A Taste of Heaven (6 page)

“I think you're fibbing, Mr. Channing. I
would guess that Mr. Hollins's bark is only a sample of his bite,”
she retorted.

He smiled again, looking sheepish. “Well,
ma'am, not every time,” he demurred in his low, rumbling voice. “At
least it didn't used to be that way.”

Libby was still too busy smarting from
Hollins's sharp tongue to wonder what that meant.

“Tyler said you have a job here until we
leave for the trail drive to Miles City. The boys'll sure be glad
about it. After that, we'll have to play it by ear. He wants me to
find someone else to do the cookin', but I know I won't be able
to.”

Libby wasn't sure if that was good news or
not.

“Do you think you could cook out of a chuck
wagon, if you had to?”

“Well, I don't—I've never—” Cook in a
wagon?

He tipped a look at her that was almost a
smile. “The job pays the same as a top hand makes: room and board,
and twenty-five dollars a month. The crew draws their wages at the
end of the season.”

She gaped at him. Twenty-five dollars! Mrs.
Brandauer had paid her only room and board, and two dollars a
month. At Christmas, she'd received a bar of perfumed soap, or
maybe a linen handkerchief.

She had expected Tyler Hollins to be aloof.
She hadn't expected to find him so unlikable. But for that kind of
money, she'd figure out a way to manage.

“I've never worked outside of a kitchen, Mr.
Channing, but I can certainly learn.”

*~*~*

Libby hurriedly flattened out more biscuit
dough with a rolling pin while keeping her eye on the simmering
gravy she'd concocted from the last of the bacon drippings. Her
confrontation with Mr. Hollins had left her badly shaken, but right
now, she was too busy to give it much thought.

Though she'd been exhausted, the night passed
fitfully for her. Thinking about what she'd seen in the moonlit
hall had churned in her brain. After that, apprehension about
today, the strange surroundings, and her memories would not let her
sleep. Her apprehension, it appeared, had not been unfounded.

She wasn't unaccustomed, though, to getting
up in the dark, long before the rest of the household was awake.
The chief difference in the Brandauer home was that the family had
rarely stirred before eight o'clock. At the Lodestar everyone rose
just shortly after she did and worked until she called them to
eat.

Considering the fact that twelve men sat in
the kitchen behind her, except for the steady clink of silver on
the tin plates, she found it surprisingly quiet. If they'd eaten
quickly last night, this morning they practically inhaled their
food. The first shift had had their breakfast just twenty minutes
before and were already hard at work on the western range.

Though she was kept busy pulling hot biscuits
from the big oven, stirring gravy and pouring coffee, she was very
aware of the absence of one man.

“Doesn't Mr. Hollins eat breakfast?” Libby
asked when she stopped at Rory's place to fill his coffee cap. The
boy turned bright red, and she felt sorry for so embarrassing him.
In his haste to answer he gulped down a mouthful of biscuit nearly
whole. She swore she could see the big unchewed lump as it went
down his throat.

“Oh, yes, ma'am, Miss Libby,” he said,
tipping his face up to look at her. “But he always takes his meals
in the dining room.” Rory inclined his head toward the closed door
that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house. Her eyes
followed the direction he indicated.

Did that mean she was supposed to serve his
food to him in there? She imagined him sitting at the table on the
other side of this door, waiting impatiently for her to bring him a
plate.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured, feeling no
enthusiasm. “I'd better get him something—”

Rory shook his russet head emphatically. “No,
ma'am, no need to do that. Tyler doesn't like to be fussed over.
He'll be along when he's ready.”

“Oh, but are you sure?” He was already
unhappy with her presence. If she didn't perform as he expected, or
wanted, it was plain that he'd have her delivered to Heavenly on a
moment's notice.

She glanced around at the other men sitting
nearby, who'd paused for a moment at the mention of Hollins, their
forks and their jaws stilled. It certainly wasn't fear she saw in
their faces, but a kind of respectful wariness.

“Mr. Hollins ain't usually much for
socializin', Mrs. Ross,” one of the men added.

She noted that only Joe and Rory referred to
their boss by his first name.

