He shook his head and extended his arm toward the door to usher her out. “I'll take care of it. You should probably go and rest. This has been a long day for you.” His, expression wasn't angry. In fact, it was carefully blank. “And you have to keep that bandage dry.”
Libby wasn't used to working for someone so determined to do for himself. But he was right—it had been a long day, and if he wanted to get his own supper, she wasn't about to argue with him. She could clean up the sink in the morning.
“I'll say good night, then.”
“Good night, Mrs. Ross.”
Feeling dismissed, she inclined her head and turned to leave the room. She heard the office door close behind her.
Upstairs in her room, Libby shrugged out of her clothes and into a flannel nightgown. Maybe something had happened to Tyler that had hardened him into the man she saw most of the time, the man who lived behind a wall of coldness. One moment he seemed pleasant, the next he was as icy and remote as the hills on the other side of the valley. She'd think that he truly disliked her, yet he'd bought her that shawl today. It lay across the foot of her bed, and she reached out to smooth its soft wool fringe. And she couldn't have mistaken the concern she'd seen in his face while he bandaged her finger.
Bah, he was probably worried that her wound would hamper her ability to cook, she thought sourly. And anyway, she was too tired to unravel Tyler Hollins's perplexing behavior.
She opened her door a crack to let in the warmth from the hall. Heat generated by the fireplace drifted straight up here and in her mind, it was a shame to waste it. Climbing between the cold sheets, she turned down the lamp next to the bed, and the room was plunged into darkness. She huddled under the blankets, shivering and waiting for her body heat to make a warm pocket. Then she remembered the shawl. She sat up and whipped it from the end of the bed.
As she sank into the feather mattress, despite the throbbing in her finger, sleep crept in to claim her and she told herself that none of it mattered. Not the cold nights, not her cold employer. This job was only a means to an end—an escape from the frontier.
*~*~*
Tyler stood on the edge of the front porch and looked at the clearing night sky. Illuminated silver-gray by a half-moon, clouds drifted easterly across the faces of the stars. At least it had stopped raining. Breaking horses, the job he'd be doing tomorrow, was hard work any day. Doing it in the rain was hell.
But it was nearly midnight, and he couldn't sleep. He'd headed upstairs earlier, planning to go to bed, but almost immediately came down again. He'd no sooner gotten his clothes off than he pulled them back on and went downstairs in his stocking feet.
In the past few years Tyler had carefully established the ordered routine of his life. He usually rose before the crew was up, he worked hard all day, either on the range or in his office, he ate his meals in the dining room. Sometimes he sat in the parlor in the evening, reading stockman's journals, or even less frequently, one of the textbooks from the closet under the stairs. Then he'd go to bed and begin the pattern all over again. The only ripples that fluttered across the even surface of this schedule were his Saturday night trips into Heavenly. He protected this routine by making certain that nothing and no one trespassed on his solitude.
Now it had been completely disrupted by the honey-haired young widow asleep in the room next to his. Upstairs, he'd been nearly as aware of her over there as if no wall existed between them. He'd slouched on the leather sofa in the parlor for hours, staring at the fire, feeling like an outsider in his own home.
Leaning over, he rested his forearms on the porch railing and sighed. In the low yellow lamplight gleaming through the window, he saw his breath as a cloud of vapor. It wasn't that she was a pest, or incompetent, or lazy, he pondered. Hell, even after she'd cut herself, she was ready to go back to the kitchen. And he knew she'd lied about the pain in her hand. He'd seen grown men holler louder over less serious injuries.
Sitting next to her in his office, he'd detected the faint, sweet fragrance of flowers and vanilla. It was innocently feminine, the kind of scent that Callie, with her bright, hard perfume, had made him forget. The loss of that memory had been a blessing.
He'd forced himself to keep his eyes on her hand, but a couple of times he found his gaze straying to her softly rounded bosom. For a small woman she was surprisingly lush-breasted, and her tiny waist and the simple high-necked white blouse she'd worn only enhanced her shape. Her skin, he remembered, was the color of fresh cream with rose petals floating on it.
