It took all the self-control he had to keep from turning her around and pulling her hand away from its death grip on her blouse. He wanted to press kisses to that tender place behind her ear, to take her soft coral lips with his own, to feel the weight of her breast in his hand—
Puzzled by the strained sound of his voice, Libby turned slightly on the crate to look at him. His eyes were smoky blue, as though a fire smoldered behind them, and he searched her face with an intensity she'd never seen before but recognized easily.
The clean scent of him knifed through the harsh odor of the liniment. He sat so close . . . she watched, captivated, as he let his gaze touch the shadow of her cleavage and her breasts, then travel up her throat. When he lifted his eyes to consider her mouth, the tip of his tongue emerged to moisten his lips. He leaned a bit closer and took her chin in his hand to hold her as he had the filly in the corral. She could feel his breath on her cheek and eyelashes, warm, intimate. His lips grazed the corner of her mouth, as if in preparation for the full taking of it—
Suddenly, from just outside the thin canvas wall, she heard spurs clanking and Rory's voice.
“I ain't seen him. Maybe he's off ridin' by himself—he does that sometimes.”
Tyler released Libby's jaw and pulled back, like a man awakened from sleepwalking, only to find himself doing something improbable. He picked up the bottle of Four-H and jammed the cork back into its neck.
“That should help,” he repeated, feeling damned awkward and aroused at the same time. He knew she'd see the evidence as soon as he stood, but there was no other way out of the wagon. His only option lay in moving fast. Grabbing his hat, he muttered, “Good night, Libby,” and jumped down from the wagon bed.
Libby heard him stalk away into the clear night, then rummaged in her trunk for a nightgown. Tyler had been about to kiss her, she thought. And she'd been about to let him. Had she learned nothing? It had been all that shoulder-massaging business that distracted her. It had felt so good that she nearly forgot everything—time, place, and who she was with. That wouldn't happen again, she vowed. It couldn't.
She had only to get to Miles City, then she'd be on the train and away from here. Away from Montana, and Tyler Hollins.
But when she turned down the lantern and hurried into the snug pile of quilts that made her bed, the view of the clear night sky made her pause. Even Libby had to admit that there was a wild beauty to this land she'd not seen until she came to the Lodestar. Through the arched opening of the wagon canvas, she saw stars so bright she was certain their light was enough to see by. Out here, time and schedules took on completely different meanings. Sunrise and sundown were the timekeepers. In fact, she hadn't seen anyone look at a watch all day. Except Tyler Hollins, of course.
Libby rolled to her side and pulled the quilts up around her chin. The sound of the nightwatch singing to the cattle floated to her on the night breeze, punctuated now and then by the howl of a coyote.
Tonight Chicago seemed as remote as the stars overhead. And perhaps just a bit less bright in her memory.
Chapter Eight
The next couple of days passed in a blur of Dutch ovens, campfires, water hauling, and dish washing. Libby's sleep was interwoven with the smells of cattle and wood smoke, and the sound of distant voices singing to the herd. She couldn't say anyone had lied to her. Both Joe and Tyler had told her the work would be hard, and they were right. She rose around four every morning, and washed in cold water. The skimpy privacy of the wagon made her think of the orphanage. But the worst part was bathing from a bucket.
Montana water was rock-hard, and no matter what she used, even her treasured bar of French milled vanilla soap, Libby had trouble raising a lather. Dishes, her stockings and underwear, herself—they were washed in water that all soap turned milky white. She thought back to Callie's discussion of her copper bathtub with a feeling akin to jealousy.
After her bath, she hurried into her clothes in the cold dark, then climbed out of the wagon to stir up the fire to cook breakfast. Strangely enough, it seemed that no matter what time she emerged from her canvas bed chamber, she always found Tyler awake already, sipping coffee poured from the pot that stayed on the fire all night long. He was the last one asleep and the first one up. God, did the man never rest? she wondered. She had to admit, though, that it was very comforting to see him there.
