RenegadeHeart (10 page)

“Exactly you,” Tyree drawled softly, intimately.

For a timeless moment, they faced each other, a vibrant heat
pulsing between them. Rachel stared at the man standing beside the gray
stallion. He was arrogant, full of self-confidence, always so damnably sure of
himself. He reminded her of the Indians that roamed the mountains. Like them,
he was as wild as the wind, free as the air, deadly as a sidewinder. But there
was something about Tyree that attracted her, that made her want to delve into
his heart and soul and discover who he really was. Her mind told her he was
exactly what he appeared to be, a ruthless killer, a man who could snuff out a
human life without turning a hair. And yet, in her heart, Rachel knew he had a
gentler side. She had seen the softer side of Tyree when he suspected no one
was watching. She had seen his hands, so big and brown and strong, softly
caress Amy’s hair. Had seen him rescue a baby bird from the jaws of a hungry
cat. And she herself had felt his tenderness at Sunset Canyon.

Tyree cocked his head to one side, one black brow rising
inquisitively under Rachel’s prolonged gaze. What was she thinking? he
wondered. What mischievous thoughts were running around inside her pretty little
head? What would she do if he reached out and grabbed her trim waist and
planted a kiss on that delectable mouth? Would she scream? Slap him? Run back
to the shelter of the house? Or admit that she found him desirable and kiss him
back?

As if reading his mind, Rachel took a step backward and
crossed her arms over her breasts.

“Apache horse talk?” she said, breaking the spell between
them. “Where did you ever learn such a thing?”

“From the Mescalero. I lived with them awhile back.”

There was something in his tone that warned her not to ask
any more questions, but they popped into her mind willy-nilly, one after the
other. How long ago had he lived with the Indians? Why had he lived with them?
Was that where he had learned to walk with that cat-footed grace that was so
rare in big men? Was that why he was so secretive about his past? Had he ridden
the war trail with the Apache? Rachel shivered in the sunlight. It was all too
easy to imagine Tyree looting and killing and scalping. And liking it.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew Tyree’s attention
and he glanced over his shoulder to see a tall, blond young man ride up to the
house, dismount, and look around. A smile spread over the stranger’s face when
he saw Rachel and he started toward her at a brisk walk.

Rachel was smiling too, her vibrant blue eyes sparkling with
pleasure as she took the man’s hands in her own.

“Clint,” she said warmly. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Bending, Clint Wesley kissed Rachel on the cheek. “Did you
really miss me?” he asked huskily.

“You know I did.”

“How much?”

“More than I can say,” Rachel answered with mock gravity,
and then they both laughed, as though sharing a private joke.

Tyree studied the blond young Adonis, taking special note of
the shiny six-pointed tin star pinned to the man’s black leather vest, and of
the .45 Colt holstered on his right hip. The gun didn’t look as if it had seen
much action, but it was well cared for.

Tyree glanced at the marshal again, annoyed to see the man
was still holding Rachel’s hands.

“Say, Rachel,” Wesley was saying, “you’re still going to the
box social with me, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Rachel answered, dimpling prettily. “I wouldn’t
miss it. Can you come for dinner tonight? I know Pa would love to see you.”

“Sure.” Wesley seemed to notice Tyree for the first time.
“Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rachel said, some of the enthusiasm
draining from her voice. “Clint Wesley, this is Logan—”

“Matt Logan,” Tyree interjected smoothly.

The marshal nodded, a faint look of suspicion clouding his
mild blue eyes. It was a look Tyree had seen countless times before. It was a
look that went with the badge.

“You a friend of the family, Mr. Logan?” Wesley asked.

“Just a hired hand.”

Wesley rubbed a hand across his jaw, his eyes thoughtful.
“You been in these parts before?”

“Not lately.”

“Hmmmm. Your face looks familiar. Mind if I ask where you’re
from?”

That was another thing about lawmen, Tyree thought sourly.
They were nosy as hell. “Yeah, I do mind,” he said curtly. “If you’ll excuse
me, I’ll be getting back to work.”

And before Wesley could object, Tyree vaulted into the
saddle and gigged the gray toward the barn.

