RenegadeHeart (20 page)

Rachel frowned when she saw Tyree striding purposefully
toward her. Turning on her heel, she headed in the opposite direction, but she
wasn’t fast enough to elude Tyree. His hand closed firmly over her arm, halting
her flight.

“Take your hand off me!” Rachel demanded, her voice pitched
low so as not to attract any undue attention.

“Afternoon, Miss Halloran,” Tyree said with exaggerated
politeness. “Sorry I’m late for our appointment.”

“Appointment?” Rachel exclaimed angrily. “What are you
talking about?”

“The one we have now,” Tyree said. “Come on, take a walk
with me.”

“No.”

“You’re coming with me whether you like it or not,” Tyree
growled. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”

Rachel scowled irritably. He was just insolent enough to do
such a scandalous thing.

“Oh, very well,” she relented. “But take your hand off my
arm.”

“So you can run away? Not a chance.”

“I won’t run,” Rachel promised sullenly. “Now unhand me.”

Reluctantly, Tyree released his grip on Rachel’s arm. Side
by side, they walked down the street toward the end of town.

Rachel stared straight ahead, acutely conscious of the man
walking beside her. Her skin was still warm and tingled faintly where his hand
had grasped her arm. As they strolled silently down the street, Tyree’s hand
brushed hers and she pulled away, not wanting him to touch her, even though all
her senses screamed for the pressure of his body next to her own. Night after
night she had lain wide awake, yearning for his touch, hating him because he
had dumped her for Annabelle Walsh. The thought of Tyree kissing Annabelle made
her sick at heart. Oh, it wasn’t fair, Rachel wailed in silent rage. His face
haunted her dreams. Her mouth hungered for the taste of his kisses. No matter
how hard she tried to convince herself that she hated and despised Logan Tyree,
her body continued to yearn for his touch. She missed the sound of his
laughter, his sardonic smile, the way his eyes lingered on her face as soft as
a caress.

They were at the outskirts of town before Tyree broke the
silence between them. “How’re things at the ranch?” he asked gruffly.
“Everything okay?”

“Yes.” Rachel’s eyes were cold when she looked at him.

“Your old man all right?”

“Yes.”

“Are the Walsh riders giving you any more trouble?”

“No.”

Tyree muttered a mild oath, annoyed by her curt monosyllabic
replies. He scowled blackly, his narrowed eyes moving slowly over her full
breasts and tiny waist.

“How about you?” he rasped. “Are you fine, too?”

For a moment, Rachel frowned at him. And then her cheeks
flamed with embarrassment as she perceived the real meaning of his concern for
her health.

“I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she
snapped. “And if I were, I’d kill myself before I gave birth to a child sired
by a varmint like you!”

Anger flared deep in Tyree’s yellow eyes, shining bright as
summer lightning before it died away. A cynical smile curved his mouth-line.
“‘Death to dishonor’,” he drawled lazily.

“Honor!” Rachel’s laugh was cold. “What would you know about
honor, you…you—” She stamped her foot in frustration as words failed her.

“Murderer?” Tyree supplied the word, his tone hard as flint.
“Despoiler of fair damsels?”

“Yes,” Rachel lashed out scathingly. “You’re all those
things and worse.” She lifted her head, her clear blue eyes burning into his.
“A man was found dead near Coyote Butte last month. You killed him, didn’t
you?”

“If I said no, would you believe me?”

“If you didn’t kill him, who did?”

“Yarnell.”

“Why?”

“The man was on Slash W land,” Tyree answered tersely.
“Annabelle wanted him off.”

“That’s open range and you know it,” Ra­chel retorted.

“The Slash W has been grazing cattle there for years.
Annabelle considers it a part of the ranch.”

“And Annabelle always gets what she wants, doesn’t she?” The
words “including you” hung unspoken in the air between them. “Tell me, Tyree,
how much did Annabelle pay you to gun that man down in cold blood?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“I don’t believe you. Everyone knows that’s why Annabelle
hired you. Did you give that man the same chance you gave Job Walsh?”

“Dammit, Rachel, back off!”

“What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’ve developed a
conscience at this late date?”

That was the trouble, Tyree thought bitterly. He
had
developed a conscience.

He glared at Rachel, confused by the anger he felt. His
hands were balled into tight fists at his sides, and a muscle worked in his
jaw. For a moment, Rachel feared she had pushed him too far and that he might
strike her. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving her
standing in the hot sun feeling alone and strangely sad.

Tyree was in a foul mood the rest of the day. Maybe a
leopard couldn’t change his spots. Maybe it was too late to try. He had never
thought of himself as a murderer before, not really. Sure, he’d gunned down
more than a dozen men, but never, without a call. Never in cold blood. Damn
her! Who was she to judge him? If it hadn’t been for his gun, her old man would
be dead by now, and Job Walsh would be running his cattle on the Lazy H.

Annabelle looked at Tyree with a question in her eyes more
than once as the day wore on, but he remained stubbornly silent, refusing to be
drawn into any conversation, answering her questions in as few words as
possible. He drank several glasses of wine with dinner and later, sitting alone
on the veranda, he emptied a bottle of tequila.

