RenegadeHeart (8 page)

Several heavily corseted dowagers dressed in somber hues
turned to stare at Tyree, making him feel as welcome in their midst as a bottle
of rotgut at a temperance meeting. One stout, gray-haired matron whispered,
loudly, that the Lord’s house was not the proper place for guns. Or gunmen.

Tyree could not have agreed more.

A hush fell over the congregation as the Reverend made his
way to the pulpit to offer the invocation. It was a long prayer, filled with
praise and thanksgiving for the Lord’s benevolence. Tyree glanced furtively at
the people sitting nearby, bemused by the rapt expressions on their faces. The
nuns who had raised him had worn similar expressions of love and devotion
during worship services at the convent.

Tyree grimaced as he lowered his gaze and studied the raw
plank flooring at his feet. Personally, he had never found much comfort in the
stilted rites and rituals of the Catholic Church, or any solace in the cold
pattern of their prayers, only a wondering curiosity that God did not get tired
of hearing the same rehearsed prayers day after day, year after year.

The religion of the Apache had been more to his liking.
Usen
was the All-Father, the supreme being; Child of the Waters was His son. The
Apache was one with nature, believing that every rock, every animal, every
blade of grass, had a spirit of its own. Nothing was ever wantonly killed or
wasted, lest its spirit become angry. Only the white man killed for sport. He
had even killed his God.

The opening strains of an unfamiliar hymn put an end to
Tyree’s reverie, and he listened with real pleasure as Rachel’s voice joined
with the congregation, the notes sweet and clear as she praised the Lord in
song.

There followed several announcements relating to recent
births, deaths and marriages in the community, and then the preacher began his
sermon.

The clergyman was a nice enough looking fellow, with
close-cropped curly brown hair, expressive brown eyes, and hands that looked as
soft as a baby’s bottom. There was, in fact, nothing remarkable about the man,
until he began to speak. His voice was deep and rich, with a resonance that
carried past the last pew. The minute the pastor began to speak, Logan Tyree
knew he should have stayed at the ranch.

“My text for this morning concerns the sixth commandment,”
the minister said in his best hell-and-damnation voice, “‘thou shall not
kill—’”

For the first time since leaving the Lazy H, Rachel glanced
directly at Tyree. “Are you listening?” her lovely blue eyes seemed to say.
“This one is for you.”

Scowling, Tyree settled deeper into his seat, wondering how
Rachel had managed to write the preacher’s sermon.

“He who lives by the sword shall perish by the sword,” the
Reverend went on, warming to his subject. “Man was not placed upon the earth to
contend with his brother, but to love him, to help him in times of trouble, to
comfort him in times of sorrow—”

Face dark with annoyance, Tyree managed to sit through
forty-five minutes of pious mutterings before the good Reverend said “Amen” and
sat down.

There was another hymn, and another prayer, before the
service was finally over. Stepping outside, Tyree took a deep breath. Never
again would he willingly enter a church. Not even to annoy Rachel. Better to
fry in hell than sit through another long-winded lecture on the evils and
consequences of sin.

After church, the congregation went outside to socialize. A
long gateleg table held cookies and punch. Tyree stood near the Halloran buggy,
his arms folded across his chest, while John Halloran and Rachel mingled with
their friends. Several young men went out of their way to speak to Rachel.

Tyree scowled as a pair of young boys clad in dark blue
suits ventured in his direction, their eyes round as saucers as they stared at
the gun slung low on his thigh.

“Told ya it was a Colt,” bragged the older of the two.

“Jeff Barnes, you come away from there this instant!” called
a female voice. “And you, too, Jimmy Norris!”

The two boys didn’t move, but continued to stare at Tyree
and at the tied-down gun that marked him as a gunman.

“Jeff! Jim!” The voice was shrill now with anger.

Tyree grinned. “Best run along, boys,” he suggested. “She
sounds mad.”

Jeff Barnes shrugged. “She’s always mad.”

