A Taste of Heaven (20 page)

The sulfur head blazed and in the glaring
kerosene light, she grabbed up the shotgun and a box of shells with
hands that trembled. Thank God Tyler had insisted that she learn to
shoot this thing. She still thought that hitting the rattlesnake
had been far more luck than anything else, but having the gun on
her lap would make her feel a little safer.

The lightning had moved on, but the storm
continued to howl around her. Her hair hung in limp, wet hanks on
her neck and back. Picking her clammy, cold skirts away from her
legs, Libby tried to think of a convincing reason why she shouldn't
feel sorry for herself. But given her miserable circumstances and
her growing fear, she couldn't come up with even one.

Hot tears welled up in her eyes, and she let
them come because she could think of no reason to stop them,
either.

*~*~*

Tyler looked at the milling, tightly herded
cattle with a sense of profound relief. They might have to round up
a few head—there hadn't been time to count them yet. But at least
they'd turned them before they plunged off the cliff.

“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.”

L
ibby 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.