RenegadeHeart (18 page)

“Then I’ll spell it out for you. I killed four of your
gunmen less than an hour ago. And if one more cow turns up missing or dead on
the Lazy H, I’ll come after you.”

“The way you came after my brother?”

“Now I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tyree lied
smoothly. “Just remember what I said. If anything suspicious happens out at the
Lazy H after today, if one cow gets sick or dies, I’ll come after you. And I
never miss.”

It was not an idle threat, Annabelle was sure of that. He
had severely wounded Willie McCoy, now he admitted to killing four of her best
men. No doubt he had killed Job, too. Yes, she mused, Logan Tyree was an
accomplished killer. He would not hesitate to kill a woman.

Giving her head an impatient toss, Annabelle smiled a secret
smile. Perhaps, instead of fighting against Tyree, she should make him an ally.
If she could hire his gun, Halloran’s remaining few men would desert the Lazy H
like rats fleeing a sinking ship. And if he would not succumb to the lure of
money, there were always other enticements. He was interested in her body. Even
now he was having trouble keeping his eyes from her breasts and hips. Always,
men had looked at her as if she were a melon ripe for the harvest. She had
offered herself to other men when they possessed something she desired. And
they had always yielded to her charms. Logan Tyree would be no different. For
all his arrogance, she was certain he would do as she wished if she made him the
right offer.

“Is that all you have to say?” Annabelle inquired coldly.

“I reckon that covers it.”

“Very well. Good day, Mr. Tyree.” With some amusement, Tyree
realized he had been dismissed. But he made no move to leave the room, and
neither did Annabelle Walsh.

Tyree stared openly at the lush figure clad in the blue
skirt and virginal white blouse. But there was nothing virginal about
Annabelle, he mused. She was a woman who had known many men. The knowledge was
bright in her taunting green eyes, and in the pouting smile that curved her
full red lips. But more than that, it rose from her like the musky scent of a
mare in heat, alerting any stallion within range.

Unruffled by his steady gaze, Annabelle gestured at Tyree’s
wounded shoulder. “You really should have that taken care of.”

“Yeah.”

“I have some salve and bandages in my room.”

“Fine.”

Annabelle turned on her heel and led the way through the
parlor and down a long hall to her bedroom, secure in the knowledge that Tyree
would follow her. She smiled smugly as she heard his footsteps start after her.
It was always so easy.

Annabelle’s room was large and smelled of powder and
perfume. A four-poster bed dominated the room. Heavy red velvet draperies were
drawn across the windows, shutting out the late afternoon sunlight. A tall
rosewood chest of drawers took up most of one wall. A small commode held a
pitcher of water and a basin. There was a rosewood armoire, a full-length
mirror, a painting of a wild stallion chasing a herd of mustangs hung on one
wall. Tyree removed his shirt and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand idly
toying with the soft red velvet spread while Annabelle bandaged his shoulder.
He eyed her expectantly, waiting for her to make the next move. He did not have
long to wait. “I want you to work for me, Tyree,” she murmured. Her fingers
stroked his bare arm, caressing the muscles bulging there.

“I already said ‘no’ once, remember? It cost me a good right
hand.”

“Change your mind.” Annabelle’s fingers trailed suggestively
down his arm to rest on his thigh. “I’ll pay you whatever you ask, within
reason.”

“Anything?” His hungry eyes traveled to the twin mounds of
her breasts, and then to her inviting red lips, which were moist and slightly
parted.

Annabelle laughed softly as Tyree’s amber eyes devoured her.
Men! They were all alike. Always wanting just one thing from a woman.

“I was thinking of a thousand dollars a month,” Annabelle
said.

“That’s a lot of money. What do you want in return?”

“Just your name, really. Once Halloran’s men find out you’re
riding for the Slash W, they’ll hightail it out of the country. No one in his
right mind will work for the old man once they know your gun is siding me.
Halloran will be forced to sell out and when he does, I’ll give you a five
thousand dollar bonus and you’ll be free to go.” The tone of her voice, the
fire smoldering in her vibrant emerald eyes, assured Tyree he would not want to
leave her. Ever.

