A Taste of Heaven (25 page)

She laughed nervously. “You didn't think I
would, did you?”

He shrugged, obviously a little embarrassed
by the direct question. “I guess not—not at, first. But I was
wrong. I knew it as soon as you killed that rattlesnake.” He met
her gaze then, and jammed his hands into his tight front pockets.
“Oh, hell, I knew it before then.”

Staring up into his lean, attractive face,
Libby felt a catch in her heart. Why? Just because they'd shared a
kiss on a stormy Montana night? That had been a stupid, dangerous
thing to do. Ever since, she'd wished she could live that night
again, to feel his hands and lips on her. Even now she felt a
despairing, wistful urge to step into his arms and hide her face
against his neck, to hear him ask her to stay.

But it was best all around to tell him
good-bye right now, right here on the sidewalk, and be done with
it. He'd helped her, grudgingly, and she'd helped him. Now it was
over. He didn't want her here, and she didn't want to be here. At
least not very much. She'd come here from Chicago because she'd had
no place else to go. Now she was going back for the same
reason.

She gave him a wry smile. “The next time you
meet a rattlesnake, you'll have your gun with you. You wouldn't
want to have to depend on someone whose aim is as bad as mine.” She
broke the connection with his eyes. “Thank you for everything. I
guess I'd better see about my room.
Well . . . ” She extended her hand.

Tyler looked at it, then hurriedly
pulled off his glove. The moment his hand touched hers, a heated,
vital current passed between them. She looked up into his eyes
again. There was something in them that drew her, a heat, a
yearning—something—that she didn't want to identify. No, she saw
nothing,
nothing
, she
agonized. She tried to pull away, but he maintained his grip and
steered her to the edge of the sidewalk, out of the path of
pedestrians.

Tyler gazed at the small woman standing in
front of him, at the nose that turned up slightly, the silky brows,
her clover-honey hair. She wasn't helpless or cowardly, in fact,
she was a tough little scrapper. Still, he was beginning to
understand what Charlie had felt—it bothered him that she had no
one at all to look out for her. But he didn't know what he could do
or say. He had nothing to offer except farewells. Besides, she was
doing what she wanted to.

“Listen, I didn't mean to—well—” He glanced
at the planking under his boots. “I guess I was a little hard on
you at the beginning. You did a damn good job for us.” He raised
his voice to be heard over a passing freight wagon. “If you ever
need anything . . . ”

“Chicago is a long way from Montana.” His
stomach knotted at the forlorn expression that crept through her
smile. “But thank you.”

A heavy mist began to fall, the kind of soft,
soaking drizzle that occurs only in spring. “I guess you'd better
get inside before you get wet,” he said. Getting wet under a little
rain seemed laughable when he thought about what they'd just come
through. He had no talent for good-byes, but he couldn't seem to
end this.

“B-be careful going back to Heavenly,” she
said, and started to turn away.

“Libby, wait—” He gripped her arm. It was the
last time he'd ever see her, touch her. Urgently, he pulled her
into his embrace and pressed his mouth to hers, brief and hard. She
smelled so sweet, despite her travel dirt and fatigue. He felt her
stiffen with surprise. It wasn't the kind of kiss he would have
wished for. But once more, time and circumstances were working
against him.

Tyler released her suddenly, and Libby stared
up at him, flabbergasted. The expression she'd seen once or twice
before—open, longing, regretful—flashed over his handsome features.
She was vaguely aware that people on the street were looking at
them but at this moment, she didn't care. She pulled up the plaid
shawl to cover her head.

“Go on inside now,” he said hoarsely. He
turned and leaped up to the wagon seat. With one last look, he
urged the mules forward and drove away.

Pressing a shaking hand to her mouth, she
stood in the rain and watched the wagon until it disappeared in the
jumble of other horses and vehicles at the far end of the street.
With a tight throat and leaden feet, she turned and climbed the
outside stairs to her room.

*~*~*

“You look like you could do with some fun,
cowboy. How about if I sit down here and you buy me a drink?” A
saloon girl in a blaze of red satin and black lace dragged Tyler's
attention away from his thoughts.

