“Well, look who's back already,” Nort Osmer called from his counter when they walked in. In front of him, a pile of bills was laid out like a hand of solitaire. “Howdy, Mrs. Ross, Tyler.”
Libby smiled at the shop owner. It was good to see a friendly face after the tense journey from the Lodestar. “Good morning, Mr. Osmer.”
“Say, Ty, wasn't it a fair piece of luck that I found this nice lady to cook for your boys? They sure were in a fix when she came along.” Nort poked his pencil behind his ear and regathered the bills into an untidy stack. Sparing Libby a wry glance, Tyler pushed back his hat and pulled off his gloves. “Yeah, lucky.” Within the confines of the dry goods store, she thought his considerable height made him look tall enough to reach up and touch the rafters overhead.
“No, no, don't worry about thanking me. I was happy to help.” Nort rubbed his hands together. “Now, what can I do for you today?”
“We need to lay in supplies, Nort.” Tyler turned toward her. “Mrs. Ross, you have the list.”
“Oh—yes.” Libby fumbled in her skirt pocket and brought out the piece of paper he'd given her earlier.
“I'll get my boy to start loading your wagon,” Nort said, scanning the list. “How're things over in Miles City?”
Tyler shook his head. “I don't know what's going to happen to most of the ranchers around here after this winter.” The two men fell to discussing cattle prices and the fate of neighboring ranches while Nort filled their order.
She let their voices fade to the back of her mind as she looked around at the merchandise. She'd been so tired and distressed yesterday, she hadn't really paid much attention to the curious variety of items that Osmer's carried. On the walls she saw traps with vicious-looking teeth, rolls of wire, tanned animal hides, and rifles. Arranged in a display case were dainty gold thimbles and vanity sets. But in the corner of the store, where the wood stove was stoked with a hot fire, she was drawn to a collection of warm ladies' gloves and wraps. One shawl in particular caught her eye, the one hanging on the shoulders of a dressmaker's dummy.
It was a beautiful dark plaid, black and midnight blue, with a pale green stripe, and a knotted fringe. She reached out a tentative hand and rubbed the thick, soft wool between her fingers. She'd never owned a shawl so fine. Looking down, she pushed off her own thin wrap. Then carefully unwinding the plaid from the dummy, Libby draped it over her own head and closed the ends around herself. Immediately she felt warmer. It was wonderful. Trying it on was a mistake, she supposed, because she couldn't possibly afford it. And even if she could, she wouldn't be able to justify the expense. Its price was marked at six dollars. Saving enough money for a stagecoach ticket was more important than anything else. But . . . maybe it wouldn't hurt to see how it looked on her before she returned it to its current owner.
She craned her neck to search for a mirror when she saw Tyler Hollins watching her. His expression was pensive and troubled, as though he'd caught a child in some disobedient act. Well, she wasn't going to steal the shawl, she thought irritably. Embarrassed, she removed the length of warm wool and hung it on the dress form. When he released her from his blue gaze, he muttered something to Nort Osmer. Then he pulled his gloves back on and resettled his hat.
“I'm going down to the feed store for a few minutes. You can stay here, Mrs. Ross. I'll be back by the time the wagon is loaded.”
“All right,” she said. As soon as he pulled the door closed, Libby hurried to the side window. She half expected to see him climb onto the wagon and drive away, leaving her in Heavenly. When he passed the horse team and kept walking, she exhaled a quiet sigh. Although he was lean and lanky, his wide shoulders looked even bigger under the sheepskin coat. A woman with a market basket on her arm gave him a double glance as she passed him. Libby didn't wonder why—Tyler Hollins was a very attractive man. But it seemed unfair to her that such good looks were wasted on a man with the personality of a three-day toothache.
“Tyler isn't a bad sort,” Nort said, obviously detecting the tension between herself and her employer.
She walked back to the corner to stand near the stove. “Mr. Osmer, you're not the first person to tell me that. But if Mr. Hollins were a good sort, I don't think anyone would have to make excuses for him, do you?”
