RenegadeHeart (17 page)

“Tyree—”

“Dammit, Rachel, stop treating me like a kid.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

“Oh, hell, I’m not used to being waited on. I’m not used to
having people do for me. I don’t like it. Never have.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

“Tyree, why haven’t you ever remarried?”

Tyree swung around to face her, his eyes mirroring his
astonishment. “What?”

“You heard me. Why haven’t you ever remarried?”

“Are you crazy? What girl in her right mind would marry a
gunfighter?”

“I would,” Rachel said, and it was a toss-up as to who was
more surprised by her unexpected reply, Logan Tyree, or Rachel herself.

Tyree stared at her for several seconds, too stunned to
speak. Marriage! Good Lord.

“You can’t be serious?” he said, shaking his head.

“But I am.”

The corner of Tyree’s mouth twitched in a wry grin. “You
think the love of a good woman will make me mend my evil ways?” he asked,
amused.

“Don’t make fun of me, Tyree.”

“I’m not. I just can’t believe you mean it. I thought you
hated me. You’ve certainly said so often enough.”

“I know, but it isn’t you I hate. It’s what you stand for.”

“It’s pretty much the same thing, don’t you think?”

“No,” Rachel argued softly. “It’s not the same thing at
all.”

For once, Tyree had no quick retort and Rachel could not
help smiling. It was the only time she had ever seen him at a loss for words.

Then his face closed against her and he said, flatly, “Go
home, Rachel. You’ll only get hurt if you stay.”

“Why? Don’t you care for me at all?”

“That’s got nothing to do with it.”

“That has everything to do with everything.”

“Shit, Rachel, life’s not that simple. In the next day or
two, I’m gonna kill five men. And sooner or later, I’ll probably have to kill
Clint Wesley, too. How are you gonna feel about me then? And what about Wesley?
I thought you were sweet on him.”

“I thought so, too.” Rachel dismissed the marshal with a
wave of her hand. “Tyree, come back to the ranch and stay with us. We need you.
I need you.”

“Dammit, honey, I’m no farmer.”

The hand Rachel placed on Tyree’s arm was soft and warm and
trembling visibly. “Will you come home with me, Tyree?”

“Do you know what you’re saying?” Tyree asked gently. “Do
you know what you’d be getting? And what you’ll be giving up?”

Rachel nodded slowly. Tyree would never be the kind of
husband she had dreamed of when she was a young girl. He would never be
completely content to live in a small town like Yellow Creek. He would never
completely settle down. And though she did not like to think about it, she knew
there was a strong possibility that he would tire of her in a year or two and
ride out of her life. And yet…

She looked at the man standing before her. He was tall and
dark. His face was hard, his amber eyes unfathomable. She knew, logically, that
Clint would make a far better husband. He was honest, even-tempered, well-liked
and respected in the community, a hard worker, a man with ambition and roots.
He would make an excellent husband, a good father, a reliable provider. But it
was Logan Tyree who made her blood sing with longing, Tyree who made her feel
vibrant and alive, Tyree who had captured her heart and soul.

“Will you come with me, Tyree?” she asked again.

Tyree looked at Rachel, and knew he should refuse. He would
never make her happy, never in a million years. He could never be the kind of
man she wanted, the kind of man she deserved. And yet he could not resist the
love shining bright and clear in her eyes, could not shatter the hope he read
in her expression. Or deny that he wanted her.

“I’ll come,” he agreed. “But only after I’ve squared a few
debts with the Slash W. Does that suit you?”

“Can’t you let them go?”

“No.”

Tears sparkled in Rachel’s eyes as she begged, “Please let
them go, Tyree. I can’t abide the thought of any more killing.”

“It’s something I’ve got to do.”

The closeness she had felt with him suddenly shattered, and
she took her hand from his arm. “Why can’t you just forget it?” she cried out,
frustrated by his stubbornness. “Killing them won’t make your hand whole again.
Nothing will.”

Anger flared deep in Tyree’s amber eyes. There was hate
there, too, and an implacable desire for revenge. And suddenly Rachel thought
she knew what was driving him so relentlessly.

“It’s your pride, isn’t it?” she exclaimed incredulously.
“That’s why those five men have got to be killed.”

“Shut up, Rachel.”

But now she was angry, too, and she shouted, “I will not
shut up! You’re going after those men because they got the best of the great
Logan Tyree in a dark alley!”

Tyree did not deny it, only said, stonily, “It’s something
I’ve got to do. If you can’t live with it, I’ll ride on.”

“That’s not fair and you know it.”

