RenegadeHeart (13 page)

The cabin was located at the foot of the ridge in a small
grove of aspens. It was small, dark, and blessedly dry. It was also well
furnished, giving Tyree the impression that the Jorgensen family must have lit
out with little more than the clothes on their backs. Except for a thick layer
of dust on the furniture and the cobwebs hanging in lacy strands from the
ceiling, the cabin looked as if it were expecting the former inhabitants to
return at any moment.

Shortly, Rachel and Tyree were huddled side by side before a
cheery blaze, wrapped in dry blankets pulled from one of the beds. Outside, the
rain came down in icy sheets, accompanied by a howling wind that rattled the cabin
door and shook the glass in the windows.

Rachel cast an apprehensive glance at Tyree, who was sitting
hunched beside her. He was staring into the flames, a dark, brooding expression
on his swarthy countenance as he took long swallows from a flask pulled from
his hip pocket.

Rachel huddled deeper into the blanket draped around her
shoulders, acutely conscious of the man sitting beside her. Unbidden came the
memory of Logan Tyree lying unconscious in bed, his long, lean body naked
beneath the sheets. She remembered how shocked she had been the day she caught
herself staring at his nakedness, unabashedly admiring the muscles corded in
his arms and legs. She had never dreamed a man’s body could be beautiful, but
Tyree’s was magnificent. His belly was flat as a tabletop, ridged with muscle,
his chest was broad and lightly furred with curly black hair, his shoulders
were as wide as a barn door. Even lying helpless in bed, he had radiated a kind
of latent strength and power that she had found both frightening and
intriguing.

He had not been so helpless that day in Sunset Canyon. He
had taken her boldly. And he had enjoyed it, apparently feeling no shame at
taking her maidenhead, no remorse for what he had done.

Rachel swallowed hard as she sensed Tyree’s eyes moving over
her, felt herself caught in the web of his gaze.

Rachel felt her cheeks grow hot.
If he mentions Sunset
Canyon, I shall die of embar­rassment,
she mused, genuinely distressed, and
frantically searched her mind for some safe topic of conversation that would
take Tyree’s attention away from her and away from the fact that they were
alone. Quite definitely alone.

“The gray stallion,” Rachel said quickly. “I hear you bought
him.”

Tyree’s knowing grin assured Rachel that he was well aware
of what she was trying to do. “Yeah,” he said, willing to go along with her,
for the moment. “I gave your old man fifty bucks for him.”

“Fifty dollars for a mustang!” Rachel exclaimed. “Why so
much?”

“He’s worth it,” Tyree answered succinctly. With a sly grin,
he offered her the flask and chuckled aloud when she refused to sample the
contents.

Another silence fell between them. Rachel fidgeted nervously
for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Why are you so secretive about your
past?” she queried, determined to make Tyree talk to her, if not about his
past, then about something else, because she was afraid if she didn’t keep him
talking, he would keep drinking until he was drunk. And she was afraid of
drunken men. And of the hungry, waiting look that lurked in the back of Logan
Tyree’s glittering yellow eyes.

“I’m not secretive about it,” Tyree countered. He took
another long pull from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“It’s just not particularly pleasant.”

“I’d like to hear about it,” Rachel coaxed prettily.
“Please?”

Tyree gave her a long, probing glance; then, with a shrug,
he stared at the flames again, his swarthy face wiped clean of expression.

“My old man was a half-breed Comanche,” he began in a voice
gone cold and flat. “He was hung for horse stealing before I was born. My
mother was a slut. She ran off with a faro dealer when I was three. Left me
with some nuns. They kept me until I was eight or so, and then sent me off to
live with a widow lady who needed help running her farm. We didn’t get along at
all, me and that old lady, and she threw me out. The nuns sent me to live with
a rich Yankee family next. Made ‘em feel like real Christians, taking in a poor
little orphan. But the old man caught me stealing a dollar, and he sent me
packing.

“My next home was with a preacher and his wife. I lasted
there about six months, then it was back to the nuns. I guess I was about ten
when an old German couple took me in. They were really just looking for some
cheap help, but they were pretty decent people, and I might have stayed with
them and turned into a dirt farmer if the Apaches hadn’t raided their place
when I was twelve. The Indians killed the old couple and took me back to their
village.”

