A Taste of Heaven (9 page)

“We've got some cold weather to go through
before spring starts to warm up. I figured it—you might as well
have this.” His voice lost some of its commanding tone.

Libby pulled on the slip knot tied in the
string and opened the paper. Inside, she found the plaid shawl
she'd admired. Her jaw dropped and she gaped first at the wrap,
then at him.

“I can't take this, Mr. Hollins!” It
pained her to say it. The shawl was beautiful. It was
warm
. But to accept such a gift was
highly improper. Just why, she wasn't sure. Tyler Hollins was her
employer. If Mrs. Brandauer had known a moment of uncharacteristic
generosity and presented her with such a gift, she'd have accepted
it without hesitation. And propriety had never been an issue when
Wesley gave her the few small keepsakes she still kept in her
trunk: a silver hairbrush, a pair of gold cuff buttons, a sterling
buttonhook.

He turned his blue-eyed stare on her. “Yes,
you will accept the shawl, Mrs. Ross. Don't forget, you're part of
my job.”

“What?”

“I take my responsibilities seriously.” That
said, he flapped the lines on the horses' backs, and the wagon
pulled out.

Libby glared at him and pressed her lips into
a thin line, tempted to retort. It wasn't very flattering to be
viewed in the same light as the calves and dogs and horses he
considered part of his domain. She looked down at the package in
her lap. She was annoyed by his attitude, but not completely
so.

Libby unfurled the length of plaid and
wrapped it around her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

*~*~*

Early that evening, Tyler sat in his office
scratching figures on a piece of paper while he reassessed the
winter losses. He paused to adjust the flame in the lamp on the
corner of the desk. It was warm in here, but outside, heavy gusts
drove sheets of rain against the windows. At least it wasn't
snowing. Now and then, the wind pulled the blaze in the fireplace a
bit higher, but his dog, Sam, stretched out on the hearth rug,
slept on unconcerned.

“Life's pretty good for you, isn't it, Sam?”
he asked. He leaned back in his chair, making it swivel a bit from
side to side while he considered the big black mongrel.

The dog waved his tail once in
acknowledgment, but didn't wake.

“Sure, it's not so hard in have someone feed
you and let you sleep in front of the fire. You don't have to worry
about cattle, or this damned trail drive we have to make.”

Sam put one paw over his head.

Tyler sat up and looked at the numbers again.
He wasn't broke, by any means. He wasn't poor. But restocking the
herd would take careful planning. If he brought in some new stock
from Texas—

At that moment he detected an aroma, a
delicious scent that he hadn't smelled in this house for years. It
was the scent of baking bread. Not johnnycake, not sourdough
biscuits. This was real, honest-to-God yeast bread.

He inhaled again, and closed his eyes. In his
mind's eye, he saw a small, raven-haired woman with skin like fresh
cream, busy in the kitchen. She was thin—slight, really—and too
fragile to endure life in this place. Certainly too fragile for a
man's touch. And though she smiled at him, it was a sad smile, and
in her face he saw blame.

Just as Tyler began to feel a familiar
clenching ache in his chest, the vision dissolved into an unwanted
picture of Libby Ross. He imagined her clover-honey hair and white
apron as she peeked into the oven to check on the warm, sweet
loaves. Her sleeves were rolled up almost to her elbows, revealing
pale, slender arms.

Damn it, what made him think of her? he
wondered. He laid down his pen and rubbed his eyes. At least she'd
quit shivering when she put on the new shawl. It even looked nice
on her. He was still uncomfortable that the cook had seen him with
Callie today, but for the life of him, he couldn't guess why. Even
though he pretty much kept to himself, his relationship with Callie
Michaels was no secret. The whole town knew about it and didn't
think anything of it.
He
didn't think anything of it. But when he'd looked up and saw
a pair of big gray eyes staring at him from Osmer's window, he felt
awkward, as though—well, as though he were doing something very
wrong.

He closed the desk, unable to concentrate on
his task any longer. He hoped Joe found a different cook pretty
damned quick.

The last thing Tyler needed around here was
another person to make him feel guilty.

