RenegadeHeart (12 page)

“You?” Rachel laughed out loud. “Who’s going to do the
washing and ironing and the cooking and—”

Tyree dropped a hand over Rachel’s mouth, effectively
stifling her tirade. “Nothing to it,” he drawled, and proved it later that
night by serving Rachel a dinner of roast beef, potatoes with brown gravy,
peas, and hot biscuits only a little less light and fluffy than her own.

Tyree grinned at her as she ate with obvious enjoyment.
“Well?”

“It’s delicious,” Rachel admitted.

“But?”

“But I just can’t believe you made all this yourself.”

“Why not? Who do you think cooks for me when I’m drifting?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel said with a shrug. “I guess I never
gave it any thought.”

“Yeah. Well, you be a good girl and tomorrow I’ll fix you
some fried chicken and dumplings that will melt in your mouth. And if you’re
real good, I might bake you a chocolate cake.”

Grinning impudently, Rachel said, “I had no idea you were so
domestic.”

“Just another of my hidden talents,” Tyree retorted.

“Yes. Well, I’m sure you’ll make some lucky girl a wonderful
wife.”

Tyree looked momentarily taken aback, then he quirked one
black eyebrow at her. “That a proposal?”

“Of course not,” Rachel answered quickly.

“Another hope crushed,” Tyree lamented with mock sorrow.
“Get some rest now.”

Rachel’s convalescence proved to be one surprise after
another as Tyree took over the running of the house. Rachel had been born and
raised on the ranch and she was used to the never-ending hard work that was a
part of every ranch woman’s life. To stay in bed and be waited on was a rare
treat. For once, she had time to linger over a romantic novel, or browse
through her father’s mail order catalogs. She could even sit back and enjoy
being idle without feeling guilty. She had time to think and dream and ponder,
and most of her thoughts were of Tyree. When had she stopped hating him? When
had she stopped thinking of him as a heartless murderer and begun to see him as
a strong, virile, desirable man?

As promised, he took over the domestic chores and Rachel saw
a side of him she had never dreamed existed. He waited on her as if she were a
princess. He cooked her meals, changed the linen on her bed, laundered her
clothing, including her underwear and stockings, changed the bandage on her
ankle, swept the floors, and washed the dishes.

Some nights he rubbed her back, his hands gently kneading
her shoulders and back and neck. She reveled in the touch of his hands, warm
and soothing through the material of her nightgown. Other nights he brushed her
hair until it glistened like spun gold. His nearness thrilled her, filling her
with excited tremors as he drew the brush through her hair, his breath warm
upon her neck. Sometimes she wished he would take her in his arms and kiss her,
but he never did.

Each morning there was a gift on her bedside table when she
woke up: a bouquet of brightly colored flowers, a book of poetry, a box of
candy, a bottle of fragrant perfume. When she tried to thank Tyree for his
thoughtful gestures, he denied having anything to do with the gifts.

“Where did all these things come from then?” Rachel asked.
“There’s no one in the house except you and me.”

But Tyree just shrugged. “Maybe you’ve got a secret
admirer,” he suggested, and refused to discuss the matter further.

One afternoon, he surprised her by carrying her outside and
serving her an elaborate lunch under the shade of the old oak tree that grew
alongside the house. Another time he served dinner on a blanket spread in front
of the fireplace.

Rachel looked at Tyree through eyes filled with wonder,
unable to believe that this was the same man who had cold-bloodedly gunned down
Job Walsh, the same man who had been willing to steal her virginity to humor
six Apache warriors. She remembered how, when he had first arrived at the Lazy
H, he had refused to do any work at all. He wouldn’t mend a fence or help with
the cattle. Still wouldn’t, Rachel thought, confused. And yet he didn’t seem to
mind playing nursemaid for her and that was really odd, because most men,
especially a man as virile and untamed as Tyree, would have handled housework
awkwardly at best. Even Clint, who was a gentleman through and through, was
self-conscious around ailing women, and totally out of his element where even
the simplest domestic chores were concerned.

But what surprised Rachel the most about Tyree was the fact
that he made no advances toward her and she could not help wondering if, deep
down, some latent sense of chivalry prevented him from taking advantage of her
while she was unable to defend herself.

She recalled how, late one night, they had talked to each
other, really talked to each for, without malice or sarcasm. She had hoped to
learn something about Tyree that would unlock the mystery of his past, but he
had adroitly sidestepped all her questions. Looking back, Rachel could not
remember how they got on the subject, but before she quite knew what was
happening, she was telling Tyree of her hopes and dreams, how she longed to
marry and raise a big family. Strong boys and beautiful, accomplished girls who
would marry and raise families of their own, children who would subdue the land
and bring civilization to the wilderness.

