Her position here was an odd one. She certainly wasn't friendless, and there wasn't the class distinction she'd always known. But she didn't have the closeness she'd had with the little domestic staff at the Brandauers's. The bunkhouse was no place for a woman, and the men were not inclined to hang around the kitchen merely to keep her company.
Foolishly, perhaps, she'd once imagined sitting in the parlor with Tyler on an occasional evening, reading or talking. Not for any romantic purpose, she assured herself, but simply for the companionship of another person. And it might have come to pass, if—
Just then she heard a noise with which she was becoming unhappily familiar. It was the sound of Tyler, staggering his way up the stairs. He was back earlier than usual—it was only about nine o'clock. His progress was a bit halting, as if he were trying to keep his balance, and even from behind her closed door, she could hear his spurs. When he finally hit the landing, she let out the breath she held. At least he hadn't toppled backward down the steps. But now the gallery lay ahead of him. If he fell—
With an irritated sigh, she flung her shawl over her shoulders and went to the door. Why hadn't he decided to come home before she'd changed into her nightgown? she fumed. But she couldn't leave him to plunge into the parlor below and break his silly neck. When she pulled open the door, she saw him in the half-light of the lantern on her night table—disheveled, his eyes starkly blue and bloodshot, his hair a windblown tangle. She stepped into the hallway with her arms crossed over her chest.
He wobbled to a stop and squinted at her with woozy surprise. "Whassa matter?"
She would not lecture him, she told herself. Not only was it not her place to do so, this certainly wasn't the time. But she couldn't refrain from pursing her mouth and frowning slightly. “I can smell the whiskey from here.”
“Oh, don' pucker up like a persimmon," he said, waving her off with a loose-jointed arm. He tottered sideways to the railing.
Gasping, she lurched forward and grabbed him by his sleeve. His balance was so poor, it wasn't difficult to pull him back to her side. She looped his arm over her shoulders. “Come on, Tyler. It's time you were in bed.”
“R-really? Libby, really?” His voice held a relieved thankfulness, and horrified, she knew he'd misunderstood. He sort of fell into her arms, and then tried to steer them back into her room. He was much too big for her to control, and before she knew it he'd succeeded in pushing her as far as the bed. She felt the mattress pressed against the backs of her legs.
“Not in my bed, you big lummox!” she grunted, struggling with his weight. “Yours, in the next room.”
“Thass all right, we can sleep here. Iss big enough." He nuzzled her neck, all the while muttering something about "angelheart." Sliding both hands to her bottom, he pulled her tight to his hips. She was alarmed to feel the very real, very hard proof of his arousal pressed against her abdomen.
“Tyler, stop it!” Libby tried to put her shoulder to his chest to push him away from her, but she was no match for his big, relaxed body. In another second, he'd have her pinned to the mattress, and then she wouldn't be able to get him to his feet again. The one advantage she had was speed—he moved as slowly as a bear in a tar pit. As soon as he lifted one band to caress her breast, she ducked out beneath his elbow and escaped to the doorway. He looked down in front of him, as though he wondered where she'd vanished to.
“You come away from there,” she insisted in her firmest tone. She wasn't really afraid of him, but her anger was increasing by the minute.
Turning, he stumbled over to her. “Aw, Libby, come on. Don' make me leave. Lemme sleep here with you.” And then sounding abruptly and uncannily lucid, he added with a deep sigh, “I'm so tired.”
For the space of a breath, she thought her heart would break. “I know you are,” she said. “That's why it's time to go to your own room.”
He went along agreeably, and with some tricky maneuvering she managed to pilot him down the hall to his own bed. It took only a single push to flop him onto his mattress—boots, spurs, gun belt, and all.
When she reached over to wrap his blankets up around him, his hand suddenly shot out and grabbed her wrist He pulled her down with a strength that she hadn't anticipated, and her face was inches from his.
“Don' I getta kiss g'night?” Putting his other hand on the back of her neck, he forced her mouth to his and gave her a hard, sloppy kiss that tasted like stale whiskey.
