Libby started laughing, too. “Come on, now. How did Rory get his nickname? Will someone tell me, please?”
“I will,” said a voice behind her, and Libby saw Charlie wince before giving his attention to his plate. All other murmuring in the room ceased as the men became suddenly interested in their food.
Joe grinned, and his chuckle rumbled up from deep in his chest. “Looks like you've had it now, cowboy,” he said to Charlie.
She turned to find Tyler Hollins standing in the open doorway. When he walked in, the atmosphere in the kitchen changed. For Libby, the change stemmed from more than just his autocratic manner. He brought with him a physical charge, and the smell of horses, leather, and hay that, for reasons she couldn't define, seemed different on him than any other man present. He carried a shotgun, or maybe it was a rifle, that he propped against the back wall. Libby wasn't at all familiar with firearms—she couldn't tell which it was.
“One day a couple of summers back, Charlie, Noah, and Rory went into Heavenly.” He pulled off his hat and gloves, then plucked a clean coffee mug from the table and went to the stove to fill it. “They were supposed to pick up the mail and some wire at Nort's and come back here. But Charlie does love the ladies. And he and Noah got a bad hankering for what goes on above the saloon where Callie's girls work.”
Libby glanced away, remembering the woman's swish of violet taffeta and gardenia perfume.
Tyler poured a drizzle of cream into his mug, then continued. "Of course, they realized they couldn't take Rory up there. So they swore him to secrecy, left him at the bar and paid Eli, the barkeep, enough money to give Rory as much sarsaparilla as he could drink. And that was quite a bit. Ever since, Rory's been Sass. At least he has been to Charlie.” He took a sip of coffee and shot a glance first at Rory, who scanned the other faces around the table like a cornered rabbit, then at Charlie, who looked as if he wished he were either dead or anywhere else. “At the time, they said Noah's horse had thrown a shoe, and that's why they were so late. I guess you boys didn't think I knew about that.”
He sounded gruff, but despite the frown in his voice, Libby thought she saw a glimmer of reluctant amusement in his eyes. Again she was struck by the fact that he seemed to genuinely care about Rory.
“I didn't tell him,” Rory whispered frantically to Charlie. “I didn't!”
“No, he didn't,” Tyler interjected and leaned against the edge of the worktable. “Eli told me. He said it was the most sarsaparilla he'd ever sold in one afternoon.”
Guilt flashed through Libby. She wished she hadn't pressed to learn this secret. Its disclosure had only made everyone uncomfortable, including her. Tyler turned then and she found herself being scrutinized by those blue eyes.
“Mrs. Ross, I'd like to have a word with you, if you don't mind.”
Libby's insides twitched when she heard that familiar, commanding voice. Well, this was the end, she was certain. He was going to tell her he'd found someone to take her place. At least she'd beat him to it this time. She was packed and ready to leave.
As if sensing disaster, everyone in the room suddenly found they had something that needed attending to at that very moment The sound of benches scraping on the planking was followed by jingling spurs and a jumble of comments.
“The top rail on the corral needs shorin' up—”
“I believe that sorrel is goin' lame—”
“I want to take another look at the roof on the woodshed—”
Half-eaten meals and pieces of spice cake with just a bite or two missing were abandoned on the tables as the men hurried out the door into the afternoon sun. Charlie turned and cast a hang-dog, apologetic glance at Libby, then sped outside.
Just before Joe left, he gave Tyler a searching look that she noticed he wouldn't meet. Joe jammed on his hat and shook his head in obvious irritation, slamming the door behind him.
Libby turned back to Tyler, and arched a brow. “You certainly know how to clear a room.”
Ignoring her comment, he went to the back wall and picked up the shotgun he'd left there earlier. He eyed her bandaged finger. “How's your hand?” he asked.
“A little better.” She took a deep breath and steeled herself for the bad news, then looked at the weapon again. “If you'll just get someone to bring down my trunk, I'll be ready to go in ten minutes. You won't need to shoot me,” she quipped dryly, covering her dread with a veneer of wit.