“Fair!” Tyree held out his ruined hand and his expression
turned ugly. “How can you look at what those bastards did and still talk to me
about what’s fair?”

“I suppose you’ll have to kill Annabelle, too, seeing as how
those men work for the Slash W.”

“No. The beating was her idea and I could have lived with
that. Hell, I’ve been whipped by experts. But breaking my hand, that was
Larkin’s idea. And he’s going to pay for it.”

The fight went out of Rachel then, leaving her drained and
empty. “Will you come to me when it’s over?”

“You still talkin’ marriage?” Tyree asked gruffly.

“Yes.”

Tyree stared at her for a full minute, his face inscrutable.
Hell, maybe he could change. Maybe, with Rachel’s help, he could settle down
and become a respectable citizen. And maybe hell would freeze over, he mused
wryly. But she was so lovely, so sweet, and perhaps she was his last chance for
a decent life. He was almost tempted to forget about the Walsh riders, but he
knew he would never rest until they were dead.

“I’ll come,” he said at last. “When it’s over.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Rachel murmured, and left the cabin
without a backward glance.

Chapter Eleven

John Halloran studied his daughter carefully as she prepared
breakfast the following morning. Her eyes seemed red, puffy, as if she had
spent the night crying. She was unusually quiet, preoccupied, her thoughts
obviously worrisome.

“Rachel. Rachel?”

“Yes, Pa?”

“Is anything wrong?”

“No. Pa, I…I might be getting married soon.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem very happy about it,” Halloran remarked.

“I am. Really.”

Halloran grinned broadly. “So! Clint finally proposed. Well,
I’ll be damned.”

“No, I… Pa, I asked Tyree to marry me.”

“Tyree!”

Rachel nodded. “Would you mind? Having him for a son-in-law,
I mean.”

Halloran shook his head slowly. “No, not if it’s what you
want. Is that where you’ve—” Halloran coughed, not knowing exactly how to ask
what he wanted to know.

“Yes. I’ve been meeting him out at the old Jorgensen place.”

“So that’s where he went to ground,” Halloran mused. “I
didn’t think he’d run far. Not Tyree.” Halloran chuckled. “Won’t Larkin and his
bunch be surprised when they learn they didn’t scare him off after all.”

Rachel nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

“What is it, honey?” Halloran asked. Reaching out, he laid
his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “You can tell me.”

“Tyree’s planning to kill Larkin and the other men responsible
for breaking his hand. I tried to talk him out of it, Pa, but he wouldn’t
listen. He’s determined to make them pay for what they did.”

Halloran nodded. “Can’t say as I blame Tyree, daughter. It
was an awful thing they did to him.”

“I know, but… Oh, Pa, he’s killed so many men. I can’t stand
the thought of more killing. When will it end?”

“Do you love Tyree?”

“Yes,” Rachel answered fervently.

“You knew what he was when you asked him to marry you.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t change him, Rachel. You’ll either have to learn
to live with what he is and hope he’ll change on his own, or spend the rest of
your life together being miserable. That, or give him up.”

“I can’t give him up, Pa. I love him so very much.”

“I think he’s a good man, honey. I think, deep inside, he’s
everything you want. Everything you need. If I didn’t think so, I’d try to talk
you out of marrying him.” Halloran gave Rachel’s hand another squeeze. “When’s
the big day?”

Rachel smiled through her tears. “I’m not sure. Tyree said
he’d come for me when it was over.”

Father and daughter looked at each other, neither voicing
the thought that lurked in the backs of their minds. Five to one, the odds
were. And no matter how good Tyree was, there was always a chance that he
couldn’t beat the odds.

The next few days were hard on Rachel. She didn’t know when
Tyree planned to make his move, didn’t know how much longer he would practice
with the Colt before he felt ready to take on Larkin and the others. She filled
her days with work, dusting, washing, ironing, mending, sweeping, rearranging
the furniture, cleaning closets and cupboards, tidying up the attic, waxing and
polishing. She pulled an old cookbook out and tried a dozen new recipes. She
baked pies and cakes and cookies and bread until her father begged her to stop.
She bought several yards of dress goods and began making herself a new wardrobe
to please Tyree: a Sunday go-to-meeting dress of soft blue wool because Tyree
liked her in blue; a day dress of green-sprigged muslin with a square neck and
a wide white sash.

When chores and sewing and baking grew tiresome, she began
to take long rides on Morgana. Often, she was tempted to ride out to the
Jorgensen place to visit Tyree, but she never did. She had gone to him,
offering her love, begging him to marry her. Now he must come to her.

