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
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
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