A Taste of Heaven

by Alexis Harrington

  He inhaled again, and closed his eyes. In his mind's eye, he saw a small, raven-haired woman with skin like fresh cream, busy in the kitchen. She was thin—slight, really—and too fragile to endure life in this place. Certainly too fragile for a man's touch. And though she smiled at him, it was a sad smile, and in her face he saw blame.

  Just as Tyler began to feel a familiar clenching ache in his chest, the vision dissolved into an unwanted picture of Libby Ross. He imagined her clover-honey hair and white apron as she peeked into the oven to check on the warm, sweet loaves. Her sleeves were rolled up almost to her elbows, revealing pale, slender arms.

  Damn it, what made him think of her? he wondered. He laid down his pen and rubbed his eyes. At least she'd quit shivering when she put on the new shawl. It even looked nice on her. He was still uncomfortable that the cook had seen him with Callie today, but for the life of him, he couldn't guess why. Even though he pretty much kept to himself, his relationship with Callie Michaels was no secret. The whole town knew about it and didn't think anything of it. He didn't think anything of it. But when he'd looked up and saw a pair of big gray eyes staring at him from Osmer's window, he felt awkward, as though—well, as though he were doing something very wrong.

  He closed the desk, unable to concentrate on his task any longer. He hoped Joe found a different cook pretty damned quick.

  The last thing Tyler needed around here was another person to make him feel guilty.

  Chapter Five

  That night the crew of the Lodestar enjoyed a stew that swam with cubes of white potatoes, bits of onion, and chunks of beef in a rich broth. Hot bread and honey, and apple crisp drizzled with cream accompanied the main dish. Seconds—and in Rory's case, thirds—were consumed.

  Though still trying to accustom herself to cooking on a woodstove again, even Libby thought the simple meal turned out well. The job was made a little easier now that she had everything she needed, at least everything that was available to her at Osmer's. She'd had to bake the bread, and getting the stew beef had required one of the men to butcher an entire steer. It wasn't exactly like going to the bakery and butcher shop in Chicago. But the admiration from the men made the effort worthwhile. And they seemed to be getting used to her—not as many of them blushed like schoolboys when she spoke to them.

  Libby made her way down the two long tables to refill empty coffee cups. When she got to Noah Bradley's place, he gestured at his empty dish.

  “Charlie and Kansas Bob and the Cooper boys don't know what they missed,” he said, scraping his blue enamel plate with the side of his fork. “I almost feel sorry for 'em. It'll sure be fun to tell 'em all about it.”

  “Oh, don't tease them too much, Mr. Bradley—um, Noah. I think working in this weather is punishment enough,” she said, and glanced at the dark windows.

  It was a wild March night, full of lashing wind and rain that tapped against the windows. Now and then, distant thunder rolled down the valley. It reminded Libby of Joe's voice. The kitchen windows were fogged over from the heat of the stove and the wet hats and slickers hung on pegs along the back wall.

  Joe wiped his mouth on his napkin and carefully smoothed out his mustache. “I don't envy those boys bein' out on a night like this. Lord knows I've had my share of sleepin' in the rain. Today was hard enough. All day long, I kept thinkin' about comin' back here to the cookhouse for a hot meal and black coffee.”

  Libby raised her eyes to look around at the unfinished shedlike walls, and the trestle tables and benches. The lighting was provided by big black lanterns, and the dishes were all enamelware. There was a sink, but no running water except for the pump. Even though this was an improvement over Ben's place—and almost anything would have been—in her opinion, this was just one step up from cooking in a tent. At least it didn't have a dirt floor.

  Obviously catching her in her critical inspection, Joe laughed. She lowered her gaze hastily, but his dark eyes were kind behind his laughter.

  “It probably don't look like much, compared to what you're used to, Miss Libby. But to a bunch of worn-out cowpokes who’ve been sittin' on horses all day in the rain and the mud, comin' back here, where it's warm and light, and good food is waitin'—well, it's like walkin' into a grand home.”