Wisely, Annabelle left Tyree alone. There was little about
men she feared, but the look in Tyree’s eye carried a warning she was loath to
challenge.

It was late when Annabelle went to bed. Lying there alone,
she stared out the window at the stars. For weeks, she had been trying to
seduce Tyree, but to no avail. No matter how she teased, no matter how brazenly
she coaxed, he never touched her. No other man had ever been able to resist her
charms. No other man had ever filled her with such desire.

Unable to sleep, she drew on a thin cotton wrapper and went
outside.

Tyree was there, standing in the yard, his profile dark and
unfathomable. He was shirtless and the sight of his lean bronze torso stirred
Annabelle as never before, making her blood sing with desire.

Tyree turned at the sound of her footsteps. It took but one
look at Annabelle’s face to know what she wanted and he expelled a deep,
shuddering sigh as he took her in his arms and kissed her. Why not make love to
Annabelle? She wanted him. She didn’t care how many men he had killed. She
didn’t care about a damn thing.

And that was what was wrong with her.

With a vile oath, he pushed her away. He did not want
Annabelle Walsh. He wanted a girl with flaxen hair and eyes as blue as a summer
sky. He wanted Rachel, blushing and modest in his arms.

“Tyree?”

He shook his head. “Forget it,” he muttered, and stalked out
of the yard, leaving Annabelle to stare after him, a puzzled expression on her
lovely face.

Chapter Fifteen

Autumn came in a colorful panorama of changing leaves, of
warm, sun-kissed days and crisp, cool nights. And now, at last, there was peace
between the Slash W and the Lazy H.

John Halloran hired three new cowhands. They hailed from
Montana and they were young and strong and eager to work. Halloran was pleased
with their enthusiasm and he began making plans for a cattle drive the
following spring.

In late October, he began courting Claire Whiting, the
seamstress in Yellow Creek, and he went around the house whistling cheerfully,
his steps lighter than they had been in years. Claire made him feel young,
carefree, and life was suddenly good again.

Rachel was happy to see her father in such high spirits, but
she could not shake the gloomy feelings that permeated her days and nights. In
an effort to dispel the lassitude that gripped her, she threw herself into a
fit of housecleaning, dusting furniture and waxing floors as if her very life
depended on shiny tabletops and slick parquet. Windows sparkled, wood surfaces
gleamed. Curtains and bedspreads and tablecloths were washed and ironed until
they looked like new. Cupboards and closets were duly put in order, rugs were
aired, pillows were fluffed. A fresh coat of paint covered the walls in the
kitchen.

Rachel worked unceasingly as if, by keeping herself
constantly busy, she could keep all thought of Logan Tyree at bay, hoping,
perhaps, that she could sweep Tyree’s memory from her heart as easily as she
swept the dust from the floors.

Why, of all men, did she have to fall in love with a man
like Tyree? And now that he was out of her life, why couldn’t she forget him?

When the house was so clean there was nothing left to do,
she turned her attention to the bunkhouse, putting up curtains, waxing the
plank floor, airing the mattresses, refurbishing the beds. John Halloran
grinned and shook his head helplessly when the men began to complain that
Rachel was turning their world upside down.

“If this keeps up, she’s gonna have us in ruffled shirts and
patent-leather boots,” Candido grumbled. “Hell, this is a bunkhouse, not the
White House!”

When Rachel ran out of chores to keep her busy at the ranch,
she began to spend time in town with her friend, Carol Ann. Together, they
shopped for material and patterns and began sewing new dresses for church.
Carol Ann was like a breath of fresh air, her idle gossip about the townspeople
humorous and harmless. Betty Miller was pregnant with number six. Lydia Foreman
was engaged. One of the blacksmith’s sons had run away with a saloon girl,
shaming his family and friends.

Spending so much time in town, Rachel could not help seeing
Clint Wesley. His attention was like a healing balm to her aching heart. Clint
was everything Tyree was not, everything a woman could want in a man. He was
kind, polite, attentive, eager to please her. He brought her flowers and candy,
took her for long walks, escorted her to church and to parties. He was tolerant
of her quicksilver mood changes. He complimented her beauty, admired her new
dress, was never crude or demanding or unkind. If only she could love him,
Rachel lamented. If only his shy kisses had the power to make her heart beat
with excitement the way Tyree’s did. Clint was so unfailingly sweet, why
couldn’t she love him as he deserved? Why did her heart continue to yearn for a
scoundrel like Logan Tyree?

It was late one blustery afternoon when Rachel drove into
town, bent on a visit to Lulu Mae’s Millinery Shoppe, her heart set on a
darling bonnet she had seen in the window the day before.

Stepping from the buggy, she was halfway across the street
when she saw Annabelle Walsh walking down the boardwalk, one gloved hand laid
possessively over Tyree’s arm.