“It’s all I’ve ever really wanted,” Rachel had admitted
shyly. “To be a wife and a mother, to have what my parents had before my mother
died. But what about you, Tyree? What do you want out of life?”

Tyree had stared into the fireplace, his eyes intent on the
dancing flames, his brow furrowed and thoughtful. Slowly, he shook his head. “I
don’t have any dreams,” he had said quietly. “Not anymore.”

Rachel had stared at him, bemused. No dreams? How could
anyone, man of woman, live without dreams or hopes for the future? She thought
about the Lazy H. If not for the hopes and dreams of her father and mother, the
ranch would still be an empty stretch of uncultivated ground, untouched and
unloved.

“Surely there must be something you want out of life?”
Rachel had insisted. “Some goal that sustains you, some vision of the future
that gives you hope and a reason for living?” She shook her head, not
understanding. “Some dream to strive for?”

“Dreams are for fools,” Tyree had retorted bitterly. “Or for
the very young.” He had been that young once, he thought, not wanting to
remember. Red Leaf had been his dream, his hope for the future.

“Dreams are not for fools!” Rachel had exclaimed. “My father
is neither a fool nor a child, but he still dreams of the day when the Halloran
name will stand for something in this part of the country.”

Tyree’s grin was melancholy as he muttered, “Sometimes I
think I’m older than you and your old man put together. Hell, the best thing a
man in my line of work can hope for is to grow a little older every day.”

Rachel had wanted to argue with him further. Somehow, it had
seemed important to make Tyree fight back, to make him admit that somewhere
under that practical, hardheaded exterior there lurked a vision for the future.

But she never got the chance to probe further, for Tyree
suddenly picked her up and carried her, protesting, to her room, putting an
abrupt end to their conversation.

Rachel had stayed awake a long time that night, thoughts of
Tyree crowding her mind. He was such a strange man. Not that she was an expert
on men by any means. Far from that. But even in her limited experience with the
opposite sex, she had learned that most men retained a boyish quality deep down
inside. Her best friend’s father loved practical jokes. Candido loved to
wrestle or play tug-of-war. Even her own father was still a boy at heart. But
there were no boyish qualities in the man known as Logan Tyree and she wondered
if he had ever played or danced or sung, or laughed out loud just because he
was glad to be alive.

Carefully, she slid out of bed and hobbled to the window
overlooking the front yard. As she had suspected, Tyree was there, pacing up
and down, a cigar clamped between his teeth. What did he think about as he
walked restlessly back and forth? What was there in his past that weighed him
down so heavily?

She watched Tyree until her eyelids grew heavy and she went
back to bed to sleep, and dream of a tall, dark man with brooding amber eyes
and a cynical grin.

Rachel had been in bed a little over a week when her best
friend, Carol Ann McKee, came to call. Carol Ann was a pretty girl with curly
auburn hair, mild brown eyes, a quick smile, and a smattering of freckles
across the bridge of her turned-up nose. They had been close friends ever since
Carol Ann’s family moved to Yellow Creek eleven years ago.

The minute their hellos were over, Carol Ann dragged a chair
close to the bed and blurted, with very real concern, “Rachel, my dear girl,
how can you stay in this house alone with that dreadful man?”

“What dreadful man?” Rachel asked, forgetting that she, too,
had once thought of Tyree as some kind of ogre.

“Why, Logan Tyree, of course. I insist you come and stay
with me until your ankle is better.”

“Carol Ann, I’m fine.”

“Don’t you know who he is?” Carol Ann asked in a hushed
voice. “
What
he is?”

“Of course I know. But he’s all right. Really. He’s taking
very good care of me.”

Carol Ann looked doubtful. She had heard stories about Logan
Tyree, about the men he had killed, the women he had abused. She had been in
the crowd the day he had winged Brockton. People were still talking about that.
Brockton hadn’t been very well liked, but he had been a resident of Yellow
Creek, and the townspeople didn’t take kindly to strangers riding in and taking
shots at the local citizens. For all that, no one had been sorry when Brockton
left town.

“Carol Ann, I’m fine. Really,” Rachel insisted. “He cooks
for me and everything. Even cleans the house.”

“He cooks!” Carol Ann exclaimed, practically choking on the
words. “And cleans house? Mercy,” she laughed. “Who would believe it?”