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Libby clutched the handle of the coffeepot and smiled self-consciously. She was unfamiliar with the kind of honest appreciation she received from these men.

  There was just one other person who'd yet to taste this supper. She hadn't seen Tyler since they got back from Heavenly. When they'd returned from the slow, bumpy trip, he rounded up a couple of the men to unload the wagon, then he saddled his horse and rode off. She'd heard him come through the front door earlier, but his booted footsteps had gone to the back of the house and stayed there.

  “Would anyone like more apple crisp?” she asked. “I have one more pan just about ready to come out of the oven.”

  “Naw, I guess you should save a little bit for Tyler,” Rory said, pushing himself away from the table. “I just hope Charlie fixed all the holes in the bunkhouse roof last week. It's hard to sleep with a tin can balanced on your belly to catch the rain.”

  The cowboys began drifting outside then, looking well-fed and content. Finally the last of them put on their hats and slickers, and dashed through the rain to the dimly lit bunkhouse across the yard. The wind whipped rain through the doorway and stirred Libby's skirts. After they were gone, she went to the stove and pushed the stew pot to a cooler corner of the stove, wondering how long she should keep it warm for Tyler. Well, he was a grown man. She was hired only to cook, not to keep a restaurant kitchen. She pulled out a plate and got supper for herself.

  Libby wasn't completely used to eating alone. Before, she'd had her makeshift family in Chicago—Birdie, the Brandauers' maid; Deirdre, her young kitchen helper; and Melvin, the driver. They'd sit at the big worktable in the kitchen at night, sharing supper, news, and gossip, and laughing—but not too loudly, lest the Brandauers be disturbed.

  As she daubed honey on her bread, she remembered the first time she'd seen Eliza Brandauer. It was the third morning she'd spent in the waiting room at Mrs. Banks's domestic employment agency. The foundling home had sent Libby there, giving her the one-dollar fee to pay Mrs. Banks, to find a job. She was fourteen now, she'd been reminded at the orphanage, and it was time she made her own way in the world. Did she suppose that charity would support her forever?

  She'd sat in the corner of a room filled with all different kinds and ages of women. Some were younger than she was, some looked experienced, exhausted, or numb. Others appeared as ignorant and scared as she. She didn't own any gloves so she interlaced her shaking hands and buried them in the folds of her thin, dark skirt. Ladies in fine clothes needing servants swept into the waiting room. They looked the applicants over, and sometimes made them stand so they could look them up and down as well. Libby thought it was the most humiliating, frightening experience of her life. She didn't know whether to be relieved or alarmed when she was passed over time and again.

  Then Eliza Brandauer had arrived. Cool and imperious in a dark blue serge suit, she chose Libby to be a cook's helper because, she told her, she looked morally upright. Moral purity played a big part in Mrs. Brandauer's view of not only her own society, but the world in general.

  Eventually the cook retired, Libby took her place, and was given Deirdre, a cook's helper of her own. It was unusual for a nineteen-year-old woman to hold a position of such responsibility as cook in a wealthy household. And when Mrs. Brandauer decided to promote Libby, she stressed that she was giving her a rare opportunity for which she should be grateful.

  As the years passed, Birdie, Deirdre, and Melvin became her adopted family. She'd counted these three people as her friends, dearer than any ever she'd known. Yet, in the end, they all turned their backs to her—

  *~*~*

  Libby had nearly finished washing the dishes, and was deep in her bittersweet
memories when Tyler Hollins thrust open the door from the dining room.

  Lost in her musings, his entrance was as sudden and startling to her as a gunshot. With her hand in the soapy water, her fingers slipped convulsively against the blade of a knife she'd been scrubbing in the dishpan.

  Gasping, she jerked her hand out of the hot water. She couldn't see the wound but there was so much blood she was certain she must have cut off her finger. Oddly, she didn't feel pain, but red rivulets snaked down her hand and forearm with alarming speed.

  “Oh, God . . . ” she breathed.

