RenegadeHeart (28 page)

Lifting her head, she stared into the distance. What was she
going to do? She shook her head, wishing she knew her own mind. It was then she
saw the smoke.

“Oh, my God,” she gasped. “The ranch is on fire!”

“Walsh!” Halloran hissed. Grabbing the reins from Rachel, he
slapped the ends across the lead horse’s rump. “Move, Rusty!” he hollered, and
the team broke into a gallop.

When they reached the house, it was beyond saving. The roof
had already collapsed and the whole structure was in flames.

The next hour was sheer hell. Racing to the barn, they
grabbed feed buckets and began dousing the roof and walls with water. Fortunately,
there was no wind to carry sparks to the outbuildings, but it seemed like the
wisest thing, to wet down the barn and bunkhouse, just in case.

When that was done, there was nothing to do but watch as the
fire gradually burned itself out. Rachel wept as she thought of the photo album
that had been consumed in the flames, for it had held a faded photograph of her
mother and father on their wedding day, as well as a cherished picture of her
brother, Tommy. So many irreplaceable treasures, all gone, she lamented. Her
mother’s wedding dress. The family Bible that traced the Halloran births and
deaths and marriages back to the year 1795. The delicately embroidered lace
tablecloth her grandmother had made. The tiny white dress Tommy had been
baptized in.

They spent the night in the bunkhouse, and the next morning,
after feeding the stock, they drove back to Yellow Creek.

“At least we’re not homeless,” Claire said, trying to inject
a note of cheer. “We’ve still got a house to live in.”

John Halloran mustered a smile for his bride, but Rachel
could not. Everything she loved was gone.

When news of the fire got around, their friends and
neighbors came, bringing food and kind words of sympathy and offers to help
rebuild when they were ready.

Wesley rode out to the Lazy H to see if he could find some
clue as to who might have set the fire, but he found nothing.

John Halloran put on a brave front for Claire, but later,
alone with Rachel, he admitted he was beat.

“She’s won,” he said dispiritedly. “Annabelle Walsh has won
at last. I don’t have the money, or the heart, to rebuild the ranch. We’ll
round up what cattle we have left and sell them. I’ll see if I can get some
work here in town.”

“Pa—”

“I’m through fighting,” Halloran said. “But I’ll be damned
if I’ll sell the land! She can run her cattle on it, she can build on it, but
it will never be hers. Not so long as I live!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Itwas fall, Rachel’s favorite season of the year,
but she found no joy in the clear, crisp air or in the glorious riot of red and
gold leaves that clothed the trees. Though she hated to admit it, she knew her
lassitude was because of Tyree. Try as she might, she could not put him out of
her mind. She still loved him as much as ever, still clung to the hope that he
would come back to her even though she knew, deep inside, that she was kidding
herself. He had never really cared for her. He would never come back.

Clint continued to court her as sweetly and patiently as
ever a man courted a woman. He never mentioned marriage, and yet Rachel knew
she had only to say the word and he would marry her in a minute. But she would
never be happy with Clint. Her heart belonged to Tyree and though he would
never come to claim it, she could not give it to another. It was time to be
totally honest with Clint, time to tell him she could never marry him. It would
be the hardest thing she had ever done, but it was time to let Clint go and
stand on her own two feet. Time for Clint to accept the fact that she would
never be his. Maybe then Clint would find a woman worthy of him. Carol Ann came
quickly to mind. They would be perfect for each other, Rachel knew. Just
perfect.

Rachel was thinking about the Halloween party Carol Ann was
giving and how she could manage a little matchmaking between Clint and Carol
Ann in town later that day. Surely there was some way to bring the two of them
together. She was puzzling over the best method when she turned the corner onto
Main Street and came face to face with Annabelle Walsh. For a moment, the two
women stared at each other. Annabelle was as beautiful as ever, Rachel thought
grudgingly. Her flaming hair was swept high on her head, giving her a regal
appearance, her full figure was fashionably clad in the latest Paris original.

Annabelle regarded Rachel with open hostility. What was
there about this snit of a girl that had so charmed a man like Tyree? Her hair
was long and tawny, her figure passable, her face quite pretty, but Annabelle
knew without doubt that she, herself, was the more striking of the two. She had
wealth and power, she had offered herself to Tyree, and yet he had left her for
some country girl.

Rachel lifted her chin proudly under Annabelle’s glacial
green gaze. Even at this late date, she felt a surge of jealousy when she
remembered that Tyree had once lived under Annabelle’s roof. Tyree…

“Where is he?” Rachel blurted the words, not intending,
until that instant, to speak to Annabelle at all.

Annabelle looked momentarily taken aback and Rachel knew
intuitively that Annabelle was the key to the mystery of Tyree’s whereabouts.

“You mean Tyree, of course,” Annabelle answered with a
knowing grin. “He was an interesting man, wasn’t he? Wild, unpredictable.
Rather like a stallion waiting to be tamed.” Annabelle laughed softly, a
decidedly nasty laugh. “Neither of us were able to accomplish that, were we?”

