A Taste of Heaven Read online

  A Taste of Heaven

  by

  Alexis Harrington

  Copyright © Alexis Harrington, 1996

  Smashwords Edition

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  1

  Prologue

  March 1887

  Liberty Garrison Ross momentarily straightened from her task and leaned on the shovel handle, flexing her back. Her skirt was solid mud from waist to hem. Wincing at the fire in her hands, she lifted them to look at the blisters forming on her palms. She hadn't thought to put on her worn gloves before she came out here. Small wonder.

  A chill breeze came up and caught the long ends of her hair, flapping them across her face. The late March sun glared off blinding patches of snow that remained on the ground and still blanketed the surrounding hills. Out there, she knew, lay the rotting carcasses of thawing cattle, frozen on their hooves by successive blizzards that had howled over this land continually since November. She was a stranger here, but still, by this time of year, she would have expected to detect the scent of spring. It wasn't there.

  She glanced down at the open trench in front of her. In one corner, a bit of white sheet protruded through the dark soil. It gleamed up from the bottom of the pit under the noon sun. Creeping hysteria closed in, making her heart jump, and the threat of tears burned behind her eyelids again. She dashed a shaking, muddy hand across them. She had to hold together a little longer, the worst part was over. She had only to finish filling the hole.

  Don't think, she ordered herself, just dig. If she gave this too much thought, she'd run screaming through the winter-beaten range lands. Here, death and hardship lurked like the vultures circling the lifeless cattle.

  Libby sank the shovel blade into the dwindling pile of heavy, water-soaked dirt that she'd erected while digging Ben Ross's grave. It was hard to remember that he had been her husband—she had never felt married to him. And not just because she'd been his wife for only four months before he died of pneumonia.

  She lifted the shovel with effort. She had never buried anyone before. In Chicago, there were people whose business it was to handle such matters as funerals and interment. But this wasn't the city. It was the frontier. And since coming to Montana last September, Libby had done a lot of things she'd never expected to do.

  Try though she might to make her mind a blank, she couldn't shut out the reality of what she was doing, and what had led her to this. Shuddering sobs began working their way up her throat, and she frantically pushed soil into the hole, working faster and faster.

  She'd get away from this uncivilized, godforsaken place if it was the last thing she did. Life in Chicago had been a heartache.

  In Montana, it was hell.

  Chapter One

  Libby Ross stepped out and carefully closed the door behind her, making certain it latched. It was a senseless exercise, she knew, but she performed it just the same.

  At this early hour, it was cold here on the rough, narrow porch. During the winter, this side of the house had remained in shadows most of the day, even when the sun shone. That fact had served her well for the past month, especially when the ground had still been frozen—

  At the thought, her hand tightened spasmodically on her satchel, the one she'd arrived with last September. She hadn't come here with much except hope, and in some ways it felt as though she were leaving with even less.

  Overhead, in a sky that seemed to have no end, clouds crowded out the sun. Libby took away with her only those personal items she’d brought last fall, and packed them in her trunk after hoisting it on the rickety buckboard. She also carried Ben’s Winchester, which she would keep for protection. She didn't have much skill with the weapon, but she supposed if faced with the need to use it, she’d figure it out fast enough. Nothing else in the house was of any interest or help to her. A few broken pieces of furniture and a hodgepodge of worthless stuff collected over Ben's lifetime of austere bachelorhood—these were her widow’s dower.

  She climbed onto the buckboard and picked up the lines, looking down at the skinny roan it had taken her over an hour to hitch. He was a sorry-looking thing, and she worried about him making the trip to the town of Heavenly. That the gelding had survived the winter was a miracle for which she was profoundly grateful; he was her only transportation out of here.

  But Libby knew she would have walked, even crawled on her knees if she’d had to, just to escape from here, and Montana. She didn't have much money, but surely she had enough to buy a stagecoach ticket to somewhere outside this territory. That was her immediate goal. Where she was going, and what she’d do when she got there were worries to put off for later.

  It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best her numbed mind could devise. Her first destination was Heavenly, the nearest town, fifteen miles to the east. She'd seen it only once, and that had been last fall when she arrived on the stage. As she stood in the street blinking against the sun, to her city-bred eyes it had been a crude, disappointing outpost with a saloon and a few stores that rose from the sagebrush. But after months of seeing no other landscape but empty, snow-covered prairie, in her mind’s eye Heavenly, Montana, had achieved the stature of its namesake.

  Pointing the horse toward the road, she didn’t look back at the shabby hovel where she’d spent the grueling, interminable winter. But she spared just a brief glance at Ben’s grave. Yesterday, after finishing his burial, she'd marked it with a clumsy cross. It was made from two wooden spoons, lashed at their intersection with a tie from one of her aprons. It wasn't fancy, but it was the best she could do, and as much as he deserved for the lies he'd told her to bring her here.

  On both sides of the road leading away from the ranch, the grassland was sparsely dotted with the mangy brown coats of dead cattle, revealed by the melting snow. She shivered in the face of the chill wind. It seemed like she never was warm enough anymore.

  She bowed her head for an instant against the pain of knowing she was totally alone in the world. Then she flapped the reins on the horse's back to hurry her leave-taking from this place.