With a muffled shriek, she wrenched free and backed away, disgustedly scrubbing her mouth with the cuff of her nightgown.
Tyler was already asleep.
*~*~*
Libby was in the kitchen kneading bread dough the next morning after breakfast when Tyler came in. He came through the door, and with an offhand acknowledgment to her, picked a cup from the dish rack and went to the coffeepot on the stove.
He'd changed his clothes and washed, but he moved a bit slowly, as though in pain. She just bet he was. Dropping her gaze back to her work, she ignored him and went on punching her dough with furious vigor.
Grabbing a sugar cookie from a plate on the table, he finally looked at her. “What's the matter, have you decided to stop talking?”
She sprinkled flour on her work surface. “After last night, you shouldn't be surprised.”
“Last night?”
She scowled at him. “Yes, you have some memory of it, don't you?”
A hint of recollection crossed his puffy face, followed by a sheepish expression.
“Besides, as you pointed out yesterday, I don't know what I'm talking about. Remember?"
He sighed impatiently, and he pushed his hand through his hair, slowly, as if to avoid aggravating his monstrous headache. “Oh, damn it, Libby, that isn't what I meant, exactly—”
She glared at him. “No? What did you mean, then? You can't say that my life has been all soft cushions and cream cakes, and that I don't understand what it’s like to be lonely and scared.” She gripped the dough in her hands until it squeezed out between her fingers. Looking at it, she shook it off. Like a slow-boiling kettle, her anger steamed—at him for his behavior, and at herself for worrying about him. Was this what her job here would become? Caretaker to a man who seemed bent on destroying himself?
“Libby, this is none of your business.”
“Oh, yes, it is! I can see what you're doing to yourself, and everyone around you. You made me care about you—um, the way, well, the way I care about everyone here,” she amended hastily. “And now you've shut me out. You snap at all of us, including Rory. Tyler, that boy loves you as if you were his father, and you know he just lost his best friend.” Her rage grew. “God, you make me so angry sometimes, I could, oh, I could sock you!”
“Miss Fix-it wants to take a poke at me?” Tyler seemed genuinely amused and his laugh was mocking. He put down the coffee cup. “Come on. I dare you,” he taunted. Walking around to her side of the worktable, he put his chin out and tapped it with a forefinger. “Put one right here.”
Her outrage had reached a rolling boil. All of the frustration and worry and uncertainty of the past few months came churning to the surface. It might be worth jabbing that arrogant chin just to interrupt the smirk he was wearing. Though she was hardly aware of it, her fingers began to tighten into a fist.
He glanced down at her hand, and his bloodshot eyes gleamed. “Go ahead, Miss Libby,” he pressed sarcastically. “You want to hit me.” He stretched his chin out farther. “I'd like to see you try.”
Even though his hangover made him feel as though he'd been horse-kicked, Tyler trusted his reflexes. He could handle this girl. He briefly pictured holding her off with one hand while her arms wind-milled ineffectively, and he chuckled. But he was prepared to catch her fist as it flew toward his face, not into his stomach. When Libby's hand connected hard with his body, his breath woofed out of him. His arms closed around his middle and he snapped forward at the waist like a ballroom dance master. He couldn't talk, he couldn't even breathe.
Libby's wrath was instantly replaced with horror and she reached for his shoulders, thinking he might collapse. “Oh, my God. Tyler, I'm so sorry!”
At that moment, Joe walked in and leaned a hip against the worktable, a huge grin on his face. Obviously a witness to the event, he said, “Don't be too sorry, Miss Libby. He's been actin' like a mule's rump.”
What had she done? Never in her life had she struck anyone. Why had she let him goad her like that? As it was, he barely suffered her presence these days. And now he was bent over like a fish hook, trying to get his wind back because she'd punched him in the stomach. If he'd been looking for a reason to get rid of her, she'd just given one to him. A reason no one could find fault with.
Tyler shrugged off her hands and straightened slowly, revealing a big round spot of flour her fist had left on the front of his shirt. His chest expanded as he pulled in a full breath. He was greenish-white and sweaty, reminding her of the shadowed side of an ice block, but beyond that, she couldn't read his expression.