“I reckon it might seem that way, Mrs. Ross. But you'll feel different once you get to know—”
Just then the door opened and Libby was immediately struck by the subtle but very noticeable scent of gardenias. She turned and saw a woman—one who was about her own height, but with a presence and a confidence that Libby herself had never possessed. Her violet taffeta gown bordered on the gaudy, but she was more formally dressed than anyone Libby had seen since leaving Chicago. Although it wasn't raining or sunny, she carried a parasol that matched her gown. This woman made Libby think of a flower that bloomed only in the shade, one that couldn't bear the heat or light of a full sun. And she had a look about her, as though she knew something. A joke, or maybe a secret.
“Howdy, Miss Callie,” the shopkeeper said, beaming. “You're out early today.”
“You're right about that, Nort,” the woman said and made a face of mild horror. “Isn't it a wonder? I can tell you, I don't like being up with the chickens. I'm not used to starting my day before two o'clock, but I have a few chores to do today. Do you think you could find me three dozen of those beer glasses I use? When the boys from the Circle R visited the other night, they stirred things up pretty good. By the time we got them out of the saloon, they'd broken nearly every clean glass on the shelf behind the bar. They gave my girls the vapors—they were so upset, I had to close early.” She pushed at a rust-colored curl peeking from her hat, plainly annoyed by this turn of events.
“Poor old Jinx Malone was feelin' right sorry for himself when he stopped in here yesterday morning, Miss Callie,” Nort chuckled, and leaned on his counter.
“Well, two weeks ago I told those Circle R cowhands that I wouldn't put up with one more of them riding a horse into my place.” She grinned cheerfully. “I expect the night Jinx spent in jail will improve prove his memory.”
Libby bent her attention to a display of collar pins, and tried not to stare, but her curiosity got the better of her. The woman didn't notice her anyway. She must be the one Libby had heard about yesterday, the one who owned the Big Dipper. Of course, she'd seen concubines a few times in Chicago, but never up close like this. They'd remained behind curtained windows and when they went out, they traveled in closed carriages. They hadn't been so brazen that they walked down the street in the middle of the day to go shopping.
Nort pointed over his shoulder in the general direction of the storeroom. “I've got those glasses in back. I can send my son around with them this afternoon.”
Callie smiled at him. “Thanks. I can always count on you. How about that fancy French soap I ordered a couple of weeks ago? Did it come in yet? Some of my regular gentlemen have been asking for it for the bathing room upstairs.”
Libby was astounded—this woman was so matter-of-fact about her occupation. Regular gentlemen?
Nort looked at the calendar on the wall next to him, tapping a Friday with his pencil. “Not yet, but I'm lookin' for a freight wagon to come in at the end of the week.”
“Say, Nort, you should drop by the Big Dipper some time and try out my new copper tub. I've got the only one in Heavenly, you know.” Callie leaned over the rough wood counter a bit, making her taffeta dress rustle ever so slightly, and her voice dropped to a confidential tone. “You're welcome anytime. Why, any one of my girls would be happy to entertain you for an evening.”
Libby felt her own eyes widen, and from her vantage point by the stove, Nort Osmer looked to her like he'd swallowed a spoonful of cayenne pepper. Then he turned his eyes her way, as though he'd just now remembered she was in the store, and therefore a witness to this conversation.
Apparently noticing the direction of his gaze, Callie turned to look at Libby, then back at Nort. Sh
e lifted a brow, her expression expectant. “I don't believe I've met this lady, Nort, and I know everyone in these parts. Are you going to introduce us?”
Regaining his breath but not his normal coloring, the storekeeper stammered. “Uh—Mrs. Libby Ross, this is Miss Callie Michaels. She's the—uh—Miss Callie owns the Big Dipper.”
Libby backed up a step, nodding at her uncertainly. “I'm pleased to meet you.” She didn't know what else to say. She'd never been introduced to the owner of a brothel before. The winter she'd spent in the wilderness had provided no hint of what the West was like, except to reveal its raw harshness. Now she wondered what kind of place she'd come to, where a brothel owner solicited business in clear daylight, and a respectable woman was presented to the madam as though she were a member of a church committee.
