A Taste of Heaven

by Alexis Harrington

  Osmer leaned toward her, both hands on the counter. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Can you cook? I mean, do you think you could cook for a bunch of people?”

  She smiled. “Cook? Oh, yes! I have a lot of experience with that.” For a nice little restaurant, she envisioned, or maybe at the hotel.

  “All right, then. Let’s go talk to those boys.” He nodded toward the figures on the other side of the window. “They're with the Lodestar outfit and they’re looking to replace the cook they run off last week.” He stepped out from behind the counter.

  “Lodestar outfit,” Libby echoed hollowly. “You mean a ranch?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s a big spread over near the Musselshell River, one of the few around here that came through the winter in passable shape. Tyler Hollins owns the place. He’s due back tomorrow and if there's no one to put three squares on the table, well—” Nort lifted his brows expressively. “He won't be too happy.”

  “But, uh—they ran off their last cook?” Libby found herself being herded toward the door with Nort Osmer's hand firmly under her elbow.

  “Now, don't you fret. They’re good boys, most of the time, and they need someone to fix them decent meals. No fancy food, mind you, just lots of it. Cowboying is hard work.”

  He opened the door to his shop and stepped out on the walk. At the sound of the overhead bell, the three glum men turned. Seeing Libby, once again they yanked off their hats, and watched her with a kind of mystified fascination.

  “I believe I’ve got your problem solved, boys, but you can thank me later.” He gestured at the three cowhands and presented them to her. Charlie Ryerson seemed to be about her age; he was the one with the mustache. Noah Bradley, a slightly older man, looked like he was made from hard-tanned leather and bones. Rory Egan had an earnest young face and a light scattering of freckles.

  Nort held a hand out toward Libby. “This here is Mrs. Libby Ross, Ben’s widow. Old Ben passed away from the pneumonia.”

  There was a murmur of self-conscious how-do ma’ams.

  “Ben Ross is gone?” Noah asked Nort, with sidelong glances at her. He spoke in a hushed voice, as though he were in a museum, and Libby was the exhibit

  “Ben got hitched?” Charlie asked. “Old Ben?”

  “Yeah, just before the snows commenced. The winter was pretty hard on their place. Now Mrs. Ross needs a job for a while and she knows her way around a stove. Ain't that so, ma’am?”

  Libby smiled uncertainly into their curious, respectful faces. “Before I came to Montana, I cooked for a family in Chicago.”

  After a brief exchange of looks among themselves, the men’s reticence fell away. Apparently this information elevated her to a professional status. They drew a bit closer and all began talking at once, relating a confused but vehement account of lousy cooking, food poisoning, and the fate of the “potato-head” responsible for sending them all to the bunkhouse for two days.

  Charlie winced. “Yeah, we was a pitiful sight, that’s for sure. The only reason someone didn’t shoot that dadblasted cook is ’cause we was all too puny and weak to get out of our bunks. It wasn’t much comfort that he got sick, too.”

  “See, Mrs. Ross?” Rory spoke up. “We really need someone to take his place. We’re not faring too good on our own.”

  “What about Mrs. Hollins? Can’t she help with the cooking?”

  The three cowboys shuffled and stammered before Nort said, “There ain't no Mrs. Hollins, ma’am.”

  “Well, but—” Libby knew she couldn’t be picky, but neither was she certain that working for a bunch of cowboys on an isolated ranch was the best choice she could make. And she hated the idea of leaving this scrap of civilization to return to the loneliness of the grasslands.

  “Mr. Bradley, is it far to your ranch?” It was hard to tell, since he was so weathered, but Libby could have sworn the lanky man blushed. “Aw, shoot, ma’am, my pa was Mr. Bradley. You can call me Noah. And the Lodestar’s about five or six miles that way.” He pointed back over his shoulder toward the northwest.

  Five or six miles wasn’t nearly as bad as fifteen. And the job was a means to her eventual escape. “Well . . .” she wavered.

  “Mr. Hollins is gonna have a flat-out conniption if he comes back and there’s no cook,” Charlie put in. Libby could barely see his mouth move for the luxuriant brush on his upper lip. “Ma’am, we’re powerful sorry to hear about Ben, but we’d be much obliged if you'd help us out.”

