RenegadeHeart (19 page)

“Come on,” Tyree coaxed when Rachel’s tears subsided. “We’d
better get you home. Your old man is worried sick.”

Something in his tone made Rachel’s heart go cold. “You’re
not coming with me, are you, Tyree?”

“No.”

“Why not? What’s happened to change your mind?”

“Annabelle made me a better offer,” Tyree said flatly. He
winced at the hurt rising in Rachel’s eyes. Damn! He had never meant to hurt
her, never meant to get so deeply involved. He knew now it had been a mistake
to promise to marry her. He was too old to hang up his gun, too set in his ways
to start a new life. “Let’s go.”

Rachel followed Tyree meekly out of the shack, climbed
stiffly into the saddle of the horse he had brought for her to ride. She stared
straight ahead as they made their way through the dark night, her mind in
turmoil. Tyree, too, was staring into the darkness and Rachel felt her heart
melt with longing as she studied his swarthy profile.
What happened
, she
wanted to cry.
Why have you changed yourmind?
But her pride kept her
tongue mute and the silence between them grew thick and impenetrable.

Tyree reined the gray to a halt under the high double arch
that marked the beginning of the Halloran ranch yard. “Tell your old man the
Walsh riders won’t be bothering him anymore.”

Rachel looked at Tyree askance, one delicate brow rising
like a butterfly in flight.

“And tell him I’ll be over one day soon to get his signature
on a bill of sale deeding your southeast section to Annabelle.”

“So that’s the way it is,” Rachel said dully. “You’re
working for her now.”

“Yeah.”

It was too much for Rachel to absorb: the kidnapping, the
awful hours in the shack with Annabelle’s men, and now Tyree talking to her in
a cold, impersonal tone, as if she were a stranger.

With a curt nod, Rachel slammed her heels into her mount’s
flanks and galloped down the tree-lined road toward home and the solid comfort
of her father’s arms.

Chapter Fourteen

Life was easy on the Walsh spread. Two dozen Mexican
vaqueros
handled all the ranch work, while a handful of house servants waited on
Annabelle and her hired guns.

As was his wont, Tyree kept to himself, ignoring the other
gunmen whenever possible. But Annabelle could not be ignored. She was as bold
and beautiful as a crimson flower in a patch of dry weeds.

She appointed Tyree as her personal bodyguard and insisted
he sleep in the main house in the bedroom that adjoined her own. She dressed
always in rich, vibrant colors that accentuated her flawless complexion and
complemented her luxurious red hair and emerald eyes. She rarely wore dresses,
preferring tight pants and low-cut silk blouses that outlined the generous
curve of her hips and the proud thrust of her breasts. Tyree often thought she
was wasting her time on a ranch when her true talents could be put to better
use in the rooms above Bowsher’s Saloon.

Annabelle ruled the Slash W like a queen, granting favors
when she was pleased, meting out quick and severe punishment when she was
offended. And she was easily offended. The servants were quick to obey her
slightest wish, wary of arousing her fiery temper.

She was riding high, Tyree thought sardonically. Mistress of
all she surveyed and loving every minute of it. She certainly enjoyed bossing
him around, there was no doubt about that. And Tyree let her get away with it
because it amused him, for the moment, to let Annabelle think she held the
upper hand.

She made no secret of the fact that she found Tyree
tremendously desirable. Time and again she came to his bedroom, her voluptuous
form barely concealed in some flimsy gown that accentuated every curve. Often,
she sat on the edge of his bed, her hand boldly stroking his thigh.

Some nights, when he was lying alone in the dark and
Annabelle came to him, he was tempted. Sorely tempted. Annabelle was beautiful,
and she was more than willing to ease the ache in his loins, but he could not
bring himself to make love to Annabelle Walsh, not with the memory of Rachel’s
sweetness so fresh in his mind.

Rachel. He missed her more than he cared to admit. She was
always in his thoughts. He missed seeing her every day, missed the sound of her
voice, the warmth of her smile.

As the days passed, it grew harder and harder to put
Annabelle off. She was a comely wench when she was getting her own way, all
seductive smiles and tempting softness. So filled with pride and arrogance she
never realized Tyree was humoring her because it suited him at the moment.
Tyree had never thought of himself as a coward, but the truth was, the idea of
marrying Rachel scared him to death. It had seemed easier to give in to
Annabelle’s demands, to let Rachel believe he found Annabelle more enticing,
than to admit he had cold feet. For now, it amused him to placate Annabelle, to
let her think he was cowed by her threat to turn him in for killing her
brother. Hell, he was already wanted for murder in Kansas and Texas, and they
could only hang him once. For now, he would play Annabelle’s game and when he
tired of her tricks, he would move on.

Annabelle wielded all her charms the night Joaquin Montoya
came to call. Montoya was an outlaw who traded in human flesh, kidnapping men,
women, and children and selling them into slavery south of the border. The
women were sold to brothels, the men and children were sold to the mines. No
one was safe from Montoya’s grasping hand, and he sold those of his own blood
as quickly as
gringos
.

