RenegadeHeart (23 page)

“Whatever you say,” Tyree muttered, unruffled by her outburst.
“I’ll be back early.”

Mort Walker was a short, florid-faced individual with round
blue eyes and chin whiskers the color of tobacco. He looked askance at Tyree as
the gunman pressed a wad of currency into his fat little hand, admonishing him
to mark John Halloran’s debt paid in full, and to keep quiet about where the
money came from.

“Yessir, Mr. Tyree,” Walker agreed in a cowed tone. “I don’t
want any trouble with you.”

“And you won’t get any so long as you keep your mouth shut
about this.”

Lew Harris was a tall, dignified gentleman with a mane of
silver hair and eyes the color of pewter. He readily accepted Tyree’s money in
payment on the Halloran loan, but protested at having to keep Tyree’s name out
of the transaction.

“I’ll have to tell Mr. Halloran something when he asks where
the money came from,” Harris protested briskly.

“Tell him anything you want,” Tyree replied with a wry grin.
“Anything but the truth.”

“You don’t expect me to lie?” Harris gasped, horrified.

“I don’t care what you do,” Tyree warned. “But Halloran is
not to know where that money came from. And if he finds out, I’ll be back.”

Tyree’s threat to return produced the desired results. “Very
well,” Harris agreed meekly. “I’ll think of something.”

Satisfied with the day’s events, Tyree went to Bowsher’s
Saloon to while away the rest of the afternoon. There would be hell to pay if
Annabelle found out who had settled Halloran’s debts, he mused, but he didn’t
really care. Annabelle was at her best when she was mad. Perhaps that was why
she got mad so often.

It was after midnight when he returned to the Slash W. There
was a light burning in Annabelle’s room and he stepped inside without knocking,
intending to tell her he had picked up her mail while he was in town. He
grinned as Morgan Yarnell’s curly red head popped up from under the covers, his
expression sheepish and smug at the same time.

“Sorry,” Tyree murmured. Stifling the urge to laugh, he
backed out of the room and closed the door.

Yarnell accosted Tyree early the next morning, a satisfied
smirk on his handsome young face, a challenge lurking in the back of his
deep-set brown eyes.

“Knock first, next time,” Yarnell said curtly.

“What makes you think you’ll have a next time?” Tyree
retorted.

“Because she’s through with you,” Yarnell said insolently.
“From now on, it’s me and Annabelle. You’re out of it.”

“That so?”

Yarnell swelled up like a turkey gobbler. “You heard me say
so, didn’t you?”

Tyree shrugged indifferently. “I’ve heard you say you’re the
fastest man with a gun, too, but that doesn’t make it so.”

“Just name the time and the place, old man,” Yarnell said
daringly. “I’ll be there.”

The next day was Sunday. Tyree slept late and woke to the
sound of gunfire. His first thought was that someone was attacking the ranch,
but then he realized some of the hands were indulging in a little target
practice to while away the time.

Rising, Tyree pulled on his pants and boots and made his way
to the kitchen where he poured himself a cup of coffee before going out onto
the back veranda.

In the yard, Yarnell and three other men were shooting at
bottles lined up along the top rail of the nearest corral.

Tyree watched with professional interest as Morgan Yarnell
drew and fired. The man was fast, and he never missed. The other slingers were
good, too. They hit their targets nine times out of ten, and they unleathered
their weapons with little wasted motion, but they lacked the inbred
eye-and-hand coordination that came naturally to men like Yarnell. And men like
Tyree.

Yarnell turned around, expecting to see Annabelle on the
veranda. The welcome in his eyes turned to contempt when he saw Tyree.

“Like to try a few, gunfighter?” Yarnell said with a sneer.

“Only kids waste their time showing off,” Tyree retorted
disdainfully.

“What’s the matter, old man?” Yarnell taunted maliciously.
“Afraid to find out I’m faster than you are? Or afraid you’ll miss?”

Tyree snorted. “You’ve got the fastest mouth, that’s for
sure. What do you do, talk your opponents to death?”

Yarnell turned red around the ears as the other men began to
laugh. Yarnell had a quick temper, Tyree mused, and that could be dangerous.

“I’ll take you on, any time, any place,” Yarnell shouted.
“Just name it!”

“That so?”

“Damn right!” Yarnell took a step forward, his hands poised
over his guns, a gleam of anticipation in his coffee-colored eyes. “I can
outdraw you any day of the week, old man,” he boasted. “And I’m ready to prove
it here and now.”

They might have settled it then and there if Annabelle
hadn’t appeared on the scene.