The nights were the worst of all. Lying alone in her bed in
the dark, she went over every word, every touch and warm embrace they had
shared, remembering the strength of his arms, the magic of his kiss, the sound
of his voice. Doubts crowded her mind. What if Tyree had changed his mind? What
if he killed Larkin and the other Slash W men and then rode out of Yellow
Creek, never to return? What if he were killed?

Doubts and dreams warred within her, but through it all she
held fast to her love for Tyree. She loved him and he loved her. She knew he
did even if he had never said the words. She believed it with her whole heart.
She had to believe it, or drown in despair.

Each day, as she combed out her hair before the mirror, she
whispered, “Today. He’ll come today.”

And each night, she whispered, with a little less
conviction, “Tomorrow. He’ll come tomorrow for sure.”

And then she cried herself to sleep.

Dawn, and the air was frosty cold. Tyree’s breath produced a
cloud of white vapor as he saddled the gray. He cussed mightily as he fumbled
with the cinch, wondering, ruefully, if he would ever get the hang of doing
things one-handed.

Swinging up into the saddle, he reined the stallion toward
the Slash W, his face impassive, his mind closed to everything but the five men
he intended to kill before the sun went down.

Willie McCoy left the Walsh ranch shortly after breakfast.
Gigging his spotted pony into a lively trot, he headed for Yellow Creek. There
was a girl in town, a very expensive girl, and he grinned with anticipation as
he patted the roll of greenbacks in his jeans. Today he could afford to buy all
Ginny’s time, and that was just what he intended to do, even if it cost him
every cent of the five hundred dollars he had earned for his part in roughing
up Logan Tyree.

Willie frowned as he mulled over that particular job.
Annabelle Walsh had promised equal shares for working over the gunman, but
Larkin had doled out the money, taking the lion’s share for himself and his
sidekick, Rafe Hobbs. The others, Harris and Tolman, were good guns, but
neither had the guts to argue with Larkin about the split. And neither did
Willie McCoy. Better a live coward with a pocket full of money than a dead
hero.

Lifting his paint pony to a lope, Willie put Gus Larkin and
the others out of his mind and turned his thoughts back to Ginny, and the
endless hours of pleasure he would find in her arms.

Tyree reached the Walsh spread just as the sun topped the
distant mountains. White-faced cattle stirred at his passing, staring at him
out of wild, suspicious eyes. A covey of quail burst from a clump of sagebrush,
spooking the gray stallion. Tyree grinned as the stud tossed its head and
danced sideways. Damn, but it was good to be alive.

Tyree covered ten miles before he spotted a lone rider off
in the distance. Reining the gray to a halt, he dismounted in the cover of a
low rise, waiting patiently for the rider to come within range.

Tyree grinned coldly as he recognized the youngest of the
Walsh gunnies. Muttering, “This must be my lucky day,” he palmed the Colt,
thumbed back the hammer, and stepped into the open.

“Hold it, cowboy,” he called, and Willie McCoy pulled his
horse to a sharp halt. The young gunman’s face went white as he recognized the
man behind the gun.

“Hi, kid,” Tyree drawled. “Remember me?”

Willie McCoy was scared. Too scared to speak. His Adam’s
apple bobbed up and down, and then he nodded vigorously.

“Good,” Tyree said flatly. “Get those hands up.”

McCoy looked at his hands as if he had never seen them
before.

“Get ‘em up!” Tyree snapped.

Slowly, as if they weighed a great deal, Willie McCoy raised
his hands above his head. He screamed with sudden pain as Tyree fired two quick
shots, sending a bullet through each of the youngster’s palms.

“Tell your friends I’ll be waiting for them at Bowsher’s,”
Tyree said to the sobbing youth. Holstering his Colt, he stepped into the
saddle and rode toward Yellow Creek.

Tyree left the gray tethered at the rail of Bowsher’s
Saloon. Inside, he ordered a bottle of rye, carried it to his usual table in
the back of the room where he could keep one eye on the door and his back to
the wall.

Thoughts of Rachel crowded his mind. Whatever had possessed
him to agree to marry her? Did she really think he could give up drifting and
settle down? Did he? Tyree stared at the pale amber whiskey in his glass as,
unbidden, came the memory of the life he had shared with Red Leaf. Theirs had
been a good marriage, filled with laughter and harmony. He had liked the
feeling of belonging to someone, of having someone who belonged only to him.
But that had been long ago. He was not the same man now that he had been then.