“Well, it’s true, though I wouldn’t spread it around town if
I were you. But he can be very nice when it suits him.”

“He doesn’t look nice to me. In fact, he scares me to death.
He hasn’t tried to…you know?”

“No,” Rachel answered firmly. “He hasn’t.”

“Well, personally, I’d be afraid to be in the same room with
him,” Carol Ann said, shivering at the mere thought. “He has the coldest eyes
I’ve ever seen.”

Everything Carol Ann had said about Tyree was true, Rachel
mused when she was alone again. Tyree didn’t look very nice. And he did have
cold eyes. But he continued to treat her as if she were made of glass.

She was almost sorry when the doctor pronounced her well
enough to get out of bed.

Chapter Eight

The list in Rachel’s hand grew longer and longer as she went
from cupboard to cupboard, absently jotting down the things she needed from the
store in town: sugar, salt, flour, pepper, a case of peaches, some hard candy
for her father, a horn of cheese, a bolt of cotton cloth, thread, dried apples,
coffee. She added other items as they occurred to her, yet all the while it was
Logan Tyree who filled her thoughts.

More and more he was on her mind. Why was he a gunfighter?
What events in his past had shaped him into the kind of man he was now? What an
enigma he was, changeable as the wind. Now cold as ice, now considerate and
kind. She wondered if he had ever been head-over-heels in love with a woman, or
tasted the bitter tears of sorrow.

Nights, while she waited for sleep to come, his swarthy face
danced before her eyes: the mouth cynical, the eyes cold, almost cruel. It was
a strong face, one that revealed little warmth, little emotion. There seemed to
be no softness in him, no place for tenderness or compassion. And yet she knew
that to be untrue, for he displayed infinite patience with the gray mustang,
and he had certainly been considerate of her own wants and needs during her
recent convalescence.

Rachel grinned as she thought of the gray stud. Her father
had ordered the horse put down as soon as he learned about Candido’s broken
leg, declaring he would not have a rank stallion on the place, but Tyree had
asked if he could work with the bronc for a few days, and her father had
reluctantly agreed.

Rachel had spent several hours watching Tyree work with the
wild stallion. He was a beautiful horse. Predominantly gray in color, with
three black stockings, a black mane and tail, and the spotted hindquarters that
denoted Appaloosa blood.

While admiring the stud, Rachel could not help but notice that,
in his own way, Logan Tyree was also a beautiful animal. He often worked
without a shirt, exposing skin as brown as an Apache’s, and powerful muscles
that rippled in the sunlight. The sight of his naked torso did peculiar things
to the pit of her stomach. Sometimes, watching Tyree, she suddenly felt warm
all over. So many muscles, she mused and could not help remembering the
unyielding strength of his arms around her the night of her father’s birthday
party. Occasionally, as now, she thought how nice it would be to feel those
arms around her again. Sometimes she could not help wondering what it would
have been like if she had surrendered to the longing in his eyes.

Tyree and the stud—they drew her eyes like a magnet, making
her heart pound and her blood race. They were a perfect match, both headstrong
and wild, both wary and distrustful of people. But, little by little, the man
was winning the mustang’s trust and affection.

In the days that followed, Tyree discarded the harsh curb
bit in favor of a light hackamore, and Rachel noticed that he never wore spurs
when working the stallion. Tyree seemed blessed with endless patience, never
raising his voice, never striking out at the horse when it failed to respond,
never resorting to force or fear.

Rachel watched, fascinated, as Tyree taught the gray to rein
right and left, to slide stop, to back on cue, to break into a full gallop from
a standing start, patiently coaxing the skittish stallion to respond to hand
and heel and voice. And always he spoke to the horse in that strange, soft
tongue.

Once the gray had learned the basics, Tyree taught the horse
to go to its knees on command, to come at his call, to cut a cow from a herd,
to stand ground-tied for as long as necessary.

It was hard to believe that a drifting gunslinger could
succeed with the horse where a top hand like Candido had failed, but it was
true, nonetheless. Within a matter of weeks, Tyree had turned a rank bronc into
a well-mannered saddle horse that anyone on the ranch could ride, though Rachel
thought the gray worked a little better and stepped a little higher when Tyree
was in the saddle.