Tyree whistled softly. “Five grand. That’s a hefty sum.”

“Yes.” She looked up at him through the dark fringe of her
lashes, her eyes bright, her mouth forming a smile because it had been so easy.

“A hefty sum,” Tyree repeated. “But I don’t need the money.
Thanks, anyway.”

Annabelle sucked in a deep breath that caused her ample
breasts to strain against the thin cotton cloth that held them bound. Her eyes
glowed like green fire as she purred, “Perhaps I could offer you something
else?”

“Yeah?” Tyree asked, suppressing a knowing grin. “What did
you have in mind?”

Annabelle pressed herself against Tyree. “Do I have to say
it?”

Tyree’s mouth turned down, and his voice was cruelly mocking
as he said, “You worth five grand? Most whores don’t come that high.”

He had expected her to get angry, but she only smiled up at
him. “I’m worth much, much more, cowboy,” she boasted. “But you’ll never know
unless you agree to work for me, starting today.”

Tyree’s laugh was humorless. “That right? What’s to stop me
from taking you here and now?”

“Nothing,” Annabelle said with a small shrug of her creamy
shoulders. “But a gift freely given is much more satisfying than one taken by
force.”

“You think so? I’ve always found the victory sweeter when
the battle is hard fought.”

Annabelle was sitting beside him, her leg pressed against
his, her hand gently kneading the muscle in his thigh. At his words, she
flounced over onto her stomach, leaving him to study her smooth back and softly
rounded buttocks.

Too late, Tyree realized it was a ruse. In a quick,
pantherish movement, Annabelle delved under the nearest bed pillow and withdrew
a silver-plated derringer. With a triumphant smirk, she thrust the cocked
weapon into Tyree’s groin.

“No man takes me against my will,” she hissed, all ice where
she had once been fire. “No man! We do things my way, or not at all.”

“Suits me,” Tyree said easily. “Now put that gun away before
I break your arm.”

Annabelle swallowed a triumphant smile as she slipped the
gun back into its hiding place beneath the pillow. Men. They were so pliable,
so easily led. Even Tyree, for all his rough talk, was willing to bend to her
will just for the promise of bedding her.

His slap came as a shock, doubly so because she had been so
certain of another easy victory. The blow brought quick tears of pain to her
eyes, and a string of vituperative words to her lips as she reached for the
derringer again, but Tyree knew what to expect this time and his long arm slid
under the pillow first. With lazy grace, he unloaded the deadly little pistol
and tossed the shells on the floor.

“Next time you try that, I’ll kill you,” he remarked, his tone
easy and calm, as if he were commenting on something trivial, like the weather
or the price of wool.

“How dare you strike me!” Annabelle shouted angrily. “Leave
my house at once!”

“I’ll be going all right,” Tyree assured her. “But not until
I’ve had a taste of what you’ve been offering ever since I walked through the
door.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Tyree’s insolent smile assured her that he would.

Grabbing a handful of her hair, he forced her back on the
bed, his mouth closing over hers, his teeth bruising her lips. It was a brutal
kiss, and Annabelle kicked and bucked beneath him, her fists pummeling his back
in useless fury.

He did not release her, only caught her hands in his,
rendering her helpless. He kissed her long and hard, until it was difficult for
her to breathe, until she stopped struggling and lay passive beneath him.

Abruptly, she changed tactics and began to arch against him,
pressing her breasts against his chest, twining her long legs around his waist,
urging him to possess her fully. Her pulse began to race as Tyree’s kiss became
more intimate. He was a big man, so much more masculine than the Kansas City
railroad man she had conned out of several thousand dollars. So much more
handsome than the rotund Chicago banker who had wined her and dined her and
offered to buy her a fur coat for just an hour of her favors.