After a dinner at one of the chophouses, he'd
tracked his crew down to the Briar Rose. Full of smoke, cowboys,
and card games, it was as loud and rowdy as a cow town saloon could
get short of brawling, gunfire, or horses being ridden in. But he
didn't feel like joining the fun. He sat at a side table with his
feet propped on the chair across from him, considering the
untouched glass and whiskey bottle on the table. He'd been
considering them for twenty minutes.

“What's your name?” he asked the girl. Hell,
she was just a kid under all the paint she was wearing, probably
not much older than Rory. She had the same look that Callie did, as
though she never saw the sun. But if he closed one eye and squinted
the other, under the harsh kerosene light her hair was almost the
same color as Libby's. Her perfume wafted to him, a heavy,
oppressive essence.

She dragged her fingertips along the back of
the chair that served as his footstool, and gave him a lazy,
practiced smile. “Rebecca.”

He leaned back in his chair and put his elbow
on the arm. “How is it that a girl your age is selling favors in
this place, Rebecca?”

She straightened and gave him a hard look.
“Listen, mister, I'm not interested in a lecture—”

“And I’m not giving you one. I really want to
know. Was this the only work you could find?”

She hesitated a moment, then answered in a
much younger voice. “My pa left me in this town two years ago.
Sally, the owner here, took me in. I couldn't find anything else to
do.”

“You don't have family somewhere else?”

“I don't have any family at all. Pa got
killed in a card game over in Rosebud, and he was the last of my
kin.”

He looked at the young face that was already
aging before its time. She might be telling the truth, or she might
be making up a sad story to gain his sympathy. He didn't know, or
care. Either way, he doubted that she really wanted to be here. His
mind drifted to Libby again, and her sad gray eyes.

He pushed his change from the bottle across
the table to her. “Here, Rebecca. I'm going to drink alone tonight,
but you take this for your trouble.”

The girl gave him an even stare, then scooped
up the money so fast he wasn't sure where she put it. The
straggling feather in her hair dangled on her bare shoulder, and
she gave him a crooked smile. “Thanks.” She turned to walk away,
then stopped. “Mister, I hope you find the woman you lost.”

That took him aback. A wry, humorless chuckle
huffed out of his chest. "Thanks, Rebecca, but I didn't lose
anyone. At least, not lately.”

She shrugged and moved on to a more likely
looking prospect two tables over.

Tyler shifted in his chair, and he took the
cork from the bottle and poured a drink. He'd spoken the truth to
Rebecca, as far as he knew. Yet, he had to admit that a vague,
uneasy sense of loss had plagued him since the minute he'd left
Libby Ross standing on the sidewalk this afternoon. The image was
fresh in his mind of her draping her shawl over her head while the
rain poured down on her. And nothing—not the long soak in a tub at
the bathhouse, nor falling asleep in the barber's chair with a hot
towel on his face—nothing had taken the feeling away. If anything,
it had only been made worse when he started inquiring around town
about a new cook. He'd talked to a few promising men, former
cowboys who'd been thrown a few too many times and were already
developing rheumatism. But he'd found some problem with each of
them; he suspected that one might be a drinker, another one didn't
seem like he'd fit in with the crew, still another one just grated
on his nerves.

Up at the bar, Joe and his crew were well on
their way to getting pleasantly, fatuously drunk. He envied their
ability to put problems aside and laugh. Even Rory was smiling
again, thank God. Tyler had been concerned about him—the boy's
solemn expression was too much like the one he'd worn when he first
came to live at the Lodestar. The fun took a melancholy turn only
when some of the Lazy J crew blew into the Briar Rose and learned
that Charlie Ryerson had been killed.

After relating the details, in a moment of
beer-tinged eloquence, Joe, with his elbows on the bar behind him,
said, “I imagine every man gets a naggin' little ache in the pit of
his belly about things left unsaid and undone. I wish Charlie was
here with us now, but that accident of his—well, it was out of our
hands. All's we can do is fix whatever things we have the power to
fix. And try to leave this life with a tally of more joys than
regrets.” His audience murmured in agreement and lifted their
drinks to Charlie's memory.

