A Taste of Heaven (14 page)

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.

Tyler sat down hard on a hay bale with a rag,
a cleaning rod, and a tube of Winchester gun grease. When he'd
assumed she'd be trouble for the Lodestar, this wasn't the kind of
trouble he anticipated.

“So you decided to let her come with us.”

Tyler looked up from his task of cleaning the
shotgun, and saw Joe's silhouette in the barn doorway.

Tyler shrugged, a bit uncomfortable. “Yeah,
well . . .”

“I guess hell is gonna have to wait a while
longer for you, then.”

He returned his attention to the
twelve-gauge. Jesus, was everyone going to remind him of that vow
he'd made?

The foreman ambled in. “She ain't much of a
shot though, is she?” He sat down on the hay bale next to Tyler and
crossed his ankle over his knee. Leaning against the wall behind
him, he groped around in his shirt pockets for his makin's and
began rolling a cigarette.

“She'll improve.” Tyler reached for the
rag.

“I guess she don't have to be another Annie
Oakley,” Joe allowed. “At least she finally hit that can. 'Course,
she had a little . . . help.” He closed his tobacco pouch, pulling
the drawstring with his teeth.

Tyler could hear the smile in Joe's voice. He
didn't want to discuss Libby Ross, but he knew Joe. If Tyler flat
out refused to talk about the woman now, or even tried to sidetrack
him, he'd have to put up with joshing that would never end. For a
man who'd spent most of his life out on the open plains studying
horses, cattle, and weather, Joe could often nail a man's thoughts
with surprising skill. He'd had that knack as long as Tyler had
known him, since they were just boys, no older than Rory. Maybe
that was why Tyler let him get away with it.

“Yeah, I guess she could improve her aim if
you work with her every day.” Joe struck a match on the sole of his
boot, and the dim corner where they sat glowed briefly with its
flame.

“It doesn't have to be me working with her,”
he said. He pointed the long barrels toward the light from the
doorway and peered down them. “Rory can teach her. He's as good
with firearms as anyone else on this place.” God, he didn't want to
get into a cozy arrangement with her every damned day.

Joe exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Nope, not
Rory. I need him out on the range. In fact, I can't think of anyone
I can spare right now.”

Tyler looked up and lifted a skeptical brow.
“No one? What about Darby, or one of the Cooper boys?”

“Nope. Looks like it'll have to be you,
Ty.”

Suspicious that he'd been maneuvered into
this position, Tyler frowned but maintained his silence.

“I don't suppose she'll stay long after we
get back,” Joe continued with a low rumble that passed for a
chuckle. He took off his hat and slouched down on the hay bale to
get comfortable. “That is unless Charlie asks her to marry him, and
she'll have him. And I wouldn't be surprised if he does ask.”

Tyler frowned at him, and pushed the
rod down the shotgun's barrel. “What's Charlie got to do with this?
I thought he was used to having women chase
him
.”

Joe shook his head as if they were talking
about a man with a terminal illness. “Worst case of Cupid's cramp I
ever saw. A couple boys are a little calf-eyed over her. But
Charlie's got it bad. He's real sweet on old Ben's widow. Says it's
a damned shame and disgrace that such a fine young woman should be
left on her own in the world with no man to look after her.”

Tyler had already overheard some of the men
talking about Charlie and his infatuation for the cook. Resentment
had surged through him, although he couldn't say why, exactly. A
cowboy with a crush was nothing unusual, especially out here where
women were scarce. With a female as close as the kitchen, he knew
something like this would happen.

“He does, huh? Well, he'd better not start
pestering her. Charlie might be our top hand, but he's tried my
patience more than once over the years.”

Joe studied the rowel on his spur where it
hung near his knee, and gave it a spin. “I don't know, Ty. A woman
could do worse than Charlie, and he sounds likes he's ready to
settle down. He don't have much but he's loyal, and he'd be good to
a wife.” He cast a sidelong glance at Tyler.

Tyler stood and leaned the shotgun against
his shoulder, his patience with the entire subject at an end.
“Well, you'd better tell him to look for one somewhere else. Libby
Ross is leaving the drive when we get to Miles City. She wants to
go back to Chicago, and I'm going to give her the money to do
it.”

As he walked away, he heard Joe mutter,
“Charlie ain't the only one who'll come to be sorry about
that.”