“Not a very friendly cuss, is he?” Clint muttered.

“No. I hate him. When did you get back?”

“Just now. I haven’t even been to my office yet.”

“You were gone so long, I was beginning to worry about you.”

Clint shrugged. “I got tied up with a bunch of red tape at
the territorial prison.”

Rachel nodded. If Clint hadn’t been to town, then he
probably hadn’t heard about Walsh. But he would. And if he turned up proof that
Tyree killed Job Walsh, what then? It was true that Tyree had pulled the
trigger, but her father would be equally culpable before the law.

“Well, I’d better be going,” Clint said reluctantly. “I’ve
got a lot of paperwork to catch up on. Dinner at six?”

“Yes,” Rachel answered absently, and lifted her face for his
kiss.

Rachel prepared Clint’s favorite dinner that night, roast
beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn-on-the-cob, green beans, biscuits dripping
butter and honey, and deep-dish apple pie for dessert.

“Lordy, John, I’m surprised you’re not as fat as old man
Emerson’s hogs,” Wesley laughingly remarked as he helped himself to a second
slice of apple pie. “I know I would be if I ate this good every night.”

“Well, it could be arranged,” Halloran said, winking
broadly.

“Pa, stop it,” Rachel admonished. But she slid a shy smile
in Clint’s direction. He looked wonderfully handsome, all decked out in a
bright red shirt and brown whipcord britches. Unconsciously, she compared Clint
to Tyree, who was dressed all in black, as usual. Clint was the more handsome
of the two, she decided, and yet there was something earthy and sensual about
Tyree that appealed to her, though she was loath to admit it, even to herself.
And Tyree
was
handsome, ruggedly so.

“Did you get Curly Bob delivered to Yuma all safe and
sound?” Halloran asked Wesley. “There was some talk that his gang might try to
spring him.”

“Never saw hide nor hair of any of them,” Clint replied,
chuckling. “I put the word out that I’d blow Curly Bob’s head clean off at the
first hint of trouble.”

“Hot damn!” Halloran chortled in amusement. “I guess they
knew you’d do it, too.”

“I reckon. Say, I saw Walsh’s sister in town this afternoon.
She’s a mighty pretty woman.”

“She planning to sell the ranch?”

“I don’t know, John. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her.
But judging by the amount of baggage she brought along, I’d say she’s planning
to stay on for quite a spell.”

Halloran nodded, his face thoughtful.

“Funny thing about Walsh being bushwhacked,” Clint mused
aloud. “Nobody seems to have any idea who did it, or why.”

Rachel glanced sideways at her father, waiting for him to
reply, but he was staring into his coffee cup, his mind apparently on something
else.

“It was a dreadful thing,” Rachel said quickly. “Tell me,
Clint, did you stop to see the O’Brians on your way to Yuma? Has Molly had her
baby yet?”

Tyree grinned to himself as Rachel adroitly steered the
conversation to safer ground.

With dinner over, the three men retired to the parlor for
brandy and cigars while Rachel cleared the table and washed the dishes.

If the marshal thought it peculiar that Matt Logan was the
only hired hand to take his dinner at the main house with the boss and to
linger for brandy afterward, he did not remark on it, though he had treated
Tyree to several long speculative glances during dinner. Now, as John Halloran
filled their glasses, Wesley said, “I saw a couple of Slash W riders in town
this afternoon. They seem to think somebody paid to have Walsh disposed of.”

“That so?” Tyree asked disinterestedly.

“Do they have any idea who was behind it?” Halloran asked
bleakly.

Tyree’s face remained impassive, but John Halloran’s guilt
was etched across his weathered face as clearly as print on a page. But Clint
Wesley did not see it. He was staring at the man called Matt Logan. Wesley’s
eyes gave him away even before his hand started toward his gun.

“I wouldn’t,” Tyree warned flatly. “Not if you expect to
walk out of here.”

Clint Wesley swallowed hard as he stared into the yawning
maw of the .44 that had magically appeared in Tyree’s hand.

“Tyree,” Wesley muttered sheepishly. “Logan Tyree.”

“Took you long enough,” Tyree chided in a mild tone.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Wesley accused. “You gunned Walsh.”