Tyler stared unseeing out the window. Joe's
words had a chilling effect on him, more profound than any of the
uninvited counsel delivered to him over the past few years. He
tossed back the shot of whiskey he'd poured—it burned like fire all
the way down. Shaken, he refilled the glass, sloshing a little over
the rim. He knew if he were to die in his sleep tonight, the weight
of his regrets would anchor his spirit to this earth for the rest
of eternity.

After Jenna's death, he'd withdrawn into his
safe, orderly existence. It didn't matter that he sometimes
hungered for more; he'd felt he didn't deserve more and he still
wasn't sure he did.

But damn it, he'd let life and happiness pass
him by while he did nothing. That wouldn't bring back his wife. And
despite whatever kind of man he might be, good or bad, Tyler
Hollins was not one to do nothing.

He sat up and pushed himself out of his
chair. First thing tomorrow, he'd set about balancing his tally. He
couldn't change everything, but he had the chance to fix one thing,
and he was going to do it, as Joe had advised.

Tonight, though, he was going to have a
couple of drinks with his crew.

*~*~*

“Well, ma'am, your timing is nigh on to
perfect. The only train for Chicago this week will be here at
eleven, sharp.”

“Oh,” Libby faltered. “So soon?” Why wasn't
she glad about this? she wondered. She'd wished for escape from
Montana since the moment she set foot in the territory last
fall.

“Yes, ma’am, unless you want to wait until
next Thursday.”

“No, no, I can’t do that. I’ll take the
ticket.” She put the money on the counter.

Looking very official in his porter’s cap and
sleeve garters, the young station clerk glanced at the clock behind
Libby. “That gives you almost an hour if you want to get some lunch
before you leave.”

“If I can hire someone to bring my trunk from
the hotel down the street, I believe I’d rather just sit here in
the station, if that’s all right,” she said. She felt no
appetite.

“Right as rain with me, ma’am. Choose any
seat you like. I’ll send a boy to fetch your luggage.” She gave him
her name for the delivery boy, then he pushed a ticket across the
counter to her. She put it carefully in her pocketbook.

Crossing the deserted little station, she sat
on an empty bench that faced the clock. The place smelled of ink,
wood, and old paper. She smoothed the skirt of her plain traveling
suit. This was the same one she’d worn to come out here, the same
one she’d gotten married in. She didn’t want to stay here a minute
longer than she had to, but her reasons were not as clear as they’d
once been.

She peeked inside her pocketbook to look at
her ticket again, and caught a glimpse of five double eagles within
the purse’s leather folds. She’d been baffled, then outraged last
night when she opened her trunk and discovered the hundred dollars.
What on earth had Tyler Hollins been thinking, paying her off like
that? Oh, he hadn’t left her a note, but there was no question that
the gold coins had come from him—she’d found them tied in one of
her handkerchiefs with a twelve-gauge shotgun shell. Was he so
relieved to be rid of her? She'd wished she could track him down to
whatever saloon or restaurant he was sitting in and give him back
his money.

But as she'd sat on the narrow bed in the
hotel room, ripping her brush through her long, tangled hair,
reason crept in and cooled her offended pride. Money was security,
a hedge between herself and destitution. Pride, she realized, was a
very fine thing, but it wouldn't protect her from starving, or put
a roof over her head until she found work. Reaching down, she
touched her pocket that held the shotgun shell.

Libby tried hard not to think about Tyler,
but the soft ticking of the clock over the door was lulling, and
she lapsed into the world of daydreams where time stopped. The
lines between the planks of the wooden flooring in front of her
blurred and grew indistinct—

A horseman with chestnut hair and agate-blue
eyes galloped his pinto across the juncture of earth and sky,
silhouetted against a crimson sunset. He rode toward her where she
waited on the Lodestar porch for him to come home to her. And when
be dismounted and approached her, alive with the intense passion of
a man at one with the land, be bore her back into the house and up
the stairs. On the big four-poster bed that they shared he laid her
down, his hands impatiently opening the buttons of her bodice,
impatiently seeking the heat under her skirt. His mouth was warm
and moist on her throat and breast, and she longed to touch his
bare skin. “Libby,” he whispered thickly, “you’re mine—I'll never
let you go, do you hear? Never. I love—”