Annabelle smiled smugly as Tyree’s hand slid along her
breast. She would have to be careful in her handling of Logan Tyree. He was a
dangerous man and not one to be trifled with. She had underestimated him, she
mused, but she would not make that mistake again. No man had ever bested her.
And Logan Tyree would soon learn to toe the mark, just like all the others.

Watching her, Tyree thought Annabelle looked like a spoiled
kitten plotting mischief. He grinned wryly as he stood up.

Annabelle frowned. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“You’re not worth five grand,” he said with a shrug.
“Sorry.”

Her angry screams followed him out of the house and into the
dusk.

Chapter Twelve

Clint Wesley sat in his office, a sour expression on his
handsome young face. Word of Tyree’s shootout with the four Walsh riders was
the talk of the town. Tyree’s reputation, which was already formidable, was
growing with each retelling of the tale. Everyone in Yellow Creek was yammering
for Tyree’s scalp, but there wasn’t one man in the whole damn town willing to
pin on a deputy’s badge and share the risk in bringing him in. And Clint did
not have the guts to take him on alone. It was as simple as that. None of the
townspeople really blamed the marshal for his reluctance, but they rode him
hard just the same. After all, he was the law. It was his job, not theirs.

Clint ran a hand over his eyes, dragged it across his jaw
and down his neck. It had always been such an easy job, keeping the peace in
Yellow Creek. At least until Logan Tyree rode into town. Sure, there had been
some trouble between the Lazy H and the Slash W. Halloran’s men had been
killed, cattle stolen. John Halloran had sworn that Job Walsh was responsible
for everything, but there had never been any real proof that Walsh’s men were
gunning the Halloran cowhands. Not any proof that would stand up in a court of
law. Of course, none of that mattered now that Walsh was dead and buried. But Tyree…damn!
The man had killed four men in Bowsher’s Saloon in front of a score of
witnesses. Everyone said Tyree had bushwhacked Walsh, too, but once again,
there was no proof.

What a mess! Fingering his badge, Clint considered quitting
and riding on. Let someone else tackle Logan Tyree. Let someone else try and
bring the gunfighter in. The town wasn’t paying him enough to take on a
professional killer like Tyree.

With his mind made up, Wesley unpinned the badge from his
vest. The star felt heavy in his hand. Staring at it, he thought of Rachel. He
would never see her again if he rode out of town with his tail tucked between
his legs. Thirty bucks a month wasn’t worth getting killed over, but
Rachel…that was a different story. She was every man’s ideal, beautiful,
soft-spoken, with a promise of heaven in her sky-blue eyes and a radiant smile
on her sweet red lips. Rachel. He would never be able to face her again if he
backed down from doing a job that was rightly his.

Frowning thoughtfully, Clint unholstered his gun and laid it
on the desk. Tyree hadn’t been born with a gun in his hand. He had to learn to
draw and fire just like everybody else. No doubt it had taken hours of
practice. Anybody could quick-draw a Colt if he practiced hard enough.

Face grim with determination, Clint pinned his badge to his
vest where it belonged. Then, with a sigh of determination, he picked up his
gun and went out behind the jailhouse to begin practicing his draw…

Chapter Thirteen

Tyree rose with the sun. Dressing, he gathered his gear
together and stowed it in his warbag. Outside, he paused briefly on the front
porch of the old Jorgensen place to watch the sun climb over the distant
mountains. It was a sight he never tired of, though few people who knew him
would have thought him capable of appreciating anything as ordinary as a
sunrise.

Settling his hat on his head, he walked down to the corral.
Minutes later, he was riding toward the Lazy H. He passed several bunches of
cattle, all wearing brands that wouldn’t bear close inspection, and he wondered
how many of the cattle wearing the Walsh brand belonged to the Lazy H. It
seemed Annabelle was as big a crook as her brother had been.

Annabelle. Tyree grinned ruefully. Once, he would have taken
what she had offered without a qualm. But Rachel’s sweet lovemaking had ruined
him for all other women. Annabelle was beautiful in face and form, and yet she
had left him cold and unmoved. Her kisses had been empty, her promises hollow.