Following breakfast, with the herd stretched out behind her, she would drive the chuck wagon on to the next stop that Tyler had selected. When the fire was going, he'd ride in, ask for a basin—which she now filled with warm water—and he'd wash and shave.
On the fourth hushed spring noon, she stood at the worktable rolling out a pie crust when she heard him call her.
“Libby.”
He spoke her name so quietly, it sounded as if he were saying it to himself, experimenting with the feel of it. She peeked around the corner of the chuck box and saw him standing next to the wagon. He'd taken off his shirt and slung it over a low bush. She couldn't help but admire the long, graceful plane of his bare back as she looked at his profile, the way it curved out slightly at his shoulders and in at his waist, then disappeared into low-slung jeans.
He stood perfectly still, as though he were chiseled from stone. The only movement she detected was his wind-ruffled chestnut hair. Shaving soap covered the lower half of his face, a slim contrast to his own coloring that had turned suddenly pale. His razor dangled from his hand at his side, its shiny blade gleaming in the noon sun. He wasn't looking at her. Instead his gaze was fixed on some object not far from his feet
“Libby, where's Rory?” His tone was the same, calm, steady, almost inaudible. But something about it frightened her.
“He's off looking for firewood.”
“Get the shotgun, then.”
“Sh-shotgun?”
Still he didn't look at her. “Get the damned shotgun and come around behind me from the left side. Be quiet, and be quick.”
Galvanized, she grabbed the weapon from the wagon. Despite all the target practice he'd made her endure, the smooth, cool stock felt foreign in her hands. Following his terse instructions, she moved as swiftly and as quietly as she could, approaching him from the left.
“Stop right there. You're close enough.”
She paused about ten feet off to his side. Her heart had begun to thud in her chest with rapid, heavy beats. “What—”
“Hush,” he ordered, whispering now. “Don't talk.”
She only heard it at first, a strange whirring noise. But then she saw the object of Tyler's intense scrutiny, no more than three feet from his boot. A thick snake, coiled among some sun-heated rocks next to the wagon wheel, poised to strike. The end of its tail rose slightly above its sinuous length, sounding the warning rattle.
She swallowed a gasping shriek that crept up her throat. The aim would be awkward, and she knew she was a terrible shot. This wasn't like firing at tin cans and old whiskey bottles on the fence back at the ranch. When she'd missed those, all that had been injured were her pride and Tyler's patience. In this desperate situation, she was positive that she would hit Tyler's foot—there just wasn't enough space between him and the reptile. Her heart pumped harder and her hands grew damp on the stock and barrel. Oh, God, why couldn't someone more competent have been here to help?
“But—”
“You're close enough not to miss. Goddamn it, don't think, just shoot!”
The hissing grew ominously louder and Libby knew instinctively that the huge creature had issued its final warning. In another second it would strike, sinking its fangs deep into Tyler's leg.
With that image in her mind, her fear fell away and a kind of angry, protective reflex came over her. She raised the shotgun, took the best aim she could, and squeezed the trigger. The blast of fire kicked the stock back into her shoulder, and vented a puff of sulfurous blue smoke that momentarily clouded her view.
The silence that followed was so complete, not even the grass rustled in the
low wind. She looked frantically back and forth between Tyler and where she'd last seen the rattlesnake. She couldn't tell if she'd hit it, or Tyler, or if he'd been bitten. It happened in the blink of an eye, but she felt as though time and events were moving as slowly as in a dream. All the details of her surroundings stood out—the gray-white canvas, the glint of Tyler's razor through the smoke, the bandanna sticking out of his back pocket
“Tyler!” she called. “Are you all right?”
He turned to face her, the light streaks in his hair gleaming under the sun. “Yeah,” he exhaled.
Relief made her arms and legs feel like lead. She held the shotgun in a death grip. She could even detect the metallic smell of the long barrel.
He walked over and touched her arm. His eyes were startlingly blue against his pallor. Sweat ran from his temples into the lather on his face.
“Pretty good shooting, Libby.” He waved a shaky hand in the direction of the decapitated snake.
