A Taste of Heaven

by Alexis Harrington

  “Jesus Christ,” Joe exhaled next to him. “That was a little too close for me.” Rain continued to pour down on them, but the noisiest part of the storm had passed west toward the mountains.

  Tyler nodded and tipped his head down to drain the ring of water that had collected in his hat brim. At least he'd been able to grab his slicker from the back of his saddle before he started chasing the cattle, so he wasn't as wet as some of the boys.

  “I'd hoped we could get through one drive without a stampede. I should have known better.” He watched as Rory cut across the range to rope a steer that was attempting an escape.

  Joe leaned forward and rested his forearms on his saddle horn. “Yeah, and that herd is still pretty nervous. I think we're all gonna have to sit up with 'em tonight. Maybe if it quits rainin', Miss Libby can get the coffeepot goin'.”

  Tyler finally found a reason to smile. With some resistance Libby had learned to make the kind of strong, tar-black brew the men wanted. She'd refused to budge, though, when Hickory's brother, Possum, asked her to toss in a rusty nail for “flavoring.”

  “Coffee sounds good. I wonder how far we ran from the chuck wagon.” He glanced around in the waning daylight, looking for the wagon's white canvas cover. “I don't see it,” he said, a sense of dread coming over him.

  Joe turned in his saddle and looked, too. “We didn't go far at all. We were able to swing the herd back almost to the place where the stampede started.” He stood in his stirrups and scanned the flat prairie again. Their eyes locked, and he shook his head. “She ain't here, Ty.”

  If Joe said it, he knew it was true. Joe had spent his life in the open and could see practically to the Badlands, it sometimes seemed.

  “The mules might have spooked in the storm and set to runnin',” Joe suggested. “I'll go look for her.”

  A troubling picture formed in Tyler's mind of an overturned wagon, of delicate bones broken, of rain-matted hair spilled out across the wet grass—

  “No!” he blurted. “Uh, no, you stay with the herd, Joe. She's my responsibility, I'll search for her.” But in the quietest corner of his heart, Tyler knew that his sense of duty had nothing to do with it.

  He reached down and felt for his rifle in its scabbard, then checked the rounds in the pistol on his left hip. He was lucky that he still had both weapons. Huh, he was lucky they hadn't killed him. Even the greenest greenhorns knew to leave their firearms and anything else metal in the wagon during an electrical storm. In the rush, he'd forgotten. Damn it, he should have realized that something could happen to her. She had no experience controlling a runaway team. But the truth of the matter was that this same thing could have happened to Rory, to anyone.

  Now he tried to keep his fear for Libby's safety from robbing him of his good sense. His feelings for her ran deeper than he wanted to admit, even to himself. That scared him, too. He felt Joe's eyes on him. He had the very uncomfortable feeling that his friend could read his thoughts.

  Tyler shrugged, trying to act casual. “It's likely that she just got turned around. You know city people can't find their way to Sunday if you put them on the range.”

  Joe shot him a shrewd look. “Yeah. I know. Well, you'd better get to it while there's still light. Maybe she left tracks.”

  “Maybe.” Tyler tugged at his hat brim in farewell and spurred his horse into a trot. “Hang on, Libby,” he muttered. “I'll find you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Libby sat on a low pile of bedrolls in the back of the wagon, leaning against the chuck box with Tyler's shotgun across her knees. Her muscles were tight and cold, and her teeth chattered. She couldn't leave the mules harnessed to the wagon all night, so she'd hobbled them. But unhitching the team in the rain had soaked her to the skin. When she'd tried to open her trunk to find dry clothes, she discovered that the dampness had caused the lid to swell tightly and firmly closed. No matter how she pulled and pried, she couldn't open the trunk.

  She wasn't sure how long she'd been here. The sun had gone down long ago, and time felt as though it had stopped. The bedrolls and sacks of flour and cornmeal cast tall, angled shadows that seemed to bend toward her like creatures from a fever dream. Rain continued to buffet the canvas, and heavy wind gusts rocked the wagon. The storm played tricks on her ears, too. Sometimes she thought she heard someone calling her. She shook herself. Of course, that was impossible.