  She looked around at the three expectant faces, then back at Nort Osmer. The shopkeeper nodded his approval.

  “I guess we'll be doing each other a favor,” she pondered, more to herself than to them. “You need someone to cook for you, and I certainly need the work. I don't know how long I'll—” But with this implied acceptance, the rest of her words were drowned in the wild whoops from her new coworkers.

  “Come on, Ma’am, we’ve got to get back to the Lodestar. We’ve got hungry men to feed. Is that your buckboard over there?” Not waiting for her answer, Charlie took her by the elbow with great enthusiasm, practically lifting her feet from the plank sidewalk with each step. “Rory, you ride on ahead and tell Joe we're having supper tonight. Noah, tie your horse to the back of Mrs. Ross's wagon, and climb up there to drive it,” he directed.

  Before Libby knew it, she was perched on her wagon seat again, where she'd spent the hardest part of the long day. Now, though, Noah sat next to her and took her roan's lines. She had just enough time to wave good-bye to Nort Osmer before the wagon lurched forward and pulled away from his store.

  She must have lost her mind, she thought, to be traipsing off into the wilderness again with three men she’d just met, based on the endorsement of a dry goods clerk whom she’d also just met. Tyler Hollins—what was he like, the owner of the Lodestar ranch? And how would he react when he found a strange woman in his kitchen?

  In a moment, the tall, funny buildings of Heavenly were receding behind her. And once more, Libby, with a dozen questions in her mind, found herself heading for an unknown destination and a future that was a complete mystery to her.

  Libby shifted on the hard seat, gripping its edge as the buckboard bounced along. Charlie Ryerson led the little contingent. He was the Lodestar's top hand, he'd informed her with a bit of a swagger. Noah sat next to Libby, handling the reins expertly. Overhead the clouds were closing in, and chill gusts ruffled the short buffalo grass growing on either side of the road. She hoped they reached shelter before it started raining.

  In her view, it seemed like days ago that she’d set out for Heavenly instead of just this morning. The months of nursing Ben in the confinement of his cabin had been enervating and unpleasant, but not always as physically demanding as the tasks she’d had to perform in the last two days. She tightened her grip on the edge of the seat as the vehicle jounced over a rock.

  “Is the ranch much farther, Mr. Brad—um, Noah?”

  “We’ll be coming to the Lodestar in another mile ma'am.”

  That was a relief, Libby thought. “Tell me about your ranch,” she said to the leathery cowhand. “Mr. Osmer said it’s a big place.”

  Noah raised his voice to be heard over the jingle of bridle and horses’ hooves. “Well, ma’am, the Lodestar’s got about five thousand acres, and about thirty thousand head of cattle grazing on open rangeland. Leastways, we did till this winter. We figure we lost more than three-quarters of the herd.”

  Five thousand acres, Libby marveled. She didn't know much about vast land measurements like that, but it had to be a lot. And they still had what—about seven thousand cattle? Ben Ross had begun the winter with two hundred cattle, and his ranch consisted of three hundred acres.

  “It must take several men to run a place that big,” she said.

  “Yes’m, there's nigh on to twenny of us helpin’ out.”

  Libby felt her eyes widen. She’d imagined she'd be cooking for maybe eight or ten people. It was a highly worrisome prospect to be stuck out on the emptiness
of the prairie with twenty men. Everything about this ranch seemed larger than life. That is, life in Montana as she’d seen it so far.

  “Guess you ain't used to cookin’ for so many folks,” he said rightly reading part of her thoughts.

  She shook her head. “No, the family I worked for had just four people.”

  “Was it in one of them, big dressy houses?” Noah asked. “I seen a few of them when I worked in the Chicago stockyards for a while.”

  Oh, yes, it had been, she remembered, with creamy walls and deep carpets. She hadn’t seen the main floors very often. Mrs. Brandauer hadn’t liked the kitchen help to stray from below stairs, and Libby always followed her edict. Until Wesley . . .

  “It was a very nice home,” she replied, struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice. It was difficult. If not for Wesley Brandauer, she wouldn't have married Ben. She wouldn't have come to Montana at all.

  Suddenly curious about her new employer, Libby asked, “What about Mr. Hollins. Is he easy to work for?”