“Quit it, you two!” she snapped, annoyed by their childish
bickering. “There’s a squatter setting up housekeeping out near Tabletop Mesa.
I don’t know how he made it here through the snow, but I want him out.”
Annabelle’s green eyes settled on Tyree. “And I want them dead this time.”

Thirty minutes later, the two gunmen rode out of the yard.
Yarnell rode his horse like a knight going to battle, his eyes alert and eager,
a lethal smile on his thin lips.

Tyree rode easy in the saddle, conscious of Yarnell’s
eagerness to use the pair of matched .44’s he wore in cross-draw holsters. He
was like a wolf on the scent of blood, Tyree thought sourly.

The man they had come to roust had a handsome wife and six
sandy-haired kids. They were living out of an old Conestoga wagon that had seen
better days. The woman was stirring up a big pot of stew when Tyree and Yarnell
rode into their camp. The man was cutting timber. Slash W timber, Tyree mused
absently, because this time the intruders really were on Slash W property.

The kids were helping their father, chattering happily while
they trimmed the branches off the felled trees. A boy of about three was making
a pile out of wood chips.

The man was the first to notice the two riders. His eyes
were light brown and they reflected a quick apprehension as the strangers drew
rein beside the wagon. He sent a glance at his rifle, propped against a log
some fifteen feet away, hopelessly out of reach if there was trouble.

The woman threw her husband an anxious look. Fear was
plainly etched on her face, and in her clear blue eyes. Her hair was long and
reddish-brown, the figure beneath the worn calico dress still firm and trim in
spite of bearing a half-dozen children.

“This is Slash W land,” Yarnell said brusquely. “You’re not
wanted here.”

“I was told this is open range,” the man said affably, “and
I intend to homestead it.”

“And I intend to bury you on it,” Yarnell threatened.
Lazily, his hand moved toward the gun riding on his left hip.

There was a sudden explosion as the woman pulled a little
over-and-under derringer from her apron pocket and fired at Yarnell. The slug
creased the young gunman’s cheek, and he hollered with pained surprise as he
glared at the woman.

The man was moving now, his face white with horror as he
lunged for his rifle.

With an oath, Tyree slapped leather and fired a round into
the squatter’s shoulder. As the man fell to the ground, barely conscious, the
oldest boy, a gangly youth of about sixteen, made a wild dive for his father’s
rifle. Rolling to his feet, the boy leveled the gun at Tyree.

“Don’t do it, kid,” Tyree warned.

Shaking his head, the boy pulled back the hammer of the old
Spencer rifle. His finger was white around the trigger, his face streaked with
tears.

Tyree swore softly as he lined his Colt on the boy’s right
shoulder. It was a dirty business, shooting at kids, even when you weren’t
shooting to kill.

He was squeezing the trigger of the Colt when a bright red
stain blossomed on the boy’s chest. A look of surprise spread over the boy’s
face as the slug from Yarnell’s gun slammed him to the ground. A convulsive
tremor shook his slight frame, and then he was still, his pale blue eyes wide
and staring.

Tyree’s yellow eyes drilled into Yarnell. “Don’t ever do
that again,” he warned in a voice heavy with menace.

Yarnell looked surprised. “I just saved your life!” he
exclaimed, punching the spent cartridges from the cylinder of his gun.

“I’ve been killing my own snakes since you were in
three-corner pants,” Tyree said coldly. “I think I can manage just a little
longer.” His mouth curved down in a disdainful smile. “Or maybe that’s how you
got that big rep you’re always bragging about, killing kids.”

“Anybody with a gun in his hand is fair game,” Yarnell said
brashly.

“That right?” Tyree’s voice was cool, soft as silk. “There’s
a gun in my hand.”

Yarnell accepted the challenge without hesitation. He was
thumbing back the hammer of his Navy Colt when Tyree shot him out of the
saddle.

“Fair game,” Tyree muttered under his breath. “C’mon,
ma’am,” he said, holstering his gun and swinging out of the saddle. “Let’s look
after your old man.”

Annabelle was not happy with the news of Yarnell’s death.
She had grown rather fond of the young gunman in the past few weeks, as fond as
she ever grew of anyone. Yarnell had been an accomplished lover and while she
would have preferred to have Tyree in her bed, she knew instinctively that
Yarnell had proved easier to handle.

She was giving Tyree the rough side of her tongue in the
parlor later that day when he reached out and slapped her, hard, across the
face.

“Consider that my resignation,” he drawled impudently.