  *~*~*

  Under the halfhearted sun, Heavenly, Montana, was a disappointing sight. Libby glanced around as her tired horse stumbled down the street, and her inflated notion of the town fizzled away like a drop of water on a hot stove. Many of the buildings were tall and narrow, a design she’d found peculiar to the western towns she’d seen on her way out here. It made no sense to her—they had more room out here than they could use, but the structures were high and cramped. These were made from rough-sawn planking, and looked neglected.

  It was late afternoon, and her arms felt as heavy as granite. They’d already ached from digging Ben’s grave yesterday. Driving the horse fifteen miles over rough, nearly nonexistent roads had just about finished her off. She had no experience with reins and several times all three of them—horse, buckboard, and she—would have left the path had the gelding not been smart enough to correct Libby’s errors. At least she’d remembered to wear gloves today, and it was a good thing—inside the leather, her hands were still raw.

  Still, she thought, looking around again, there was life here, and people. She hadn’t talked to another person besides Ben since last fall. And he hadn’t been very talkative, at that. Especially toward the end.

  Signs along the muddy street marked the establishments of
a barber, a gunsmith, a feed store, an assay office, a “painless” dentist, a hotel, and the saloon. At least the town had a hotel, although what little money she possessed wouldn’t last long if she had to spend more than one night there.

  At the halfway point of the thoroughfare, Libby’s eyes lit on Osmer’s Dry Goods. She remembered the stage driver telling her that Osmer’s sold the tickets. With clumsy maneuvering, she pulled the wobbling buckboard to a stop and sighed with relief. Wrapping the lines around the brake handle, she climbed down. Every muscle she owned was stiff.

  God only knew what she looked like after her daylong trip. She hadn’t secured her hat very well and somewhere along the way, it had blown off, taking her best hat pin with it. She glanced down at her clothes. At least the roads hadn't been dusty, and aside from being wrinkled, her dark skirt was still fairly clean. She smoothed the front of her jacket and, taking a deep, steadying breath, set off toward Osmer’s.

  Three cowboys lounged at the hitching rail in front of the place, apparently engaged in a deep discussion. As she approached them, snatches of their conversation floated to her.

  “—and I hope we can do somethin’ about it before Mr. Hollins gets back. Elsewise, he’s like to have a fit when he hears what we done,” one of them reflected glumly. He leaned his tall, spare frame against the rail and crossed his ankles, making his spurs clink.

  “Aw, he woulda done the same thing if he was here,” the second cowboy replied. He had the bushiest mustache Libby had ever seen. He looked up from the cigarette he was rolling, his hat shifting when he raised his brows. “Maybe worse—he mighta shot that damned potato-head.”

  “Charlie's right. Tyler will understand,” the youngest of the three offered, sounding the most confident. “I don't know why you two think he’s so fearsome. It ain’t like he'll flay our hides off.”

  The mustachioed one licked the seam of the tidy roll of tobacco and twisted the ends. “Yours, he won't, Sass. You ain’t old enough yet to really get him riled, but he expects the rest of us to know better. If we don’t, we're up to our asses in—

  “—oh, a-afternoon ma’am!”

  Catching sight of Libby, the two older ones lurched to attention and turned a ripe shade of crimson. They scraped their hats off their heads and held them against their chests as though watching a funeral cortege pass. Their spurs rang and there was general shuffling as they made a path for her on the sidewalk. The youngster gawked at her with respectful awe until the lean, leathery cowboy reached over and whipped off the youngster’s hat impatiently. He shoved it into the boy’s hands, and delivered a sharp poke to his ribs. With this silent reprimand, he shut his gaping mouth and straightened like the other two.

  Libby nodded in acknowledgment and continued to Osmer’s door, unable to suppress her smile. The West was a crude, uncivilized wilderness, but at least some of the people were polite.

  *~*~*

  “Passed away? Old Ben Ross?” Nort Osmer stared at Libby across his counter, slack-jawed. “I know he's been poorly in the last year or so, but— Well, I swan . . . ”

  The general store was redolent with the clashing odors of jerked beef, tobacco, tanned leather, coffee, and a vague floral scent. A row of jars filled with colorful candy sat on the counter. Libby’s eyes lingered on the candy—she hadn’t eaten since noon, and the skimpy meal had consisted of only a piece of bread and a hunk of dried beef. Sneaking a surreptitious glance around her, Libby noted a jumble of merchandise on display, some items with fur still attached. This was all so different from the elegant department stores in Chicago—not that she'd had the money to shop in them. But she’d looked in their windows often enough over the years.

  “Had you known my husband long, Mr. Osmer?” she inquired, more out of politeness than real interest. The word husband stuck in her throat.

  He blinked at her, obviously still assimilating the news of Ben’s death. He was a mild-looking man with small, pale eyes and reddish brown hair.

  “Yes’m, since I was a boy. He’s been coming in from the time my pa owned this place. We were surprised as all get-out when we heard he took a wife.”

  Libby wasn't sure who “we” were, but assumed he meant the townspeople. Osmer paused here, looking at her with curiosity.