He emptied the glass in a single swallow, absently poured
another drink. He had not shared his life with anyone else since Red Leaf’s
death. He had shut out the world, and the people in it. Perhaps, with Rachel,
he could recapture the magic he and Red Leaf had shared…

His melancholy thoughts were interrupted as Flat-Nose
Beverly glided over to his table. She looked truly elegant this day, with her
silver-white hair piled atop her head and her thin figure clad in a blood-red
gown.

“Afternoon, Tyree,” she murmured.

“Flat-Nose.”

She gave him a ghost of a smile. “Be careful.”

Tyree nodded. A moment later, Gus Larkin and his men pushed
their way into the saloon.

Tyree stood up, all thoughts of Rachel forgotten. There was
no past now, and no future. There was only this moment. Hand hovering over the
butt of his gun, he called to Annabelle’s men.

Three wranglers standing at the bar scrambled for cover at
Tyree’s warning call, tripping over each other and their own feet in their
haste to get out of the line of fire.

Kelly swore softly as the trouble he had been expecting ever
since the tall gunman first entered his place finally arrived. The barkeep
crossed himself as he ducked behind the safety of the solid mahogany bar.

The four Walsh gunmen whirled around as if pulled by the
same string. Gus Larkin was fast. His gun was in his hand and seeking a target
when Tyree’s bullet found him. The heavy .45 caliber slug smashed into the side
of Larkin’s head and exited amid a red tide of blood and brain tissue.

Tyree’s second shot took out the man called Rafe.

Satisfied he had killed the two men he wanted most, Tyree
dropped to the floor, rolling to the left and then to the right as he hosed off
the remaining rounds in his gun, oblivious to the bullets whizzing around his
head like angry hornets.

He swore softly as a chunk of flying lead nicked his arm,
gouging a deep furrow in his right shoulder.

In less than a minute, four men were dead.

Rising to his feet, Tyree reloaded the Colt and walked out
of the saloon. Swinging into the saddle, he reined the gray out of town toward
the Slash W Ranch.

The Walsh spread was built around a courtyard, Spanish-style.
Flowers bloomed in colorful clay pots and hanging baskets. A dozen cages housed
twice that many canaries and their cheerful trilling filled the air. A wide
veranda circled the house, offering shade from the fierce desert sun.

It was a nice-looking spread. The outbuildings gleamed with
a fresh coat of whitewash, the corrals were snug and well-built, filled with
blooded horses and a pair of Texas longhorns.

A fat Mexican woman clad in a severe black bombazine dress
answered Tyree’s knock.

“Where’s your mistress?” Tyree demanded brusquely.

“Taking a
siesta
,” the woman replied in stilted
English. “Go away.”

“You go get her, pronto, or I will,” Tyree said firmly. “You
savvy?”

“
Sí, sí
,” the woman answered quickly, and scurried
toward the back of the house.

Stepping inside, Tyree closed the door behind him, stood in
the entry hall examining his surroundings. The hallway was dark, hung with
several paintings of the desert and a sunset. The parlor beyond was a large,
high-ceilinged room. Colorful rugs covered the floor, a few smaller ones,
Navajo in design, decorated the walls. A sofa and two large chairs upholstered
in dark leather were grouped around a huge stone fireplace. Several oil lamps
hung from the ceiling. A life-sized statue of St. Francis stood in one corner,
surrounded by lacy ferns and flowering plants. A large mirror hung over the
fireplace. A shelf housed a small display of Indian pottery.

Annabelle Walsh entered the room on silent feet. She was
tall for a woman, dressed in a simple blue cotton skirt and an off-the-shoulder
white blouse which was decorated with tiny blue and yellow flowers. Her hair
was rich and red and fell in soft waves around her face and over her shoulders.

She halted six feet away from Tyree, her bright green eyes
running over him, appraising him in much the same way a man judged a horse he
was thinking of trying.

“You must be Logan Tyree.” Her voice was deep, husky, with a
sensual quality that kindled a quick desire in Tyree’s loins.

He nodded curtly. “And you must be Annabelle Walsh.”

“Yes. Would you care for a drink? Food?” She glanced
pointedly at the blood caked on his shoulder. “Bandages, perhaps?”

Tyree shook his head. Annabelle Walsh was the most blatantly
beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her skin was the color of rich cream, her
mouth pouting and red. Full breasts pushed impudently against the thin fabric
of her blouse, and he had a crazy urge to tear away the flimsy material that
covered her voluptuous breasts and see if they were real.

A smile of amusement played across Annabelle’s lips as she
read Tyree’s thoughts—thoughts she had seen reflected in the eyes of every man
she had ever met.

“Why have you come here?” Annabelle asked.

“To tell you not to send any more of your men after me. And
to lay off the Lazy H.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she
replied coolly.