He turned and stared at her. “Go?”
“Well, yes. Isn't that what you want to tell me, Mr. Hollins? That you found a cook in Heavenly to take on the trail drive?” She peeked around him, as though a driver might be standing there. “And that I should get my belongings together because one of the men is waiting to take me into town?”
“No, I wasn't going to say that.” Libby saw his grip tighten on the barrel of the shotgun. “As a matter of fact, I want to tell you that we'll be leaving for Miles City in three days. If there's anything you need to get before that, you'd better do it. I'll have a couple of the boys roll the chuck wagon from the barn and chase the mice out of it.”
She knew that her amazement must be plain on her face. After what he'd said yesterday, after the way he'd treated her since the day they met—
Something vital stirred in her soul, something that had slept through her lonely girlhood at the orphanage, and all the years of Eliza Brandauer's icy, genteel intimidation. A desire for something she'd never dreamed of having for herself—consideration. This desire roused itself now and made her speak up.
“Miles City! I believe you swore yesterday, and bitterly, too, that I wouldn't be going to Miles City. Something about hell—”
For the second time in two days, Tyler, who previously hadn't blushed for a good fifteen years, felt his face get hot. Damn it, but this woman tied him up in knots. He looked at her, small, straight-backed, and dignified as she stood before him. Her soft hair was tied up with a black ribbon and hung in a long fall nearly to her waist. “You weren't supposed to hear that,” he muttered, breaking contact with her eyes.
“It would have been hard not to since the door was open,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And you and Joe didn't trouble to lower your voices. So I assume you couldn't find anyone else to do this job, and I'm your last and only choice.”
He dodged this statement of fact. “We're going to Miles City, Mrs. Ross. Everybody at the Lodestar has a duty. We need someone to cook for us, and that's what you do with this outfit. It isn't easy work, I'll grant that, and the hours are long. But the pay is decent.” With tremendous effort, Tyler managed to keep from fidgeting.
Libby Ross looked at him dead-on, with eyes that could have frozen the Musselshell River. “I'm sorry, Mr. Hollins, I won't be going with you.”
“What?” He was completely flummoxed.
She drew herself up so tall that though the top of her head just cleared his shoulder, he felt as if she'd be looking down at him any minute.
“I have no intention of following you to the middle of nowhere, with a bunch of cattle and horses and cowboys, only to have you change your mind about me again. And maybe dump me in the nearest town we come to if you do find my replacement. I'd rather leave now and take my chances in Heavenly. I'll find a job somehow so that I can go back to Chicago.”
He sputtered wordlessly before finally finding his voice. “That's a lousy thing to say. I told you I'd be responsible for you as long as you work for me.”
Her nose came up just a notch. "And you can decide to end that whenever you choose. Isn't that so?” She waited as though she expected an answer.
He stared back at her. He couldn't believe this turn of events. Here he'd resisted the very idea of having this distracting woman in his house, with her sad gray eyes and scent of vanilla . . . And now when he'd finally come around to a grudging acceptance of her, when he really needed her help, she was refusing!
“Well, damn it, this puts us in a bind. If it's the money—”
She shoo
k her head and smiled. For that instant, it was unsettling how much this smile resembled Callie's—as though she knew something that he didn't. “It's not the money, Mr. Hollins. It's a matter of respect. And I've had precious little of it from you while I've been here. You're more polite to your dog.”
Now Tyler shuffled a bit and looked out the window. How the hell was he supposed to defend himself against that? Maybe he hadn't always been as tactful as he should have. It had been a long time since he'd had to deal with any female besides Callie, and she had no particular expectations of him. Plus, she was safe.
Libby Ross, on the other hand, always made him think of that absolute truth lurking at the back of his mind, a hard lesson he'd learned long ago—tender sensibilities got wounded and tender hearts were inclined to break. He knew he'd made some sacrifices over the years in leaving those emotions behind. Sometimes he felt it very keenly that he chose to remain on the outskirts, keeping himself apart from others.