Stunned by the blow, Annabelle raised a hand to her
throbbing cheek. No man had ever dared strike her. “You’ll be sorry for that,”
she hissed.

“I’ve been sorry for a lot of things lately,” Tyree replied
with a shrug. “Just remember, if anything happens to Rachel or her old man,
anything at all, I’ll be back to take it out of your pretty hide.”

“Come back here!” Annabelle shrieked as he walked
purposefully toward the door. “No one walks out on me. No one! Damn you, Logan
Tyree, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born!”

Chapter Seventeen

Tyree was feeling good as he rode out of the Slash W yard.
At last, he was his own man again, unhindered by ties of any kind, free as the
wind.

Putting his heels to the gray’s flanks, he headed east,
toward Sunset Canyon and the Mescalero. Perhaps he would hole up there for a
while until he decided what his next move would be. It would be good to see the
People again, to live in the old way, hear the old songs.

He had gone about three miles when he drew the stallion to a
halt in the shade of a yellow bluff. Rachel. He swore softly as the memory of
the nights they had spent together came to mind. The fragrance of her hair, the
way she felt in his arms, the touch and the taste and the smell of her, all
were fresh in his mind, and he knew he had to see her again. Perhaps, if she
still wanted him, they would get married after all, even have some kids before
it was too late…

Tyree frowned as he urged the gray to a walk. He had never
thought much about getting old before, but it came to him suddenly that he was
almost thirty-five. Not a vast age, by any means, but mighty old for a man in
his line of work. He grunted softly as he considered getting married again. He had
never really thought of it seriously, not even that night at the Jorgensen
place when Rachel had begged him not to go after Larkin and the others.

But now, somehow, the idea of settling down with Rachel
didn’t sound so bad, and he smiled faintly as he reined the gray toward the
Lazy H. Imagine, Logan Tyree, drifter, gunman, escaped con, a family man!

Rachel came to the front door looking as fresh and lovely as
a spring day and Tyree felt a peculiar catch in his throat. Damn, but it made
him feel good just looking at her.

“Tyree,” Rachel murmured, looking confused. “Is anything
wrong?”

“No. Can I come in?”

Rachel hesitated for just a moment, her heart beating
wildly, then she opened the door. “Come on in. I was just making a cake. Would
you like a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.” He followed her into the kitchen, dropped into a
chair while she took a cup from the shelf and poured him a cup of steaming
black coffee.

Rachel was flustered by Tyree’s unexpected appearance. She
could feel his eyes on her back as she poured the cake batter into the pan.
Sliding the pan into the oven, she turned to face him.

“What…why are you here?” she asked anxiously. “Did Annabelle
send you?”

“I’m through with Annabelle,” Tyree said quietly. “I quit
today.”

Rachel’s smile was radiant. At last, her prayers had been
answered. Secretly, she was dying to know why Tyree had quit the Slash W, but
her intuition warned her not to pry. He would tell her why he had quit in his
own good time, and if not, well, it didn’t really matter. He was here and that
was all that mattered.

She went willingly into his arms when he reached for her,
lifted her face eagerly for his kiss, sighed as he crushed her close.

Tyree grinned as he pressed his lips to Rachel’s hair. Once,
he had asked her if she thought the love of a good woman would make him mend
his evil ways. He wasn’t quite sure how she had done it, but it had worked.

“You still want to get married?” Tyree asked gruffly.

“Yes,” Rachel answered happily. “Oh, yes!”

“Well, set the date. I’ll talk to your old man about it
tonight, after dinner.”

John Halloran did not seem surprised to find Tyree sitting
at the dinner table that night, nor was he taken aback by the gunman’s desire
to marry Rachel. He gladly gave the pair his blessing, and Rachel set the date
for May 25, just three months away.

In the days that followed, Rachel could not stop smiling.
Her spirits soared, her feet flew from task to task, her eyes sparkled with
happiness. A kiss from Tyree sent her smiling off to bed, a kiss in the morning
set the tone for the day. She watched, pleased, as he followed her father
around the Lazy H, learning the ins and outs of running a cattle ranch.

Nights, after dinner, Tyree sat in the parlor with her
father, going over the books, debating the necessity of hiring on some help for
the summer.

It was during one of their nightly sessions that Halloran
remarked, “Funny thing. Somebody paid off my loan at the Cattleman’s Bank.
Squared my debt at the general store, too.”

“That right?” Tyree murmured.

“Yeah. Wasn’t for that, we’d be out in the cold. I don’t
suppose you have any idea who might have settled my accounts in town?”