“Did I?”

“You just rode in and shot him down in cold blood.”

“Anybody see me do it?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

“Yeah. Well, what now? You gonna gun me down the way you
killed Job Walsh?”

Tyree laughed shortly and without amusement. “You hopin’
I’ll make a slip and say yes? Well, forget it. I didn’t bushwhack Walsh and I’m
not aimin’ to kill you unless you do something stupid.”

Halloran had been nervously silent during the exchange
between the two younger men. Now, he cleared his throat and said, curtly,
“Tyree, put that gun away. I’ll not have any gunplay in my home. And you,
Clint, you just forget that badge for a minute and remember you’re a guest in
this house.”

“I don’t feel very welcome just now,” Clint replied, rising
stiffly to his feet. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll go bid Rachel
good night and take my leave.”

Halloran and Wesley shook hands and then Clint left the
room, his back rigid, as if he expected a bullet to follow him out the door.

“Damn!” The word whispered past Halloran’s lips and his face
was suddenly drained of color. “He knows,” the old man murmured, shaking his
head in dismay. “He knows.”

“He doesn’t know a damn thing,” Tyree stated flatly. He
drained his glass in a single swallow. Striding to the table where Halloran
kept his liquor, Tyree poured himself another drink. “Don’t worry, old man,” he
said calmly. “I didn’t backshoot Walsh. And even if I had, there weren’t any
witnesses.”

“I never should have hired you,” Halloran said wearily. “I
haven’t had a peaceful night’s sleep since Walsh died. Dammit, I wish I had
given him the ranch!”

“Would you feel better if I told you I shot Walsh in a fair
fight?”

“Did you?” Halloran asked hopefully.

Tyree grinned at the eager expression on the old man’s face.
“Sure I did,” he lied smoothly. “Sleep easy tonight, Halloran, you’ve got
nothing to worry about.”

Halloran didn’t believe him, not for a minute. But he wanted
to…needed to, and so he nodded. “Thanks, Tyree. See you in the morning.”

Stepping outside, Tyree sat on the porch rail and rolled and
smoked a cigarette. It was a cool, clear night, fragrant with the scent of sage
and honeysuckle. Overhead, countless stars shimmered against a black velvet
sky.

Grinding out his cigarette, Tyree ambled down to the corral,
smiled faintly as the gray stallion came up to him.

“Hi, fella,” Tyree murmured, scratching the stud’s ears.
Abruptly, he whirled around, hand flashing for his gun as he heard footsteps
behind him. But it was only Rachel.

“Awfully fast with that, aren’t you?” Rachel remarked
caustically.

“Middling. Just middling.” He returned the .44 to his
holster in a swift, unconscious movement that was not lost on Rachel. “The
marshal gone?”

“Yes.”

“You want something Rachel?”

It was the first time he had called her by her given name.
She could not explain the rush of pleasure it gave her, to hear her name on his
lips.

“You want something?” he asked again.

“Yes. Your promise that you won’t hurt Clint.”

Tyree snorted. “I can’t make a promise like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because sooner or later he’s gonna feel like it’s his duty
to come after me. And I’m not going back to prison. I spent eighteen months in
that hellhole and I’m not going back. Not for you. Not for anybody. And if
Clint Wesley tries to take me in, I’ll kill him. You tell him that. As for
Walsh, I called him out and I killed him. Anything else you’d like to know?”

Wordlessly, Rachel shook her head, thinking she had never
seen such a hard, cold expression in a man’s eyes before.

Abruptly, the look on Tyree’s face changed and Rachel knew
he was going to reach for her. The memory of his last kiss made her knees
tremble, and she turned on her heel and ran for the safety of the house,
running as though all the hounds of hell were barking at her heels.

Tyree did not follow her.

Chapter Six

The day of the box social bloomed bright and clear. Tyree
was sitting on the front porch chewing on a cigar when Clint Wesley came to
call for Rachel. The marshal, damn his hide, looked handsome as hell in a blue
plaid shirt, black denim pants, and a black leather vest. And Rachel, bless
her, looked good enough to eat, all gussied up in a pink and white polka-dot
dress. A large white sunbonnet trimmed with long pink and blue streamers was
perched atop her honey-colored hair.