Rachel swallowed hard, trying to quell the fear rising in
her heart. Annabelle spoke of Tyree in the past tense, as if he were dead.

She shook the thought from her mind. “You know where he is,”
Rachel said with conviction. “I know you do. Tell me. Please.” She almost
choked on the last word. How hard it was to humble herself before this woman
who had ruined her life and destroyed the only home she had ever known. Yet she
knew she would go down on her knees, if necessary, if only Annabelle would tell
her where to find Tyree.

“You love him, don’t you?” Annabelle said, amused.

“Yes.”

“And were you foolish enough to believe he loved you in
return?”

“No.” The admission was barely audible.

“Tyree and his kind are incapable of love,” Annabelle said,
a faint note of sadness in her voice.

“So are women like you,” Rachel said, and could have bitten
off her tongue. She had not meant to say the words aloud. Angering Annabelle
was the last thing she wanted to do.

“You’re a perceptive little bitch,” Annabelle said
haughtily. “Good day.”

“Annabelle, please!”

“He’s gone,” Annabelle said curtly. “I sold him.”

“Sold him?” Rachel repeated, certain she had misunderstood.

“Yes, to an old friend who sells men into slavery south of
the border. Save your tears. He’s probably dead by now. Or wishes he were.
Whatever his condition, I’m sure our friend, Tyree, has no use for a woman. Any
woman.”

Tyree, sold into slavery. It was too awful to be true. And
yet, Rachel could see the truth of it shining in the depths of Annabelle’s cold
green eyes.

“How could you?” Rachel breathed. “How could you be so
cruel, so vindictive?”

“No man walks out on me,” Annabelle replied with a proud
toss of her head. “No man.”

“You sold Tyree into slavery because he hurt your pride?”
Rachel asked in disbelief. “What kind of a woman are you?”

“A rich one,” Annabelle murmured with a spiteful grin. “Good
day, Miss Halloran.”

Rachel stared after Annabelle Walsh, her mind in turmoil.
Tyree was a prisoner, a slave in a mine. All these months she had believed he
didn’t care. She had pictured him drinking and whoring, and all the while he
had been a slave. She blinked back the tears welling in her eyes. Crying would
not help Tyree.

Turning on her heel, she walked briskly to the livery stable
at the end of town. Candido had been working there since her father let him go.
Perhaps Candido could help her.

But Candido only shook his head. “You will never get him
out, Miss Rachel. I have heard stories about the mines and the men who run
them. You cannot get within a mile of the place without being seen. One time I
heard one of the owners had all the prisoners killed and dumped the bodies in a
mine shaft rather than get caught by the law.”

“I’ve got to do something, Candido. Please help me.”

“What does your father say?”

“He’s not here. He took Claire to St. Louis. They won’t be
back until spring.”

“I am sorry. I cannot help you.”

“Then I’ll go alone,” Rachel said resolutely.

Candido heaved a huge sigh. “I have a cousin who works at
the mine near Verde. Perhaps he can help us.”

Days later, Rachel and Candido reached the small town of
Verde. Candido’s cousin, Lado, was an old man, perhaps sixty years old. He had
been a doctor in his prime, then, due to a scandal involving a rich landowner’s
daughter and a
Juarista
, he was forced to give up his practice. Now he
traveled from mine to mine, treating the prisoners for a few pesos and all the
tequila he could drink.

Yes, he had seen the
gringo
called Tyree.

“The gunfighter,” Lado said, nodding sagely. He took a drink
from the bottle that was never far from his hand. “I was there the day of the
contest between the
gringo
and Paulo. El Patron was very angry when the
gringo
won.”

“Is he still alive?” Rachel asked anxiously.

Lado shrugged. “
Quien sabe
?”

Ten minutes later, Rachel had a map giving directions to the
mine.

“
Señorita
, you cannot ride into the mine and demand
Tyree’s release, nor can you buy his freedom. If the mine owners suspect you
know he is there, they will kill him, and perhaps the others, too.”

“Well, I’ve got to do something. I can’t just leave him
there. I can’t go on not knowing if he’s dead or alive.”

They rode in silence. Rachel’s mind concocted and rejected a
half dozen ways to free Tyree, but she refused to give up. There had to be a
way.

They were on their way back to Yellow Creek when they
skirted the outer edge of Sunset Canyon. Rachel shuddered as she remembered
that day, the heat, the Indians…

“That’s it!” she exclaimed.

“
Señorita
?”

“The Apache,” Rachel said excitedly. “I’ll go to the
Mescalero. Tyree is their friend. Surely they’ll help him.”

“No. It is madness.”

“I’ll need your help,” Rachel went on, ignoring his
objection. “You can speak a little Apache, can’t you?”

“
Sí
,
señorita
, but…”

“Good. If we keep riding, we should find their camp before
nightfall.”

“Or they will find us,” Candido said. “
Santa Maria
,
pray for us.”

