A Taste of Heaven (32 page)

“But—”

”Go on, now,” he said, looking over his
shoulder at her. “We'll talk about it at supper, okay?”

She left the room, quietly closing the door
behind her. Whenever he withdrew into himself, Libby knew he was
thinking about Jenna. She couldn't fault him for mourning his wife,
but—but oh, God, it made her feel like she was competing with a
ghost.

Everything about that idea was wrong, she
told herself as she walked back to the kitchen. It was wrong of her
to envy a dead woman, a woman whose tie to him had been much
stronger than her own. After all, despite the brief heated moments
they'd shared, Libby was still Tyler's employee, just like Kansas
Bob or Possum Cooper.

At least she trusted him enough to stop
comparing him to Wesley Brandauer. She realized that there were
things about Tyler she didn't know, but she felt he'd always been
honest with her. That he'd never led her to believe he was anything
other than what he said.

She looked out the kitchen window at the
nearly completed flower beds. The rich, dark soil was tilled, and
free of choking weeds and grass. Now the prairie roses, climbing on
trellises that flanked each end of the porch, were visible in all
their delicate beauty. The only task that remained was to line the
edge of the beds with stones. She took her gloves from an apple
crate next to the door, and walked outside into the sun.

It seemed like a good job to get her mind off
the one fact about her relationship with Tyler that frightened her
the most. She might work for him, like Kansas Bob or Possum, but it
was a safe bet that she was the only one on this ranch who was in
love with him.

*~*~*

That night, Tyler brought no wildflowers to
put on the supper table. He was distracted and quiet, and responded
to her attempts at conversation with one-word answers. When she
asked him to pass the gravy, he handed her the bread. Libby
realized that sitting with him under these circumstances was
lonelier than having supper by herself.

“Tyler,” she said at last, getting up for the
gravy, “keeping things bottled up isn't good. I've seen what it
does to you.”

After, a pause, he lifted his eyes to
hers.

“I don't talk about myself much. You should
know that by now—it’s not my way.”

She put her elbows on the table and leaned
toward him. “What I know,” she said earnestly, “is that the
troubles you're keeping to yourself eat you up and make you
miserable. It's not as if it doesn't show.”

He put down his fork and pushed away his
empty plate. She could see him grappling with the decision to tell
her what was on his mind.

“I-I know that somehow Jim Colby's broken arm
made you think about Jenna.” Libby's voice trembled slightly, and
she cleared her throat to steady it. Putting her hands in her lap,
she dropped her gaze to her half-eaten meal. Daring and desperation
forced her to candor. “I can imagine that you miss her but—it's
been so hard knowing that when we—when you kissed me, you wished I
was her.”

His head came up sharply. “Libby, I never
wished that for one minute. Never. And I don't miss Jenna.”

“You don't?” She was surprised.

Tyler tossed his napkin onto the table and
wearily rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he should tell her. She
was right about one thing—keeping this to himself wasn't doing him
any good. Or her either, for that matter. But where to start? At
the place where everything changed, he supposed.

He straddled the bench. Putting his feet up,
he leaned back against the wall. “I'd been away from Heavenly for
six years when my father got sick and I came back to run the
Lodestar. One day I went into town, and I saw Jenna in front of
Osmer's.” A faint smile crossed his face. “She'd grown from the
scrawny kid I remembered into a beautiful, delicate woman. Almost
ethereal, I guess you could say. I knew she was suited to a more
gentle life than ranching. But I took one look at her and I
proposed to her right there, right on the street in Heavenly.”

That she was already engaged to a lawyer from
Helena didn't deter Tyler. He courted her with all the passion and
heartfelt ardor of a foolish young man, never once seeing that she
wasn't really the right woman for him. Winning her wasn't easy.
She'd never liked living on a ranch. She'd attended finishing
school in the East and wanted a more civilized life.

But Tyler was in love with her, and her
father, Lat Egan, was his ally. Lat admitted that he saw more
status in having a lawyer for a son-in-law than a doctor. But that
was outweighed by the even bigger advantage of a marriage between
their two spreads, the Lodestar and the One Pine.