Tyree scowled as the young couple went off in a rented hack,
laughing and smiling at each other like a couple of carefree school kids.

Tyree had scoffed at the idea of anything as frivolous as a
box social. No one else on the ranch seemed to share his opinion, however, and
soon he was the only one left at the Lazy H. Even old man Halloran had ridden
off to town earlier that morning.

Tyree sat on the porch for over an hour, enjoying the
solitude, content to be alone with his thoughts.

It was nearing noon when hunger tugged at Tyree’s belly. The
idea of cooking left him cold and he decided to ride into town and grab a bite
at the saloon. Ten minutes later, he was swinging into the saddle and riding
toward Yellow Creek at a good, fast trot.

He heard the noise of a fiddle and the shrieks of kids
having a good time long before he rode into the town itself. Entering the town
proper, he saw a dozen couples dancing on a clearing in front of the
schoolhouse. Rachel and Wesley were among them, holding hands and laughing as
they sashayed back and forth. Farther down the road, several tables were set
up. They were covered with gaily colored cloths and piled high with cakes and
pies and cookies. Another table, covered with a white linen cloth, stood off by
itself, loaded with box suppers all done up in ribbons and bows and fancy paper.
The sale of those boxes would be the highlight of the day’s festivities.

Leaving the gray stallion at the livery stable, Tyree
sauntered down the main street, his left thumb hooked over his gunbelt, his
right hand brushing the butt of the .44 strapped to his right thigh. He could
feel the curious stares and disapproving glances of the townspeople directed at
his back as he moved toward the schoolhouse, his hunger forgotten.

Yellow Creek wasn’t much of a town, compared to Dodge or
Wichita or El Paso. There was a church to please the ladies, a school to
educate the kids, a small hotel. Thorngood’s General Store was sandwiched
between Bowsher’s Saloon and a Chinese laundry. The newspaper office stood next
to the Marshal’s Office. A half-dozen small stores catered to the needs of the
local farmers and their families.

Tyree took a place against the schoolhouse wall, his hooded
amber eyes watching Rachel’s every move. She was by far the prettiest girl in
town and though Tyree hated to admit it, she was the real reason for his
presence at what he considered a foolish waste of time and energy. Men of all
ages vied for Rachel’s attention, willingly waiting in line just to dance with
her, telling her jokes and clowning around like schoolboys in hopes of making
her smile.

No one ventured near Tyree.

The dancing went on for another quarter of an hour, and then
the fiddler put his fiddle away and the contests began. Clint Wesley entered
the pie-eating contest and won first place. Overcome with the thrill of
victory, Wesley grabbed Rachel and kissed her soundly on the mouth, smearing
her face with cherry pie as several of the local gents cheered him on. The
blacksmith won the wrestling match, which came as no surprise to anyone. He had
arms like oak trees and a chest like a beer keg. A young, freckle-faced boy of
about fifteen won the foot race, while a fairly attractive young woman won the
archery contest.

Tyree watched it all with a curious sense of scorn and envy.
It was all such nonsense, stuffing pie down your throat, or chasing a greased
pig, or engaging in a tug-of-war across a mud puddle. And yet, for all that,
everyone appeared to be having a good time.

It was nearing two o’clock when the mayor called for quiet.
“Ladies,” he began, bowing formally to the group of women clustered around the
table bearing the box suppers. “Gentlemen. It’s time for the bidding to start.
As you know, any man who buys a basket will not only buy a delicious lunch, but
will be entitled to share the meal with the charming young lady who prepared
it. The proceeds will, of course, go toward building a new parsonage for the
Reverend Jenkins and his lovely family.”

The mayor inclined his head toward the minister and his
family as he picked up the first basket. “This one smells like fried chicken
and apple pie,” he said jovially. “What am I bid?”

Rachel’s basket was the fifth one offered. Clint Wesley made
the first bid, at a dollar, and in a matter of minutes the bidding had gone up
to ten dollars as every eligible young man in town bid on Rachel’s lunch, and a
chance to be alone with her.

