RenegadeHeart (14 page)

But there was no such hint of innocence in Tyree. Even when
he was asleep, there lurked about him an air of violence ready to explode at
the slightest provocation and Rachel felt that, should she waken him suddenly,
he would pounce on her like a tiger roused from its nap.

She touched the scars on his broad back, her fingertips
lightly tracing the faint silvery lines. She imagined how he must have looked
in prison, his long hair unkempt, his face a hard mask of impotent anger. In
her mind’s eye, she could see the whip slice through the air, hear the sibilant
hiss as the rawhide cut into his flesh. She knew, somehow, that Tyree had
endured the pain without uttering a sound.

At her touch, Tyree stirred and drew her closer. Rachel
nestled against him, to be lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of his heart
and the soft tattoo of the rain on the roof.

When she woke, it was morning and Tyree was scattering the
coals in the fireplace to make sure the ashes were cold. Rachel smiled up at
him uncertainly, feeling all the joy and happiness of the night before shrivel
in her breast as Tyree scowled at her. It was obvious he had a whale of a
hangover.

“Let’s go,” he said tersely. “Your old man will be wondering
what happened to you.”

Rachel dressed quickly, blushing when Tyree happened to
glance in her direction. Bewildered, she wondered where all the magic had gone.
She still felt the same. Why didn’t he? Her mind whirling with confusion, she
followed Tyree outside.

The world was fresh and clean and beautiful. Raindrops
sparkled on the emerald leaves, shining like tears on a sun-kissed cheek. The
sky was a hard bright blue, so dazzling it almost hurt Rachel’s eyes just to
look at it.

With exaggerated politeness, Tyree handed her into the
buggy, took the seat beside her, and shook out the reins.

“Sorry about last night,” he apologized gruffly. “I was more
than a little drunk and, well…things happen.”

Rachel felt a cold hand knot around her heart as Tyree
casually shrugged off all that had happened between them the night before. The
sweet words he had murmured, the intimacies they had shared, it had all been a
lie and she had swallowed it whole. What a fool she had been, thinking he cared
for her, when any woman would have done as well. She meant nothing to him, nothing
at all other than an outlet for his drunken lust.

Suddenly she felt like crying. Instead, she lifted her chin
and squared her shoulders. He would never know how deeply his lovemaking had
touched her heart.

Staring straight ahead, she said, icily, “When we get back
to the ranch, I think you’d better pack up and ride on.”

For a long moment, Tyree didn’t say anything. Rachel held
her breath, hating herself for hoping that he would admit he loved her, that
last night had been as wonderful for him as it had been for her, that it hadn’t
been just a casual encounter in the rain. But the words she yearned to hear did
not come.

“Whatever you want,” Tyree drawled. “Giddyap, horse.”

Ten minutes after they arrived at the Lazy H, he was gone,
leaving Rachel to explain his sudden departure to her father.

Chapter Nine

The streets of Yellow Creek were pretty much deserted when
Tyree rode into town. After settling the gray into the livery stable, Tyree
took a room at the Imperial Hotel. It was a small room, cheaply furnished
considering the exorbitant price, smelling faintly of stale sweat and old cigar
smoke. But the bed was reasonably firm and free of lumps and vermin, and the
sheets were clean.

After a quick look around, Tyree dumped his gear on the bed
and headed for Bowsher’s Saloon. Ordering a bottle of rye whiskey, he carried
it to a table in the far corner of the room where he slowly and methodically
worked his way to the bottom of the bottle.

The barkeep, a red-headed Irishman named Kelly, had a pot
belly and a florid face. He had been a bar dog long enough to know trouble
looking for a place to happen when he saw it, and Tyree looked like trouble
with a capital T. Periodically, Kelly let his gaze wander in Tyree’s direction,
but the explosion he anticipated never came. The liquor seemed to have no
effect at all on the taciturn gunman, and he was still steady on his feet some
hours later when he bought another bottle and left the saloon.