  Noah squinted at the horizon. "Well, he don’t like change, that’s for sure. That’s why me and the boys was so worried about runnin’ off that cook.”

  Libby turned slightly to study Noah’s weathered face. The three cowboys had been so persuasive, she hadn’t thought to question their authority to hire her. “Do you think my coming to work will be all right with him?”

  Noah didn't respond and she wondered if he’d heard her. The only sound was the clopping of the horses’ hooves on the rain-softened earth. She was about to repeat her question when he answered. “We just have to hope so, but I couldn’t say for certain. Mr. Hollins, he ain’t an easy one to figure. He likes to keep to himself. Fact is, I never seen a man so bound to hold other folks at a distance.”

  Libby looked at the horizon, too, forced to be content this time with both Noah’s answer and his ensuing silence. Desperation had driven her from Chicago—she’d had nothing left to lose then, and despite her great hopes for a new start, she’d gained nothing since. Only a job offer that could be withdrawn as soon as Tyler Hollins met her.

  Still, this Mr. Hollins didn't sound so bad. When the cowboys had mentioned their difficult boss, she imagined a man who was fault-finding and impossible to please.

  But a man who simply wanted to be left alone sounded like no trouble at all. In fact, Libby thought that would be a real asset.

  Chapter Two

  Joe Channing, Lodestar’s foreman, was standing in the corral feeding an apple to his favorite horse when Rory Egan galloped into the yard, followed by Charlie Ryerson.

  Joe walked over to the split-rail fence and looked at Rory, then at Charlie. “About time you boys got back. What did you do with Noah, lose him in town?”

  Rory and Charlie exchanged idiotic grins. “No, he ain't lost,” Charlie went on, “but I think we maybe found the answer to our prayers.”

  Joe watched them suspiciously for a moment, then lifted his hat and resettled it on his head. “Yeah? Well, if you’ve been tryin’ to pray the roof back onto the woodshed, I can tell you it ain’t worked yet.” The woodshed roof had collapsed during one of the blizzards and Charlie was given the job of repairing it. He hadn’t gotten around to that chore yet.

  Rory’s grin faded slightly and he slid down from his horse. If he’d been expecting a more favorable reaction from Joe, he wasn't getting it.

  Charlie crooked one leg around his saddle horn. “I guess we better tell him what we did,” he said to Rory.

  The youngster turned to look over his shoulder. “I don't think we'll have to.”

  Just then Noah came through the gateway, driving a slat-sided horse and backboard that didn't belong to the Lodestar. On the seat with him rode a young woman.

  Joe looked at them, then back to Charlie, and scowled. “Charlie, goddamn it—”

  “Now, Joe, don't go jumpin’ on the wrong idea,” the cowboy put in hastily. “She's our new cook”

  “New cook, my Aunt Amelia. The last time you pulled some prank like this, Ty just about had my head. That woman goes back to the Big Dipper, or wherever she came from, before sundown.”

  But Charlie and Rory weren't listening. They had rushed to the girl's side to help her from the wagon. Joe's gaze traveled from the besotted cowhands to the young woman. Well, she didn't look like a saloon girl. Her dress was modest, and she wasn't wearing any paint that he could see. His view was obscured as she disappeared behind the circle of men that was growing by the second.

  Joe swore and slammed open the corral gate with the heel of his hand. Tyler wasn't going to like this. Not one little bit.

  He stomped toward the group, his strides lengthening with each irritated step. As he approached, the men parted before him like thistledown in the wind.

  Charlie lifted his hand as if to forestall him and spoke to the girl. “Here's Mr. Channing now.”

  Joe raised a brow at the “Mr. Channing” and turned to look at the woman. She lifted large gray eyes to him and whatever angry words he'd planned to say died unspoken.

  “Ma'am, Joe Channing is the foreman of this outfit. Joe, this here's Mrs. Libby Ross. We met her in town.” Charlie's voice dropped to a whisper, as though she wouldn't hear him. “She's Ben Ross's widow. The winter was hard on them—Ben got carried off with the pneumony and she needs a job.”

