Watching the rise and fall of his chest, she heard his breathing slow and deepen. She turned to look at him. Sleep smoothed out the tired lines that years of worry and guilt had etched into his handsome face.
She put a protective arm over his waist. “I love you, Tyler,” she whispered.
In his sleep, he pulled her closer.
*~*~*
Libby poked her head out of the covers the next morning with the feeling that something was different. She opened her eyes and realized that she was not in her own room. She was in Tyler's bed, naked. She liked it in here, she thought, stretching dreamily. The room was warm with sun, and a clean, fresh breeze from the open window fluttered the curtains. Then the memory of the night before came rushing back to her, and she pulled the sheet up to her chin.
She rolled over and looked at his side of the bed, disappointed that he was already up and gone for the morning. The things that they had done last night! The passion and fire that had coursed between them—had it really happened? Yes, undeniably.
She had sensed that impatient urgency in Tyler all along, simmering behind a facade of rigid self-control. She'd had no idea how it would reveal itself. Closing her eyes against the glaring sun, she pulled his pillow over her head and smiled sleepily as she inhaled the familiar scent of him. It hadn't been a dream this time. It was real.
Glaring sun? she thought with a start, and threw the pillow off her face. Oh, God, why had he let her sleep so late? The men would have been waiting for breakfast for hours. She scrambled to the side of the bed, the sudden movement bringing a sharp ache to muscles she'd not used until last night.
Quickly plucking her discarded clothes from the floor, she opened the door a crack to make certain no one was in the hall, or the parlor below, then dashed for her own room.
After dressing hastily, she sped lightly down the stairs, braiding her hair as she went. When she walked into the kitchen, she found Rory drying dishes. The faint odor of burned bread hung in the air.
“Rory, heavens, I must have overslept. Did everyone eat?”
“Yes, Miss Libby. Tyler had me and Kansas Bob cook this mornin'. I still ain't figured out how to make toast without burnin' it.” He wore an old flour sack for an apron, an accessory that she felt certain clashed with his aspiration to be a top hand. “I was hopin' to air the place out.” He nodded at the open door.
“Oh, no, I'm sorry. Here, give me that.” She took the dish towel from him and applied it to a wet tin plate on the counter. “Why didn't Tyler wake me?”
“He said you were up late last night and he was lettin' you sleep in. Were you sick?”
Libby could only hope that her face wasn't as red as it felt. But at the same time, she was extraordinarily pleased that Tyler had thought of her. “Uh, no, I just couldn't sleep. You can take off that flour sack and go be a cowhand again. I certainly appreciate your help, though. You did a wonderful job cleaning up. Someday, your wife will be glad you know your way around a kitchen."
He discarded the apron with a horrified expression. “Wife! Thanks, Miss Libby, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather stick to horses and cattle." He smoothed back his hair and put on his, hat.
She laughed. “You might change your mind later on. For now, I'm sure that Joe can find something more interesting for you to do out on the range.”
Rory walked out the open door and trotted toward the corral, presumably in search of the rest of the crew and a manly occupation.
Libby looked at the clear blue sky as she dried the last of the dishes. Had it always been that blue, she wondered, or was it different today? She inhaled a deep breath through her nose. Despite the lingering trace of burned toast, the breeze blowing in from outside smelled fresher and more invigorating than it had just yesterday.
In fact, Libby couldn't recall the last time she'd known such a sense of happy well-being. But the man responsible for it came into her view then, leading the pinto toward the road and talking to Joe. A flush of love and excitement filled her just to look at him, and she had to stop herself from running out to meet him.
He was so handsome, and this morning he looked downright beautiful to her. His hat rested on his back, hanging by its bonnet strings, letting his chestnut hair glimmer with brown and copper fire under the morning sun. She couldn't see his eyes but she knew that they matched the endless sky above him. His long legs were wrapped in buckskin chaps, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up nearly to his elbows, showing off lean, muscled forearms. Now and then, he reached up and absently stroked the pinto's neck, and she remembered how gentle and comforting his hands could be.