“I saw him out in the barn, lookin' after a
new filly that come while he was gone,” Charlie put in. “Most
likely, he's still out there. Or maybe in his office.” He mopped up
gravy with a tender biscuit half and swallowed it almost as quickly
as Rory had.

She stood back in amazement, gripping the
coffeepot. It couldn't be good for a body's digestion to gobble
food that fast. But they were all doing it. And it seemed that no
sooner had the men sat down than Joe Channing was in the doorway,
hurrying them out again.

“Let's go, boys. We got work to do around
here. That trail drive is comin' soon,” Joe said in his low voice.
He turned to his top hand. “Charlie, you and Kansas Bob are taking
the Cooper boys to the north range to finish cutting out our brand,
right?” Kansas Bob Wegner was a slim, rosy-faced young man with
wheat-colored hair and, as with most of the others, Libby guessed
him to be around twenty. The Cooper brothers had already eaten
during the first shift, and were outside saddling their horses.

Charlie stood and drank the rest of his
coffee in one swallow, looking morose. “I wish I could send someone
in my place, and that's the truth of it. I swear I never seen so
many dead cattle in my life as I did on the southern roundups.”

“On your way back, you boys might as well
bring in the last of those mustangs we turned loose last fall.
Rory, you know what you're doing today,” the foreman continued.

With a long-suffering sigh, the youth nodded
and got to his feet. “Yeah, I know. How long am I gonna have to
chase down bogged strays, Joe? That's a greenhorn's job. I'd rather
go north with Charlie and Kansas Bob.”

“No, you wouldn't, Sass. This ain't a basket
social we're goin' on,” Charlie advised him. “Those-rotting
carcasses stink to heaven on high, and on that last roundup we only
found six head of our own. The rest was dead or belonged to the
other outfits. And they didn't find much neither. Anyways, most of
the cows are so puny, they can't make the walk back. It's a good
thing we rounded up our brand early so they could fatten up for the
drive to Miles City.”

Joe resettled his hat and slapped his gloves
against his chaps. “We got to go look just the same. With the herd
cut down to a few thousand head, we're lucky to all be working—some
of the spreads turned out most of their crews. Tyler wouldn't do
that. Besides, I expect you'll be back in just a couple-three
days.”

“Well, I don't aim to spend any more time on
that north range than I can help.”

“That's good, Charlie,” Joe said, giving him
a lopsided smile. “The woodshed still needs a roof.”

“Aw, where else could you get a top hand
who's a carpenter, too?” Charlie asked.

Joe laughed and shooed him out. “The rest of
you boys, off to the southwest line.”

Spurs jingled and the bench legs scraped
noisily on the plank floor as the men hurried to their feet, some
grabbing their hats, others gulping a last taste of coffee. They
filed past Libby, shyly murmuring more thank-yous, or touching
their hat brims.

Charlie's mouth moved in what she guessed was
a smile behind his mustache. “Got to head out, Mrs. Ross. We're
losin' daylight. But we'll be back for one of your suppers as soon
as we can, maybe tomorrow night.”

Libby couldn't help but smile back at him. He
was definitely full of himself, but in a sweet-natured, harmless
way. She followed them out to the yard and waved, watching them
ride toward the wide valley under a heavy, pewter-gray sky. The
horses blew steamy clouds in the mist, and the sound of their
hooves was muffled by the newly green, rain-soft earth. She found
herself riveted by the scene. This was very much different from the
clatter of traffic on the streets in Chicago. Different, too, from
the ceaseless howl of an arctic wind whistling around the corners
of a cold, rough cabin, punctuated only by a hacking, gurgling
cough—

She shuddered at the memory, then turned and
let her eyes scan the dirty kitchen. She'd managed to clean a
corner of it last night, but the complete scrubbing that it needed
would have to wait just a little longer. The more immediate problem
was food.

Charlie had mentioned supper but she didn't
even know what she was going to cook for the noon meal. After
serving a breakfast of more biscuits and gravy, she needed supplies
right away. There was nothing left to eat.

Much as she'd rather not, she knew she'd have
to talk to Tyler Hollins about it. She leaned out the open back
door and glanced around the yard, looking for a tall man who
resembled the owner of the Lodestar. But she saw only the
retreating rumps of the dozen horses heading across the yard. Their
hooves churned up the sucking mud, and all of their riders appeared
tall from this angle and distance.

