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.
The ranch house itself was a fairly large, two-story structure built of wood and native stone. It featured a large parlor, a spacious, sunlit kitchen, a formal dining room— because Ellen had wanted one so very much—and three good-sized bedrooms. He remembered how thrilled Ellen had been when the house was finally finished. Nights, they had sat on the front porch, listening to the crickets and holding hands as they dreamed of filling the house with children. Strong sons and beautiful daughters. But after Rachel there had been no children for a long time. And then, when Rachel was ten, God had blessed them with a son. But Tommy had lived only a few short years. There had been no more children after Tommy, and Rachel became dearer than ever.
Lost in thought, Halloran stared at the whitewashed crosses that marked the final rest
ing places of his wife and son. If only Ellen were still alive. He needed to talk to her, needed to ask her advice. She had been a quiet, sensible woman, wise beyond her years, endowed with a keen insight into other people’s thoughts and actions. Always, when he had needed to make a decision, he had first discussed it with Ellen.
Halloran glanced at Rachel. She was absorbed in mending one of his shirts, and he smiled at her fondly. She had Ellen’s incomparable beauty, but the resemblance ended there. Ellen had been a quiet woman—serene, peace-loving. But Rachel was a fighter and could be as stubborn as an Army mule. She would never agree to sell out to Walsh, he knew that without question, and the thought gave him strength. By damn, they would hang onto the Lazy H come hell or high water, and if Logan Tyree couldn’t whip Job Walsh, then, by thunder, they’d find someone who could!
It was shortly after noon when Tyree rode into the yard. Dismounting, he hitched his horse to the rack, climbed the porch steps to stand hipshot against the railing, thumbs hooked over his gunbelt. His grin was cold as glacier ice as he remarked, tonelessly, “Walsh won’t be giving you any more trouble.”
The words hung in the air like a death knell. For a moment, Rachel and her father stared at each other, speechless. Then, with a small cry of dismay, Rachel ran into the house.
“I don’t think your daughter approves of your methods,” Tyree remarked drily.
John Halloran recoiled as if he had been slapped. Now that Walsh’s death was an accomplished fact, he felt an overwhelming sense of guilt at what he had done.
“Neither do I,” Halloran muttered brokenly. “Dammit, Tyree, neither do I.”
Rachel and Tyree crossed paths in the kitchen later that day. Rachel’s lovely deep-blue eyes burned with bitter contempt when she looked at Tyree, and her mouth thinned into a cold line of disapproval.
Walking past her to the stove, Tyree poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped it slowly. The tension between them was so strong, he would not have been surprised to see sparks dancing across the room.
Rachel’s flagrant, if unspoken, contempt annoyed Tyree more than it should have, and he slapped his coffee cup down on the table, ignoring the fact that the contents sloshed over the rim, making a dark brown stain on the freshly laundered red-checked cloth.
“All right, spit it out,” he growled. “What’s eating you? The fact that I killed Walsh, or the fact that your old man hired me to do it?”
Rachel turned on Tyree with all the fury of a treed cougar. “Both, if you must know,” she lashed out angrily. “I cannot condone murder, not even the murder of a man like Job Walsh.”
Tyree shook his head in genuine amazement. “Well, I’ll be go to hell! The man was out to steal your ranch, and now you’re crying because he’s dead.”
The contempt in Rachel’s eyes turned to pity as she stared at Tyree. “You don’t hold life very dear, do you, Mr. Tyree?”
“Only my own, Miss Halloran,” he fired back.
“And does your life make you happy?”
“Happy?” There was a note of bewilderment in his tone.
“Yes, happy. Do you like the man you see in the mirror when you shave?”
“I don’t use a mirror,” Tyree muttered, frowning at her.
“You know what I mean,” Rachel said crossly. “Don’t be obtuse.”
“Obtuse? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means thickheaded,” Rachel explained in a syrupy voice. “Slow to comprehend.”
“Thanks.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Rachel reminded him.
Tyree laughed shortly and without amusement. “What the hell difference does it make to you whether I’m happy or not?”
“None,” Rachel answered with a shake of her head. “None at all. Well, I suppose you’ll be moving on, now that you’ve earned your blood money.”
“First thing in the morning,” Tyree assured her, and stalked angrily out of the room.