Annabelle introduced Tyree to Montoya, and the two men shook
hands. They disliked each other immediately.

Somehow, Tyree was not surprised to find that Annabelle and Montoya
were well acquainted. They talked amiably all through dinner about people and
places they had known in the past. Annabelle smiled at Montoya often,
frequently finding an excuse to touch his arm, his shoulder, his hand. Montoya
paid her several compliments, his dark eyes praising her beauty.

Tyree remained silent through most of the meal, amused by
the whole thing. He was not surprised, or jealous, when Montoya followed
Annabelle to bed. Only relieved that she would not be pestering him.

Montoya left early the following morning, and Tyree was glad
to see him go.

As the days passed, the other gunslicks in Annabelle’s
employ became increasingly jealous of Tyree’s relationship with the boss, but
that was their problem, not his, and Tyree went his own way, unperturbed by
their envious glances and snide remarks. If they wanted to believe he was
sleeping with Annabelle, it was no skin off his ass.

During those first few weeks in Annabelle’s employ, the
hardest thing Tyree had to do was face Rachel. He had hurt her deeply, and he
was sorry. But far better to cause her a little heartache now than marry her
and subject her to a lifetime of regret.

Rachel was sitting on the front porch darning a pair of her
old man’s socks the morning Tyree rode over to get Halloran’s signature on a
Bill of Sale. She looked as fresh as a spring flower, what with her hair
shining like liquid gold and her skin glowing soft and smooth. Looking at her,
he wondered how he had ever thought Annabelle Walsh remotely attractive.

Tyree reined the gray to a halt near the porch steps.
“Mornin’, Rachel,” he said quietly. “Is your old man home?”

“He’s inside,” Rachel answered coldly. She rose to her feet,
her fingers digging into her palms. Why did her heart lurch with such longing
at the mere sight of him? She yearned to run to him, to throw her arms around
his neck and pour out her heart, to beg him to love her as she loved him. But
pride stilled her tongue and stiffened her spine. “I’ll get him.”

She did not invite Tyree into the house, and he did not
dismount.

John Halloran came out of the house alone. Pen in hand, he
took the deed from Tyree, quickly signed his name to the paper that gave
Annabelle Walsh title to a section of land long coveted by the Slash W.

“How long before she takes the rest of the place?” Halloran
asked bitterly.

“She won’t.”

Halloran laughed hollowly as he thrust the deed at Tyree.
“No? Who’s gonna stop her? You?”

“If I have to,” Tyree replied calmly. “So long, Halloran.”

From inside the house, Rachel watched Tyree ride out of the
yard. For a moment, she tried to fight back the tears welling in her eyes.
Then, with a sob, she sank down in a chair and let the tears flow. It felt good
to cry, good to release the hurt she had been carrying within her heart.

How foolish she had been to think Tyree would change, to
think he would hang up his gun and become a rancher. She had been kidding
herself all along. Maybe he was too old to change. Maybe he had never cared for
her at all. The thought made the tears come faster, blurring her vision, making
her eyes red and swollen, her throat sore.

She cried until she was empty inside, but the heartache
remained and she knew she would love Logan Tyree as long as she lived.

Tyree had been in Annabelle’s employ about a month when she
decided it was time he earned his keep.

“There’s a squatter out near Coyote Butte,” she remarked one
night after dinner. “Get rid of him for me, will you, Tyree?”

It was not a request, Tyree mused, but a command wrapped in
velvet.

He left the Slash W early the following morning. It was a
beautiful day, blessed by a brilliant blue sky that reminded him of the color
of Rachel’s eyes, and a soft summer breeze that held the heat at bay.

The squatter had chosen a wooded section of land watered by
a narrow, gurgling stream. It was a pretty spot, perfect for a homestead. A
good place to put down roots, raise kids and crops and cattle.

The man was sawing the branches off a newly fallen tree when
Tyree rode up and stepped easily from the saddle.

“Folks usually wait to be asked to step down back where I
come from,” the squatter remarked, shading his eyes so he could see Tyree’s
face.

“That so? Around here, folks don’t take up residence on
somebody else’s land without permission.”

“This is free range,” the squatter protested belligerently.
“I checked it out before I came.”

“You made a mistake,” Tyree said flatly. “Pack your gear and
move on.”

“I got no place else to go,” the man argued. “I’ll have my
floor in by tomorrow. I plan to have the walls up before the month is out.”

“You’d best change your plans,” Tyree warned, “or I’ll
change them for you.”

The squatter was a young man, perhaps twenty-five years old.
He was square-built, as solid as oak. He had dark brown hair and blue eyes that
were looking scared.

“You’ve got five minutes to pack up and be on your way,”
Tyree said curtly.

“And if I refuse?”

Tyree jerked a thumb at the man’s gunbelt, lying atop a flat
rock some six feet away. “You can try your luck with that.”