  It had crossed her mind that one of the crew might look for her—Charlie or Joe—but that was out of the question, too. They probably had their hands full with the herd in this storm, and who would search for her in the dark and the rain? She'd be expected to take care of herself, for a night anyway.

  She thought of the Lodestar and a hysterical little sob crept up her throat. For most of the time she'd spent at the ranch, she'd wished she were in Chicago, even though her future there was uncertain. But now she understood what Joe had meant when he'd spoken of the ranch house seeming like a grand home—a safe, lighted harbor in this sea of grass. God, she yearned to be there now, dry and comfortable, instead of stuck in this wagon—cold, miserable, and lost, prey to bears or any other hungry animal that came down from the hills.

  Just then, she heard a noise outside, right next to her. She sat up, her back stiff. What was that? she wondered. It sounded like something—or someone—had bumped the wagon box. She strained to hear, her breath stopped in her chest. This time she knew it wasn't her imagination, but her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears, she couldn't tell what direction it had come from. She lifted the shotgun and pulled back the hammers. Her hands were damp on the stock and barrel. Aiming at the dark front end of the wagon, she sat as rigid as a mannequin, waiting, listening, her throat chalk-dry.

  A man's head and shoulders appeared in the arched opening behind the seat. He was nothing but a dark, unfamiliar silhouette framed in that arch. Already edgy and frightened, Libby swallowed a scream and her heart doubled its pace. She leaned forward. She'd lived through too much and come too far to let this man harm her.

  “You come closer and I'll shoot you,” she choked out with straightforward intent. “I swear I will!”

  “Libby, it’s me!”

  That voice. “Tyler?” she asked, her own words suddenly small. She lowered the shotgun, so surprised her jaw dropped. He was the last person she expected to see. “Is it really you?”

  “Jesus, I've been looking for you everywhere.” He climbed over the seat into the wagon and stooped to make his way to her. She could feel the cool dampness of the night radiating from his clothes. He knelt and took her hands in his. His gloves were damp, but warm from his body heat. The lamplight fell across him and her surprise grew when she saw the expression of naked worry on his handsome face. His eyes reflected some emotion she couldn't identify.

  He opened his slicker and with a muffled cry she launched herself against his chest, trying to keep her chin from trembling. It really was Tyler. He smelled of wet horse and clean, storm-washed air. He hesitated a moment, then he closed his arms around her. She shivered. It was good to feel the solid wall of him under her cheek, to know that someone stronger was with her now.

  “I'm so glad to see you,” she said against his shirt.

  “I'm pretty glad to see you, too,” he murmured, briefly pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

  She sat up, embarrassed by her own forward behavior. “Excuse me. I didn't mean to be so—I was kind of scared—”

  He held her back and looked her over in a quick inspection, running his hands up and down her arms. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, but I'm so cold.” Libby tried to keep her voice from quivering, but chill, fear, and exhaustion had taken their toll. “H-how did you find me?”

  “I was beginning to think I wouldn't. It got dark so damned fast.” He released her hands and pulled off his hat and gloves, throwing them on a bundle in the corner. “Finally, I saw a faint glow up ahead in the mist. It was the light from this lantern. It made this canvas look like a lamp shade.�
� He indicated the top of the wagon.

  She shivered again.

  “You shouldn't be sitting here in wet clothes,” he said, frowning. “That's a good way to get sick, and we can't afford that out here.” He took the shotgun from her lap and leaned it against a box of dried apples.

  No, of course not, she thought, her joy at seeing him dimmed a bit. Who'd cook for him and his men if something happened to her? Who'd drive this wagon if she should fall ill? The tone of her voice flattened. “I couldn't get my trunk open. The rain swelled it shut.”

  Tyler made his way to the trunk and pulled on the lid. It didn't budge.