T
hat night the
crew of the Lodestar enjoyed a stew that swam with cubes of white
potatoes, bits of onion, and chunks of beef in a rich broth. Hot
bread and honey, and apple crisp drizzled with cream accompanied
the main dish. Seconds—and in Rory's case, thirds—were
consumed.

Though still trying to accustom herself to
cooking on a woodstove again, even Libby thought the simple meal
turned out well. The job was made a little easier now that she had
everything she needed, at least everything that was available to
her at Osmer's. She'd had to bake the bread, and getting the stew
beef had required one of the men to butcher an entire steer. It
wasn't exactly like going to the bakery and butcher shop in
Chicago. But the admiration from the men made the effort
worthwhile. And they seemed to be getting used to her—not as many
of them blushed like schoolboys when she spoke to them.

Libby made her way down the two long tables
to refill empty coffee cups. When she got to Noah Bradley's place,
he gestured at his empty dish.

“Charlie and Kansas Bob and the Cooper boys
don't know what they missed,” he said, scraping his blue enamel
plate with the side of his fork. “I almost feel sorry for 'em.
It'll sure be fun to tell 'em all about it.”

“Oh, don't tease them too much, Mr.
Bradley—um, Noah. I think working in this weather is punishment
enough,” she said, and glanced at the dark windows.

It was a wild March night, full of lashing
wind and rain that tapped against the windows. Now and then,
distant thunder rolled down the valley. It reminded Libby of Joe's
voice. The kitchen windows were fogged over from the heat of the
stove and the wet hats and slickers hung on pegs along the back
wall.

Joe wiped his mouth on his napkin and
carefully smoothed out his mustache. “I don't envy those boys bein'
out on a night like this. Lord knows I've had my share of sleepin'
in the rain. Today was hard enough. All day long, I kept thinkin'
about comin' back here to the cookhouse for a hot meal and black
coffee.”

Libby raised her eyes to look around at the
unfinished shedlike walls, and the trestle tables and benches. The
lighting was provided by big black lanterns, and the dishes were
all enamelware. There was a sink, but no running water except for
the pump. Even though this was an improvement over Ben's place—and
almost anything would have been—in her opinion, this was just one
step up from cooking in a tent. At least it didn't have a dirt
floor.

Obviously catching her in her critical
inspection, Joe laughed. She lowered her gaze hastily, but his dark
eyes were kind behind his laughter.

“It probably don't look like much, compared
to what you're used to, Miss Libby. But to a bunch of worn-out
cowpokes who’ve been sittin' on horses all day in the rain and the
mud, comin' back here, where it's warm and light, and good food is
waitin'—well, it's like walkin' into a grand home.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the
room. Libby clutched the handle of the coffeepot and smiled
self-consciously. She was unfamiliar with the kind of honest
appreciation she received from these men.

There was just one other person who'd yet to
taste this supper. She hadn't seen Tyler since they got back from
Heavenly. When they'd returned from the slow, bumpy trip, he
rounded up a couple of the men to unload the wagon, then he saddled
his horse and rode off. She'd heard him come through the front door
earlier, but his booted footsteps had gone to the back of the house
and stayed there.

“Would anyone like more apple crisp?” she
asked. “I have one more pan just about ready to come out of the
oven.”

“Naw, I guess you should save a little bit
for Tyler,” Rory said, pushing himself away from the table. “I just
hope Charlie fixed all the holes in the bunkhouse roof last week.
It's hard to sleep with a tin can balanced on your belly to catch
the rain.”

The cowboys began drifting outside then,
looking well-fed and content. Finally the last of them put on their
hats and slickers, and dashed through the rain to the dimly lit
bunkhouse across the yard. The wind whipped rain through the
doorway and stirred Libby's skirts. After they were gone, she went
to the stove and pushed the stew pot to a cooler corner of the
stove, wondering how long she should keep it warm for Tyler. Well,
he was a grown man. She was hired only to cook, not to keep a
restaurant kitchen. She pulled out a plate and got supper for
herself.