“Goodness!” Rachel exclaimed. “Weren’t you scared?”

“No. I liked living with the Indians.” His voice grew less
harsh. “They were supposed to be savages, but they were the only people who
ever gave a damn about me. The only ones who ever cared about what I wanted, or
what I thought.”

“If you were happy with the Indians, why didn’t you stay?”

“Things happen,” Tyree said curtly.

“What things? Why did you leave?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Rachel.” Scowling, he took a
quick drink, and then another. His fingers were white around the flask.

“What is it?” Rachel asked curiously. “You look like you’re
about to explode!”

“Dammit, I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel murmured contritely. “I just thought it
might help if you got it off your chest.”

For a moment, Tyree looked at her as if she were completely
insane. Help? Nothing had ever helped. In the beginning, he had looked for
solace in whorehouses and saloon brawls and when that didn’t ease the pain
caused by Red Leaf’s death, he had turned to drink. But that hadn’t helped
either.

Abruptly, Tyree began to laugh, a harsh bitter laugh filled
with pain. Too late, Rachel wished she had not pried into something that was
none of her business.

“So you think talking might help,” Tyree drawled gruffly.
“Let’s talk about it then! I lived with the Indians for thirteen years. Learned
their language. Prayed to their gods. Fought their enemies. Married one of
their women. It was a damn good life. And then one day I took her hunting with
me.”

He paused, as if seeing it all in his mind. “We were on our
way home when six white men attacked us. One of them decked me with a rifle
butt. Knocked me out cold. When I came to, she was dead. They hadn’t killed her
right away, though. They raped her first. And when they were through, they
mutilated her body, hacked off her fine black scalp, and rode away.”

“Tyree, I’m so sorry,” Rachel whispered, stricken by the
grotesque images his words had evoked. “So very sorry.”

“So were they, when I caught up with them.”

“You killed them.” It was not a question.

“Damn right. And they died hard.” Tyree stared at her, his
eyes glittering like shards of bright yellow glass. “Shall I tell you how they
died?”

Rachel shook her head. She was not surprised to learn Tyree
had killed those six men. It was no less than she had expected. No less than they
deserved.

With a shrug, Tyree raised the flask, draining it in a
single swallow. For a moment, he stared at the empty container as if it had
betrayed him. Then, muttering a vile oath, he hurled the bottle across the room
where it struck a wall and shattered into a thousand sparkling pieces.

“You loved her,” Rachel murmured, her voice tinged with
wonder. It was hard to imagine Tyree loving anyone. He seemed so hard, so
self-sufficient.

“More than my life,” Tyree said flatly.

“Was she beautiful?”

“Yeah.” Tyree’s voice grew soft, almost wistful. “Her hair
was long and thick, black as sin. Her eyes were dark, dark brown and always
filled with laughter. She was just a kid, no more than fifteen or sixteen when
I married her. All the young bucks wanted her, but she loved me.” Tyree laughed
softly. “That was the miracle, you know. She loved me.”

Tyree’s eyes were naked with pain when he faced Rachel
again. It was the first time she had seen the real Logan Tyree. Not the
arrogant gunman who was a law unto himself, but the man who had experienced a
terrible loss and was still hurting deep inside. It was an awful thing, Rachel
thought compassionately, to see a man’s soul laid bare.

“You were wrong, Rachel,” Tyree muttered brokenly. “Talking
doesn’t help.”

Tyree laughed bitterly and Rachel realized he was more than
a little drunk.

“Drinking doesn’t help, either,” Tyree mumbled. “Nothing
helps.”

“I’m sorry, Tyree. I never knew. I never dreamed—”

“It’s been ten years,” Tyree said, staring into the dancing
flames. “Ten long years. You’d think it would stop hurting after ten years.”

Pity and compassion welled in Rachel’s breast. How tragic,
to love someone as dearly as Tyree had loved his Indian wife, and then lose her
in such a dreadful way. No wonder he was bitter.