  “There isn't any hot food,” she said. She watched him shrug out of his slicker and readjust his grip. “But there are sourdough biscuits left over from lunch. And I think I have some preserves left.” She watched the muscles in his back flex and contract under his shirt while he wrestled with the trunk. “I didn't expect you to come looking for me.”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Don't forget, Libby, you're my responsibility."

  When he'd first told her that, she resented being thought of as a bumbling idiot who needed protection from herself and everything else. Now when she heard this designation, her heart objected for a different reason. Had it been only his sense of responsibility that made him come after her?

  Swearing a blue streak, he tugged and struggled with the stubborn box, but it wouldn't yield, not even for him.

  “Damn!” he finished with an exploding exhale. “I'd shoot the son of a bitch if I thought it would help!” He turned back to her then and pulled his bedroll out of a stack. “Well, come on, get those wet things off. You'll just have to wrap up in one of my blankets.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Hollins—” His brusque command made her lapse into formality, and she felt her cold cheeks flame. She wouldn't have supposed she had the energy to blush, but this set her back on her heels. “This makes twice now that you've ordered me out of my clothes.”

  Tyler looked at Libby. She made a sorry picture. Her gray eyes were wide with indignation and her teeth chattered while she clutched her damp blouse collar close to her throat. He sighed. Fatigue and worry made him sound abrupt with her. He'd searched so long, he'd begun to worry that he'd be lost himself in the darkness. The nightmarish vision of the wagon overturned had played again and again through his mind.

  “Come on,” he repeated, more gently this time. He held up a blanket. “We can't go anywhere until morning, and you can't sit in those wet clothes all night.” This time when his eyes traveled over her, he couldn't help but notice the way her wet blouse molded itself to her breasts. A surge of heat coursed through him, but he felt awkward, too. This wasn't Callie standing here. She was a young widow who, unlike the madam, hadn't lost her ability to blush.

  Still gripping her collar, she dropped her eyes self-consciously, and another spasm of chill shook her. She didn't move. Her voice wasn't much more than a whisper. “You don't really expect me to undress in front of you—”

  Tyler felt a flush color his own face. He handed her the blanket and turned toward the front of the wagon. “Uh, no, no—are those biscuits out in the chuck box?”

  “Yes.”

  He heard the relief in her voice. “I'll unsaddle my horse and get the biscuits while you, um, change. Give me the other lantern.”

  She handed it to him, and he lit it, facing away from her the whole time. Then he grabbed his hat and slicker again, and scrambled down into the rain. Suddenly he felt as green and inexperienced as Rory. Hell, he'd seen enough undressed women in his life—why this one should have him stumbling all over himself was baffling. No, it wasn't, he admitted. This was completely different from those other times, and he knew it.

  After he lifted the saddle off his mare, he put it on the wagon seat. Then he splashed over the soggy ground surrounding the wagon, holding the lantern in front of him, and opened the chuck box. After rummaging around, he pulled out the biscuits, wrapped in a napkin. He didn't see the preserves but he found half a cherry pie. It had suffered having a can of condensed milk fall on it, but it would serve. He pawed through dark drawers for two forks and two cups. Hot coffee would have been welcome on a bitch of a night like this, but water would have to do. Balancing supper and the lantern, Tyler started to get his canteen from his horse when he glanced up at the wagon canvas. He faced it slowly, transfixed by what he saw.

  The lantern in the wagon, the one that had led him here, now cast Libby Ross's very feminine silhouette upon the wagon canvas. She peeled away the wet blouse and hung it on something in the wagon box. Then she stepped out of her skirt, and dried her arms with what he assumed was a towel. She still wore her petticoat and camisole; he could see the edge of the ruffle on her bodice when she turned, and the swell of her breasts beneath. In response to this display, his body answered swiftly with a hard, heavy ache.

  Tyler clutched the canteen to his chest and took a deep breath, temporarily forgetting that the wind and rain lashed his face, that he was hungry, that he was tired beyond his capacity to measure. He forgot everything except the beauty of the light and shadow in front of him. When Libby untied her petticoat and pushed it down her legs, he turned away and leaned back against the wagon wheel, a torrent of lust pulsing through him.