A sharp pain tore through Rachel’s heart when Tyree looked
down into Annabelle’s face, laughing softly at something Annabelle had said.
Why did Tyree have to be in town today, of all days? And why did he have to
look so devilishly handsome? As usual, he was dressed all in black except for a
red silk scarf that was loosely knotted at his throat. Rachel tried not to
notice how the black silk shirt clung to his broad shoulders, or the way the
tight whipcord britches outlined his long muscular legs. He wore expensive
black kid boots and a black Stetson hat, and she wondered, peevishly, if
Annabelle had paid for his clothing.

Quivering with jealousy, Rachel tried not to stare at
Annabelle Walsh. She had to admit, if grudgingly, that the woman was beautiful.
Her hair was a glorious shade of red, her eyes as green as new grass, her
smooth skin flawless. Her figure, clad in a gaudy blue and yellow striped
dress, could not be faulted.

Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, Rachel walked
past the couple, her eyes riveted on the rectangular red and white sign that
hung over the doorway to Lulu Mae’s salon.

Annabelle’s hand tightened on Tyree’s arm as Rachel Halloran
glided swiftly past, her skirts held to one side, as if she were too good to
associate with anyone from the Slash W.

“Little snit,” Annabelle thought sourly. What had Tyree ever
seen in John Halloran’s old maid daughter? Rachel’s face was as cold as stone.
Little wonder she was still unmarried. Bedding her would probably be as
exciting as bedding a dead fish.

Tyree’s mouth thinned in an angry line as Rachel hurried
past him without so much as a glance. For a brief moment, he was tempted to
reach out and grab her arm, to pull her to him and kiss the blank expression
from her face. But he could not do that. He had lost all right to Rachel when
he consented to work for the Slash W. Mouthing an obscenity, he tore his gaze
from Rachel’s back and pretended to be interested in what Annabelle was saying.

Inside Lulu Mae’s Millinery Shoppe, Rachel leaned against
the door frame, fighting the urge to cry. Damn him, damn him, damn him! Why did
seeing Tyree with Annabelle have to hurt so much? Foolishly, she felt betrayed,
almost as if she had seen her husband with another woman. She was being
ridiculous, and she knew it. Tyree was nothing to her. Nothing at all. She had
no claim on him. And yet, they had once been as close as a man and woman could
be. Once, he had bared his soul to her. Then, apparently without even a smidgen
of regret, he had turned to another woman.

With a sigh, Rachel closed her eyes, and for a moment a
horrible picture danced across her mind, a vivid image of Tyree bending over
Annabelle, caressing her long red hair, whispering tender words of love in her ear…

The image was too awful, and she opened her eyes to find
Lulu Mae Harding staring at her curiously.

“Aren’t you feeling well, Miss Halloran?” the pudgy
shopkeeper inquired solicitously. “You look…upset.”

I’m fine,” Rachel said, forcing a wan smile. “I just felt a
little faint for a moment.”

“Too much sun, perhaps?” Lulu Mae murmured sympathetically.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Rachel agreed quickly. “Could I see the
hat in the window? The blue one?”

Distracted by the prospect of a sale, Lulu Mae hurried to the
display in the front window and carefully removed the hat Rachel had mentioned.

“This is perfect for you,” Lulu Mae gushed. She placed the
bonnet on Rachel’s head, tied the wide blue ribbon under Rachel’s chin. “My
dear, this hat was made for you. Why, it makes your eyes glow!”

“I’ll take it,” Rachel said. “Put it on my account, will
you?”

Without waiting for Lulu Mae’s reply, Rachel hurried out of
the shop. She had to get away, to be alone with her thoughts.

Rachel wore the blue hat to church the following Sunday,
graciously accepted Clint’s compliment on how becoming it was. She got little
out of the meeting, however, for engraved in her mind was the picture of Tyree
walking beside Annabelle. His face, lean and brown and maddeningly attractive,
seemed to mock her heartache. She had been right about him all along, she
thought morosely. He was no good, nothing but a drifter, a man completely
without morals or scruples. Once, she had been certain there was some good
hidden beneath his gruff exterior. She had convinced herself of that the day he
rescued Amy from harm’s way. She had even convinced herself that his words and
kisses were sincere, that he had truly cared for her. Now she knew she had only
been kidding herself. The nights they had spent in each other’s arms, those
nights she cherished even now, had meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. Even
his promise to marry her had proved to be nothing but a lie.

“Annabelle made me a better offer,” he had said, and had
ridden out of her life without a backward glance.

Clint took her for a buggy ride after church. They stopped
for a while beside a lazy stream, content to sit in the shade while the horse
munched on the sparse yellow grass.

“Dinner tonight?” Clint asked.

“Of course,” Rachel replied. “You know how my father enjoys
your company.”

“And you?” Clint asked in a low voice. “Do you still enjoy
my company?”

“Of course,” Rachel said quickly. “Did you really arrest Mr.
Pedersen for beating his wife last night? Carol Ann said he spent the night in
jail.”

Distracted, Clint launched into the story of Pedersen’s
arrest.

Returning home later that afternoon, Rachel removed the
becoming blue bonnet. Placing it carefully in a hat box, she placed it on a
shelf in her closet, knowing she would never wear it again. Knowing that every
time she saw that hat, she would remember Tyree walking with Annabelle.