RenegadeHeart (5 page)

“Then we’ll get proof.”

Halloran laughed softly, hollowly. “Where are we gonna get
proof that will hold up in court? Walsh and his men have got more alibis than
ticks on a hound. Dammit, Rachel, we can’t afford to lose any more cattle.”

“But a hired killer?”

“I know, honey. It sticks in my craw, too. But I just don’t
know what else to do.”

Rachel could not sleep that night. The clock in her room put
the hour at just after midnight when she slipped out of bed, pulled on her
robe, and tiptoed out of the house.

Outside, a cool breeze whispered over the face of the land,
talking softly to the leaves of the trees that shaded the sunny side of the
house. The sky was a cloudless indigo blue, the full moon as cold and yellow as
Logan Tyree’s eyes. Tyree! How she despised him!

With a sigh, she rested her elbows on the porch rail,
suddenly glad that her mother, always so frail and gentle, was not alive to see
what was happening. Ellen Halloran had been a wonderful, sweet, kind soul, but
she had not been a fighter. She would have been appalled by the killings and
the bloodshed. She would have insisted they sell the ranch to Walsh and move on
rather than stay and fight it out. And perhaps, if her mother was still alive,
her father would have done just that. As it was, he didn’t have the heart to
pick up and start over again somewhere else.

“Nice night.”

Rachel whirled around, startled to find Logan Tyree sitting
in the shadows at the south end of the porch, an unlit cigar dangling from the
corner of his mouth. He had gone into Yellow Creek earlier in the day and had
come back mounted on a rangy chestnut mare. He had bought himself a new rifle,
too, and a change of clothes. Now, dressed all in black from his shirt to his
boots, Rachel thought he looked like the angel of death. It was, she decided,
an apt description considering his line of work.

“Care for a drink?” Tyree asked, gesturing at the bottle of
Forty Rod on the floor at his feet.

“No.”

“It’ll help you sleep.”

“I don’t need anything to help me sleep, thank you,” Rachel
replied curtly.

Tyree grunted softly, his eyes mocking her. The fact that she
was out on the porch at such a late hour was proof enough that she could not
sleep.

Tyree’s shirt was open and Rachel’s eyes were drawn to his
bare chest. The sight of his naked flesh and the dark hair curling there did
odd things to the pit of her stomach. Too clearly, she remembered tending him
when he had been hurt and unconscious. The memory of his flesh beneath her
hands made her palms tingle and for one mad, impulsive moment she was tempted
to reach out and caress the hard wall of Tyree’s chest. But, of course, she did
no such thing. Instead, she folded her arms across her breasts and tried to
look at ease.

The rocker squeaked loudly as Tyree reached for the whiskey
bottle. It was nearly empty and Rachel glanced at his face, wondering if he
were drunk.

Tyree stared back at her, his face impassive, a glint of
amusement dancing in his cat’s eyes. She was afraid of him, and they both knew
it.

“I’ve been puzzling over how you managed to get out of
Yuma,” Rachel remarked, hoping to dispel the heavy silence between them. “I’ve
never heard of anyone escaping from there before.”

“I killed two of the guards and ran like hell,” Tyree
replied evenly.

“Killed them?” Rachel repeated thinly. “In cold blood?”

“Yes, ma’am. And I’d have killed a hundred more to get out
of that hellhole.”

Rachel stared at him, unnerved by the ease with which he
talked about killing, as if shooting down a man was of no more consequence than
swatting a fly.

“I can’t believe it,” she murmured. “I simply can’t believe
my father hired a…a murderer like you.”

“There isn’t another like me,” Tyree muttered sardonically.
There was a brief flare of light as he put a match to his cigar.

“I can believe that!” Rachel retorted caustically. “Tell me,
Mr. Tyree, do you always charge five hundred dollars for your…your services?”

“No, ma’am,” Tyree snapped back. “I usually charge a hell of
a lot more.”

“Oh? And just what is it that makes you worth so much?”

“I’m good at what I do,” Tyree answered flatly. “Damn good.”

“So I’ve heard,” Rachel said with a sneer. “They say you
killed an unarmed man in Nogales. And shot one in the back over in El Paso.
Even killed a widow woman in Tucson. Burned her house down while she was still
inside.”

A wordless sound of disgust erupted from Tyree’s throat.
“Where’d you hear all that?”

“It’s common knowledge,” Rachel answered disdainfully.

