it would slow to a monotonous moaning for hours on end. One night, he was jolted from a restless doze, panicky and sweating despite the cold, when the wind sounded like a crying baby. In all, his present was enough to contend with—he didn't need reminders of his past.
Now he was forced to sell off part of his remaining herd to raise cash. He shifted on the wagon seat, trying to loosen the tension between his shoulders, and kept his eyes on the cedars and yellow pines that lined the road. Fate seemed to be continuing its war against him—first the winter, now this new cook. With all the ranches in the territory, what stroke of bad luck had dumped her in his lap? On second thought, he really didn't want to know.
Tyler didn't want to know anything about Libby Ross except when she'd be leaving.
*~*~*
The stiffness in Libby’s spine eased a bit when she saw the shapes of Heavenly's buildings emerge from the misty valley ahead. She was anxious to be off this wagon and away from Tyler Hollins until she had to return to the ranch. Being trapped with him on that narrow seat in the middle of the prairie was, oddly enough, as confining as a closet. She tried to keep from bumping into him, but every time the wagon hit a chuck hole or a groove in the road, they were thrown against each other. He hadn't spoken one word to her for the entire five-mile journey, but his general displeasure was as hard and uncomfortable as the rough ride.
With far more expertise than she'd shown yesterday, he pulled the team and wagon around to the side of Osmer's Dry Goods. Of course he managed the horses well—he must have worked with them all of his life. But he surprised her when he jumped down, lithe as a cat, and thrust a hand up to help her descend. She'd have expected him to let her find her own way down from the high perch. At least he had some manners. But she looked into his upturned face and faltered for an instant, caught by the intensity of his blue eyes. When she didn't respond, he grasped her by the waist and lifted her down effortlessly, setting her on her feet.
A Taste of Heaven Page 5
