A Taste of Heaven (28 page)

“Tyler—”

”Don't you start,” he muttered, exhibiting
great interest in a sliver on the edge of the chair seat. His lean,
handsome face was beginning to show the strain he was under.

Libby wasn't sure why she bothered. She knew
she shouldn't care. In fact, she didn't want to examine her
feelings too closely, but the feelings were there, nonetheless, and
she couldn't deny them.

She put her hand on the arm of his chair, and
leaned toward him. “To keep grieving for someone until you make
yourself sick, and sacrifice your own happiness, why, you're
throwing your life away. I don't think Jenna would have wanted you
to do that, no matter what her father says. You can't let his
bitter heart become yours.”

His blue eyes met hers sharply. “Libby, you
don't know what you're talking about here,” he warned.

She squeezed the chair arm until she
felt the square edges dig into her fingers. This was so difficult
for her to talk about, but it was the only example she could think
of “Yes, I do. My mother left me at the foundling home when I was
four years old. Years afterward, I-I found out that she died a week
later in a doorway, alone. Tuberculosis, they said.” He said
nothing but his frown knitted more tightly, and he put his hand
beside hers on the chair arm. She took a deep breath to continue.
“
Everybody
loses someone,
Tyler. We live and we die, some of us sooner than others. You have
to go on and make the most of your time on this earth. Otherwise,
grief will eat you up.”

He studied her for a moment, then shook his
head and stood up. "Like I said, Libby—you don't know what you're
talking about." He went down the steps and headed toward the corral
without a backward glance.

Libby watched him walk away, and tried to
pretend that his words hadn't hurt. But they had. Moments later,
she saw Tyler gallop out of the yard on the bay filly that he'd
finally tamed. The two of them streaked across the field toward the
hills, as if he thought he could outrun the demons that were
chasing him.

*~*~*

That night Libby stood before the mirror over
her washstand, brushing her hair and thinking. She was alone in the
house again. She hadn't seen Tyler since he'd left that afternoon.
When he'd asked her to come back to the Lodestar, she never once
envisioned being lonely. She was now, though.

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.