“Beats me,” Tyree muttered. “Going around doing good deeds
ain’t exactly my style.”

“Yeah,” Halloran agreed. He looked the tall gunman square in
the eye. “Still, if I knew who it was, I’d sure be beholdin’ to him. He really
saved my neck.”

“Some do-gooder in town, no doubt,” Tyree suggested.

“Okay, okay,” Halloran conceded amiably. “Have it your way.
But if you ever find out who it was, you tell him thanks from the Lazy H.”

Sunday morning, they all went to church. Tyree had gone into
town earlier in the week and bought a pair of brown slacks and a cream-colored
coat, as well as a couple of shirts, a new pair of boots, and a new Frontier
Colt. He donned the brown pants, a tan shirt and the coat for church, and
Rachel thought he looked terribly handsome in his new duds. A thrill of
excitement danced along her spine as she laid her hand on his arm. And then she
frowned.

“Do you have to wear your gun to church?” she asked.

Tyree nodded, his eyes warning her not to argue.

“All right,” she said softly. “I understand.”

Tyree smiled at her. “I’ll hang it up one day,” he promised.
“But not just yet.”

“Okay,” Rachel said, smiling back at him. “But I’ll hold you
to it.”

“I’m sure you will.”

The good ladies of the town treated Tyree to the same
disapproving stares as before, but Tyree just tipped his hat and smiled
pleasantly as he followed Rachel and her father into the pew. Tyree’s smile,
when it was not cold and cruel or mocking, could charm the spots off a leopard,
and several of the town dowagers began to think maybe they had misjudged the
man. After all, how bad could he be if Rachel approved of him? And she quite
obviously approved. A blind man could see that. Why, she hardly took her eyes
off the man for a moment, and the open adoration in her eyes caused the good
ladies of the town to take a second look at Logan Tyree. And they saw that,
besides being something of a gentleman after all, he was quite handsome to
boot. Not in the usual, clean-cut way, to be sure, but extremely handsome
nevertheless.

“You’ll have the women eating out of your hand in no time at
all if you keep smiling at them like that,” Rachel teased, squeezing Tyree’s
hand. “Just remember, I saw you first.”

Tyree was all charm and sweet talk after the meeting, too.
He tipped his hat to the ladies again, shook hands with several of the men,
complimented the Reverend Jenkins on a fine sermon, smiled winningly at Carol
Ann.

Carol Ann returned Tyree’s smile hesitantly, then gave
Rachel a friendly hug.

“Carol Ann!” Rachel exclaimed. “I’ve been looking everywhere
for you. Guess what? Tyree and I are going to be married in May!”

Tyree grinned good-naturedly as Carol Ann blurted, “Oh, no!”

“I thought you would be happy for me,” Rachel said coolly,
stung by her best friend’s blatant shock and disapproval.

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” Carol Ann murmured contritely. “Truly,
I am. It’s just such a surprise. I…congratulations to you both.”

Mollified, Rachel said, “You’ll be my maid of honor, won’t
you?”

“Of course.” Carol Ann glanced at Tyree. What did Rachel see
in him? The man was a murderer, a hired killer. He had shot down four men in
Bowsher’s Saloon not very long ago, and everyone said he had killed Job Walsh
in cold blood. She flushed guiltily as Tyree’s eyes met hers, quickly looked
away.

“Can you come over Friday?” Rachel asked, excited once more.
“We’ll have to decide on colors and I want you to help me with a pattern and,
oh, there’s so much to do. You will help me?”

“Of course I will. See you Friday. Good day, Mr. Halloran.
Mr. Tyree.”

Tyree was frowning as he handed Rachel into the buggy.
“You’re not going to turn our wedding into a big shindig, are you?”

“Not too big,” Rachel promised, smoothing her skirt over her
hips. “But I do want a nice one. After all, a lovely wedding is something every
girl dreams of from the minute she realizes boys and girls are different.”

“Girls are different, all right,” Tyree muttered, climbing
in beside Rachel.

Heads turned as the Halloran buggy made its way out of town,
and more than a few of the single young women wondered why they had ever
thought Logan Tyree a boorish clod and not worthy of their notice. He was
really quite a gentleman. And so very, very handsome, especially when he
smiled.

John Halloran slapped his thigh with glee when they reached
the road that led to the Lazy H. “Damn, Tyree,” he chuckled, “I never knew you
had so much charm. I think Rachel’s right. I think you’ll have old Mrs.
Fairchild and Dorothy Monahan and all the other old cats inviting you over to
Sunday supper before you’re through.”