He suspected that Libby's life hadn't been an easy one for all that she'd worked for a wealthy family in a big house. He'd think that wouldn't be as hard on a woman as life on the prairie. But she had a look to her gray eyes that reminded him of heartache. That nagged at his conscience.
He hadn't meant to snap at her when she'd made the comment about competing with the doctor in Heavenly. She couldn't know how he felt about doctors, or the medical profession in general—
He straightened away from the railing and stretched his spine. His morning was coming up fast—it would be here in just over four hours and he couldn't spend the rest of the night sitting on the parlor sofa. He had to get some sleep.
Turning, he padded back into the house and picked up a lighted candle to see his way up the stairs again. But when he reached the second floor, he realized that Libby Ross's door was ajar. He hadn't noticed it earlier when he'd charged out of his room and down to the parlor.
He took a tentative step, and then another, until he was standing in front of her door. The cut on her hand was a bad one. It would heal well enough, he supposed, but what if it had started bleeding again? He put his fingertips on the edge of her door and hesitated. A long wedge of light from his candle fell through the opening and across the wide plank flooring. Jesus, he must be out of his mind— Finally, he gave the door a push. The candle in his fist wavered slightly.
In the semigloom, and small as she was, she looked like a child in the bed. Her wounded hand lay palm up next to the pillow, the bandage still pristine white. Even in sleep she looked exhausted and vulnerable, but her long hair flowed behind her like a satin drape. He reached out and lightly brushed the backs of his fingers against its softness.
It was then he saw that cuddled to her like a rag doll was the plaid shawl he'd bought for her this morning.
For a moment, he had the wild notion that if he were to lift the blanket, he'd find a pair of angel's wings folded against her body. Tyler backed out of the room more quickly and quietly than he would have thought himself capable. He went to his own room and shut the door, his heart thudding in his chest.
He'd talk to Joe in the morning, he swore with edgy resolve, jamming his hand through his hair. If his foreman couldn't find a new cook for the trail drive, then by God, Tyler would see to it himself tomorrow night when he went into Heavenly. If it meant he'd have to offer the job to every man standing at the bar in Callie's saloon, he'd do it.
He had to get Libby Ross out of his house and out of his life.
*~*~*
Late the next afternoon, Libby pulled her chair around to sit in a square of pale sunlight at the kitchen worktable. A light breeze from the open door stirred her skirts around her ankles. After dark gray days of soaking rains, the weather had cleared and this afternoon was mild enough to let her open the door to air out the kitchen.
Picking up a rolling pin, she began rolling out a crust for the apple pies she was making. Her finger was still tender, slowing her down and making some chores downright impossible. Handling the pie dough was awkward business with her bandage, and keeping the gauze dry was just a nuisance. But she did as she'd been instructed. She half expected Tyler Hollins to sweep in at any moment and inspect her hand.
She'd seen her employer several times today, but mostly from the distance. He'd spent the day at the corral across the yard, helping to break broncs, as Joe had called them at breakfast. He'd apparently cleaned up her mess in the kitchen last night
because this morning she'd found the sink empty and all the dishes put away.
Now and then, she glanced out the window and saw Tyler sitting on the top rail, watching the cowboys on the backs of a succession of wild horses that seemed bent on throwing them off and killing them.
But when Tyler jumped down into the muddy enclosure she put aside the rolling pin, lured to the yard by the absolute power of the demonstration. No one at the corral noticed her—all eyes were turned toward him as he slowly approached a nervous-looking bay. Libby thought that the big horse was the same color as Tyler's hair.
“That filly's got a mad-on now, Mr. Hollins,” Noah said from his spot on the rail. "You'd better blindfold her or she'll bite a chunk out of your hide."
“She's not going to bite me—are you, darlin',” he murmured as he got closer to the horse.
The filly reared and gave him a baleful look that supported no such confidence.
“Whoa, now darlin',” Tyler said, and jumped back a step. “She's smart as a whip, you can see it in her eyes. She'll make one hell of a cow horse.”