“You're a doctor?” Libby asked, barely above
a whisper.

He glanced at her startled, wide-eyed
expression, then looked away again. “I
was
a doctor. Anyway, I was so persistent and
promised her such an ideal life, she finally broke her engagement
with the lawyer. I suppose she regretted that because she wasn't
happy here, not even from the first day, I don't think. She didn't
like horses, cattle, or cowboys. And even though I wanted her to be
happy, I worried that I'd made a terrible mistake in marrying her.
When she got pregnant, I was certain of it.”

He stood and went to the window, bracing his
hands on either side of the frame. Purple dusk gave way to moonless
night across the landscape, and the barn loomed as a dark mass in
the distance. “It was a bitterly cold evening in November when she
went into labor. Late the next afternoon, the baby still hadn't
been born when she started hemorrhaging. Rory was visiting with us,
but I'd sent him out to stay with Joe, you know, to get him out of
the house. Jenna grew weaker and weaker—finally she asked me to
send Rory for her father so she could see him one more time. God, I
tried everything I could think of to stop the bleeding.” He turned
and looked at her then. “She was gone before they got back.”

Libby listened to this with tears in her
eyes. “The baby?”

“Stillborn.”

“B-but you told me a doctor let Jenna
die.”

“That's right. I was the doctor.”

“Tyler, you didn't
let
her die!”

He leaned against the rough log wall and gave
her a little smile, full of regret and self-doubt. What frightened
Libby most was the utter lack of emotion in his voice. It was as if
he were dead inside, too.

“I didn't save her, either, did I? Logically,
I could tell myself that women die in childbirth every day. But
that didn't ease my guilt when I put Jenna in the coffin that
Charlie built for her. Or when I laid our son in her arms.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle
the sob working its way up her throat.

“Jenna's father holds me responsible, too,
but you know that. And he blamed Rory for not coming soon enough so
that he could see Jenna before she died. I couldn't do anything
about what he thought of me. But that kid was only ten years old.
For the guilt he heaped upon him, I never forgave Lattimer
Egan.”

“Oh, God, poor Rory,” she choked.

He flopped down on the bench next to Libby,
as though suddenly too tired to stand any longer. She wished she
could take him into her arms, but his icy mask and voice stopped
her.

“Rory wanted to stay here—I sent him home. I
thought his place was with his father. But he kept running away and
coming back to the Lodestar. Finally, I gave up and accepted the
responsibility of raising him. He's been here ever since. Lat was
furious about that, too.”

“But you gave up medicine? Tyler, that's such
a waste.”

He sat hunched on the bench, his elbows on
his knees, staring at the floor between his boots. He squeezed his
temple between his thumb and second finger. “I just lost my nerve,
and now I'm afraid I'd freeze. That's why I didn't want to set Jim
Colby's arm. Anyway, there's a doctor in Heavenly, Alex Franklin.
God help him.” His back heaved with the deep breath he drew. “So,
Libby—it isn't grief I feel for Jenna. Not anymore. It's guilt. I
persuaded her to give up the life that she wanted in Helena for one
she hated here. And when I should have saved her life, I couldn't.
After we buried her up on the bluffs I came back here and sat on
the porch, trying to figure it all out. The only thing I knew for
certain was that I was responsible. But as evening began to come
on, I saw two stars right next to each other, a big one and a
little one. I asked them to forgive me. And I have lots of times
since.”

Her heart contracted with anguish for him,
and she understood why he'd walled himself off from everyone. Never
once had she guessed how dark a burden he carried. Yet she knew she
should have realized that Tyler was a doctor. It all made sense—his
skill with the cut on her hand, the medical supplies in his office,
his compassion in the face of suffering.

“Tyler,” she whispered, because that was all
she could do over the constriction in her throat, “Jenna doesn't
need to forgive you. You need to forgive yourself. I wish you'd
told me about this sooner.”

“So you'd know what a fraud I am?” he asked,
his face still pointed at the floor.

“You're not!” she said emphatically. “I-I
knew a man who was a fraud, a selfish liar.”

“You mean Ben Ross?”