“Yeah,” Tyree said, thinking of Rachel. “Some women are like
that.”

“Jeff! Jim!” The voice was masculine this time, and the two
boys turned and ran back to the churchyard.

A short time later, John Halloran and Rachel made their way
to the buggy. Rachel was careful to let her father sit in the middle on the
ride home. It was a move that did not go unnoticed by Tyree.

“Fine sermon,” Halloran remarked on the trip back to the
Lazy H. “Preacher’s got a good head on his shoulders for such a young sprout.”

“Yes, indeed,” Rachel agreed. “Tell me, Mr. Tyree, did you
agree with what the Reverend Jenkins had to say?”

Tyree quirked a knowing eyebrow in Rachel’s direction. “You
mean that part about dying by the sword, I reckon?”

“Why, yes, I did,” Rachel acknowledged sweetly. “How did you
know?”

“Just a wild guess,” Tyree muttered.

“Well, do you agree with him?” she persisted.

Tyree shrugged. “I suppose what he says is true. But then,
everybody dies sooner or later, and a bullet’s as good a way to check out as
any. Better than most.” He threw Rachel a lazy grin. “And it sure beats
hanging.”

“You talk very casually about death,” Rachel remarked.
“Doesn’t the thought bother you? I mean, in your line of work, it could happen
anytime.”

“I guess I’ve seen death up close too many times to be
afraid of it,” Tyree murmured, his tone no longer light and teasing.

“What are you afraid of?” Rachel asked.

She waited intently for his answer, feeling that if she
could discover what he feared, she would discover something meaningful about
the enigma known as Logan Tyree. But he did not answer her. Instead, he stared
into the distance, his eyes guarded, his mouth a tight line.

“Well?” Rachel urged.

“I think I can answer that one, daughter,” Halloran remarked
quietly. He glanced in Tyree’s direction. “Some men ain’t afraid of life or
death. They’re afraid of other things, like growing old, or being helpless.
Ain’t that right, Tyree?”

“Yeah,” Tyree admitted slowly. “Something like that.”

Rachel stared at her father, puzzled that he should have
such insight into the character of a man like Tyree.

“You have a very strange outlook on life, Mr. Tyree,” Rachel
mused aloud. “Very strange indeed.”

“We weren’t talking about life,” Tyree reminded her with a
rueful grin. “We were talking about death. When the time comes, I want to go
out to meet it. I don’t want to be too old or too stove up to put up a fight.”

“Amen,” John Halloran murmured fervently. “But tell me,
Tyree, until the old man with the scythe shows up, what’s a feller like you
want out of life?”

“Not much,” Tyree said, chuckling. “A good horse. A good
gun. A bad woman.”

“Amen again,” Halloran chortled, slapping his thigh. “Amen
and amen.”

Rachel looked at her father, openly astonished. “Pa!”

“Don’t get riled, daughter,” Halloran chided, winking at
Tyree. “I was only funnin’.”

Funning, indeed, Rachel thought sourly. Her father’s whole
attitude had changed in the last few months, and she could trace the change
directly to Logan Tyree!

Chapter Four

In the days that followed, Rachel avoided Tyree whenever
possible, and when they were together, she was cold and distant. Halloran spent
most of his time with his nose buried in his account books, his brow puckered
in a worried frown as he pored over his ledgers. Tyree loafed on the front
porch, apparently indifferent to anything that did not concern him personally.

On Saturday morning, Cahill’s niece, Amy, made her weekly
visit to the ranch. She was a winsome child, full of energy, and Cahill loved
the child dearly, but after three hours of “what?” and “why?”, he sent her down
to the barn to find Candido. One of the mares had recently dropped a foal and
Cahill hoped Amy would pester the head wrangler with questions about the filly
for a while, thereby giving his own ears a much-needed rest.

But Amy could not find Candido, and so she wandered into the
barn alone, excited by the prospect of playing with the baby horse.