Callie smiled at her. “I'm sorry, honey, I didn't see you standing in the corner. You must think we don't have any manners at all around here.” Her voice softened as she approached Libby, and she looked her up and down, though not in an unkind way. “I'll bet you're the one Ben Ross told me about last fall. He said he was sending for a nice lady to be his wife. I was mighty sad to hear he passed on.”
Libby forced herself to lower her eyes. Everyone in this town seemed to have a high opinion of Ben, and it probably wouldn't do to let it show that she didn't share it. “Thank you.”
“Now that he's gone, will you be staying on in Heavenly?”
Only for as long as she had to, Libby thought. She wanted to go back to a part of the country where the ways and lives of people weren't so different from what she knew. “For a while. I'm cooking for Mr. Hollins and his men at the Lodestar Ranch.”
Callie's brows lifted in amused astonishment. “You're working for Tyler Hollins?”
Baffled by her attitude, Libby nodded. "Yes, I am."
“Well, well,” she said softly, almost to herself. She contemplated Libby again for a moment. Then she roused herself and laughed. “If he proves to be too ornery, come on over and see me at the Dipper. I can always find room for one more.”
Libby felt her jaw drop slightly, and heat flooded her face all the way back to her ears.
“Nort,” Callie said, all business again, “I'll be looking for those glasses this afternoon. Send the bill to the boys at the Circle R.” With that, she whisked out of the store in a rustle of violet taffeta and a whiff of gardenias, pulling the door closed behind her.
“Now, don't you mind Miss Callie, ma'am,” Nort said, obviously aware of her embarrassment. “She's plainspoken, but she means no disrespect. She don't see her line of work as bein' any different from a doctor's or a baker's.”
Or a cook's, it seemed. “She certainly is—colorful.” She moved to the window to get a final look, and saw Callie on the sidewalk outside, talking with Tyler Hollins. While Nort's son loaded the wagon, Tyler stood with a foot propped on the hub of one of the wheels. Through the wavy window glass she could see his expression clearly—and he actually laughed at some remark the woman made. Libby wouldn't have guessed that he had any laughter in him. The grin transformed his face and not only made him seem less like a toothache, it made him look younger, as well. Beyond that, she thought she saw a hint of fondness reflected in his expression for the woman he was talking to. But then he glanced up at Libby, and the smile disappeared. Straightening, he took his foot from the wheel hub, and even his posture looked rigid and uncomfortable, as though she'd learned something he didn't want her to know.
Well, she might, have. Maybe Tyler Hollins was one of Miss Callie's “regular gentlemen.” What a thought! Libby wasn't so naive she didn't realize that men, sometimes respectable ones from good families, visited soiled doves like Callie Michaels. She supposed that perhaps even Wesley— But they didn't stand on a public sidewalk and converse with the women.
It was none of her business, she reminded herself, tugging at the hems of her gloves. The less she knew about Tyler Hollins, the better. Her job was to feed him and his men, and nothing more. It shouldn't bother her one bit if looking at Libby had the power to replace his smile with a frown.
But it did bother her, and she didn't know why.
As if to see what caused Tyler's abrupt change of mood, Callie glanced over her shoulder at Libby, and sent her another knowing smile. Then she tapped his arm with her violet parasol, opened it, and made her way down the street.
Tyler pulled out his watch, then motioned to Libby to come outside.
“We're ready to go, Mr. Osmer,” she said.
Nort had finished tallying up their bill and was entering the amount in his blue-backed ledger. “It was mighty nice seein' you again. If you think of somethin' else you want, tell Tyler and he can pick it up when he comes into town on Saturday evenin'.”
Libby couldn't imagine telling Tyler anything. She adjusted her shawl over her head. “On Saturday?”
He came around to her side of the counter to open the door for her. “Oh, sure. Ty rides in every Saturday and has supper at the Big Dipper. He's done it for a few years now. Weather allowin', that is.”
That was about as “regular” as a man could get, Libby decided. “Then I guess I won't keep a plate warm for him.”
Bidding good-bye to Nort, Libby walked out, reluctant to trade the store's warm, aromatic shelter for a cold, hard wagon seat next to a cold, hard man.
Tyler stood at the back end of the wagon box to load some feed sacks. They looked heavy but he threw them into place with little trouble. “Did you get everything you need?” The work was hot and he'd taken off his coat.