Lifting the stallion into an easy lope, Tyree put everything
from his mind, losing himself in the smooth, rocking motion of the gray, and in
the pastoral beauty of the wild land, savoring the wondrous sense of freedom
and well-being he always experienced when riding alone across the open prairie.

He rode for a long time, stopping once to watch a handful of
Indians on the move. They were heading south to spend the coming winter in
Mexico. They were a sorry sight, the warriors mounted on scrawny, slat-sided
ponies, the women walking behind the men, their long cotton skirts dragging in
the dust. A sorry sight, indeed. Even the dogs looked beat. And yet, for all
that, Tyree felt a sudden urge to ride after them, to forget the complicated
ways of the white man and go back to the blanket.

The urge to follow them was strong, but he had promised
Rachel he would return to her, and his word was about the only honorable thing
he had left. It would not be easy, settling down, living summer and winter
under the same roof, loving only one woman, but what the hell, Rachel wanted him,
and it was for sure no one else did. He thought briefly of Annabelle, but she
did not want Tyree, the man. Just his gun.

Turning north, the land changed as the flat, unbroken ground
gradually gave way to gently rolling hills and thick stands of timber. A tall
sandstone spire loomed in the distance, pointing like a finger toward heaven. A
lone eagle soared overhead, wheeling and diving in an endless search for prey.

Riding on, Tyree passed a line shack, long unused judging by
the broken windows and the sagging front door.

And then he was on Halloran ground. As he rode toward the
ranch, he could readily understand why Job Walsh had coveted the Lazy H, and
why Annabelle was trying to get her hands on it now. There was plenty of good
grass, water all year ‘round.

The sun was high in the sky when he drew the gray to a halt
beside a quiet stream that flowed in the valley between two low hills.
Dismounting, he stripped the rigging from the stallion, then, placing his gun
within easy reach, he shucked his clothing and stepped into the chill water.
Squatting on his heels in the shallow stream, he rinsed away the dust of the
trail. Later, feeling relaxed and refreshed, he stretched out under a leafy
cottonwood and took a nap.

The sky was aflame with color when he rode into the Halloran
yard. He spent twenty minutes currying the gray before going up to the house.
Tossing his hat on the rack inside the front door, he headed for the kitchen,
expecting to find Rachel stirring up some supper.

Instead, he found John Halloran hunched over the kitchen
table, staring bleakly into a cup of cold black coffee.

“What’s going on?” Tyree asked, standing hipshot in the
doorway. “Where’s Rachel?”

Halloran did not look up. “I don’t know,” he said heavily.
“She rode out early this morning. Her horse came back three hours ago. Candido
and the men are out looking for her now—”

Tyree did not wait for any further explanations. Grabbing
his hat, he ran down to the corral, whistled for the gray. He did not waste
time with a saddle, merely threw a hackamore over the stud’s head and vaulted
onto its bare back. A sharp kick sent the mustang thundering out of the yard,
hell-bent for the Slash W.

Annabelle was waiting for him in the parlor, coolly sipping
a glass of red wine. Two mean-looking Yaqui cowboys stood off to one side,
their arms crossed over their chests. A third
vaquero
stood behind
Annabelle’s chair, a shotgun cradled in his burly arms.

“Why, Mr. Tyree,” Annabelle purred as he stomped into the
room. “How nice of you to drop by so soon after your last…visit.”

“Cut the crap!” Tyree said tersely. “Where’s Rachel?”

“Quite safe, for now.” Annabelle gestured at the chair
beside her. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Where is she?” Tyree repeated through clenched teeth.

“Keeping company with a few of my men. As I said, she’s
quite safe. For now. Whether she stays that way depends entirely on you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Rachel and I had a rather interesting little talk this
afternoon,” Annabelle remarked in a conspiratorial tone. “As you know, I’ve
been rather curious to know who killed my brother, and after a little, ah,
persuasion, Miss Halloran was kind enough to tell me what I wanted to know.”