Libby wasn't completely used to eating alone.
Before, she'd had her makeshift family in Chicago—Birdie, the
Brandauers' maid; Deirdre, her young kitchen helper; and Melvin,
the driver. They'd sit at the big worktable in the kitchen at
night, sharing supper, news, and gossip, and laughing—but not too
loudly, lest the Brandauers be disturbed.

As she daubed honey on her bread, she
remembered the first time she'd seen Eliza Brandauer. It was the
third morning she'd spent in the waiting room at Mrs. Banks's
domestic employment agency. The foundling home had sent Libby
there, giving her the one-dollar fee to pay Mrs. Banks, to find a
job. She was fourteen now, she'd been reminded at the orphanage,
and it was time she made her own way in the world. Did she suppose
that charity would support her forever?

She'd sat in the corner of a room filled with
all different kinds and ages of women. Some were younger than she
was, some looked experienced, exhausted, or numb. Others appeared
as ignorant and scared as she. She didn't own any gloves so she
interlaced her shaking hands and buried them in the folds of her
thin, dark skirt. Ladies in fine clothes needing servants swept
into the waiting room. They looked the applicants over, and
sometimes made them stand so they could look them up and down as
well. Libby thought it was the most humiliating, frightening
experience of her life. She didn't know whether to be relieved or
alarmed when she was passed over time and again.

Then Eliza Brandauer had arrived. Cool and
imperious in a dark blue serge suit, she chose Libby to be a cook's
helper because, she told her, she looked morally upright. Moral
purity played a big part in Mrs. Brandauer's view of not only her
own society, but the world in general.

Eventually the cook retired, Libby took her
place, and was given Deirdre, a cook's helper of her own. It was
unusual for a nineteen-year-old woman to hold a position of such
responsibility as cook in a wealthy household. And when Mrs.
Brandauer decided to promote Libby, she stressed that she was
giving her a rare opportunity for which she should be grateful.

As the years passed, Birdie, Deirdre, and
Melvin became her adopted family. She'd counted these three people
as her friends, dearer than any ever she'd known. Yet, in the end,
they all turned their backs to her—

*~*~*

Libby had nearly finished washing the dishes,
and was deep in her bittersweet memories when Tyler Hollins thrust
open the door from the dining room.

Lost in her musings, his entrance was as
sudden and startling to her as a gunshot. With her hand in the
soapy water, her fingers slipped convulsively against the blade of
a knife she'd been scrubbing in the dishpan.

Gasping, she jerked her hand out of the hot
water. She couldn't see the wound but there was so much blood she
was certain she must have cut off her finger. Oddly, she didn't
feel pain, but red rivulets snaked down her hand and forearm with
alarming speed.

“Oh, God . . . ” she
breathed.

Tyler took two quick steps forward and
plucked a clean white towel from the worktable. “Here, let me
look.” His tone was steady and authoritative. He grabbed her wrist
and held her dripping hand over the sink while he opened her
fingers to examine them. Soap, water, and blood ran together,
concealing the injury. He pressed the towel to her hand, but it was
soon soaked through.

“I’m sure I can take care of this myself,”
she said, trying to pull away. It had been her experience that even
sturdy-looking men could be rather fainthearted when it came to the
sight of blood. She didn't want to have to worry about taking care
of both of them if he passed out. At least she tried to convince
herself that was the reason she didn't want him standing so close,
with his strong hand closed around her wrist.

“Stop fidgeting, Mrs. Ross.” He clamped her
forearm firmly between his elbow and his ribs, smearing her blood
on his shirt. Through the fabric, she felt the heat of warm muscle
and bone pressed against her arm. Turning them both toward one of
the lanterns, he complained, “Goddamn it, I can't see a thing.”

“It's bleeding a lot,” she offered
helpfully.

“Because you had your hands in that hot
dishwater.” He threw the towel aside and pivoted back to the sink.
Working the pump handle, he poured icy water over her hand until
her skin was white and the bleeding began to slow.

He stood very close to her, with his head
bent next to hers while he cradled her hand in his own. His touch
was warm and light. And he smelled good, like leather and fresh air
and clean hay. She hadn't noticed it before, she thought, and she'd
spent nearly the whole day sitting next to him on that wagon seat.
At the moment it provided a welcome distraction.