They did not find the Apache camp, but that night, just
before dark, the Indians found them. Rachel gave a little cry of alarm as
thirty warriors seemed to appear out of nowhere, their obsidian eyes alight
with interest as they came upon two lone white people.

Despite her intention to find the Indians, now that they
were here, Rachel was quite frightened. What if they could not communicate with
the Apache? What if the Indians killed them before they had a chance to explain
what they were doing on Indian land?

She felt a glimmer of hope as she recognized one of the
warriors who had been at Sunset Canyon that dreadful day.

She raised her hand in the sign Tyree had told her meant
peace. “Friend,” she said, hoping the warrior could not detect the fear in her
voice. She tapped her breast. “Tyree’s woman.”

Standing Buffalo stared at Rachel, then he smiled. Yes, he
remembered Tyree’s woman. His disappointment had been keen that day in Sunset
Canyon when Tyree had come to her rescue.

Rachel smiled back at the warrior. He recognized her, she
saw it in his eyes.

The warrior spoke to the other braves and they all
dismounted. In minutes, a fire was blazing in a shallow pit. The warriors sat
on their heels, their eyes on Rachel. Only a few of them spoke English.

“Woman of Tyree, why are you here?”

“Tyree is in trouble,” Rachel said earnestly. “He told me
that he had lived with the Mescalero, that you were his friends. I’ve come to
you for help because I have no one else to turn to.”

Standing Buffalo frowned. “What kind of trouble?”

Quickly, Rachel explained about the mine. Standing Buffalo
nodded. “Yes. Some of our warriors have been taken to that place. It is a bad
thing, to keep men as slaves.”

“Then you’ll help me?”

“Yes. We will ride for Mexico at first light. One of my
warriors will see that you get home safely.”

“No. I’m going, too.”

“No.”

“Yes. He’s…he’s my husband and I’m going with you.”

Standing Buffalo smiled. Truly, the woman with the yellow
hair had the heart of a mountain lion. Tyree had chosen his woman wisely.

“The Mexican cannot come,” Standing Buffalo said flatly. “My
people will not ride with him.”

Rachel did not argue. The hostility between the Mexicans and
the Apaches was well-known, and dated back to the time when the Mexicans paid a
bounty for Apache scalps.

They started for Mexico early the following morning. Candido
was reluctant to leave Rachel in the company of thirty Apache warriors, but there
was little he could do other than beg her to reconsider. But she would not
change her mind.

The Indians took no thought of having a woman in their
midst. Apache women were strong, some were warriors, some were medicine women.
They treated her as a warrior, and expected her to keep up. She was tense and
on edge the whole day, knowing it was only the fact she was Tyree’s woman that
made her presence tolerable. She shuddered to think what would happen to her if
she was not under the protection of Tyree’s name. Many of the warriors looked
at her with desire in their eyes, a few glared at her in a way that made her
know that, under other circumstances, she would have been killed and scalped
the same as any other enemy.

By day’s end, she was sure she was going to die. She ached
in every part of her body. Her red shirt felt glued to her skin, her tan riding
skirt was dusty, the hem torn where she had snagged it on a spiny cactus. Her
boots were covered with dust. Never could she recall feeling quite so dirty or so
utterly bone weary. Muscles she had not known she possessed shrieked in protest
every time she moved. She was certain her legs were permanently bowed from the
hours she had spent in the saddle, the insides of her thighs felt raw.

Standing Buffalo handed her a strip of jerky, offered her a
drink of water from a waterskin. “We will start again at first light,” he said.
His black eyes studied her carefully. She had not complained once during the
long trek. Perhaps, if Tyree were dead, he would keep the woman for his own.

Rachel felt her cheeks turn pink under the warrior’s
continued gaze. What was he thinking? His eyes, as dark as the night sky, were
unfathomable, his face impassive.

She took a long drink from the waterskin before returning it
to Standing Buffalo. “Thank you,” she said, and looked away, unable to meet his
gaze any longer.

The next day was the same as the last. They rode for miles
across a land populated by little more than sand and cactus and an occasional
reptile. Sweat poured down Rachel’s face and neck and back, making her feel
sticky and uncomfortable. Her feet and hands swelled, and she found herself
yearning for a bath as never before.

The Indians rode silently, oblivious to the heat and the
long ride. They paused only once, shortly after noon, to eat and rest the
horses.

Wearily, Rachel loosened the cinch on the saddle, gave her
weary horse a pat on the neck. She was glad she had left Morgana at home. This
horse, a sturdy buckskin gelding, was much better suited to long hours and
scant feed. He was a range bred horse, part mustang, part quarter-horse.

All too soon, the Indians were mounting up again. With a
sigh, Rachel tightened the cinch and climbed into the saddle. Never, in all her
life, had she spent so many hours on the back of a horse.

Later that afternoon, a handful of warriors broke away from
the main group to go hunting. They returned at dusk with a wild turkey and
several rabbits. Rachel’s mouth began to water as she looked forward to fresh
meat for dinner that night.