Scowling, Rachel pushed Tyree from her mind and settled her
thoughts on Clint Wesley. Almost as tall and broad as Tyree, Clint reminded
Rachel of the prince in a fairy tale, with his sun-bleached blond hair and mild
blue eyes. Clint’s mouth was wide and honest and never curled down in that
mocking way that Tyree’s did. His face was open and honest, hiding nothing, not
an impassive façade that shut out his thoughts and kept the world at bay.

Going to her room, Rachel stood before the mirror, brushing
her hair until it was soft and shimmering. Tying the heavy golden mass away
from her face with a crisp white linen ribbon, she slipped out of her work garb
and donned a light blue cotton dress that had a scoop neck and short sleeves.
It was Clint’s favorite, and if luck was with her, she just might run into him
while shopping in town.

She was humming softly as she skipped down to the barn. Her
father was waiting for her there.

“Mornin’, Pa,” Rachel said cheerfully.

“Mornin’, daughter.”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“Yeah, lovely,” Halloran replied absently. “Listen, Rachel,
I don’t want you driving into town alone this morning.”

“Why not?”

“I saw smoke in the hills awhile ago. Could be nothing.
Could be the ‘Paches are on the prod again.”

Apaches! Rachel’s face paled a trifle as she recalled her
last encounter with Indians. Perhaps she shouldn’t go into town after all.

“You can take Tyree with you,” Halloran decided. “You’ll be
safe with him.”

“Tyree!” Rachel wailed in dismay. “Can’t I take Candido? Or
Cahill?”

“No. Tyree’s the only man on the place who isn’t doing
anything just now.”

“He hasn’t done anything in weeks,” Rachel pointed out
sourly. “Why is he still hanging around here anyway? We could hire two
wranglers for what it’s costing us to keep him here.”

“Rachel—”

“All right, Pa, I’m sorry. Where is he? I’m ready to go.”

“Right here,” Tyree said, materializing out of the barn’s
shadowy interior. “Nice to know you’re so happy to have me along.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Want me to drive?”

“I can do it,” Rachel said curtly, and scrambled into the
buggy.

“Suit yourself,” Tyree drawled, unperturbed by her obvious
annoyance. Climbing into the buggy, he stretched his long legs out in front of
him and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt.

They drove in silence for several miles. Tyree seemed
totally relaxed and at ease, and yet Rachel could not help feeling that he was
aware of every rock and tree and rabbit they passed. Glancing his way, she noticed
his eyes were continually moving over the countryside and she supposed,
correctly, that it was his constant awareness of everything around him that had
kept him alive so long.

“You gonna marry that badge-toter?” Tyree asked after
awhile.

“Maybe.”

“Has he asked you yet?”

“No.”

“He will. He looks at you like a love-sick bull calf.”

“He’s a fine man!” Rachel cried defensively. “And I’d be
proud to be his wife. He’s kind and honest and loyal, and not just a…a—”

“No-good saddle tramp like me?”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Rachel replied
sullenly.

“It’s exactly what you wanted to say,” Tyree said with a
grin. “Wesley’s the knight in shining armor and I’m the dragon.”

“Oh? And what does that make me? The wicked witch?”

“Of course not,” Tyree said smoothly. “You’re the beautiful
princess.”

“Oh, good!” Rachel exclaimed enthusiastically. “That means I
get to marry the handsome knight.”

“Not in my fairy tale,” Tyree objected gruffly.

“How does your story end?” Rachel asked, wondering why it
was suddenly so hard to speak.

“The dragon slays the handsome knight and carries the
princess off to his lair in the mountains.”

Grimacing, Rachel said, “I think I like happy endings
better.”

“My ending is happy.”

“Yes, but only for the dragon.”

Tyree’s hard amber eyes pierced Rachel’s like twin daggers.
“Maybe for the princess, too.”

“I doubt it. There can be happiness only when like marries
like.”

“How do you know we’re not alike?”

Tyree’s soft reply sent shivers down Rachel’s spine.
Flustered, she stammered, “Because…because I…we could never—” Unable to think
of a suitable answer, she stared ahead at the road. Her stomach was doing crazy
flip-flops, and her mouth was dry as dust. Imagine, being married to Tyree… She
sighed with relief as the town came into view, but her hands were still shaking
minutes later when she drew the team to a halt at the General Store. She hopped
out of the buggy before Tyree could assist her.

Tyree followed Rachel into Thorngood’s where he stood
against one wall, arms folded across his chest like a cigar store Indian while
Rachel made her purchases. Rachel willed him to go away and let her shop in
peace, but he seemed quite content just to stand there, watching her, like a
cat at a mouse hole.