He and Joe were walking slowly, apparently deep in some conversation. When they came abreast of the kitchen door, their words floated to her. Tyler's dog, Sam, bounded around his feet, his pink tongue lolling.
“Not this time, Sam. You stay here.”
“How long you figurin' on bein' gone?” Libby heard Joe ask.
“Well, you know how far it is to Billings. Three or four days at the most. I shouldn't have any weather to contend with.”
“You sure you want to do this?” Joe asked. “Things are goin' just fine.”
“I can't very well have her cooking for us anymore, Joe. Not now.”
“I s'pose you're right. Bring back someone decent, then. We've gotten kind of spoiled with Miss Libby's cookin'.”
Tyler said good-bye, then Libby heard the jingle of bridle and the pounding of hooves as he set off across the turf.
Adrenaline flooded her, making her hands shake and her heart thunder like a herd of runaway horses. Pulling out the chair at the worktable, she sat down, fearing she would either faint or vomit. Her breath came in jerky gasps, and she pressed her trembling fist to her mouth. It was happening again, she thought wildly. Scalding tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Stupid, stupid woman, she cursed herself. Why hadn't she learned her lesson with Wesley?
Oh, because she'd thought Tyler was different, she sneered, that was why. He wasn't any different at all. Not really. She doubted that he had a wealthy, society fiancée waiting in the wings. But he'd revealed his innermost thoughts to her, he'd made love with her, and now, of course, he regretted it bitterly. So much, in fact, that he was going all the way to Billings to find someone to take her place.
A wailing sob crept up into her throat, and she clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle it. Oh, Tyler, why? she mourned.
He hadn't had the guts to tell her what he was planning. He'd simply sneaked away while she slept, without even saying good-bye.
Well, this time, she wasn't going to pack. This time, she'd make that detestable coward tell her to her face that she was finished here.
And she had three or four days to work up the nerve to listen.
Chapter Fifteen
Tyler had pushed the pinto as hard as he dared, trying to eat up the miles of sage and grass between the Lodestar and Billings. Every time he thought back to the fire and tenderness Libby had summoned in him, born out of raging desire and desperation, he urged the horse on. Now, after a day and a half in the saddle, he finally saw the town emerge on the horizon.
It was one of the toughest things he'd ever done, leaving his bed at dawn yesterday morning. He woke with Libby asleep next to him, her arm looped around his middle, and the sheet barely covering her full, soft breasts. Her face was buried in his neck and she lay with one leg between his, the front of her pelvis pressed tight against his hip. All he'd wanted to do was spend the morning making love to her again.
But the night before, she'd whispered those words to him in the instant just before he fell asleep. Hell, maybe he wasn't even supposed to hear them. It had seemed so far from his consciousness that it was almost like a dream. But it wasn't a dream, and he knew what he had to do. Nothing else could have forced him from her side and set him on this trip.
So he'd left a note on his pillow, and kissed her good-bye.
Up ahead, the buildings began to take shape. Saddle-sore and
exhausted, he nudged the pinto into a canter. Yeah, leaving her was definitely one of the hardest things he'd ever done.
*~*~*
Libby woke with a start, and found she'd been hugging her pillow again. She glanced around the walls of her room. It was still dark, she thought unhappily. The last two nights had seemed endless. Disentangling herself from the twisted bedding, she went to the window and rested her forehead on the cool glass. How quickly—in a heartbeat, or with the utterance of a few words—joy could turn to despair.
Below, the Lodestar slept in the quiet darkness, contrasting with the turmoil that churned within Libby's heart. During the day, she crept around the ranch house like an injured bird, feeling sick and empty inside. In front of the men, she made a valiant effort to appear as though everything were normal. She believed she succeeded, but only because Joe had gone to the northern range shortly after Tyler left. Although he'd have said nothing, Joe would have seen through her pretense, making it difficult for her to maintain it. His sharp jet eyes missed very little.