“Ten dollars,” the mayor was saying. “Going once, going
twice—”

“Fifteen dollars.”

Heads turned. A few of the older women gasped out loud, a
few of the younger ones stared enviously at Rachel. Fifteen dollars!

Clint Wesley threw a hard look at Tyree. Very quietly, the
marshal raised his bid to sixteen dollars.

“Twenty dollars,” Tyree called.

“Twenty-one,” Wesley said, answering the challenge.

Tyree glanced at Rachel, who stood blushing furiously beside
the mayor. Then, throwing Wesley a wry grin, Tyree bid fifty dollars, knowing
the marshal could not afford to match such an outrageous bid, not on a lawman’s
pay.

The mayor looked at Wesley askance. Slowly, Clint shook his
head.

“Sold to the stranger in black for fifty dollars!” the mayor
declared with a broad grin. “Hope you enjoy it.”

With the basket paid for, Tyree followed Rachel to a shady
spot near the schoolhouse, dropped down beside her on the blanket she spread on
the ground.

“You must be awfully hungry,” Rachel muttered, “to spend
fifty dollars on a lunch you could buy for fifty cents at the restaurant down
the street.”

“It’s your company I’m buying,” Tyree replied candidly. “And
we both know it.”

Rachel’s cheeks flushed at that. Wordlessly, she opened the basket,
filled a plate with baked ham, potato salad, a slice of fresh-baked bread,
salad, and strawberries. She handed the plate to Tyree, poured him a glass of
cold cider.

Rachel ate without tasting her food, conscious of Tyree’s
predatory gaze, and of Clint’s presence only a few yards away. Millie Cloward
sat beside Wesley, her basket between them. Millie was a plump young woman with
mousy brown hair and placid brown eyes. She was not popular with the young men,
and at the moment she looked mighty pleased to have a handsome young man like
the marshal all to herself. Clint Wesley responded to her ceaseless chatter
automatically, more interested in keeping an eye on Tyree and Rachel than
listening to Millie ramble on about her sister’s wedding.

After a few moments, Rachel put her plate aside and regarded
Tyree with frankly curious eyes. “Why did you come here today? I thought you
said this kind of thing was silly, and no fit way for a grown man to spend his
time.”

Tyree shrugged. “So I changed my mind. You gonna sit there
and glare at me all afternoon just because I outbid Wesley for your lunch?”

“No. But you must have known Clint and I planned to eat
together.”

“Then he should have topped my offer.”

“He can’t afford to spend fifty dollars on a box lunch and you
know it.”

“Lucky for me, his being so poor,” Tyree said, grinning at
her. “Come on, cheer up. What’s in that tent, yonder?”

“A fortune-teller. I hear she’s quite remarkable.”

“That right? What say we go take a look? I’ve never seen a
gypsy before.”

Rachel smiled at Tyree, suddenly pleased with the thought of
spending some time with him. He had obviously bought her supper because he
wanted to be with her, or maybe just to irritate Clint. Whatever the reason,
she didn’t care. She knew only that she was suddenly, unaccountably happy.

“I’m game if you are,” she said agreeably. “But it’s just a
lot of hocus-pocus.”

The interior of the tent was stark and dim, the only
furnishings a small, round table made of dark wood and a pair of
straight-backed chairs that had seen better days. A fat white candle sputtered
in the center of the table, casting eerie shadows on the canvas walls.

The fortune-teller was seated behind the table, facing the
doorway. She was not a gypsy, after all, but an old Apache squaw with iron-gray
hair and sunken cheeks. A shapeless red dress hung loose on her frail frame.

A full minute went by before she acknowledged their presence
with a faint nod. Then, staring at them through fathomless black eyes, she
spoke in a raspy, faraway voice.

“Sit, my children. Give me your hand. Lady first.”

Feeling suddenly apprehensive, Rachel took a seat and placed
her right hand into the claw-like palm of the old woman.

A moment passed by, and the tent was silent save for the
sputtering flame.

“There has been trouble in your life,” the old woman said
tonelessly. “You think it is over, but it will rise again when you least expect
it.”