Thinking only to comfort him, Rachel drew Tyree close,
cradling his dark head against her breast as if he were a small child in need
of solace. But Tyree was not a child, and his hands were sure and strong as
they slid around Rachel’s waist, drawing her against him. His mouth closed over
hers, stifling her surprised gasp. She had not meant to encourage him, only to
let him know she cared.

Tyree’s kiss was not gentle. Rather it was filled with raw,
primal passion and a deep yearning hunger. Rachel’s first thought was to
resist, but she sensed that Tyree needed her, needed to feel the strength of
her love, to know she understood. With a little sigh, she surrendered to his
lips, giving herself over to the exquisite thrill of being in his arms again.
Tyree drew back, a little surprised by her quick capitulation. He had expected
her to resist. Perhaps he had hoped she would struggle so that he could hurt
her and by hurting her, ease a little of his own pain. But what he saw in her
eyes drove all thought of hurting her from his mind.

Rachel whispered his name as she put her hand at the back of
his neck and pulled his head down, her mouth seeking his. With a shock, she
realized she had been waiting, hoping, for this very thing to happen. It was a
bitter thing to admit, but true nonetheless. No matter how she had scorned his
attention in the past, no matter how loudly she professed to despise Logan
Tyree and everything he stood for, she had secretly yearned for the wonder of
his touch, burned for the taste of his kisses.

Now, as his hands caressed her flesh and his tongue tickled
her ear, she was filled with an urgent sense of need. It was a frightening
sensation, and yet, strangely satisfying at the same time. He kissed her
ardently, his hands lazily exploring the smooth curves and contours of her
body, and Rachel moaned low in her throat as wave after wave of sensual
pleasure washed over her. His hands and mouth, the merest touch of his naked
flesh against her own, aroused her to fever pitch. This was what she wanted.
This was where she belonged.

And then Tyree was removing her dress and petticoat,
shrugging out of his pants and shirt, and Rachel realized he was not going to
settle for a few kisses and a quick caress.

The sight of Tyree’s fully aroused male body smothered the fire
in Rachel’s blood. What was she doing?

Tyree felt the change in her and he drew back. “Change your
mind?” he asked thickly.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Rachel, I…”

She laughed softly, warmed by the desire in his eyes, and by
his willingness, however reluctant, to let her go if that was what she wanted.
She gazed into his face, so strong, so handsome, and now so vulnerable. Had he
been about to confess that he needed her? The thought filled her with
tenderness. He
did
need her, whether he knew it or not. And she needed
him.

“Make love to me, Tyree,” she whispered, and sighed with
pleasure as he made them one, carrying her higher, higher until there was only
layer upon layer of ecstasy. His breath was hot upon her skin, his eyes
intense, burning with a clear amber flame. He growled her name as his teeth
nibbled her neck, her shoulder, her breast, and each touch was more wonderful,
more thrilling, than the last.

Rachel cried his name, begging him to satisfy the need he
had created and he obliged her willingly, smiling down at her as she let out a
whimper of wonder and fulfillment.

Moments later, with a long, shuddering sigh, Tyree rolled
off her, though he continued to hold her body close against his own.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, its steady roar drowning
out all other sound save for the crackling of the flames.

It was dark when Tyree made love to her again. Rachel
gloried in his touch, reveling in the wondrous waves of ecstasy that crested
and broke and crested again. She was fascinated by his hands—strong brown hands
that could so masterfully tame a wild stallion. Angry hands that could
callously snuff out a human life. Warm, gentle hands that knew how to arouse
the sensuous hunger sleeping in a woman’s soul.

Later, with Tyree’s arm lying heavily across her stomach,
Rachel stared thoughtfully into the darkness. So this is love, she mused, this
wonderful sense of peace and contentment. She glanced fondly at the man
sleeping beside her. He had made no mention of loving her, had said nothing of
marriage, but surely no man could possess a woman as completely and thoroughly
as Tyree had just possessed her without loving her deeply. And she loved him.
Perhaps she had loved him all along.

Through eyes warm with affection, Rachel studied the man who
had brought her such pleasure. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned
toward her. Once, on a picnic, Clint had fallen asleep, and Rachel had studied
him in much the same way. She had thought how innocent Clint looked lying there
on the grass, almost like a little boy.