At night, sleep eluded her and at best, she only napped, falling into a troubled doze for brief periods. Keeping Tyler from her thoughts proved impossible. Over and over, her treacherous memory would drift back to the night he had held her in his arms, his skin warm on hers. Finally, she had closed Tyler's bedroom door, leaving the bed unmade, so that she wouldn't have to look at it and remember the way he'd touched her, or the things he'd whispered to her—he'd sounded so sincere.
But he'd spoken even more candidly to Joe the following morning. I can't very well have her cooking for us anymore, Joe. Not now. No matter how Libby analyzed it, there could be no mistaking his meaning and intent. And Joe had agreed with him, so that meant that he probably knew what had transpired in Tyler's bed, too.
She gripped the edge of the windowsill. Despite her resolve to face Tyler when he got back, she wished she hadn't returned the hundred dollars that he had given her in Miles City. If she still had it, she'd fly away across the prairie, away from the man with sky-blue eyes who'd taken her heart.
About an hour before sundown the next evening, Libby stood at the sink, with her hands submerged in hot, soapy dishwater, and her thoughts on a gloomy path. She listened for the muffled strikes of Rory's ax, but she didn't hear them yet. Although he was certain that a top hand wouldn't split firewood for the kitchen, it wasn't too hard to get his help with the proper inducement. The chore might be beneath the dignity of a top hand, but cookies apparently were not.
The door opened behind her, and spurs rang across the plank floor.
“When you finish out there, I've got some peanut butter cookies for you,” she said.
“Cookies aren't going to do the trick, Libby. I've got an appetite for something else altogether.”
Her breath trapped in her throat, she whirled and saw Tyler standing there. She froze like a doe caught in lantern light, a sopping dishrag clenched in her hand. The kitchen always seemed much smaller when he was in it.
He was dirty and he looked dead-tired but, oh, damn him, he wore it so well. His eyes turned smoky with desire, and he gave her a wicked grin that told her exactly what his appetite demanded.
“Well, Jesus, honey, you don't look very happy to see me,” he remarked ruefully. He took off his hat and threw it on one of the tables. Then pulling off his gloves, he tucked them into the waist of his chaps, and walked toward her, arms open. “I rode fifty miles today to get home to you. I just about wore out that pinto. Can't you even say hello?”
A slow-burning rage erupted in her, fueled by humiliation and heartache. She squeezed the rag until soapy water ran through her fingers and down to her elbow. Backing away from him, she nearly fell over a low stool trying to put distance between them.
He dropped his arms and his smile died. “What's the matter with you?”
Libby found her voice, and it shook with righteous fury. “What's the matter with me?” she repeated incredulously. She looked down at the wet cloth in her hand and threw it at his face with all the strength that anger put into her arm. The rag hit its mark with a slap, then tumbled down the front of his shirt, leaving a wet trail before it landed on the floor.
A black, forbidding scowl contorted his features, but she didn't have the presence of mind to feel fear, or anything else but betrayal.
He kicked the rag to the far wall and rubbed his face on his bare forearm. “Libby, what the hell is going on? I did some hard riding to get back here to see you,” he barked. He took two more steps forward, as if to clutch her arms.
She scrambled back, putting the worktable between them, eyeing him warily. “You stay away from me, you liar!” she ground out, her heart thudding in her chest. “I thought you were better than him, but you're not. You're the same. He made me think he cared about me, too, but I was only an—an amusement.” She heard the hysterical edge in her words, but she didn't care how she sounded. With a voice that began to tremble, all the pain and bitter anguish that she'd never been able to vent on Wesley came pouring out in a torrent. “To him, I was just the cook in the kitchen, n-not even a real person with feelings to hurt, or a heart to break . . . ”
Tyler was so damned confused and mad himself, he could barely follow what she was talking about. Of all the accusations she'd hurled at him, though, he grabbed the one that sounded familiar.
“What are you talking about? Does this have to do with something that happened in Chicago? Maybe you'd better tell me the real reason you left!” He stayed on his side of the table, but he put his hands on its surface and leaned toward her.
She wrapped her arms around herself. “I told you —I just couldn't stay there anymore.”