Halloran’s words proved to be prophetic. The redoubtable
Mrs. Fairchild cornered Rachel in Thorngood’s General Store the next day and
invited her and her young man to dinner the following Sunday after church.

Rachel accepted politely, then fretted the entire week,
fearing the evening would turn out to be a disaster. She dressed carefully that
night, choosing a light blue muslin with puffy sleeves, a square neck, and a
full skirt. Tyree looked wonderful in a pair of black whipcord britches and a
wine-red shirt.

Rachel’s fears for the evening were quickly put to rest.
Tyree played the country gentleman to the hilt. It was all Rachel could do to
keep from laughing out loud when he gallantly kissed Mrs. Fairchild’s pudgy
pink hand.

Selma Fairchild blushed to the roots of her carefully
coiffed gray hair as Tyree made a courtly bow over her hand, but from that
night on, Logan Tyree could do no wrong in her sight.

Rachel listened in astonishment as Tyree politely answered
Mrs. Fairchild’s none-too-subtle questions about his past. Of course, many of
Tyree’s answers were lies. His past was painful and was not something to be
discussed over dinner. But he freely admitted to being an orphan and to being
raised by Catholic nuns. He did not mention the fact that his father was a
half-breed horse thief, or that his mother had been a whore. Nor did he mention
that he had lived with the Indians, though he did admit to having some Indian
blood in his background.

The following Sunday, they went through the same thing
again, at Dorothy Monahan’s house. Indeed, for the next five Sundays, they ate
out at a different home as the town dowagers took turns entertaining Rachel and
her beau. The consensus was that, despite his unsavory past, Logan Tyree was a
gentleman and a good catch.

Carol Ann spent many days at the Lazy H in the weeks that
followed, helping Rachel make plans for the wedding. Secluded in Rachel’s
bedroom, the two girls spent hours sewing their dresses. Carol Ann’s dress was
pale pink silk, with a high ruffled collar, long sleeves edged in lace, and a
full skirt. Rachel’s wedding gown was a study in simple elegance. Made of white
taffeta, it was uncluttered by frills or bows, save for the dainty white lace
that was gathered along the throat and cuffs. Her veil trailed to the floor in
a cloud of soft white.

“Remember how we used to dream about the men we would
marry,” Carol Ann mused one sultry afternoon. “I always planned to marry a
banker or a lawyer; somebody with brown hair and brown eyes, who would think I
was the most wonderful girl in the world. And you always wanted to marry a man
with blond hair and blue eyes, like Clint.”

“Things don’t always turn out the way we plan,” Rachel remarked,
threading her needle. “I certainly never planned to fall in love with Tyree. I
always thought I’d marry Clint, but the magic just isn’t there. I love him, but
I’m not in love with him. Do you know what I mean? He’ll never be more to me
than just a good friend.”

“That’s all he’s ever been to me, too,” Carol Ann said
wistfully. “And I would so like to be more than just a friend.”

Rachel glanced at her friend in surprise. “Why, you’re in
love with Clint, aren’t you? I never dreamed. Why haven’t you ever told me?”

Carol Ann shrugged. “Clint has always been in love with you.
Everybody knows that. And I always thought you cared for him, too, so…golly,
Rachel, you’re my best friend. How could I even think about Clint when he was
supposed to be your beau?”

“Well, he’s not my beau any longer,” Rachel said, giving
Carol Ann a hug. “Have you ever told Clint how you feel?”

“Of course not!” Carol Ann exclaimed, mortified at the very
idea. “And don’t you dare say a word, promise?”

“I promise, but I think you’re making a big mistake. You’ve
got to let him know you’re interested.”

“I couldn’t,” Carol Ann said, shaking her head. “I just
couldn’t. He has to make the first move. And I know he never will.”

With a sigh, Rachel turned her attention back to her dress.
Carol Ann was a pretty girl, but she was so shy, most men never paid any notice
to her. She would be perfect for Clint, Rachel mused. They were very much
alike, both warm, friendly souls who loved to read and listen to music.

Pulling her thoughts from Carol Ann and Clint, Rachel
thought about Tyree. They had very little in common, she mused. There was
nothing similar in their backgrounds, or in their interests. In truth, she did
not know what Tyree’s interests were, other than the fact that he liked poker
and whiskey and long black cigars. He had never mentioned wanting a place of
his own, or wanting children. She didn’t know if he liked to read, or if he
liked to travel, or if he’d ever had any ambition to be anything but what he
was.