She had to stand on a feed bucket to see over the stall
door, and her eyes grew wide as saucers when she spied the long-legged buckskin
filly nuzzling its dam’s teat.

Amy’s hand fairly itched to touch the darling foal, but both
horses ignored her. The mare was content to nibble at the hay in the manger;
the filly continued to suck greedily at its mother’s milk.

With an exasperated sigh, Amy jumped off the bucket and
kicked it aside. It took several minutes of concentrated effort before she
managed to unlatch the stall door. Then, totally unaware of any danger, she
stepped into the stall, smiling as her eager hands reached out to stroke the
filly’s neck.

Tyree was catnapping on the front porch when the mare’s
scream of rage shattered the afternoon stillness. Hard upon the mare’s angry
whinny came the terrified shriek of a frightened child. It was the girl’s cry
of terror that galvanized Tyree into action and he raced down the porch stairs
and across the yard toward the barn, hoping he wasn’t too late to save the
child from whatever trouble she had stirred up.

Amy was pressed hard against a corner of the stall when
Tyree arrived. Her blue eyes were round with fear, her rosebud mouth open in a
soundless cry for help.

The mare was blocking the stall door, and she was mad as
hell. The filly was her first foal, and the mare was as jealous and protective
of her offspring as only a new mother can be. Ears flat, she snapped at the
child, her big yellow teeth missing Amy’s right shoulder by mere inches.

“Easy, mama,” Tyree murmured. “Easy, girl.”

The mare whirled around to face the new threat, her sides
heaving, her teeth bared. The filly pressed close against her mother’s side,
frightened by the confusion in the stall.

“Easy, mama,” Tyree murmured again. “Easy now. No one’s
gonna hurt you or that pretty baby. Easy, mama. Easy now.”

The mare stared at him, ears twitching, nostrils flared.

Still speaking softly, Tyree reached out and laid one big
brown hand on the mare’s shoulder. Ever so slowly, he slipped a rope around the
mare’s neck. “Come on, mama,” he coaxed in a quiet voice. “Let’s go outside.”

For a moment, it was uncertain whether the mare would
respond to the tug of the rope and the quiet words. Snorting softly, the mare
swung her head around to stare balefully at the small human creature huddled in
the corner, and then the mare reached out to sniff Tyree, who was murmuring to
her in soft Apache as he gently stroked her neck.

“Mr. Tyree—”

“Be quiet, kid,” Tyree admonished. Then, to the mare, “Come
on, mama. Everything’s all right.”

With a toss of her head, the mare followed Tyree out of the
stall, whickering to the foal dancing nervously at her heels.

Candido, Cahill, and Rachel were waiting outside the barn.
Cahill looked hard at Tyree, his face pale, his eyes worried.

“The kid’s all right,” Tyree assured Cahill. “Just scared.”

“Thank God!” the foreman said fervently, and ran into the
barn. He reappeared a moment later with Amy cradled in his arms. “Tyree,” Joe
Cahill murmured sincerely. “How can I ever repay you?”

“No need,” Tyree said, grinning at Amy. “I was just
returning a favor. Right, kid?”

“Right,” Amy said tremulously, and burst into tears.

“Tyree, if there’s ever anything I can do for you,” Cahill
said, “anything at all—”

“Sure,” Tyree answered, handing the mare’s lead rope to
Candido. “I’ll let you know.” With a smile at Amy’s tear-stained face, Tyree
started back toward the house.

Rachel was grinning broadly as she followed Tyree. His
concern for Amy’s safety was the first decent human emotion he had shown, and
for some reason she did not care to examine too closely, it pleased her
immensely.

“What the hell are you grinning at?” Tyree asked sourly. “My
face turning blue?”

“Better be careful,” Rachel teased, “or you’ll ruin your
tough-guy image.”

“What?”

“People might think you’ve got a heart under that thorny
exterior if you start rescuing children in danger.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tyree retorted.

Rachel laughed out loud. “Just kills you to think you were
caught doing a good deed, doesn’t it?” Rachel crowed. “Well, I shall remind you
of it at least once a day.”