Nodding to herself, the Apache woman turned Rachel’s hand
over and ran a gnarled, bony finger across Rachel’s palm. “You are not married,
though two men desire to have you. One loves you with his whole heart and will
make a good husband and provider. There will be little excitement in your life
if you marry this man, yet you will live in peace and want for nothing. The
other man also loves you, though he does not yet know it. Life with this man
will be turbulent at times, but if you marry him, you will never regret it.”

Rachel leaned forward. Despite her earlier skepticism, she
felt herself drawn into the hypnotic web of the old woman’s eyes and voice.
“How shall I know which man to choose?”

The Indian woman cocked her head to one side, as though
listening to a distant voice that only she could hear. “When the time comes,
you will know which man is right.”

Rachel gazed intently at the fortune-teller, believing the
woman’s words in spite of herself. She waited for the old woman to go on and
was disappointed when the seer dropped her hand and turned to Tyree.

“You now.”

For a moment, a strange stillness hung over the dingy little
tent. The Apache woman’s depthless black eyes looked hard at Tyree, as if
seeking to penetrate his soul.

“You are of the blood,” she murmured, taking Tyree’s hand in
hers. “It has brought sorrow into your life, but it has also made you strong.
Perhaps too strong.” There was a long silence as she stared past Tyree.

Was she gazing down the long corridor of Tyree’s past,
Rachel wondered, or peering into the murky darkness that was the future?

The candle sputtered, the soft hiss sounding overly loud in
the taut stillness that shrouded the tent. Rachel glanced sideways at Tyree.
His eyes were intent upon the face of the old woman, his expression almost
frightening in its intensity. He believes her, Rachel mused incredulously. He
believes every word.

The old woman took a deep breath, and her hand tightened
around Tyree’s. “I see great turmoil in your future,” she predicted in a voice
heavy with sadness. “And great pain. But you will triumph, and in the end you
will find that which you thought forever gone out of your life.”

The gray head drooped. The withered hands withdrew. The
ancient eyes closed. The reading was over.

Tyree pressed a twenty dollar gold piece into the Apache
woman’s hand before following Rachel outside. The sun seemed extraordinarily
bright after the tent’s gloomy darkness, and Rachel took a deep breath, feeling
as if she had just escaped from some sorcerer’s dungeon. Here, in the sunlight,
it was hard to remember how convincing the old woman had been.

“Well, that was certainly interesting,” Rachel said, laughing.

“Yes,” Tyree agreed.

“Her predictions for you were a little gloomy, don’t you
think? I thought fortune­tellers were supposed to foretell happy things.”

“I thought she was very perceptive,” Tyree remarked.

“Perceptive, indeed,” Rachel said disdainfully. Now that
they were away from the old woman, the whole incident seemed ridiculous. “She
said there had been trouble in my life, and that two men desire me.” Rachel
laughed again. “Everyone has trouble in their life, and most girls have more
than one beau.”

“She knew I was part Indian,” Tyree pointed out. “She wasn’t
guessing about that.”

“Be serious, Tyree! Anyone can tell that just by looking at
you.”

“Yeah,” Tyree agreed softly. “But she was blind.”

Rachel digested that bit of information for a moment. Was it
possible the old woman was really gifted and not just some charlatan? Rachel
glanced at Tyree. It was easy to see from his expression that he had been
deeply impressed with the old Indian woman’s predictions.

“You don’t believe all that stuff, do you?” Rachel asked,
hoping he would say no and dispel the uneasiness that was settling over her.
“Not really?”

“I don’t know,” Tyree answered slowly. “When I lived with
the Mescalero, there was an old medicine man who could foretell the future with
uncanny accuracy.”

“Coincidence, perhaps?”

“Perhaps, but—”

A sudden burst of gunfire near the Blackjack Saloon stifled
Tyree’s reply and he immediately turned in that direction, his hand poised over
the butt of his .44, his eyes narrowed against the sun.

But there was no danger, and he relaxed when he saw that the
commotion was being caused by a half-dozen men shooting at empty whiskey and
beer bottles. In minutes, a crowd had gathered around the sharpshooters and
money began to change hands as bets were made and paid off.