Tyler was not unaware that except for general greetings from the men, he'd silenced all conversation when he'd walked in earlier. The aroma alone had been enough to draw him into the kitchen. The hum of conversation that he heard, and the feminine laughter, only pulled at him harder. He'd hung back for a minute, watching from the shadows on the porch as Libby moved around the tables. It was plain to him, and a little annoying, that without much fuss or bother, she'd fit easily into the daily life of the Lodestar. Without much fuss or bother for anyone but him, he thought. Now she turned those big eyes on him, half expectant, half wary.
If politeness would convince her to go with them . . . He held out his hand in an open gesture. “We'd all be much obliged if you'd come along with us on the trail drive, Mrs. Ross. The men work hard and I know they'd appreciate having you cook for them.”
Suddenly Libby found herself in a bargaining position. She held the cards. Tyler's cold, impassive mask had slipped again, and more by instinct than any true knowledge of a man's mind or heart, she realized her advantage.
“Mr. Hollins, I'll come on this trip under two conditions.”
“Conditions?” He lifted a brow and waited for her to continue, but that long-barreled gun in his hands made her pause a beat.
“I don't belong in Montana. When we reach Miles City, I want to collect my pay so that I can get on the train and go back to Illinois. You should be able to find someone else to take my place there.”
The afternoon sun had dropped just low enough in the sky to shine through the window. It made a halo on his chestnut hair and cut a bright path across his lean face. Funny, she hadn't noticed before that his eyelashes were almost blond at the roots, not even when he'd sat right next to her to bandage her finger.
“All right, Mrs. Ross, I agree. What's the other condition?”
She drew a deep breath, feeling as though she were about to ask him for a very personal favor. It was difficult to get the words out above a whisper. “I'd like you to call me Libby. Not Mrs. Ross.”
He lowered his eyes and glanced at the floor, and she thought he sighed. He looked up then, and caught her staring. He held her with his gaze just a moment before answering.
“Well then, Libby, I guess you'd better call me Tyler.”
*~*~*
“This time, wait until I get behind you before you fire,” Tyler ordered. He trotted back from the fence where he'd set up a line of tin cans and empty bottles. His watch chain and belt buckle gleamed in the spring sun.
Libby stood in the side yard, his shotgun in her inexperienced hands. From the corner of her eye she could see some of the men lounging around the open barn door, watching the proceedings with great interest. Once she and Tyler had come to an agreement about the trail drive, he'd made her come out here to learn to shoot. It seemed like she'd been at this for hours. First he'd taught her to load this fearsome weapon, and he'd made her go through that several times, once without looking. Then they'd moved on to target practice. But for all her attempts and his instructions, she hadn't improved one whit. She'd missed every one of her intended targets, and blown off some of the top fence rail. Truth be told, she was afraid of guns and didn't like handling this one.
“I really don't think I'm going to get any better at—”
He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a couple of shells. “If you're going with us, you have to learn to shoot. Out on the range, there's no telling when you might need to know how.”
“Wonderful,” she muttered under her breath, and reloaded the shotgun. She didn't regret her decision to make this trip to Miles City. It might not be the easiest way to get there, but it would do the job. She just hadn't realized what it would entail.
“Now take aim at one of those things,” Tyler said, gesturing at the bottles and cans.
She took aim.
“Which one are you looking at?” he asked. He wasn't touching her, but she could feel him standing behind her, and his words were spoken close to her ear.
“That Arbuckle's coffee can on the end.” She waved the point of the shotgun in its general direction.
“All right, go ahead.”
She squeezed the trigger, the shot blasted from the barrel, and this time, she hit the tree at the end of the fence. A pair of crows, dislodged by the misfire, squawked irritably and took refuge on the woodshed roof.
Behind her, Tyler sighed.
“Oh, dear,” she said, looking at the smoldering gash in the tree trunk. She glanced again at the men watching her from the barn, who were beginning to make some good-natured but loud remarks. She felt so awkward and incompetent with this.
Following the path of her gaze, Tyler stared at the group until they began to break up. Then with an obvious note of impatience, he said, “This just isn't that hard.”