He pounded his fist on the tabletop, once, making everything on it clatter. Libby jumped, too. “Damn it to hell, that's not good enough. I have the right to know who you're comparing me to!”
She glared at him, then lowered her eyes. “I suppose you do,” she said. Weariness crowded out the wrath in her voice, and she told him about Wesley, Eliza Brandauer's spoiled, handsome son who made Libby believe that he cared about her, and even went so far as to promise eventual marriage. One night, when his mother was supposed to be out of town, he brought her to his room on the pretense of stitching a rip in his shirt.
Libby kept her gaze fixed on the table. “If he'd been anyone else, I would have worried.” She shook her head, as if still trying to understand. “But I trusted Wesley. As soon as I was in the room, he closed the door.”
His gentle, affectionate kisses rapidly escalated into rough, insistent groping that frightened and offended Libby. “I'd never thought about a woman being raped by someone she knew. But that's what he would have done to me. I guess I should be grateful that Mrs. Brandauer came home when she did.”
With a single knock on the door, Eliza Brandauer walked in, outraged by the sight of her son rolling around on his bed with the cook, whose skirt was hiked up to her thighs.
Libby tipped her face down. “Oh, God, I wanted to die. Wesley said nothing in my defense—nothing. Mrs. Brandauer called me a whore and dismissed me on the spot. I was to be packed and out of the house by morning—she wouldn't abide a whore sleeping under her roof, she said. Moral propriety was very important to her.” Her voice quivered with the tears that coursed down her face unchecked. “I ran from the room and I heard her scold Wesley, asking what he supposed his fiancée’s family would think if they learned he'd been dallying with ‘the servants.’ Fiancée . . . ” She repeated the word, as though it were beyond her comprehension.
Word of Libby's discharge and Wesley's upcoming wedding spread quickly through the house. That kind of news always did. Even her adopted family of Melvin, Birdie, and Deirdre shunned her because she'd committed the grievous sin of forgetting her place and consorting with Mr. Wesley, and him newly engaged, too.
“After ten years, I suddenly found myself on the sidewalk with nowhere to go, no one to turn to. I had barely any money. I walked all day trying to find a job, but I didn'
t have any luck. I looked disreputable, I guess. Finally I knocked on the kitchen door of a church. The pastor's housekeeper let me stay in exchange for work until Ben sent me the tickets to come out here.”
Tyler stared at her. The picture in his mind of Libby wandering the streets of Chicago made his eyes burn. His throat was so tight with suppressed emotion, it felt as if there were a whole sourdough biscuit in it. “And you thought that after the other night—”
Her head came up then, and so did the volume of her voice. “Oh, well, what about the other morning, Tyler?” she demanded, her hands on her hips. “What about telling Joe that you couldn't let me cook here anymore? You can sleep with a whore in Heavenly, but you won't have one cooking for you, is that it? No, you had to go to Billings to find someone to take my place.”
His heart clenched in his chest. “Sleeping with me makes you a whore?”
Ignoring his question, the razor-edge of her voice broke, and in barely more than a whisper she uttered, “You just rode off. I watched you go from this window right here. You didn't even tell me good-bye. Even Callie Michaels got a good-bye from you.”
Tyler gaped at Libby, stunned. Her face was colorless, but her eyes had darkened to charcoal. She folded her arms across her chest, withdrawing into herself.
“But I never told Callie that I loved her,” he shot back, feeling persecuted now.
“How nice, do you want a reward?” she snapped, her eyes full of pain and fire. “You never told me that, either.”
“Then what did I write in that note? I don't know how much plainer I could have put it!” He was shouting now, too.
“What note? You didn't leave me a note.”
A muddle of feelings closed in on Tyler—exasperation, fury, and distress for what the Brandauers had done to her, hurt, grinding fatigue, harassment. He put the heel of his hand to his forehead and took a deep breath.
“I thought I was being considerate by not waking you. Damn it, now I wish I had. I left you a note on my pillow the morning I left.”
A Taste of Heaven Page 25