In the weeks that followed, Tyree spent a good part of every
day in Bowsher’s Saloon, always sitting at the same table with his back to the
wall, his right hand never far from the butt of his Colt. Customers came and
went, but no one ever approached the grim-faced gunman. There was something
about the way he sat there, calmly downing one drink after another, something
about the chill look in his eyes that warned others to steer clear of his
table. Even the saloon girls lacked the courage to get too close.

Late one night, Flat-Nose Bowsher made one of her rare
appearances in the saloon. Despite her years and the disfigurement to her nose,
she was still an attractive woman. Her hair was snow-white, her face, though
lined by years of hard living, managed to retain a ghost of its former beauty.
Like a queen, she glided down the staircase, aware of the whispers and glances
her presence elicited from the customers. Her narrowed eyes swept the room in a
long glance, then came to rest on Tyree. She was not put off by his stern
visage, or by the unfriendly look in his eye.

She gave Tyree a wisp of a smile as she pulled out a chair
and sat down.

“Evening, Tyree,” she said in a raspy voice. “I heard you
were in town.”

Tyree nodded. He was not in the mood for talk or company,
but Flat-Nose was in the mood for both. Calling for a bottle of bourbon, she
settled back in her chair.

“Was Yuma as bad as everyone says?” she asked.

Tyree nodded again as he poured her a drink of bourbon.

“I knew they wouldn’t keep you there long,” Flat-Nose said.
“So, you left the Halloran spread. Too tame for you?”

“Flat-Nose, mind your own business,” Tyree said mildly.

She laughed at that, a big, booming laugh. Still smiling,
she emptied her glass and poured herself another drink. The two of them sat
there, drinking steadily, until the saloon closed five hours later.

Riders from the Walsh spread drifted into Bowsher’s now and
then, always in groups of two or three, never alone. Arrogant and impudent,
they strutted around the saloon as if they owned the place, bullying the other
patrons, harassing the barkeep, making lewd suggestions to the saloon girls.

But they never bothered Tyree. The marshal made his rounds
twice each night, but Clint Wesley also avoided Tyree, never acknowledging the
gunman’s presence by so much as a glance.

Which suited Tyree just fine. Tyree overheard a lot of idle
talk as he sat in Bowsher’s Saloon, most of it about Annabelle Walsh.
Apparently, she had no intention of selling the Slash W, as Rachel had
supposed. Indeed, Annabelle seemed to be every bit as land-hungry as her
brother had been. Rumors were flying hot and heavy that the Walsh nightriders
were operating again, and that one of their victims had been a homesteader who
had the audacity to settle on a corner of property claimed by the Slash W. Not
only that, but there were a lot of new men hiring on for Annabelle, and they
weren’t all cowhands. But over and above all the gossip, the men talked
excitedly about Annabelle Walsh herself. She was some looker, they said, with a
mane of thick red hair and eyes the color of polished jade. She had a hell of a
figure, too, if they were to be believed, and flaunted it by wearing low-cut
peasant blouses and tight-fitting pants.

But the news that really made Tyree sit up and take notice
was the five thousand dollar bounty Annabelle was offering for the name of the
man who had killed her brother.

There was a lot of speculation on the subject of who had
gunned Walsh, and Logan Tyree was the prime suspect. But it was just talk.
There were no facts, no evidence, no witnesses. Nevertheless, Tyree could not
help wondering if Annabelle would regard the hearsay as idle gossip, or accept
it as gospel.

He was thinking about pulling up and leaving Yellow Creek
the night he stepped out of Bowsher’s Saloon and found himself surrounded by
five men armed with rifles and shotguns. Tyree was reaching for his Colt when a
rifle barrel slammed into his right side.

“I wouldn’t,” warned the rifleman, and Tyree slowly raised
his hands over his head.