  Tyler took two quick steps forward and plucked a clean white towel from the worktable. “Here, let me look.” His tone was steady and authoritative. He grabbed her wrist and held her dripping hand over the sink while he opened her fingers to examine them. Soap, water, and blood ran together, concealing the injury. He pressed the towel to her hand, but it was soon soaked through.

  “I’m sure I can take care of this myself,” she said, trying to pull away. It had been her experience that even sturdy-looking men could be rather fainthearted when it came to the sight of blood. She didn't want to have to worry about taking care of both of them if he passed out. At least she tried to convince herself that was the reason she didn't want him standing so close, with his strong hand closed around her wrist.

  “Stop fidgeting, Mrs. Ross.” He clamped her forearm firmly between his elbow and his ribs, smearing her blood on his shirt. Through the fabric, she felt the heat of warm muscle and bone pressed against her arm. Turning them both toward one of the lanterns, he complained, “Goddamn it, I can't see a thing.”

  “It's bleeding a lot,” she offered helpfully.

  “Because you had your hands in that hot dishwater.” He threw the towel aside and pivoted back to the sink. Working the pump handle, he poured icy water over her hand until her skin was white and the bleeding began to slow.

  He stood very close to her, with his head bent next to hers while he cradled her hand in his own. His touch was warm and light. And he smelled good, like leather and fresh air and clean hay. She hadn't noticed it before, she thought, and she'd spent nearly the whole day sitting next to him on that wagon seat. At the moment it provided a welcome distraction.

  “Oh, yeah . . . there it is,” he said. It was a fierce slash across the first bend is her little finger and it looked fairly deep, but the bleeding had dwindled to an ooze. Tyler's forehead was furrowed in concentration as he looked at the cut. But despite her anxiety, she saw something else in his eyes she couldn't readily identify. She thought he looked like he'd remembered something he didn't want to.

  He rinsed their hands again, then took her other hand to press her thumb to the wound. “Hold it tight, just like this, and come back to my office.”

  Libby followed the ring of his spurs without question, partly because she'd learned quickly that Tyler Hollins was not the kind of man who appreciated being questioned. But more than any other reason, she went along because he appeared to know what he was doing.

  He filled the office door, frame when he passed through it—she thought that his head cleared the opening by little more than a few inches, and his shoulders nearly touched the Sides. Given his cold personality, she hated to admit it, even to herself, but there was no getting around it as a man, his appearance definitely commanded attention, and belied that coldness. His red-brown hair was heavy and thick, with fine coppery streaks running through it that shone in the firelight. His tall, lean-muscled frame cast long shadows across the wooden floor.

  “Have a seat over there,” he said, and pointed to a pine armchair next to the fireplace. Everything about him, even the way he moved, suggested a man who was capable, invulnerable, always in control. He went to one of the glass-fronted cabinets in the corner and brought out gauze, scissors, and a dark bottle, leaving the doors ajar.

  Libby perched on the edge of the chair. From this angle, she couldn't help but notice the way his close-fitting jeans hugged his legs and slim backside.

  Her finger was beginning to throb now. She caught sight of her apron and realized that it, too, was streaked with blood. Between the two of them, they looked like they'd been engaged in mortal combat. With all the trouble she'd put him to, she felt compelled to apologize before he had a chance to scold her. “I'm not usually so clumsy. If you give me the bandage, I can handle this. I don't want to keep you from your supper.”

  He waved off her concern and dragged his swivel chair next to her. “I'll get it in a minute. Besides, I know from experience that it isn't easy to bind your own hand. All right, let go.” He put her hand, palm up, across his knee and pulled her thumb away from her finger. Blood pooled in the cut again, but much more slowly.

  He cut off a length of gauze and folded it into a pad. Then holding it under her finger, he picked up the bottle and poured a bit of its contents over it. “This is going to sting a bit.”

  Libby gasped. Reflex made her pull back her hand, but Tyler kept his grip on her wrist. “Sting! It burns like fire. And it smells like it could strip paint,” she said, her jaw clenched. “What is that?”

