A Taste of Heaven (3 page)

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withdrawn as soon as Tyler Hollins met her.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.

J
oe 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 distracted 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.”

“Do you have kin you could wire for the
money?”

Libby shook her head, feeling more distinctly
unwelcome with each passing minute. She let her gaze drift across
the yard to the empty range beyond. “There is no one else. And I
need work.” They assessed each other. She was out of options, and
apparently, so was the foreman.

Finally, he pushed away from the post and
shrugged. “You're welcome to stay, at least until Ty Hollins gets
back. The boys probably told you he owns this place, and he'll be
along in a day or two. After that, it will be up to him.” He
glanced down at her and Libby saw a trace of regret in his dark
eyes. “It’s nothing personal, Mrs. Ross, but I have to tell you
straight out that he probably ain’t gonna go along with this.”

She suppressed a sigh, then straightened and
turned to look at the house behind her. “If you'll let me, I'd like
to fix supper for you and your men in payment for your
hospitality.”

He smiled at her, his grin creeping up a bit
higher on one side of his face, then stretched out his hand to help
her to her feet. “That would be a real pleasure. If an outfit can't
feed its cowboys, they'll either leave or shoot the cook.”

She couldn't help but smile back. “Then it
would seem that keeping them happy is the smart thing to do.”

“Come on, I'll show you the kitchen.”

He led her down the long porch that ran the
length of the house to the kitchen. Libby noted a pair of cattle
horns hanging over the door.

Joe ushered her inside. “It’s pretty messed
up in here,” he said apologetically. “The boys were right—the last
cook wasn't the best. We haven't helped any, either.”

This structure was also made of logs,
chinked tightly against the elements. Was
everything
in this wilderness primitive? Libby
wondered. She looked around at the clutter of dishes and open sacks
of meal and flour. Coffee was scattered on the worktable and a big
kettle steamed on the stove top.

“Rory and Dust had to make our coffee this
morning. It really ain’t their fault they left the place looking
like this. I pulled them off this job—we’ve still got a lot of
winter cleanup chores to take care of on the range. There’s horses
to break, dead cattle to count, roofs to mend. I figured we’d get
to this later.”

Libby raised her brows at the sight, a little
overwhelmed by the clutter. "Yes, I
suppose . . . ”

“You'll be needing a place to sleep, too.
Usually the cooks have stayed with the boys in the bunkhouse. Of
course, we can't ask you to do that. You come on this way.”

She followed him through the kitchen to a
door that, it turned out, opened into the dining room of the main
house. As they walked through the house to the stairway, she was
astonished by the hominess of the place, despite its roughhewn
construction. The touches were definitely masculine, with heavy,
leather-upholstered furniture, and big paintings on the walls of
range scenes. In the parlor, a huge stone fireplace dominated one
wall and was big enough to cook in. But the place looked, well,
comfortable, and that surprised her. When they reached the second
floor, she realized that its hallway was a gallery that overlooked
the parlor.