“It’s a pile of shit, is what it is,” Tyree countered
mildly. “I’ll admit I’ve done a lot of rotten things in my time, but gunning
down an unarmed man isn’t one of them. And as for that story about killing a
helpless woman… Oh, hell, believe what you want to believe.”

“Do you expect me to believe those stories are lies?” Rachel
asked incredulously. “All of them?”

“Lady, I don’t give a damn what you believe.”

“They say you hire your gun out to the highest bidder,”
Rachel mused aloud. “Regardless of who’s right or who’s wrong.”

Tyree shrugged. “A gun doesn’t know right from wrong.”

“That’s true,” Rachel agreed, her voice thick with contempt.
“But a man does. Tell me, Mr. Tyree, would you murder my father if Job Walsh
topped his offer of five hundred dollars?”

She had made him genuinely angry now. His face, usually
passive, was suddenly dark with unspoken fury.

“You really do have a low opinion of me, don’t you?” he
muttered. “You really think I’d gun down your old man after he took me in?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” Rachel stammered, and turned away
from Tyree to stare out at the land that rose and fell in gentle swells, like
waves upon the sea. Overhead, the moon was bright in the sky, bathing the ranch
in silver-dappled shadows. The sweet scent of sage and honeysuckle filled the
air as the wind shifted and she drew in a deep breath. She loved this land.
Loved the wild, untamed mountains that rose in lofty splendor to the east,
loved the stark, unfriendly desert that touched the southern border of the Lazy
H, loved the ranch that was the only home she had ever known. With Walsh out of
the way, the Lazy H would prosper again, and life would be good, as it had been
before.

The thought of Walsh brought Logan Tyree to mind again. She
did not like Tyree. She did not like him and she did not trust him. But her
father was right. There was no one else they could turn to. They had to fight
Job Walsh on his own terms, distasteful as that might be, or lose the ranch. It
was as simple as that. Walsh was like a malignant disease, slowly eating away
at the heart of everything she held dear, and Logan Tyree was the cure. Still,
she could not help wondering if the cure might not prove more deadly than the
disease itself. And yet, with Walsh gone, his hired guns would move on. The
Slash W would go to Walsh’s sister in Amarillo. Perhaps then they would have
some peace.

She would be glad when it was all over and done, she thought
wearily. Glad when Tyree was gone. Funny, how she just naturally assumed he
would kill Walsh when the time came, when in all likelihood it would be Logan
Tyree who died. Job Walsh was a cautious man, one with many enemies. He rarely
left the Slash W and when he did, he always took his bodyguards with him. Walsh
would know, the minute he saw Tyree, that her father had hired him. And why.
Tyree would be shot on sight, and the Lazy H would be no better off than it was
now. Maybe worse.

She heard the squeak of the rocker as Tyree stood up.

“Why aren’t you married?” he asked.

Rachel turned to face him. “What?”

“I asked why you’re not married.”

“Maybe the right man hasn’t asked me yet.”

“Who’s the right man? Wesley?”

“What do you know about Clint?”

Tyree shrugged. “Nothing. Your old man mentioned him one night
is all. You sweet on him?”

“Maybe,” Rachel allowed, smiling mysteriously. “It’s none of
your business.”

“What’s he like, this Wesley?”

“He’s tall and handsome,” Rachel said, her voice going soft
and dreamy. “He’s honest, kind, thoughtful. A gentleman.”

“All the things I’m not,” Tyree muttered sardonically.

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Where is he, this paragon of virtue?”

“Out of town.”

Tyree muttered a mild oath. He did not like the unexpected
rush of jealousy that coiled around his insides when he thought of Rachel in
the arms of another man.

Rachel swallowed hard as Tyree came to stand beside her.
There was a hungry look in his deep amber eyes and she took a quick step
backward, her heart pounding like a wild thing as every nerve in her body grew
taut. She had never given Tyree the slightest encouragement, had never said or
done anything to make him think his advances would be remotely welcome, and yet
she knew he intended to kiss her.

The thought of Tyree’s mouth on hers made Rachel’s knees go
weak, and even then he was reaching for her. Time seemed to stand still and
Rachel was suddenly acutely aware of everything around her, the wind rising out
of the north, the crickets singing in the trees, the scent of horse and leather
and cigar smoke clinging to Tyree. Her breathing was shallow and erratic, and
she felt her whole body grow warm, as if her blood had turned to flame.