One man, dressed in a fancy shirt with pearl buttons and a
sheepskin vest, stepped forward and relieved Tyree of his hardware. Another
man, younger than the others, tied Tyree’s hands behind his back. That done,
the men hustled Tyree down a dark alley that dead-ended against a two-story
brick building.

A big bull of a man stepped out of the pack, a half-smile on
his thick lips. “We’ve got a message for ya from Miz Walsh,” the man drawled in
a voice as deep as six feet down. “She don’t want any gunmen running around
Yellow Creek that ain’t on the payroll, so we’re here to make ya an offer.”

Tyree glanced with wry amusement at the man who stood before
him like a solid wall of flesh. “Say your piece,” Tyree muttered sardonically.
“Doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere for awhile.”

The big man grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth. “You’re
smarter than I thought, ‘breed. Well, here’s the deal. Either you ride for the
Slash W, or you ride outta town now, tonight.”

“That’s your offer?”

“That’s it.”

Tyree let out a slow sigh. He had been planning to ride on,
but all that was changed now. To ride on would look like he’d been run off, and
he couldn’t live with that.

“Well, you can tell your boss lady that I’m obliged for her
offer,” Tyree said evenly, “but I’m not looking for work just now.”

“That your final say on the matter?”

“That’s it.”

The big man shook his head sadly. “I guess you ain’t so
smart after all.”

Tyree felt all his muscles tense as the big man handed his
rifle to the youngster who had lashed Tyree’s hands together.

There was a moment of silence, then Annabelle’s men began to
move. The man in the sheepskin vest grabbed Tyree’s bound arms so he couldn’t
make a break for it. Another man went to stand watch at the mouth of the alley.
The big man and a dark-skinned Mexican sporting a black eye patch stood before
Tyree, flexing their muscles and cracking their knuckles, the lust for blood
showing clearly in their eyes.

And then it began. One blow following hard on the heels of
the last, pounding into Tyree’s flesh with smooth, steady precision, smashing
into his face and throat, driving deep into his belly. A knee sent sharp
slivers of pain racing through his genitals. A hard right cross sliced his
cheek to the bone. There was blood in his mouth, his nose.

The faces of his attackers rushed toward him, then receded,
like waves breaking on the sand. His vision blurred and there was a loud
roaring in his ears. Vaguely, he wondered if Rachel would brand him a coward
for not trying to defend himself. But only a fool tried to buck insurmountable
odds, and Tyree had known from the beginning that Annabelle’s men did not
intend to kill him. Not this time.

And so he took the awful beating, carefully imprinting the
face of each man in his memory—making special note of the two men whose fists
were brutally punishing his flesh. Sooner or later, they would meet again.

After what seemed like hours but was, in reality, no more
than ten minutes, the big man hissed, “That’s enough, Rafe,” and the blows came
to a merciful halt.

The young kid cut Tyree’s hands free and Tyree fell to his
knees, panting for breath, his whole body throbbing with pain.

But they were not through with him yet. The big man knocked
Tyree flat, while the man called Rafe pinned Tyree’s right hand to the ground,
palm down.

“Miz Walsh had a feeling you wouldn’t cooperate,” the big
man said. “But if you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll hightail it outta town
while you can still walk, ‘cause if we see your ass in town again, we’ll drop
you cold.”

The man at the mouth of the alley called, “Hey, Larkin, what
the hell’s taking so long?”

“Shut up, Harris,” the big man snarled. Then, to Tyree,
“Just in case you ain’t got the sense to skedaddle, me and Rafe, here, decided
to put your gun hand outta commission. Permanent-like.”

Larkin was moving as he spoke. Grabbing his rifle from the
youngster, he brought the butt crashing down on Tyree’s pinioned right hand.
There was a sickening crunch as skin and bone splintered beneath solid wood.
Tyree’s body shuddered convulsively; a low groan rumbled in his throat as waves
of excruciating pain shot through his hand and arm.