  “No offense intended, ma’am—uh, Mrs. Ross, but an old cowhand like Ben, set it his ways and all, well, he didn't seem like the type to marry. Especially to a lady so much younger than him.”

  His remark only reinforced Libby’s suspicions. Ben Ross had been looking for a nurse, not a wife. And how could she respond to the shopkeeper’s observation? Admit that she'd been so desperate to leave her hometown that she'd traveled over thirteen hundred miles to meet a man who’d duped her? No. She merely nodded.

  “It all happened so suddenlike,” he went on, “you coming to town and getting married at the sheriff’s office. We didn’t get to meet you before Ben whisked you back to his place. Then winter set in, snowing blue murder. Did the weather treat Ben’s place badly?”

  Again, a grim picture of death, dead cattle, dead horses, dead land—wound tiredly through her mind Libby nodded. “I don't believe I'd seen another living thing besides my horse till I got to town.” She thought a sympathetic look crossed the man's bland face.

  Nort Osmer straightened and put out his hand. “Well, welcome to Heavenly, ma’am. I’m mighty sorry we’re meeting in sadness, but I hope you’ll be staying on.”

  Libby was touched by his simple sentiment, despite her weariness, and shook hands with him. “Actually, Mr. Osmer I’m here to buy a stagecoach ticket. Nothing much was left of Ben’s place, and I can’t live there.”

  He nodded understandingly. “To be honest, ma’am, he never had a lot of luck with that spread. I suppose the winter was just the last straw, so to speak.” His tone became brisk and merchantlike. “So, that'll be one ticket to Miles City? The stage will be here at noon tomorrow. From Miles City, you can catch the train for wherever you’re bound.”

  “Yes, that would be fine.” Just saying the words made her feel better. And suddenly she realized where she was headed—home, back to Chicago. She’d left in bitterness and hurt, an impetuous decision that had cost her far more than she’d gained. True, she was no longer welcome in the Brandauer home, but surely her prospects would be better there than in this wilderness.

  She opened her bag and brought out five dollars. She was certain it wouldn’t be enough for a train ticket, too, but at least she’d be closer to her goal. With the other five dollars she held, she’d have enough to get a room at the hotel and buy a couple of meals. “Please take it out of this.”

  Nort stared at the gold coin lying on the counter between them as though it were a nice button she’d offered for payment. He lifted his eyes to her face. “Mrs. Ross—you’ll need more than five dollars. A stage ticket to Miles City is a lot more than that.”

  Libby gaped back at him. She hadn’t a clue as to how much the trip out here had cost. Ben had sent her both train and stagecoach tickets, and she’d never traveled anywhere in her twenty-six years till last fall. “B-but I only have ten dollars total.” She cast about in her mind, trying to think of an alternative. “Can I buy a ticket to another town?”

  “No, ma'am, you can't go anywhere on the stagecoach for five dollars. Or even ten.”

  Libby found her problems to be piling up quickly. Where could she go? She couldn’t drive back to Ben's place; night would be falling in another couple of hours. She was hungry and tired and discouraged. Besides, to return to that tiny, confining hovel—a shudder ran through her at the very thought. No, no, no. She couldn't go back there again, not for any reason. If she did, she’d lose her mind. She'd rather scrub every floor in Heavenly twice than go back to that place. Her head came up. Work. She needed to find work.

  Libby picked up the gold coin and put it back in her bag. She took another quick glance around the shop, trying to decide how to broach the subject of a job. “You must know a lot about Heavenly, Mr. O
smer. It looks as though I'll be needing to, that is, maybe I can find work here in town.” She gestured at the pine counter, feeling very awkward. “Could you use help here in the store? I don’t have any experience with keeping shop, but I’m trustworthy and I can learn.”

  Nort looked like he’d swallowed one of the big sourballs in the jar next to his hand. “Well, uh, ma’am, I mean Mrs. Ross, after the beating we took this winter, things are pretty quiet. I wish I could help but I don't do enough business here to pay a clerk. And my wife, well, she wouldn’t—” He stammered a few more words, until Libby took pity on him.

  “Maybe you've heard of other work I could do?” she asked, struggling to maintain hope. It was a formidable task. Everything about the last few months had seemed hopeless.

  “I wish I could say I had, but Heavenly is just a little burp of a place and the only work in town for a woman would be down at the Big Dipper.”

  Libby drew a quiet breath. “The Big Dipper is the saloon?”

  He looked apologetic. “Yes, ma’am. Miss Callie is always looking for ladies, well, that is—” Suddenly, his attention caught on something beyond Libby’s shoulder. She turned to see him eyeing the three cowboys outside his window. Then he looked her over speculatively, his hand at his chin. “Say, now that you mention it, I just might know of something.”

  An apprehensive, uncomfortable feeling brushed Libby. To be a woman alone in the world, and in a strange place, was a chancy circumstance at best. But without resources, she was prey to any number of dangers. A fleeting memory of a warm, fragrant kitchen flickered through her mind, then it was gone, like the afterglow image of lightning. Libby glanced at the door, thinking that perhaps she should leave—while she could.

  “Please don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Osmer. I’m sorry to have taken your time.”