Noah shook his head doubtfully. “Maybe, but not yet. She still don't even like that saddle. You ought to give her another day or so to get used to it before you climb on.”
Tyler didn't answer. Instead he reached out and gripped the reins and the side of her bridle. Pulling her head down to his, he spoke in a low, quiet voice. Libby watched from farther down the fence, but she couldn't hear what he was saying. His words, obviously spoken with compassion and tenderness, were meant only for the bay. The mask of his sharp-edged expression fell away, revealing the handsomeness beneath, and for an instant Libby found herself envying that horse.
Only vaguely conscious of it, she put one foot on the bottom fence rail and climbed up so that her head cleared, the top. With her lower lip clamped between her teeth, she waited to see what would happen next.
Rory scaled the fence and sat next to her, all gangly arms and legs. “Howdy, Miss Libby.”
Libby shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun. “Hello, Rory. Is Mr. Hollins really going to ride that horse? She doesn't seem very inclined to let him. In fact, she looks as though she'd like to trample him.” Libby knew the feeling.
“Tyler?” His young face wore a look of mild amazement, as though she'd suggested that the sun might rise in the west tomorrow. “I never seen Tyler get throwed. He sticks like a burr. Anyways, he never asks us to do nothin' he won't do himself.”
She imagined that Rory was right Tyler was a hard, intensely self-sufficient man, obviously without sentiment or any other kind of emotion, except perhaps anger. At least in his dealings with most people, that was the case. Except when he'd patched up her hand.
After his gentling conference with the bay, Tyler, maintaining his grip on the bridle and reins, pushed his hat down more securely. Then he put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself to the horse's back.
She immediately made her feelings known about this circumstance. Though the men cheered and whooped, it seemed to Libby that the angry, twisting, snorting beast had no other desire than to shake off the offending rider and stomp him to death. Bucking and diving around the corral, they drew so close to the fence where she stood that Libby expected Tyler to crash through the rails.
“Tyler, look out!” she shrieked.
Hearing her, his head came up and his eyes connected with hers, blue and piercing. His concentration broken, in the next second when the horse dove again he was flung from the saddle and landed shoulder-first in the mud. Libby heard his breath whoosh from his lungs.
“Oh, my God!” She clung to the rails and gaped in horror, her hand pressed to her mouth. He'd fallen so hard, surely he must have broken something. Could he move? Was he badly hurt? The bay trotted off to the far fence, looking indignant.
Libby's heart started again when Tyler regained his feet. Rory and a couple of the men leaped down to help, but he shook them off. The left half of his shirt and pants were caked with mud.
When he turned to face her, guilt bloomed in Libby's chest. She scampered to the ground and peeked at him between the rails.
He walked over to her through the quagmire, his steps a little stiff but deliberate. Two buttons had popped off his shirt, and the clean side—the one that wasn't glued to his skin—gapped away from his chest.
“Are you all right, Mr. Hollins?” she asked, irked by the puny, scared sound in her own voice. She wasn't afraid of him, although she realized now she shouldn't have distracted him by yelling that way. She shouldn't care if he broke his silly neck trying to get on a horse that obviously had no intention of being ridden.
He removed his hat and briefly considered the wet Montana dirt covering half of its brim. Then he looked up at her.
“Mrs. Ross, shouldn't you be in the kitchen getting supper ready?” He didn't shout. In fact, he spoke with a quiet, conversational tone that reached only her. He didn't even sound angry. But she knew better. His annoyance was reflected in his eyes. “Well, yes, I—”
“The men will be expecting to eat pretty soon.”
At the dismissal, Libby pressed her mouth into a tight line. She inclined her head and turned for the house. When she glanced back, she saw him watching her, as the bay had watched him. Obviously she'd worried about his safety for nothing.
Maybe the filly had had the right idea, after all. Once more, she envied that horse.
*~*~*
An hour later, Libby finished crimping the edges of the pies, then sat down to peel potatoes for supper.