Libby looked at it and swallowed. Reaction was beginning to set in and chills rushed over her body in waves, making goose bumps rise on her skin. For no reason she could think of, tears welled in her eyes.
Tyler peered into her face. He wiped the soap off his jaws with the towel slung around his neck. Prying the weapon out of her hands, he leaned it against the wagon wheel. Then he put an arm around her shoulders.
“I-I didn't know if I c-could do it—” She turned and dashed her hand across her eyes. Her voice shook, her limbs shook, and she couldn't conquer either one. He'd think she was just the flimsy, inept female he'd believed her to be all along. But it was infinitely comforting—and just as disturbing—to stand in his loose embrace. “I always m-missed before—”
“Shhh . . . it's all right, Libby.” The timbre of his voice had changed, and he spoke right next to her ear. “Shhh.” It was the same reassuring tone he'd used when he bandaged her hand that night in his office. Then he pulled her closer and put both arms around her. She melted against him. She'd had so little comforting in her life. Growing up with dozens of other children in the orphanage, she'd been fed, clothed, and provided with basic education. But hugs had been few and far between.
When he pressed her cheek to his warm, bare shoulder, she thought she felt his lips graze her temple.
“B-but I might have shot you instead.”
Backing up a bit, he lifted her chin to look at him, and smiled with honest admiration. “Yeah, but I was willing to take the chance. Besides, I'd bet on you over a snake any day. And see? You did hit it. Took its head clean off.”
She glimpsed at the creature again. “I guess I did.”
He shifted her to one arm, keeping her close to his ribs, and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Sure you did. You know, you earned that snake's rattle, if you want it.”
She shook her head vehemently. “God, no.”
He smiled again, as nice a smile as he gave to Rory and Callie. “If we were back in Texas, we'd be having rattlesnake stew for supper.”
“Snake stew!” She made a face. “N-no, we wouldn't, not if I were doing the cooking. I-I wouldn't have that thing in my kitchen.”
“Noah Bradley will be disappointed when he hears that. So will a couple of the other boys from south Texas.” Lifting his closed razor, he looked at it wobbling slightly in his grip, and a wry chuckle escaped him. “Maybe I'll wait until tonight to shave. Right now, I'd probably slip and cut my own throat.”
Tyler counted himself lucky. He'd had close calls with rattlesnakes before, but he'd always been wearing his revolver, or had a weapon close by. He felt incredibly stupid now for taking, off his gun belt with his shirt. Where the hell had his head been? If Libby hadn't been here—
“You know, you probably saved my life.” He admitted this a bit grudgingly. To be defended by a little city woman like her—damn, Joe would really give him hell for this.
“I only shot the snake instead of you,” she reminded him with a little laugh. “It could have been lots worse.” The color was returning to her face. For a minute, he'd worried that she might faint. But probably not Libby. He was beginning to believe that Joe had been right about her—she was stronger than she looked.
“Well, you saved me from being bitten anyway. And saved yourself from the job of cutting open the wound.” He sketched the mark of an X in the air with his razor, then tucked it into his belt.
Shifting his gaze to her again, his smile faded. He searched her face. It was small, smooth, and pretty under the mild April sun. Her eyes were fringed with long lashes that were much darker than her honey hair. Like a reflex action, he tightened his arm around her and slowly brought his fingertips to her cheek. Her breasts, pressed to his side, felt soft and full. He let his eyes drop to her moist mouth, which also looked soft and full, and tried to remember the last time he'd kissed a woman. It seemed like a silly thing to wonder about, considering the fact that he regularly slept with a female who gave him blithe, uninhibited access to her body. But Callie would not let him or any other man take her lips in a kiss. For reasons known only to her, she thought it too intimate an exchange, whether or not he was one of her “regular gentlemen.”
Tyler had never understood that. To him, it was just another physical act. But now, holding Libby in his arm, he thought that perhaps he did understand. To cover her mouth with his own would mean much more than a casual meeting of lips, and he ached to do it. But it scared him.