With frightening speed and deftness, he stepped in front of her, pulled the revolver from the holster on his hip, and shattered two of the bottles on the top rail. The quick blasts echoed off the outbuilding with a sharp pinging noise, and made Libby flinch.
“I-I really ought to get supper started,” she said. She backed away from him and let the end of the heavy weapon drop.
He considered her, and drew a deep breath as though he were counting to ten. His stern expression smoothed out. “All right. You've got one shell left in there. Just shoot the damned coffee can, and we'll call it good.”
Libby pointed the shotgun at the can.
“You're too low,” he carped. “You'll hit the fence again.” This time she felt the slight pressure of his chest against her back and he reached around to put his hand under hers where she held the long barrel. The instant their hands touched, her heart lurched. She could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt and her shawl. The warm smell of him, of leather and hay and some other scent, new yet familiar, drifted to her, making it very difficult for her to concentrate on the can. The pressure behind her increased, and she found that she was forced to lean back just a bit in order to maintain her balance. At least that was the reason she gave herself. He rested his hand on the small of her back, and the tone of his voice altered subtly. “Um, try it now.”
“But I'll probably miss again,” she said. Her throat was suddenly dry, and she felt less certain than ever of her marksmanship.
“No, you won't.” His mouth was right next to her ear, and his low-spoken words held a faint intimacy. He tightened his hand on hers, holding her aim steady. “I won't let you. Don't be scared, Libby. Go ahead, now—pull the trigger.”
She squeezed the metal lever under her finger, and the coffee can flew off the fence rail.
“I did it!” She turned slightly in his half embrace and beamed at him over her shoulder, delighted with her minor success. He chuckled. At this close range, she could see the red stubble in his beard, and when she let her gaze drift up to his eyes, she paused. There was confidence and intense control reflected in their blue depths, but she also saw a hint of feral possessiveness, powerful and elemental.
Suddenly she was as frightened as
she'd been at any moment since coming to Montana. This was a fear that had nothing to do with the danger of freezing to death, or burying a dead man, or handling a firearm. This went straight to her heart—
From the general direction of the barn came loud applause and whistling. “Good shootin', Miss Libby!”
Tyler dropped Libby's hand and jumped back.
“You'd better get on back to the kitchen.” He was all business again, formal and remote, and the friendly warmth left his voice. “I imagine everyone will be getting hungry pretty soon. We'll—you can practice this again tomorrow.” He took the shotgun from her, then turned on his heel and walked toward the barn.
She watched him go, following with her eyes the broad sweep of his shoulders and the way his hair brushed the back of his collar. She realized then what scent she'd smelled on him earlier.
It was the scent of gardenias.
*~*~*
Tyler strode into the barn, hoping that he gave every appearance of purpose. In reality, he was escaping into its dim interior. Escaping from a pair of gray eyes and the fragrance of honey-colored hair. He could still see her in his mind, the incongruous but common picture of a woman in the West—her apron ties flapping in the wind like kite tails while she aimed his big twelve-gauge shotgun. With her hair pulled back like that, he could see the smooth nape of her neck, and the tender, soft place behind her ear . . .
Tyler shook his head impatiently. From his point of view, the shooting lesson had gone well enough as long as Libby kept missing the targets. He'd been able to maintain his role as the objective tutor, issuing instructions and drilling her in technique. His mistake was in listening to the discouragement and worry that crept into her voice. The sound of it grazed his heart, and he knew she wouldn't learn if she didn't feel that she'd accomplished something. So he stood behind her to guide the shot. But the second he leaned his chest to her shoulder, his body responded sharply to her warm softness.
The predicament he'd experienced the night before with Callie was immediately and unquestionably forgotten. His arousal had made him wonder what it would be like to press a kiss behind Libby's ear, to hold her to himself in the night. And when he realized where his imagination was taking him, did he break the contact, as a prudent man would have? Oh, no. Instead, like an idiot, he'd cradled her hand in his, under the pretense of helping her hit the target.
A Taste of Heaven Page 10