As if from far away, he heard the sound of footsteps as
Annabelle’s men left the alley. The man in the sheepskin vest kicked Tyree in
the ribs as he passed by.

The big man, Larkin, was the last to leave and he chuckled
maliciously as he stepped on Tyree’s shattered hand, grinding his boot heel
into the torn flesh. The pain was unbearable and Tyree uttered a hoarse cry of
agony as darkness closed in on him, mercifully dragging him down, down, into
nothingness…

When he regained consciousness, it was after midnight. For a
long time, he remained inert, trying to pretend that the pain radiating from
his right hand belonged to some other poor bastard.

Larkin. Rafe. Harris. The names pounded in his skull,
throbbing to the relentless beat of the pain hammering in his right hand. The
ground was hard and cold beneath him, the air chill.

“Damn, you can’t stay here all night,” Tyree muttered
through clenched teeth, and forced himself to his knees, and then to his feet.
There was a sharp, stabbing pain in his side and he quietly cursed the man who
had kicked him while he was down.

Hanging onto the wall for support, he made his way down the
alley. The broken rib tortured him with each breath, and he was panting like a
blown mustang by the time he reached the street.

The gray stood hipshot at the rail of Bowsher’s Saloon some
ten yards away. Ten yards that looked like ten miles—and damn near felt like it
as he staggered across the moonlit street. A quiet word to the stud sent the
animal to its knees and Tyree congratulated himself on having had the foresight
to teach the horse such a valuable trick.

Gritting his teeth, he stepped into the saddle. Every muscle
in his body shrieked in protest as the gray lurched to its feet. For a moment,
the world reeled drunkenly; when it stopped, he took a good look at his right
hand. Swollen, caked with dirt and blood, it looked more like a slab of
chewed-up meat than a human hand.

Indecision held Tyree motionless for a long moment. Unarmed,
his gun hand useless, he was as vulnerable as a newborn babe. It was a new and
decidedly uncomfortable feeling.

He grinned wryly as he wheeled the gray around and headed
for the Lazy H. He would not be welcome at the Halloran spread, he mused
ruefully, but he had no place else to go.

Rachel sat before her dressing table, absently brushing her
hair. Tyree had been gone for almost five weeks. It seemed a lifetime. Funny,
how all the joy of life seemed to have ridden away with him. She missed his
sardonic laughter, his occasional ribald remarks, the sight of his lean,
hawk-like face grinning at her from behind a long black cigar, an expectant
look dancing in his amber eyes. She had often complained about his laziness,
but now she missed seeing him lounging on the front porch steps, his hat pulled
low, his legs stretched negligently before him. She remembered how considerate
he had been when she sprained her ankle, how tenderly he had cared for her, the
intimate dinners they had shared. She remembered dancing with him in the
moonlight, his arms tight around her waist, his eyes caressing her. She
remembered the night at the Jorgensen cabin…felt her cheeks grow hot with the
memory. What a fool she had been, to think Logan Tyree had actually cared for
her, that he could care for anybody. It had all been a monstrous joke, a cruel,
cruel joke. How he must have laughed at her…silly country girl, to be so easily
wooed and won. If only she could stop remembering. If only it didn’t hurt so
much. If only she didn’t care.

She had filled her days with work, cleaning and polishing
and waxing, as if her very life depended on spotless floors, shiny furniture,
and gleaming windows. She sought out Carol Ann’s company, forcing herself to
laugh and gossip and flirt as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She went
out of her way to be nice to Clint. She volunteered to teach a Sunday School
class, insisted on helping out at the Watkins place when Mabel Watkins broke
her leg.

But endless chores and the company of other people failed to
ease the ache in her heart. Night after night she lay awake, staring at the
ceiling, remembering.

She dropped the hairbrush onto the dressing table and stared
at her reflection in the mirror. How had it happened? How had a man she had
once despised managed to work his way so deeply into her heart? Did she really
love him, or was it just lust?