A Taste of Heaven Read Online Free PDF Page A

overlooked
the parlor.
    “This house is a lot bigger than it looks
outside,” she commented as she followed Joe Channing.
    “Tyler's pa built it when they came up from
Texas after the war. He cut down every one of the logs
himself.”
    He stopped and opened the door to a large
bedroom that had a preserved look, as though it had been waiting in
readiness for years, but had remained unused. Lace curtains hung at
the windows and the bed was big. She thought of her third-floor
room in Chicago. Located under the roof, it had been ice-cold in
the winter and like an oven in the summer. And compared to her cot
by the stove at Ben's place, this was heaven.
    It wasn't until the foreman spoke again that
she realized she'd been standing there wide-eyed.
    "Will this be all right, Mrs. Ross?"
    “Oh, yes.” She sighed. “It's just fine.”
    “Then I'll tell Rory to bring your trunk in
for you,” he said.
    She thanked him and after a moment's awkward
silence, he tipped his hat and let himself out. When the door
closed behind him, she heard his boot steps in the hall as he
walked away. She couldn't help but wish that he was the boss here,
and that her immediate future was settled.
    After Rory brought her trunk a minute later,
she knelt in front of it and lifted the lid. Her throat tightened
momentarily at the faint lavender scent that reminded her of
another time and place. She quickly lifted out a long white apron
and closed the lid again, pushing the memories back in. Tying the
starched cotton around her waist she took a deep breath and went
back downstairs. The kitchen was as roughhewn as the house. The
Brandauers, always eager to be the first with the best, had bought
a gas stove three years earlier, and Libby was accustomed to the
predictability of gas cooking. Now she faced a huge black iron
beast that had a low fire banked in its belly. She'd also had an
icebox in the Chicago kitchen, but no such convenience would be
found here, either. Of course not, she reminded herself as she
poked through the shelves, looking for spices. There was no
iceman.
    Libby stoked the fire in the stove, then
inspected the supplies. She peered into big dark bins of rice,
flour, beans, sugar, and other staples. Mice had been into most of
them, and the flour had turned weevily. The perishables—meat, eggs,
and butter—were spoiled. If they had ham or bacon, these were
nowhere to be found. Nearly everything bore a film of grease and
dust. She shook her head as she wiped her hands on her apron.
Whoever had run this kitchen before her had been lazy and very
careless. No wonder everyone had come down sick. It would take a
lot of hard scrubbing to bring the place up to her standards.
    How much food did a person prepare for twenty
hungry men? she wondered as she measured the best of the flour.
She'd cooked for dinner parties in the past, but the numbers had
been smaller, and she'd had help. All she could do was make her
best guess. She shrugged and brought out a big enamel bowl and
cast-iron skillet. With the salvageable provisions she put together
a quick meal of biscuits and a good, peppery gravy. There was no
baking powder, only saleratus, and that meant the biscuits would
have an alkaline taste. After locating jars of canned cherries, she
made three pies. Bacon or sausage would have gone well with all of
this but there, was nothing more she could do. If she stayed on,
this kitchen would have to be stocked decently.
    Two hours later, as dusk purpled the valley,
she stepped out to the porch intending to ring the iron triangle
that called the men to meals. But when she looked up, she saw most
of them already waiting along the porch rail. Charlie Ryerson stood
at the front of the line, as befitted the top hand. The scent of
bay rum drifted to her. Scrubbed and combed like they were going to
church, the cowboys stared at her with anticipation.
    “It surely smells good, ma'am,” Charlie
ventured from behind his mustache.
    Libby wasn't particularly proud of