Tyree’s face remained expressionless, but he felt his
muscles begin to grow tense. His left hand curled into a tight fist. “That so?”

“Yes.” Annabelle leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Can you
guess who she named as Job’s murderer?”

“No. Who?”

“You, Mr. Tyree?”

He did not have to turn around to know that the two Yaqui
cowboys had drawn their guns. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes. I would like to hear it from your own mouth, if you
don’t mind.”

“Okay, I killed him.” Tyree felt the hair raise along the
back of his neck as he waited for Annabelle’s men to cut him down.

“Why did you kill my brother?” Annabelle’s eyes bored into
Tyree’s, hard and cold and ruthless.

“What the hell difference does it make now?” Tyree asked
impatiently. He heard one of the Yaquis take a step forward and his back grew
rigid as he waited for a bullet to smash into him.

“I want to know,” Annabelle said.

“I did it as a favor to Halloran for saving my life.”

“Hogwash! You’ve never done anybody a favor in your whole
life.” Annabelle looked at him shrewdly. “Halloran paid you, didn’t he?” she
demanded. “He paid you to kill my brother!” She stamped her foot angrily when Tyree
did not answer. “Tell me, Tyree, or you’ll never see Rachel Halloran alive
again.”

“She’s nothing to me,” Tyree said with a shrug. But his
insides were coiled tight as bedsprings. If anything happened to Rachel,
Annabelle Walsh would pay, and pay dearly.

“My men will be glad to hear that,” Annabelle remarked,
smiling smugly. “All twelve of them.”

The implication was all too clear, Tyree mused. Either he
told Annabelle what she wanted to know, or Annabelle would turn her men loose
on Rachel.

“You win,” Tyree conceded gruffly. “Old man Halloran paid me
five hundred dollars to get your brother off his back. I did it the only way I
know.”

Annabelle nodded as she sat back in her chair. “Yes, I
thought as much.”

“What now?” Tyree asked dispassionately. “A quick bullet in
the back?”

“Of course not,” Annabelle said, laughing softly. “I made
you an offer last night. One that you rudely refused.” She pulled a piece of
paper from her skirt pocket. “I still want you to work for me, Tyree. And I
always get what I want.”

Tyree eyed the paper suspiciously. “That so?”

“Yes. This is a confession stating that you killed my
brother. I would advise you to sign it.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Miss Halloran will wind up in the river. Dead, of course.”

“Of course,” Tyree repeated drily. “And if I sign?”

“I’ll lock this up in a safe place. You’ll come to work for
me, and we’ll forget all this unpleasantness ever happened.” Rising, she placed
her wineglass on a low table. Moving toward Tyree, she placed her hand on his
shoulder, let it slide suggestively down his arm, secretly reveling in the taut
muscles coiled beneath her fingertips. “Don’t be stubborn, Tyree,” she crooned.
“We’ll be good together. And if it will make you happy, I’ll even let Halloran
keep his ranch. All but the southeast section that borders on my back pasture.
That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“It’s blackmail, is what it is,” Tyree muttered.

“Surely working for me would be better than seeing that poor
old man wind up in jail as an accessory to murder? And infinitely better than
hanging.”

It was in Tyree’s mind to tell Annabelle Walsh to go to
hell. But John Halloran had done him a favor, and he couldn’t ride out of
Yellow Creek and leave the old man to face Annabelle’s ruthless greed alone.
And then there was Rachel. The thought of Annabelle’s men, of any man, touching
her made his blood run cold.

And what the hell, he mused. He was better suited to hiring
out his gun to a woman like Annabelle Walsh than trying to settle down. A
little voice in the back of his mind chided that he was taking the coward’s way
out, but he refused to listen. He had known all along he was making a mistake
by promising to marry Rachel. He would never make her happy, never in a million
years.

And so he said, “Okay, Annabelle, you win. I’ll sign your
confession. But only if you draft a new one that leaves Halloran’s name out of
it completely.”