  Joe swiveled his head to look at her again. That was stunning news. This woman had married old Ben? It sure as hell couldn't have been for his money—he'd been on his last chip for years. Love? Naw. But why else would a young woman marry a man who was run down and nearly old enough to be her grandfather? She herself couldn't be any older than twenty-four or twenty-five. He gaped at Charlie before recovering his reserve.

  “She knows how to cook, so we brought her back with us.” Charlie's last words were lost in the overriding buzz of comments from the men. They stammered and shuffled in front of her like green schoolboys. Joe had to admit it was good to see a woman on this place again. Her hair was the color of clover honey, red and yellow and light browns all mixed together, and it hung down her back in a thick braid. Her eyes were clear gray, and her skin smooth. But most distracting of all was her faint, guileless smile.

  Joe cleared his throat and this time all eyes turned to him. “The day ain't over yet. You men get back to your chores while I talk to Mrs. Ross, here. Rory, you unhitch her horse and take care of him. He looks wore out.”

  With much hat-tipping and backward glances, the men departed. Noah untied his own horse from the buckboard and Rory scuffed his boots in the dirt as he led her weary animal away.

  Joe turned a meaningful glare on Noah and Charlie. “I’ll talk with you two later.” The pair backed away with great reluctance, pulling their horses with them.

  Charlie turned, then over his shoulder he added, “Don't you light into her, Joe. She's a cook, just like I said.”

  He nodded after them impatiently, then turned to her as he gestured at the house. “Why don't we talk on the porch?”

  “All right, Mr. Channing,” she replied softly.

  How had this woman ended up in a one-saloon town like Heavenly, married to an ailing old man? Joe wondered again. Oh, hell, the West was full of people with sad stories. It would be much easier to send her on her way if he didn't know hers. And send her he would. Tyler Hollins would never allow this woman to disrupt the routine of the Lodestar.

  Libby had a feeling of impending doom. She sensed that for one reason or another, she would not be allowed to stay here. And though she had no desire to stay in Montana any longer than she had to, at this moment in time she had nowhere else to go. Lifting her skirts from the damp earth, she allowed the rangy foreman to guide her across the open yard to the wide front porch.

  The ranch house, a big, two-story dwelling, had a rustic look that matched its surroundings. It was built of logs, but they were small and fit together snugly. Along the front edge of the porch were what appeared to have once been flower beds, but Libby was too distracte
d to give them much notice. The front yard was a ratty tangle of winter-bleached weeds and wild grass that were coming to life in the feeble spring weather. But compared to Ben's shack, it was a grand home.

  Settled on the porch swing, she folded her hands in her lap and looked up at Joe Channing, waiting for him to commence. He was a tall, rawboned man, with a big mustache like Charlie's. Although she suspected that he was probably no older than thirty-two or -three, his dark hair was graying ever so slightly at the temples, as if this hard, unforgiving country and climate had stolen its color. When he spoke, his low, quiet voice rumbled up out of his chest like thunder rolling across a distant valley.

  “You'll have to forgive those boys for dragging you out here, ma'am. They don't always use their heads.” He leaned against one of the uprights and considered her. “I’m real sorry to hear about Ben. I know he was sickly for a long spell.”

  It seemed to her that everyone had known that about Ben Ross except her. Although the foreman studied her, he was apparently too polite to ask any questions, and that was fine with her. She didn't want to discuss the details leading to her brief marriage.

  “Mr. Channing, the men said you need a cook. Is there a problem with my being here?” She hoped he didn't hear the desperation in her voice.

  He pulled off a glove and massaged the back of his neck. “Not a problem, exactly. It's just not up to me who gets hired at the Lodestar.” She noticed his eyes slide away from her on this last statement.

  Maybe if he realized what her skills were, he wouldn't be as hesitant to give her the job. “I really am a very good cook. I worked for a family in Chicago for years. I even have references.” Oh, yes, the Brandauers had provided adequate references, on proper stationery. Their bequest to her in exchange for twelve years of her life and a piece of her heart.

  Joe lifted his hat and plowed a big hand through his hair. "Excuse me for saying so, ma’am, but maybe you should go back to Chicago. This is rough territory, especially for city-born women.”

  She clenched her hands in the folds of her skirt. “I can't go anywhere, Mr. Channing, until I earn enough money to buy a ticket. That's why I need a job.”