The other customers in the store made a wide berth around
Tyree. His reputation was well-known, and his shootout with Brockton was still
being talked about from one end of town to the other. Rufus Thorngood kept a
wary eye on Tyree, as if he feared the gunman might draw his weapon and rob the
cashbox. Rachel’s smile was weak as she thanked the Thorngoods and stepped
outside, Tyree close on her heels. They were standing at the buggy, waiting for
their supplies to be loaded, when Clint Wesley joined them. Tyree frowned. The
marshal looked properly official in black Levi’s, crisp white shirt, and shiny
tin star.

While Rachel and the marshal exchanged pleasantries, Tyree’s
eyes swept the main street. Satisfied there was no posse tagging along in the
badge-toter’s footsteps, he shifted his position so that his back was toward
the sun. It was a move that did not go unnoticed by Wesley, and Clint stepped
away from Rachel, not wanting her to be caught in the line of fire if Tyree
decided to take a shot at him.

“Afternoon, Tyree,” Clint said quietly.

“Marshal.”

“I was looking through some old flyers last night.”

“Good for you.”

“I found a couple that might interest you,” Wesley remarked,
reaching inside his vest.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Tyree warned, and though his words
were softly spoken and without menace, Clint quickly dropped his hand to his
side, away from his gun.

“I guess you’ve seen those flyers before,” Wesley said.
“There’s one from the Dakotas, and another from El Paso.”

“Keep looking. You’ll find one from Ellsworth, too. So
what?”

Wesley took a deep breath. “So I’m gonna have to take you
in.”

“That right?” Tyree drawled, looking amused.

“Dammit, Tyree, it’s my job.”

“You do what you have to do, Marshal, but I’m not going back
to Yuma.”

“But it’s my job,” Wesley sputtered.

“So you said. Rachel, get in the buggy.”

She quickly did as bidden, afraid that Clint would actually
try to arrest Tyree, and that Tyree would kill him without a qualm.

The two men stared at each other for a full minute; Tyree,
cool and aloof, Clint nervous and showing it, eager to do his job, yet
intimidated by Tyree’s reputation and by his own lack of experience.

For a moment, it looked like there would be gunplay, but
then Tyree swung up on the seat beside Rachel, and Clint stomped off toward the
jailhouse, his face flushed with anger.

Rachel stared after Clint, confused by the chaotic thoughts
tumbling through her mind. On the one hand, she was glad Clint had sense enough
not to tangle with a scoundrel like Logan Tyree. Clint was a fine man, a good
town marshal, but he was no match for a professional gunman. And yet,
perversely, she could not help being ashamed of Clint for not standing up to
Tyree.

“The marshal’s got more sense than I gave him credit for,”
Tyree drawled, slapping the reins across the lead horse’s rump. “Most law dogs
would have felt duty-bound to try to take me in.”

“I guess you think he’s a coward!” Rachel snapped, hating
herself for thinking the same thing.

Tyree stared at her, one dark eyebrow raised quizzically.
“Did I say he was a coward?”

“No,” Rachel admitted sullenly. “But that’s what you’re
thinking, isn’t it?”

“No,” Tyree answered, shaking his head. “It’s what you’re
thinking.”

They rode in silence for several miles, the animosity
between them like a third person in the rig.

If only Tyree would go away, Rachel thought crossly. She had
never felt angry and confused like this until Tyree entered her life. She had
always been content, sure of who she was and what she wanted out of life, proud
of Clint, certain he was the only man in the world for her. Even when they were
having trouble with Walsh, she had been at peace within herself. But no more.

“It’s going to rain,” Tyree remarked, breaking into her
thoughts.

Surprised, Rachel looked up to find the sky was dark with
clouds. Moments later, a jagged bolt of lightning split the darkened skies. And
then the thunder came, reverberating across the plains like the echo of distant
drums.

They were still five miles from the ranch when the rain
came, driven by a fierce wind that flattened the tall yellow grass and sent
tumbleweeds spinning crazily down the road. In seconds, Rachel and Tyree were
soaked to the skin.

“Any place where we can hole up until this blows over?”
Tyree asked, shouting to be heard above the raging storm.

“There’s a cabin just over that ridge,” Rachel hollered
back, pointing to a low rise. “It used to belong to a family named Jorgensen
until Walsh drove them out.”

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Tyree reined the team off
the road and urged them up the rain-slick slope. It was slow going. The horses
slipped constantly in the heavy mud, and only Tyree’s firm hand on the reins
kept them going.