Their association would end one of two ways—she would get on the train in Miles City, or she would marry Charlie. Either way, she would be gone soon, and so be it. He wasn’t even foursquare positive any more that her going was a good thing. But he knew it was the right thing.
“Well, I guess you'd better get back to whatever you were doing,” he said, and released her.
Libby wished he hadn't. No matter how inappropriate the notion was, she felt she could stand with his arm around her all afternoon. He was strong, unyielding—like a rock—and she found more reassurance in that than she would have guessed. And while her knowledge of such things was limited only to Wesley, she swore he'd been about to kiss her. The thought was warm and tantalizing, and brought fire to her cheeks.
No. Enough of that foolishness, she scolded herself, and pulled away from him, backing up four or five paces. It wasn't just that she and Tyler Hollins would be parting company in a few days. He was her employer, her employer, just like Wesley Brandauer. Well, maybe not exactly like him. He'd been selfish, and haughty sometimes, and had known how to charm and cajole her to achieve his own gains.
But Tyler was not warmth and security, not for her, anyway, and she didn't need his strength. She'd gotten this far on her own, she could manage the rest of the way, too.
She tucked her hands into her apron pockets, suddenly feeling awkward. “Yes, I'm sure the men will be expecting their lunch soon. I-I'd better get busy.” She bent to retrieve the shotgun. “I'll put this away.”
Rory rode in then with a bundle of firewood tied to the back of his saddle. “I thought I heard a shot,” he said, looking at her, then at Tyler. “Have you been target practicin', Miss Libby?”
“I guess you could say that,” she said with a shaky laugh.
Tyler, putting on his shirt, gave her an even look. “And her aim has improved, Rory. It's improved a lot.”
The incident about the shooting spread quickly through the men. Having witnessed Libby's misfires at the ranch fence, they all congratulated her on her marksmanship, and made jokes about the danger of a sharpshooting woman. Joe offered to make a hat band for her out of the diamond-patterned snakeskin, but she declined.
“Well, dang—ain't we havin' it for supper?” Noah Bradley inquired of her that evening. He looked down at his tin plate of pork belly, fried apples, and biscuits. Though the sun was low in the sky, his hat cast a shadow over his eyes. “I've been lookin' forward to rattlesnake ever since I heard about it this afternoon.” A couple of disappointed murmurs had carried the news to him at the back of the line, a
s Tyler had predicted.
“Sorry, Noah.” Libby shook her head. “I'm trying to learn to make coffee you men can stand a spoon in, if that's what you want, and biscuits nearly as big as stove lids. But I refuse to cook a snake for supper.”
“No disrespect, Miss Libby, but we ain't used to such civilized cookin' in Texas.” Like a lot of the cowboys, Noah was very sure of himself, although he lacked some of Charlie's easygoing good nature, or Joe's mannered dignity. But he was generally respectful in the few dealings she'd had with him. And she knew that he and Charlie were friends. “Down on the Nueces River we ate snake and lizard.” He smiled, and his face fell into weathered creases that looked out of place on a man so young. “I'll tell you all about it if you go for a walk with me after supper.”
That was the last thing she wanted to do, but before she could refuse, Charlie, who was getting a drink from the water barrel, jumped in.
“Miss Libby don't want to take a walk with you, Noah.” He stepped closer, his usually friendly face clouded over like a storm hovering above the mountains. Immediately the air crackled with tension between the two men.
Noah gave him a cold look. “Maybe she does. Who died and made you the boss man, Charlie?”
Libby had no intention of going anywhere with Noah Bradley, but could imagine the scene becoming ugly, and she refused to be argued over like a bone between two dogs. Charlie's infatuation, or whatever it was, had robbed him of his sense. “Excuse me, if I could say something—”
Both men ignored her. Charlie jabbed a finger into Noah's shoulder. “Miss Libby ain't one of those dance hall dollies you're used to. She's a lady.”
Noah's face flushed with anger, and he jerked his shoulder away. “The lady can decide for herself if she wants to take a stroll. What do you know about ladies, anyhow, Charlie? You've had to pay for your pokes for years now,” he said, shoving back.
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