“All right,” Annabelle said agreeably. “I don’t see any
reason to tell Rachel or her father about our bargain, do you?”

“No.”

“Good. Then it’s all settled.”

“Just one more thing. If anything happens to Rachel or her
old man, I’ll come after you, confession or no confession. You remember that.”

“I’ll remember. Nacho, bring more wine. This is an occasion
for celebrating.”

Rachel’s tears had long since dried up, but the fear
remained, tying her stomach in knots, making it difficult to swallow, to think
clearly.

Hours had passed since Annabelle’s men had brought her to
this run-down cabin. Hours that seemed like days. She kept her eyes closed, not
wanting to see the faces of the men leering at her. They had stripped her down
to her chemise and petticoat, and she could feel their eyes on her breasts,
barely concealed beneath her lacy chemise. Occasionally, a man ran his hand
over her leg or through her hair, sometimes they made crude remarks about her
anatomy.

She had never known such paralyzing fear, had never felt so
helpless and alone. Somehow, the Indians at Sunset Canyon had not seemed so
threatening. They had been savages and had acted as such. But these were white
men, most of them, civilized men. Men she had seen in town.

She shivered, her fear making her cold. Dared she ask for a
blanket? She opened her eyes and quickly closed them again. It was eerie, the
way the men just sat there, staring at her.

She jumped as the cabin door swung open, gave a small cry of
joy when she saw Tyree outlined against the darkening sky. She had never been
so glad to see anybody in her life.

Tyree swore softly as he stepped into the dingy cabin and
closed the door behind him. Rachel was lying on a filthy mattress, her wrists
and ankles tied to the rusty bed frame. A grimy red kerchief was tied over her
mouth. Her left eye was swollen and discolored, her right cheek was badly
bruised, as if someone had hit her, hard.

He swore again. Seeing Rachel bound and gagged stirred him
in a way he did not like. Scowling blackly, he tore his gaze from Rachel’s
violently trembling body and glanced around the room. Annabelle had not been
bluffing. There were twelve men present, and a more disreputable-looking bunch
would have been hard to find. Any one of them looked capable of raping Rachel
until she was unconscious, and then slitting her throat without a qualm.

Annabelle’s men expressed no surprise at seeing Tyree, and
he felt a quick surge of anger. She had been very sure of him, damn her.

He said the password Annabelle had given him and the Slash W
riders filed out of the shack, grousing a little because Tyree had arrived and
spoiled their fun.

When the last Walsh gunman was gone, Tyree cut the ropes binding
Rachel’s hands and feet and removed the gag from her mouth.

Embarrassed by her scant attire, Rachel crossed her arms
over her breasts. “Tyree—” It was a plea and a prayer combined, the way she
whispered his name.

“You all right?” he asked.

Rachel nodded wordlessly, flushing scarlet as Tyree’s eyes
moved over her exposed flesh.

“Good,” he said curtly. “Get dressed.”

“She knows,” Rachel said, reaching for her dress. “Annabelle
knows you killed her brother.”

“It’s all right.”

“I had to tell her,” Rachel said in a small voice. Her
brilliant blue eyes pleaded for Tyree’s understanding and forgiveness. “She
said she would let her men amuse themselves with me if I didn’t tell her what
she wanted to know. At first, I thought she was just trying to scare me. But
then she brought me out here.” Rachel’s words came faster and faster as she
relived the horror of the past few hours. “Her men passed me back and forth,
kissing me, making remarks about…about… Oh, Tyree, it was awful! And then, when
I still wouldn’t tell her anything, she told one of the men to tie me to the
bed. When he started to take off his pants, I knew she wasn’t bluffing. Tyree,
she said she would let all twelve of her men have me, and I believed her. I had
to tell her. I was so afraid!”

“It’s all right, Rachel,” Tyree assured her. With a sigh, he
took her in his arms and held her while she cried, thinking all the while that
a good hiding with a bullwhip would benefit Annabelle Walsh immensely, though
it would be a sin to permanently mar that exquisitely sculpted alabaster body.