Late afternoon found Tyree sitting on the porch steps, absently chewing on the end of a long black cigar, content, for the moment, just to sit back and stare out into the distance. It was good to be free, he mused. Good to have a belly full of food that wasn’t rancid or half-raw. Good to feel the weight of a Colt .44 riding his hip. Tomorrow he would ride on, heading north. Perhaps he would spend the rest of the year with the Apache. Perhaps he would ride on to Virginia City and try his hand at the gaming tables. Perhaps not. He had never been one to plan ahead, and he saw no need to start now. The money he had earned for gunning Walsh made a comfortable bulge in his hip pocket. Blood money, Rachel had called it. And that was sure as hell what it was. But it would take him wherever he wanted to go. He glanced around the ranch yard, surprised to discover he didn’t particularly want to leave the Lazy H. Or Rachel. He grinned wryly. Especially Rachel. No matter that she thought he was dirt. He did not want to leave her. What he wanted was to kiss her pouty red mouth until she admitted she wanted him as much as he wanted her. She could yell she hated him, insist she loathed his touch and despised everything he stood for, but the attraction between them was real.
He touched a match to his cigar as the screen door creaked open and John Halloran stepped out onto the porch.
“Tyree?”
“Yeah.”
“Does my five hundred bucks entitle me to one more favor?”
“Depends,” Tyree answered with a shrug. “Who do you want killed now?”
Halloran grimaced as though in physical pain. He would never know another peaceful night’s sleep as long as he lived, he mused bitterly. Not if he lived to be a hundred.
“I don’t want anyone killed,” the old man answered thinly. “Rachel went riding an hour ago, and she hasn’t come back yet. She hates it when I worry about her, but…dammit, Tyree, it’ll be dark soon and she’s all I’ve got left in the world.”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, Halloran, I’ll find her.” Rising to his feet, Tyree sauntered down to the corral and caught up the chestnut mare he had bought in Yellow Creek. Rachel would be less than pleased when he showed up on her trail, he thought with some amusement, but what the hell. It was a nice night for a ride, and he had nothing better to do.
The mare was eager to run and she responded to the touch of Tyree’s heels with a toss of her head as she broke into a comfortable lope. In moments, the ranch was left behind and they were riding across open country.
The tracks of Rachel’s fine blood-bay mare were as clear as glass, and Tyree followed them with ease, frowning as her trail veered southward toward Sunset Canyon. Damn fool girl, he muttered under his breath. Didn’t she realize she was heading straight into Apache country?
Three miles later he crossed a dry wash and picked up the tracks of five, maybe six, unshod ponies trailing after Rachel.
Tyree swore softly as he rolled a smoke. The land was flat here, crisscrossed by shallow draws and gullies and box canyons. The ground was soft, but not too soft to hold a print, and the tracks left by Rachel and the Indians were deep and easy to follow.
Lifting the chestnut mare into a slow trot, Tyree swore again as he passed the place where Rachel first realized she was being followed. Frightened, she had lashed her horse into a run and the Indians had quickly given chase. It had been a short flight. The Indians had swiftly overtaken her, and now one of the braves was leading her mount.
A stand of heavy timber loomed ahead, and Tyree reined the chestnut to a halt. Dismounting, he tethered the mare to a cottonwood, slipped out of his boots, and padded forward on cat feet, rifle in hand.
Pausing, he listened for some sound that would pinpoint the whereabouts of the Indians. Seconds later, a woman’s frightened squeal rose in the air.
Drawing a deep breath, Tyree picked his way through the underbrush. He moved as quietly as a mountain lion stalking its prey, careful not to step on any twigs or dry leaves that would betray his presence. A clearing appeared some yards ahead, and he caught his first glimpse of Rachel and the Apaches.
&nb
sp; Rachel was spread-eagle on the ground between four grinning Apache bucks. Her blouse was ripped, giving a tantalizing glimpse of creamy flesh. Her skirt and pantalets were bunched around her hips, revealing long, shapely legs. A fifth warrior was stripping away his clout, and the sight of his swiftly rising manhood caused Rachel to increase her struggles.
Tyree scowled as one of the warriors stuffed a dirty red kerchief into Rachel’s mouth to stifle her cries.
“She has breasts like the Chiricahua Mountains,” declared the brave pinning Rachel’s left arm down.
“And I am going to climb them,” boasted the naked warrior with a lustful chuckle. “Move over and give me some room.”
Tyree mouthed a vague obscenity as he jacked a round into the breech of the rifle. The harsh metallic sound, unmistakable for what it was, quickly caught everyone’s attention.
Hope flared in Rachel’s red-rimmed eyes as she recognized Tyree. If anyone could get her out of this mess, Tyree could. For once she was glad he was hard and cruel and handy with a gun. He would know what to do.
The four warriors surrounding Rachel sat unmoving, their expressions slightly sheepish, like children caught playing doctor behind the barn.
The naked warrior smiled broadly as he glanced past Tyree, and Tyree felt the muscles tighten in the back of his neck as he realized there had indeed been six Indian ponies, not five, and that the sixth Indian was now standing behind him. The sudden jab of a gun barrel against his spine came as no surprise and Tyree dropped his rifle with an air of grim resignation.
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