“I'm really sorry,” she repeated miserably, but even to her own ears, the words had a hopeless sound. She knew her fate had already been decided. She looked up at him, waiting for the ax to fall. If only he'd say something.
Instead, he pushed past her, obviously trying to muster his dignity, and walked outside.
Joe winced, and shook his head, unable to stifle a rumble of low laughter.
“Oh, how can you laugh?” she asked, watching Tyler's back as he went to the barn. Her heart pounded in her chest. "I did a terrible thing!"
Completely unconcerned, he lifted his head to peer at Tyler. He shrugged and picked up a cookie. “He ain't pukin' yet, so you didn't hit him that hard. Besides, you only did what we've all been itchin' to do. We wouldn't be able to get away with it. You can.”
He patted her arm and gave her a sly smile. Then he took another cookie and headed out the door, leaving Libby to ponder his words.
*~*~*
That evening after the crew ate, Tyler sat in self-imposed exile in the shadows on the front porch, a glass of whiskey resting on his knee. It was a soft spring evening that gave no hint of the hotter summer he knew would follow. The kitchen door was open, and a rectangle of golden light fell across the porch planks. A familiar aroma of chicken stew floated to him, and he could hear the clink of Libby's silverware. When he'd sat down out here, he caught a glimpse of her through the window, eating alone at one of the long tables. She wasn't actually eating much. Mostly she poked the food around on her plate.
As hard as it was for him to admit, he knew he'd really deserved that punch. Oh, he'd been madder than hell—after he got over his surprise, anyway. And his stomach had protested with wrenching spasms for an hour afterward. He'd had the rest of the afternoon to think about everything she'd told him—there were things she didn't know, that he couldn't tell her, but she was right in many ways. For years, he had shut himself away from everyone, and then in Miles City, as soon as he'd thought it was time to begin living again, he saw Lattimer Egan.
An ache crept up Tyler's chest to his throat and made it tight. It was a sensation he hadn't known in a very long time—at least five years. But he recognized it. Tyler felt like crying. For himself, for a little girl left at an orphanage by a tubercular mother, for a good cowboy who'd lost his life working for the Lodestar.
His eyes started to burn. Damn it, he thought. He swallowed hard and pushed the feeling back to the smallest corner of his heart, where it belonged.
He drained his glass, then pushed himself to his feet, and looked through the kitchen window again. It seemed like there was only one person in the world tonight who could make him feel better.
Libby glanced up to see Tyler standing in the doorway. Why did he have to be so handsome? she wondered irritably. Even in his current state of dissipation, he looked better than did most temperate men. It would be much easier to ignore him if he were ugly, or even dirt-plain.
Getting a plate, he walked to the stove and spooned up chicken stew from the big pot on the burner, and brought it to the table.
“May I join you?” he asked, and waited for her answer.
She stared at him with her jaw slightly open. He was going to have his supper with her? She'd never seen him eat with anyone, except for that stormy night in the wagon when they'd shared biscuits and tender, fevered kisses. It seemed like years ago, now.
“Yes, of course.”
He took the seat across from her. She caught a faint whiff of whiskey, but he wasn't drunk, or even tipsy. A kind of fatalism had settled on her shoulders in the hours since their last encounter. Despite Joe's confidence to the contrary, she assumed that Tyler was about to deliver her dismissal.
He poked his fork into a piece of chicken. “That's quite a right arm you have.”
A scorching blush sizzled up her from her neck to her hairline, and she began babbling. “I really apologize. I can't imagine—I don't know why I—”
“Yes, you do,” he said, capturing her eyes with his. “And so do I. Joe was right. I haven't been so easy to get along with. As for last night, I don't remember it very well, but I'm sure I made a jackass of myself.”
It wasn't exactly an apology, but it sounded like one. And to her own amazement, Libby found herself making excuses for him. “Well, I guess a lot has happened lately,” she said. “There was the drive, and the storm, losing Charlie—” She still got a catch in her chest when she remembered the unnatural peace on his face that morning.