Libby watched the fabric in his shirt pull tight and slacken with his efforts. “Yes, I think so.”
He pitched the last sack into the wagon, then looked at her and frowned slightly, as though her very appearance displeased him. “Didn't Nort give you—oh, damn it, wait here a minute,” he muttered, and jumped down.
Libby gazed at his shoulders as he strode back into the general store and closed the door. Behind her, she heard the horses shift restively in their harness. If she had to put up with his sour attitude much longer, her temper, a deeply buried and long restrained emotion, would slip away from her and she'd tell Tyler Hollins exactly what she thought. And when that day came, she knew she'd better be packed and ready to go. He would almost certainly make good on his threat to bring her to Heavenly and leave her.
Moments later, the door opened again and Tyler walked out with a paper-wrapped package under his arm.
“Let's get going, Mrs. Ross. It's a long ride back to the Lodestar.”
Libby hoisted herself up to the seat and tucked her skirts around her again. “Surely not longer than this morning.”
“We can't drive the horses as fast with the wagon loaded down like this.”
“Oh.” Her heart sank at the news, and she shivered as a stiff gust bit through her wrap. The tree behind Osmer's rattled its bare branches in the wind. Overhead, the sky was growing dark again with heavy clouds.
Tyler climbed onto the seat next to her and put on his coat. Then he thrust the brown paper package into her hands. “Put that on.”
“What is it?” She tried to look into his face, but he kept it pointed toward the horses ahead while he wrapped the reins around his fists.
“We've got some cold weather to go through before spring starts to warm up. I figured it—you might as well have this.” His voice lost some of its commanding tone.
Libby pulled on the slip knot tied in the string and opened the paper. Inside, she found the plaid shawl she'd admired. Her jaw dropped and she gaped first at the wrap, then at him.
“I can't take this, Mr. Hollins!” It pained her to say it. The shawl was beautiful. It was warm. But to accept such a gift was highly improper. Just why, she wasn't sure. Tyler Hollins was her employer. If Mrs. Brandauer had known a moment of uncharacteristic generosity and presented her with such a gift, she'd have accepted it without hesitation. And propriety had never been an issue when Wesley gave her the few small keepsakes she stil
l kept in her trunk: a silver hairbrush, a pair of gold cuff buttons, a sterling buttonhook.
He turned his blue-eyed stare on her. “Yes, you will accept the shawl, Mrs. Ross. Don't forget, you're part of my job.”
“What?”
“I take my responsibilities seriously.” That said, he flapped the lines on the horses' backs, and the wagon pulled out.
Libby glared at him and pressed her lips into a thin line, tempted to retort. It wasn't very flattering to be viewed in the same light as the calves and dogs and horses he considered part of his domain. She looked down at the package in her lap. She was annoyed by his attitude, but not completely so.
Libby unfurled the length of plaid and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.
*~*~*
Early that evening, Tyler sat in his office scratching figures on a piece of paper while he reassessed the winter losses. He paused to adjust the flame in the lamp on the corner of the desk. It was warm in here, but outside, heavy gusts drove sheets of rain against the windows. At least it wasn't snowing. Now and then, the wind pulled the blaze in the fireplace a bit higher, but his dog, Sam, stretched out on the hearth rug, slept on unconcerned.
“Life's pretty good for you, isn't it, Sam?” he asked. He leaned back in his chair, making it swivel a bit from side to side while he considered the big black mongrel.
The dog waved his tail once in acknowledgment, but didn't wake.
“Sure, it's not so hard in have someone feed you and let you sleep in front of the fire. You don't have to worry about cattle, or this damned trail drive we have to make.”
Sam put one paw over his head.
Tyler sat up and looked at the numbers again. He wasn't broke, by any means. He wasn't poor. But restocking the herd would take careful planning. If he brought in some new stock from Texas—
At that moment he detected an aroma, a delicious scent that he hadn't smelled in this house for years. It was the scent of baking bread. Not johnnycake, not sourdough biscuits. This was real, honest-to-God yeast bread.
A Taste of Heaven Page 6