“You do, and I’ll knock your teeth down your lovely throat,”
Tyree threatened, only half kidding.

“I’m not afraid of you anymore, Logan Tyree,” Rachel
declared boldly.

She was beautiful when her spirits were up, Tyree mused. Her
cheeks were flushed a becoming shade of pink, and her sky blue eyes twinkled
merrily as she walked beside him, taking long steps to keep up. Oh, she was
having a high ol’ time, needling him about his so-called good deed. There was
no doubt about that.

“So you’re not afraid of me anymore,” Tyree drawled lazily.

“That’s right,” Rachel answered saucily. “I used to think
you were all cold steel and ice, but now I know you’re really soft as melted
butter.”

They were standing on the front porch now. Rachel had her back
against one of the uprights, her head tilted up so she could see Tyree’s face.
A curious light danced in his eyes as he took a step toward her.

“Come closer,” he said, “and I’ll show you just how soft I
can be.”

Suddenly Rachel didn’t feel like smiling anymore. The husky
wanting in Tyree’s voice sent a cold shiver down her spine and that, coupled
with the hungry look in his catlike eyes, started her heart pounding like an
Indian war drum.

“Never mind,” she said briskly. “I believe you.”

Tyree took another step forward, placing his hands on either
side of Rachel’s head so that she was trapped between his arms. His eyes
lingered on the warm curve of her mouth, then dropped suggestively to her
breasts before he returned his gaze to her face. She looked scared and very
vulnerable.

“I thought you weren’t afraid of me anymore,” he challenged.

Rachel swallowed hard, all her bravado gone now that he was
standing so near. The scent of cigar smoke and leather tickled her nostrils,
reminding her of Sunset Canyon. She could not hold his inquiring gaze and she
glanced at the arms that imprisoned her. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing
his forearms, and the sight of his bare flesh started a little thrill of
excitement in her stomach. His black shirt was the perfect foil for his swarthy
skin and ebony hair. His eyes, so intent on her face, burned with a deep amber
fire.

“I’m not afraid,” Rachel stammered nervously. “It’s just
that I…I have something in the oven, and I think it’s burning.”

“That right? I don’t smell anything.” He was laughing at her
now, his mouth turned down in that mocking grin she hated, his eyes alight with
mischief.

“Well, I do!” Rachel shrieked. Ducking under his arms, she
bolted for the front door and the safety of the house.

Once inside, Rachel glanced over her shoulder, then sighed
with relief. Thank goodness, he hadn’t followed her. Damn the man! Why didn’t
he go away and leave her alone? She hated the way he looked at her whenever
they were alone together, his amber eyes hungry, his mouth curled down in that
mocking way she despised. She knew all too well what he was thinking when he
looked at her like that, knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was
remembering Sunset Canyon.

The memory of that day was indelibly burned into Rachel’s
memory, too, and she felt her blood grow cold as she recalled the
heart-stopping fear that had taken hold of her when she realized the Indians
were following her. Her flight had been in vain and all her struggles futile.
Vividly, she remembered how frightened and humiliated she had been when they
threw her to the ground and lifted her skirts, their deep-set black eyes
leering at her as they held her down. She remembered how relieved she had been
to see Tyree. Thank God, she had thought, help was on the way.

As always, she burned with shame at the memory of what she
had done. She could not blame Tyree for what had happened between them. He had
been ready to let her go as soon as he realized the Indians were gone, but no,
she had put her arms around his neck and practically begged him to take her.

Oh, if only he would go away! Maybe then she could forget
the whole thing. And yet, she didn’t really want to forget. She had thrilled to
his touch, to the feel of his arms around her. She had marveled at the way his
body felt pressed against her own, had thrilled to the crush of his lips, to
the sound of his voice whispering in her ear, telling her she was beautiful,
desirable.

She was glad when Amy came in, clamoring for milk and
cookies.