Tyler picked up a piece of bread from the plate on the table. “That's not good enough. Those things happened to all of us. Anyway, this goes back a lot further.”
“To your wife?” She felt as though she were putting her head in the lion's mouth by asking.
He sighed slightly. “Yeah.”
Tyler had said that she'd died in childbirth. “Maybe if she'd had a doctor to take care of her?” she posed. Libby thought of the night he'd bandaged her hand—he'd said there hadn't been one in Heavenly for a long time.
His tone turned flinty. “A doctor let Jenna die. A doctor who was supposed to know how to save lives, not let them slip away.”
“Oh, dear.” That would explain, then, why he seemed to think so little of physicians. She knew they were heading into dangerous territory with this conversation. Fortunately, he turned its direction.
He put his hand on the table, close to hers. “Anyway, I’m sorry for the way I acted. I know you were just trying to help.”
She glanced down shyly it her plate. “Actually, you can be pretty charming when you want to be."
Whatever response he might have expected from her, clearly it hadn't been this one. He smiled self-consciously, and then he laughed, reinforcing her comment, but refuting it at the same time. “Yeah, charming like an abscessed tooth.”
She laughed, too. “No—well, sometimes . . . ”
With that, the tension of the afternoon eased, and they talked of inconsequential things, summer chores on the ranch, the rhythm of the land and the seasons, her progress with the flower beds.
“I don't think you'll want to be digging out there tomorrow,” he said, and popped the bread crust into his mouth. “It's going to rain, probably most of the day.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked, somewhat doubtful. “There isn't a cloud in the sky. The stars are so close and bright.”
“Yeah, but it'll rain. I can smell it coming.” He gestured at the open doorway. She lifted her head and sniffed, then shook her head. “Can't you?” He sounded surprised that she couldn't.
“This is all a lot different from the city,” Libby said, getting up for the coffeepot “It would take a lifetime of living here to learn everything there is to know. You're so much a part of the land and the animals—it suits you.”
He held out his coffee cup for her to fill. “It didn't always, though. For a while, I wanted to get away from here so bad, I thought I'd bust. And I did leave for a few years to go to school. I came
back when my father got sick. I wasn't planning to stay, but I ended up promising him that I would.” He laid his knife and fork across his empty plate. “It was the last thing he asked of me. He said it was my responsibility to steward this land, to keep it for my own son just as he'd kept it for me.”
Tyler fell silent for a moment. He wasn't sure that there would be sons to inherit the Lodestar when his own life reached the end of its days. But the idea of children made him think of the act that created them, and he looked at the woman sitting across the table from him.
Despite the events of this morning, regardless of the times they'd clashed, and the conflict that raged in him, his desire for Libby had not dimmed. If anything, it had grown stronger.
He remembered just enough of last night to recall holding her to himself, with her soft breasts pressed against his chest. More than ever Tyler wanted to lay her on his bed and find out if hearts could be mended in the joining of bodies and spirits. He could imagine her, soft and aroused with the timid fire that he'd felt coursing through her that night in the wagon.
That she was a virgin was almost a certainty—she'd admitted that she and Ben Ross hadn't consummated their marriage of convenience, and her inexperience had been obvious when he kissed her. But what sweet pleasure it would be to gentle her and coax her from her shyness.
He shook off this daydream. It was impossible, out of the question, and he'd just make himself crazy if he didn't stop thinking about it.
“I've got to check on that bay filly.” He pushed himself away from the table and Libby stood to pick up their dishes. He took them from her hands and carried them to the sink. When he turned, he couldn't quite stop himself from walking back to her.
“Thanks for dinner, Libby,” he said, allowing himself the treat of looking down into her delicate face. He let his gaze roam over her soft, coral mouth, her smooth brow, her eyes. “And, well, everything else.”
She blushed, the color staining her cheeks with an innocent beauty that tugged at his heart and made him smile. “You're welcome, Tyler. I-I hope you'll be feeling better.”
A Taste of Heaven Page 21