Suddenly the door to the dining room swung
open, making Libby jump, and Hollins walked in. He gave her a
double glance, as though he'd forgotten she was there. Then he
nodded at her. He was long-legged and lean, and while Libby knew
next to nothing about cowboys, or cows for that matter, it was
plain to her that he'd been born to this occupation. He looked as
though he'd spent his entire life in a saddle. He wore chaps over
his jeans, and a plain gray shirt topped with a leather vest. A
dark bandanna was tied in a loose knot at the back of his neck, the
long tails of which trailed over one shoulder. He was dressed
pretty much the same as the men who worked for him, with one chief
difference: on his left hip there rested a holster that sheathed a
long-barreled pistol. It looked like he had the gun on backward—the
butt faced forward. And he seemed even bigger than when she'd seen
him earlier.

In Libby's narrow world in Chicago, she'd
rarely seen anyone wear a gun except a policeman or a soldier. Her
eyes fell to it again, and the dull blue gleam of the trigger was
vaguely threatening.

Picking up a clean plate, he went to the
stove. He put three warm biscuits on his dish, and ladled gravy
over them with her big cooking spoon.

“This could probably save the crew from
starving to death,” he said, not lifting his eyes to regard her. He
poured coffee for himself from the big blue enamel pot, and took a
tentative sip.

Libby wasn't positive, but she thought he
sounded a bit less antagonistic. Maybe it was a promising sign.
Lacing her fingers together in front of her apron, she took a deep
breath.

“Mr. Hollins, there are no provisions left. I
need to go to town and restock the pantry, or I won't even be able
to cook lunch for the men.”

He looked around at the empty shelves, and
then at her. His eyes were agate blue, intense in their shading and
expression, and she couldn't help but study him. The color of his
hair reminded her of the glossy chestnuts that grew on the trees in
the Brandauer yard. It was long on top and waved just slightly
where it grazed his ears. She guessed him to be about the same age
as Joe Channing, although two faint vertical lines already etched
the space between his brows. Probably from continuous frowning, by
the looks of him. He had a firm jaw and a long, slim nose that was
positioned over a nicely shaped mouth. And, in a land where huge
mustaches seemed to be a requirement of the male uniform, his upper
lip was very noticeably bare. His features were strong, even
handsome, she conceded. But his was not an open face—there was a
remoteness in his eyes, a separateness perhaps—and nothing about
him suggested a man who was approachable.

He sat on the edge of the worktable and
crossed his ankles while he ate from the plate in his hand. “Yeah,
Joe told me we're down to bread and water. Well, you'd better ask
him what to buy, and how much,” he said, breaking off a piece of
biscuit and popping it into his mouth. Upon tasting it, he lifted a
brow in faint appreciation, then he took a bigger bite.

But by his very tone he made it clear he
didn't think she had much experience with this. Fear of another of
his outbursts made her defensive and put an edge on her voice. “I
don't need to ask, Mr. Hollins. I used to order food from the
grocer every day in Chicago, and I bought vegetables, bread, milk,
and butter from the street vendors.” Libby drew herself up a little
taller, and even allowed the tip of her nose to rise just a bit.
She may have been riddled with doubt and regret since the day she'd
arrived in Montana, but cooking was one thing about which she felt
no uncertainty. “I know everything there is to know about stocking
and managing a kitchen, Mr. Hollins. I did it for years before
I—”

“Everything, huh?” he interrupted, and pushed
away from the table. “Street vendors don't come by very often
around here, so we have to buy enough to last for a while.”

“Yes, I'm sure that's true—”

“And we don't have much use for French pastry
or burgundy wine.”

“Maybe not, but—”

“Tell me,” he interjected, “did you argue
this much with your last employer?”

That took Libby aback. No, she would never
have dreamed of saying much of anything to Mrs. Brandauer beyond
“Yes, ma'am,” and “No, ma'am.” But that seemed a lifetime ago now,
and something about this man standing before her made her forget
that she worked for him. His attitude challenged her to
respond.

“Well, um . . . ”