  A huff of laughter escaped him, and he actually smiled. She had another glimpse of the younger face she'd seen earlier today when he was talking to Callie Michaels. The mouth that was sometimes pressed into a stern line softened. His teeth were very white, and she noticed that the lower ones were crowded and overlapped slightly. The imperfection made him seem a little less formidable. He leaned closer and blew on her finger to relieve the burn. “Sorry. It’s an antisep—uh, something to keep this from festering.”

  He measured off another length of gauze, and taking her hand into his own, he began wrapping her cut. She watched his hands as he worked. He had good hands, she thought—strong, with long fingers. Inside, across the top of his palm, she'd felt the slight calluses that she supposed came with managing reins and horses and whatever other kind of work he did on this ranch.

  She continued to consider him. The October-leaves color of his hair fascinated her, and its texture looked soft and thick. What would it feel like, she wondered, if she were to comb it with her fingers?

  Apparently feeling her gaze, he looked up from the bandage, and snared her with his blue eyes. The fire reflected concern in their depths. “What's the matter, too tight?” he asked, nodding toward her finger.

  With his face tipped up to hers like that, she had trouble remembering what he'd asked. “N-no, it's fine.” Heavens, she'd been staring at him. And wondering what his hair felt like!

  After an endless moment, he dragged his attention to the gauze. “Does it hurt much?”

  “No, no really, it doesn't,” she lied. Libby had the feeling that this man would not tolerate any other answer.

  “I’d think that a kitchen expert like you would know better than to grab the sharp side of a knife.” Another thin smile dashed across his features.

  It might have been a criticism, but the brief grin softened his remark. Yes, she did know better, but she'd been thinking about other things when he barged into the kitchen. About the past, about her conversation with Callie Michaels, about the shawl. She ducked her head ruefully.

  “I guess I let my mind wander. I tend to daydream when I wash dishes, but it usually doesn't get me into trouble.”

  “What were you thinking about?” He kept his attention on his task, but his voice had acquired an interested tone, as though he really wanted to know.

  She tried to keep the longing out of her words. “Oh, Chicago mostly.”

  “Montana's a little different, isn't it,” he said.

  “A little! More than a little—I mean—” Libby didn't want to insult the man's home territory, but in her view, his remark was an understatement. “Um, have you been to Chicago?”

  “Yeah, but it was years ago. There are big stockyards there, you know. And beef packing plants.”

  “I know, but I never had any reason to go see them.”

  Tyler looked up again and considered her for a
moment. “Ben must have made it sound pretty appealing out here to make you want to leave your hometown and come all this way to get married.”

  Libby tensed slightly. “I believe that Ben Ross exaggerated a lot of the things he told me.”

  He shrugged. “Well, try not to hold it against him,” he said, and reached for the scissors. “The West is full of old cowhands like him, lifelong bachelors who came up from Texas in the early days after the war. Most of them don't have a lot of experience courting women.”

  “You seem to be pretty experienced at this,” she said, twitching her little finger to indicate his skill. She felt easier with him. His manner was almost friendly. She turned to regard the rows of bottles and jars on the cabinet shelves, and ventured a smile herself. “And what a collection of medicines. I'll bet you give the doctor in Heavenly some competition.”

  Tyler looked up sharply. He snipped the end of the bandage into two strips and tied them in a knot, then put her hand back in her own lap.

  “A lot of things can happen on a ranch,” he said, suddenly taut and withdrawn again. Standing, he walked to the cabinet and put away the supplies. Then he pointedly closed the doors, making it clear that its contents were none of her business. His watch chain gleamed dully in the firelight, and half of his face was eclipsed by shadow. “If a horse goes lame or one of the crew falls into a barbed wire fence—or if the cook cuts herself—we have to be able to handle it.”

  Effectively shut out, Libby wondered what on earth had turned the tide of the conversation so quickly, so completely. She felt that she'd overstepped the bounds of propriety with her employer, but couldn't imagine how. Feeling awkward now, she rose from the chair, smoothed her apron and held her white-wrapped finger gingerly. “Yes, well, thank you for your help. I kept some stew and apple crisp warm for you. I'll get your plate ready.”