  How the hell was he supposed to get back into the wagon and pretend that it was like any other evening around the old campfire? That she wasn't wrapped in just a blanket? This would be even more trying than the episode with the liniment. At least that night he could leave. He should have shot the lid off her damned trunk so she could get dressed. But there was no help for it now.

  After waiting a moment or two, he went to the front of the wagon and called up, “Are you—” But his voice came out as a strangled croak. He cleared his throat. “Are you decent yet?”

  Decent, Libby thought, and looked down. In her camisole and drawers? Why had nakedness been added to the predicament she was already in? But she couldn't make him stand outside in the rain any longer. Silently cursing her trunk as vividly as Tyler had aloud, she grabbed the blanket he'd given her, and flung it around herself. She was immediately enveloped in the familiar scent of him.

  “All right Come in.”

  As soon as he climbed into the shelter, he paused with the food cradled in his hands and stared. The wagon felt charged with his presence, and his eyes deepened to turquoise as his gaze swept over her. From another man, such a look would be vulgar. Not so with Tyler. It was straightforward and powerful, and made her suck in her breath. Her apprehension stemmed as much from her own reaction to him as what she read in that look. She backed up a step and felt the chuck box against her bottom.

  Breaking the silence and eye contact, he showed her the biscuits and pie. “I brought supper.” He took off his hat and slicker, and plunged a hand through his hair. “I don't know about you, but I'm starving.”

  He was obviously waiting for an invitation—or was it permission?—to sit in her presence.

  “Please,” she said, and waved at a vacant spot on the floor. She felt a tremendous disadvantage in having only her underwear and a blanket for clothes. She had to hold the wrap shut with one hand while taking the cups and forks he handed to her.

  “I didn't bring plates,” he said. “It was too dark and rainy out there to do much searching.” When he sat down, he slowly leaned against a pile of bedrolls and stretched out his long legs. Libby heard him sigh tiredly.

  “That's all right. We can eat out of the pie pan.” Cautiously, she lowered herself to the only place available—next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “It's been a hard day, hasn't it?”

  He sat motionless for a few seconds, as if too exhausted to do anything else. Then he crossed his ankles, brushing her thigh with his own as he moved. Libby tried to ignore the fire that raced up her leg.

  “I've sure had better.”

  “Me, too.”

  He chuckled, then they sat in silence for a few moments, their attention focused on t
he food. Libby hadn't realized how hungry she was until she tasted the sourdough.

  He waved at the pie with his fork. “You know, I've been meaning to tell you, you're one hell of a cook.”

  Libby gaped at him. Tyler did not seem to be a man who lavished praise on people. “Thank you. The men told me you've had a run of bad luck with cooks in the last couple of years.”

  He smiled while he chewed and swallowed. “Yeah, I suppose we have. But this—my old man would have called this ‘a little taste of heaven.’ That's what he used to say when something tasted really good—if heaven had a flavor, it would taste like this.” He grinned at her.

  Libby ducked her head and smiled, too. He'd never mentioned anything about his family before. “Your father sounds like he had a touch of poet in him.”

  “Mostly he was just a cattleman who brought us up here from San Antonio. Someone told him the sweetest grassland on earth was in Montana, free for the taking, and that a man could raise a herd better than any in Texas.” He speared a cherry on the tines of his fork. “My mother didn’t want to come at first. She said if he made a go of it, he could send for us. If he didn't, we'd be waiting for him. She was a strong-willed woman. But my old man . . .” He shook his head. “His word was law. He told her we were his responsibility, and it was her duty to follow her husband. So we came. I don't think she was ever happy here.”

  “Has she been gone a long time?” Joe had told her both of Tyler's parents were dead.

  He poured water for both of them from the canteen. “Yeah. She died of influenza our second winter here. I was eleven years old. I think my father always felt guilty about it But life up here isn't always easy. I guess you've figured that out.”

  "Yes, I have." Libby glanced at her hand. The cut had been healing well, but pulling on the reins this afternoon had partially opened it again.