“I’m no gunfighter,” the man protested, backing away from Tyree.

Tyree’s smile was deadly. “I am.”

“You’d shoot me down, in cold blood?” the young man asked
incredulously.

“No. You’ll have your chance. Buckle on that gunbelt.”

“No.”

“Then ride on.”

The squatter stared at Tyree, his emotions as transparent as
the water gurgling in the nearby stream. He did not want to leave. He had sold
everything he owned to make the move West. He did not want to draw against a
professional gunman, and he did not want to run.

“It’s your move,” Tyree drawled softly.

“Damn!” The man whispered the oath as he sidled toward his
gunbelt. His eyes never left Tyree’s face. Almost in slow motion, he picked up
his gunbelt. Then, flinging himself to the ground, he jerked the .44 out of the
holster and pulled the trigger.

The slug went wide, missing Tyree by a good two feet.
Without conscious thought, Tyree drew his gun and sighted down the barrel. The
squatter stared up at him, helpless as a rabbit in a trap, too scared to pull
the trigger a second time.

Tyree’s finger was steady on the trigger and taking up the
slack when Rachel’s voice sounded in the back of his mind: “A gun may not know
right from wrong,” her voice accused, “but a man does.”

Abruptly, Tyree bolstered the Colt and rode on, leaving the
squatter to stare after him in open-mouthed astonishment.

Two weeks later, Annabelle sent Tyree out again, commanding
him to finish the job this time. It was dusk when he left the hacienda, a rifle
across his saddle, his Colt riding heavy on his hip.

The squatters he sought were huddled around a cheery
campfire when he arrived. There were four kids under twelve, a man and a woman.
The family’s lively chatter came to an abrupt halt as Tyree rode into the
firelight. The woman was plump in a pleasing sort of way, with a mass of
russet-colored hair, brown eyes, and rough, work-worn hands. Her face paled
visibly when she saw the rifle nestled in Tyree’s capable hands.

Her husband rose slowly to his feet, his arms dangling
harmlessly at his sides. He was short and thin, with sandy brown hair, gray
eyes, and a full beard. He wore a knife sheathed on his belt. An old Colt’s
Dragoon was shoved into the waistband of his trousers.

“Hi, mister,” piped one of the kids, a girl about five years
old. “That sure is a pretty horse.”

“Tessie, hush!” her mother scolded.

“They told me in town that you’d show up,” the man said
dispiritedly. “I was hoping they’d be wrong.”

“You’re not wanted here,” Tyree said.

“We’re staying.”

“No.”

Slowly, the man shook his head. “I don’t hold with killing,”
he said sadly. “But you do what you have to do.”

“Suit yourself,” Tyree murmured. He jacked a round into the
breech of the Winchester, swung the barrel in the direction of the squatter’s
heart.

And couldn’t pull the trigger.

With a heavy sigh, he lowered the rifle. “You’re on Slash W
range,” he said tersely. “Don’t be here tomorrow.”

Wheeling the gray around, he galloped into the darkness
without giving the man a chance to reply.

He was in a foul mood when he returned to the Slash W ranch
house. Annabelle was waiting for him in the parlor, a question in her green
eyes.

“It’s done,” Tyree said curtly.

“They’re dead?”

“No.”

The green eyes narrowed ominously. “Why didn’t you kill
them?”

“Because there was no need. The man doesn’t have the guts to
stay and make a fight of it. They’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“What’s the matter, Tyree?” Annabelle taunted. “Lost your
nerve?”

Lazily, Tyree reached out and grabbed her arm in a grip of
iron. “Is that what you think?” he challenged. He gave her arm a cruel twist,
but Annabelle only laughed up at him, delighting in his easy strength.

But later, alone, her words came back to haunt him. Had he
lost his nerve? Once, he would have gunned the squatter without a second
thought. But that was before Rachel, he mused. Somehow, her values, her ideals
of right and wrong had become his.

* * * * *

The following Saturday morning Tyree rode into town. He
spent the early hours of the day loafing on the porch of the Palace Hotel,
watching the townspeople go about their business, amused by the surreptitious
glances they slanted in his direction. Everyone knew he was working for the
Slash W and there was a lot of lively speculation about his unexpected change
of employers.

Clint Wesley rode by the hotel on his way out of town
shortly after noon, and Tyree felt a mild sense of relief. Sooner or later,
Wesley’s devotion to duty would overcome his good sense and when that day came,
Tyree would have to kill him. He was glad it would not be today.

Moments later, Tyree saw Rachel. She was alone, standing on
the boardwalk in front of the doctor’s office. She looked good enough to eat,
all dolled up in a pale yellow muslin day dress, and a white straw hat bedecked
with long yellow streamers. It had been over two months since the night he
seduced her at the Jorgensen place, and his eyes lingered hungrily on her trim
form. He frowned thoughtfully as he glanced from Rachel’s face to the doctor’s
office. With a grunt, he gained his feet and moved down the street.