Looking at the bandage on her hand again, her thoughts returned to Tyler. He was so different from Wesley—Lord, she couldn't believe she'd even considered the two men in the same thought.
Wesley, though nearly the same age, had seemed far younger than Tyler. By comparison he'd had a much softer life, she supposed, than had Tyler. The planes of his face had been more rounded, and his fair coloring more genteel. And she never once heard him use the coarse language Tyler uttered every day. The others swore, too, but not if they thought she could hear them. Tyler didn't care who heard him.
Yet if she were going to depend on any man again—and she found that prospect most unlikely—she'd be more inclined to trust Tyler Hollins than Wesley Brandauer. Wesley's earnest, honeyed words, she'd discovered, were nothing but lies—dark, hurtful lies. His confession of love, his promise to stand by her, all of it had evaporated as quickly as morning fog along a summer stream. And with them had gone a lot of the hope she’d carried in her heart since her orphaned childhood.
Libby sighed. She'd tried hard to put Wesley out of her thoughts—even when she'd been snowbound in Ben's cabin, and thinking about Wes had been preferable to the reality, of her situation. She'd banished him from her heart, but she wasn't always successful at locking him out of her memory. And now, humiliation and Wes would be forever linked—
Just then, she became aware of a vibration in the floor under her. She lifted her head to listen, but there wasn't any sound, really. Not at first.
It began subtly, then increased to a heavier rumble that made the glass in the windows rattle. Floating above that sound was whooping and hollering that grew louder, then fainter, then louder again, as though the wind carried it to and fro. What was that? she wondered uneasily. It felt like an earthquake.
The commotion drew her to the window to investigate. She saw Tyler Hollins step up to the porch, as if to get out of the way of an oncoming train. He shifted his weight to one hip and crossed his arms over his chest. Looking down the road, he grinned. His dog, Sam, ran back and forth, barking his fool head off.
Resting her fingers on the windowsill, Libby leaned forward to look in the same direction. It was then that she saw two riders she recognized as Charlie Ryerson and Joe Channing gallop past the house toward the corral. Both of them were hooting at the tops of their lungs. Charlie's hat bounced on the back of his shoulders, secured only by its bonnet strings, and Joe waved a coil of rope alongside him. Behind them were abo
ut twenty horses of different colors and markings. A blur of flying manes and long tails sped past the porch on slender equine legs. The thunder created by their churning hooves all but drowned out the voices of the men following them, who were whooping and hollering, too. The strength and wild beauty of the spectacle made goose bumps rise along Libby's scalp, and she took a deep breath. She'd never seen anything like it.
The men drove the horses into the corral, where Noah and another man waited to close the gates. The animals milled around restlessly inside, snorting and whinnying, their heads lifted high on long, graceful necks.
Joe trotted back to Tyler, as mud-caked as his own horse. Libby saw his big smile peek out from under his mustache, and the rumble of his voice reached her through the open door.
“I was on my way back from Heavenly when I joined up with these boys. I couldn't let them have all the fun.”
Tyler looked up at his foreman, and shaded his eyes against the late sun behind him. “I guess they didn't find any of our brand on the north range.”
Joe hooked one knee over his saddle horn. “None that was alive, Tyler. But closer in, on Lodestar land, they ran into a few of the One Pine boys, and they told the same story. It's like that everywhere.”
“One Pine—God, Joe. They didn't really think we've got their cattle, did they?" Amazement colored Tyler's voice.
Joe shrugged. “Well, Lat Egan is desperate, Ty. He's sent his boys on a wild-goose chase lookin' for their brand over half the territory, thinkin' a few strays that drifted are still alive. He's payin' the crew, but Kansas Bob said they're ready to quit. He lost just about everything, and worse, they think he's gone plumb crazy.”
With his back turned to her, Libby couldn't see Tyler's face but she heard him sigh, and he hunched his shoulders, as though a shiver had run through him. “Jesus, isn't he ever going to stop looking back?”
“It ain't likely, Ty. It's been more than five years already,” Joe replied.
Just then Rory came running up. “Joe! Did you and Charlie bring those mustangs in?”
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