“No, not Ben. Someone worse, back in Chicago.
You're nothing like him. There's so much goodness in you. You're
just afraid to let it show.” That was what she'd responded to all
along—the goodness in Tyler—no matter how she tried not to, no
matter how he tried to put her off.

“You think so, huh?” he scoffed.

She put her hand on his shoulder. It was
tight and tense. “Yes, I do, Tyler.”

Tyler sat up and looked at her, the eyes, the
silky, vagrant strands of hair that framed her face, the lush coral
mouth. But more than anything, he saw honesty, and his cynicism
faded. She meant what she said.

He pulled her into his arms and rocked her
slowly. That sweet, faint scent of flowers and vanilla came to him,
and he kissed her temple. “Libby,” he murmured, “bringing you to
the Lodestar was the best day's work those boys ever did.”

“You didn't think so at the time.” He heard
the smile in her words.

“It just took me awhile to admit it to
myself. But I wasn't so lonely after you got here.” He rubbed his
cheek against her hair. “Those long days here at the ranch and out
on the trail—knowing that I would come back and find you in the
evenings, it felt more like home . . . at
night, knowing that you slept in the room next to mine, I wanted to
come to you . . . ”

Libby heard the subtle change in his voice,
and she pulled back to look at him. She recognized the low, blue
flame in his eyes that she'd seen once or twice before. Entranced
by his words, by his touch, she inhaled his clean scent. “And did
you?” she asked softly.

He stared at her lips, then let his gaze
drift over her face. “Once. I lay beside you for a few hours.” He
made it sound like the most intimate, personal thing that had ever
taken place between two people.

Her face grew warm. “You slept on top of the
bedding . . . I thought it was a dream.”

He lowered his mouth to hers. She felt his
breath mingle with her own. “It wasn't.”

When his lips met hers, it was as if they'd
never kissed before—all the passion and lonely, urgent longing
between them now suddenly flowered in the low-lit kitchen. He
teased her mouth open and she felt his tongue against hers, warm
and seeking.

Breaking away, he whispered, “God, I love
kissing you.” His fervent honesty fanned the timid spark he'd
ignited in her, and her pulse jumped its tempo. He buried his mouth
against her throat, leaving a trail of heat as he worked his way up
to her lips again.

With deft agility, Tyler turned her around on
the bench and lifted her to his lap. Again, he was struck by the
certainty that this virgin widow, with her brave spirit and banked
fire, could make him forget the desolate years of regret and
emptiness. He wanted to claim her as his own in every possible way.
But he couldn't make himself tell her that. Maybe his breezy
association with Callie had cost him his ability to court a woman,
to gentle and honor her with his body and his heart.

“I don't know how to say what I want to say,”
he muttered against her neck. “It's been a long time since I've
asked . . . Libby, I need
you . . . ” He wound his hand in the folds of
her skirt.

“I know,” she whispered. She stood up and
extended her hand. He looked at it, and then at her face. He saw
acceptance there, and maybe the same desire to fill the emptiness
she'd known.

Tyler lifted her hand to kiss it, then tucked
it inside his own. Lighting a candle, he led them through the
swinging door and up the stairs to his room at the end of the
gallery.

Libby stood in the doorway with her hands
clasped in front of her and looked at the four-poster she'd
daydreamed about in the train station. Were they doing the wrong
thing? In the eyes of polite society, perhaps. In the peace and
beauty of Montana Territory, she didn't think so. Looking at Tyler,
she knew in her own mind that making love with this man was indeed
the right thing to do.

Tyler set the candle down on the bureau and
came to her where she waited. He ran his hands up and down her
arms, rucking the fabric of her sleeves. He pulled the ribbon off
the end of her braid and combed his fingers through the plait. The
light strokes sent waves of delicious shivers over her. Though his
touch was tender, she sensed powerful desire coursing through
him.

“Save me, Libby,” he whispered thickly. “And
I'll save you. We've had too many years of heartache, I think.”

With those words, any last-minute trepidation
fell away from her. “I think so too,” she replied. He drew her into
his embrace, and she clung to him, feeling the warm muscle and bone
of him through his light shirt.