Answering some inner prompting, Rachel swayed toward Tyree,
all her senses urging her to surrender to the promise dancing in his eyes, to
discover, once and for all, the eternal mystery of mating.

Tyree’s hand was big and brown, unexpectedly gentle as it
caressed her cheek and the slender curve of her throat, slipping around to cup
her head in his hand to draw her closer. A killer’s hand…the thought smothered
the fire in Rachel’s veins.

With a wordless cry of self-disgust for what had almost
happened, she twisted away from Tyree’s imprisoning hand and ran for the safety
of her room. Inside, she slammed the door, but she could not shut out the sound
of Tyree’s sardonic laughter.

Tyree spent the rest of the week familiarizing himself with
the lay of the land. He rode the borders of the Slash W ranch, acquainting
himself with every hill, gully, and ravine, memorizing landmarks, determining the
quickest route between the Lazy H and the Walsh spread. He noted the best
places to take cover, in case going to ground became a necessity, and looked
for places where he could make a stand if things got tight.

He spent several mornings on a hilltop overlooking the Walsh
ranch house, taking special interest in the armed guards who patrolled the yard
at odd hours. He made note of the daily routine of the cowboys, and of Job
Walsh, who never left the ranch proper without several heavily armed escorts.

It was tedious work, but it had paid off for Tyree in the
past. Hunting a man was a lot like hunting an animal. It was easier to bring
your quarry down if you knew his tracks, his habits, and where he made his
lair. Most animals tended to eat and drink and hunt at the same time each day.
Likewise, most men followed a certain pattern in their daily living.

Rachel and her father never questioned Tyree about his
frequent absences from the ranch. But as the days went by, both father and
daughter grew noticeably more tense. It was like sitting on a powder keg,
knowing the fuse had been lit, but not knowing exactly when the explosion would
take place.

It was Halloran who finally broke the silence. “When?” he
asked Tyree at dinner one night. “When will you do it?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Tyree answered calmly. “Right around ten
o’clock.”

Tyree’s absence went unremarked at the breakfast table the
next morning. Halloran and Rachel both knew where Tyree had gone, and why.
Halloran sat alone at the big wooden table, fingers drumming absently on the
red checked cloth while Rachel prepared breakfast. He was usually a hearty
eater, but this morning he had no appetite at all for the ham and eggs and
biscuits Rachel placed before him and, after pushing the food around on his
plate for several moments, he gulped down a quick cup of coffee and stomped out
the back door.

With a sigh, Rachel threw her own breakfast to the dogs,
then filled the kitchen sink with hot water, wondering how a man like Tyree
operated. Did he just ride in and shoot his victims down in cold blood, or did
he give them a fair chance?

Rachel grinned ruefully at the thought. A fair chance
indeed. That was funny. Against the speed of Tyree’s draw, a fair chance was
really no chance at all, and though she harbored no love for Job Walsh, she
shuddered to think of his being shot down as if he were of no more importance
than a pesky varmint.

Leaving the kitchen, Rachel wandered aimlessly from task to
task, unable to concentrate on the simplest chore until, at last, she took up a
basket of mending and went to sit on the front porch. Even then, her thoughts
were at the Slash W. In her mind’s eye she pictured Tyree riding up to the big
white house. Saw him warning Walsh to stay away from the Lazy H. Saw Walsh’s
gunhawks rise to the challenge. Saw them go down in a hail of lead from Tyree’s
Colt. Saw Walsh go down, last of all…

John Halloran was also finding it difficult to concentrate
on the tasks at hand. Doubts and second thoughts crowded his mind as he
considered the consequences of what he had done. He had bought a man’s death
for five hundred dollars, with no guarantee that the man who died would be
Walsh. A sudden cold fear washed over Halloran with the realization that,
should Tyree be killed, Walsh would come after the Lazy H with a bloody
vengeance. Hiring Tyree had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now
it seemed wrong, so very wrong.

Finally, like Rachel, Halloran stopped pretending that this
day was like any other and joined her on the front porch. Face drawn, he stared
at the land he was trying so desperately to hang onto. Acres of good grazing
land stretched away as far as the eye could see. Large, well-built corrals were
situated below the house; two corrals for holding stock, a third for breaking
and branding young horses and cattle. Behind the house, a large barn sheltered
a half-dozen horses, including his own buckskin gelding and Rachel’s dainty
blood bay mare. Adjacent to the barn was a large tack room. And beyond that, a
storage shed for tools and the like. A small graveyard stood on a grassy knoll
behind the smokehouse.