Yeah, the place was jumping all right, no doubt about that. Inside the house, he could hear Rachel singing softly as she swept the parlor floor. She had a pleasant voice, Tyree thought. But then, everything about Rachel was pleasant. Everything except her attitude toward him.
She did not like the fact that he sat idle while everyone else worked, and she said so, openly, bluntly, and often.
“You could at least help water the stock,” she had remarked earlier in the day. “Or feed the chickens.”
“I could,” Tyree had replied easily. “But your old man ain’t paying me to tend his stock.”
That remark had unleashed a tirade that had gone on for several minutes and had ended only when Tyree dropped a hand over Rachel’s mouth, cutting her off in mid-sentence.
“Why don’t you just calm down and admit what’s really bothering you?” Tyree had suggested.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Rachel had replied stiffly.
“The hell you don’t! You’re still in a lather about what happened at Sunset Canyon, and we both know it.”
Rachel had thrown Tyree a withering look. Then, head high as a spooked filly, she had turned on her heel and flounced angrily into the house, her cheeks awash with color.
That had been better than an hour ago, and though she had been in and out several times since then, she had never acknowledged Tyree’s presence on the porch by so much as a glance. Oh, she was mad all right, he mused. No doubt about that.
Tyree spent the whole day loafing on the porch, content to sit in the shade with his hat tilted over his eyes, his long legs stretched negligently in front of him, his arms folded over his chest.
Rachel burned every time she saw him sitting there, catnapping or smoking a thin black cigar while everyone else toiled in the sun. There was so much to be done, and so few hands to do it. There were still stray cattle to be rounded up, calves that needed branding, fields to plow, hay to cut, fences that needed mending, stock to be fed and watered, harness that needed repairing, wood to cut. And there was a large hole in the kitchen roof that simply had to be patched before the rains came.
Oh, there were a hundred things that needed doing and one more pair of hands would be welcome, even the hands of a gunslinger like Logan Tyree. But no, he could not be bothered with anything as mundane as manual labor.
“Too bad we don’t have another land-grabber for him to kill,” she muttered crossly. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind adding another notch to his gun.”
His gun. That was another area of contention. He never took it off, not even at the dinner table, and that irritated Rachel more than anything else. She had asked him, politely, to please remove his gunbelt during dinner, but he had refused with a curt, “Sorry, no.”
He had usurped her father’s place at the head of the table, too, offering no apology or explanation. Later, her father had pointed out that Tyree insisted on sitting at the head of the table because it put his back to the only wall in the room that didn’t have a window in it, and afforded a clear view of the door.
“Self-preservation, honey, that’s all it is,” Halloran had explained. “You can’t blame a man for being careful. Especially a man in Tyree’s line of work.”
Tyree. He stayed up long after everyone else had retired for the night. Often, from her window upstairs, Rachel saw the faint glow of his cigar as he took a last turn around the house, or paced the length of the front yard. Dressed all in black, with his cigar casting eerie shadows across his swarthy face, she often thought he looked like Satan prowling the bowels of Hell. Not a pleasant comparison, she admitted, but then, Logan Tyree was not a particularly nice person. Arrogant, yes. Self-assured, yes. But pleasant? Definitely not!
But what bothered Rachel the most was her father’s attitude toward Tyree. Somehow, her father had resolved his feelings of guilt regarding his part in Walsh’s death and seemed to have thrust the matter behind him. He never mentioned the incident and seemed to have forgotten it ever happened.
Not only that, but her father seemed to have developed a genuine fondness for Tyree’s company and the two of them spent many an evening discussing the ranch, debating whether it would be wiser to take their small herd to market this year, or wait until the following spring.
Rachel was bewildered by Tyree’s attitude, as well. She knew he cared little for the ranch, or for the problems facing them, yet he listened patiently while her father waxed long and loud about his hopes for the Lazy H. On occasion, Tyree even offered worthwhile suggestions. Men! There was no understanding any of them.
As time went on, there was considerable speculation about what would become of the Slash W ranch now that Walsh was dead. There was talk in town that an eastern syndicate was thinking of buying the place. Another rumor concerned a Scotsman and a flock of sheep. There was even mention of some English lord coming out to look the place over, but Rachel dismissed such talk as idle gossip. Most likely, Walsh’s sister, who lived in Amarillo, would sell the Slash W to some nice family man with a dozen kids and that would put an end to the trouble in the valley once and for all.
Sunday found Tyree slouched in his usual place on the front porch, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, his hat pulled low. Rachel was inside singing Nearer, My God, to Thee while she dressed for church. Halloran was down at the barn, talking to Cahill while one of the hands hitched a pair of spirited bay geldings to a shiny black buggy.
The ranch was quiet today. Candido had already left for town, bound for Mass. The freckle-faced wrangler was going courting. You could always spot a cowhand with romance on his mind. They were squeaky clean and usually smelled heavily of lilac water.
Tyree pushed his hat back on his head as Rachel opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. She looked lovely, as always, her face was lightly powdered and a few tendrils of golden hair peeked out from beneath the brim of a perky straw bonnet. Her slender figure was modestly clad in a dress of some dark blue material trimmed in delicate white lace. The dress outlined every luscious curve. Just looking at her made his mouth water.
Rachel frowned as she stood on the edge of the porch, waiting for her father to bring the buggy up from the barn. Why did Tyree have to be sitting on the porch just now, she wondered dourly. It was a beautiful morning and she didn’t want anything, or anyone, to spoil it. She was reluctant to acknowledge his presence. The sight of his lip curling down in that hateful way made her angry, but it was his amused silence that goaded her into speaking.
“Good morning, Mr. Tyree,” she said coldly, formally. She glanced toward the barn, wishing her father would hurry.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” Tyree drawled. As usual, she was ill at ease in his presence. Her face mirrored her relief when Halloran drove up in the buggy.
“Morning, Tyree,” Halloran called cheerfully. “Care to come to church with us?”
“Now what would I do in church?” Tyree asked, flashing a sardonic grin.
“Well, now—” Halloran began, only to be cut off in mid-sentence by his daughter.
“You could pray for the souls of all the poor unfortunate men you’ve gunned down,” Rachel suggested sweetly.
“You must have a hell of a long service,” Tyree replied easily. “I’ve killed a lot of men.”
Rachel stared at Tyree, her face pale, her eyes filled with condemnation. What kind of monster was he, to talk so casually about the men he had killed? Didn’t he feel any remorse, any guilt or regret, at taking a human life?
The horrified look on Rachel’s face sparked Tyree’s anger. Who was she to sit in judgment on him? When had she ever known anything but love and security? What did she know about him, or his past? What did she know about pain?
“A lot of men,” Tyree repeated, some perverse quirk of nature urging him on. “Widows and orphans, too,” he added sourly. He was kidding, of course, but Rachel took him seriously, and that angered him still more.
“Maybe you should say a prayer or two for your own soul,” Rachel murm
ured quietly, her voice filled with pity. “Though I doubt it would do much good at this late date.”
John Halloran cleared his throat as the tone of their conversation grew heavy. “Rachel, that’s enough.”
“I’m sorry, Pa. Mr. Tyree.” Lifting her skirts, she hurried down the steps to the side of the buggy.
She was about to step in when two strong hands closed around her waist. “Allow me, ma’am,” Tyree said with exaggerated politeness, and before Rachel could protest, he had lifted her onto the high front seat as though she weighed no more than a sack of feathers.
“Thank you,” Rachel said through tight lips.
“Sure you won’t join us?” Halloran asked. “We’ve plenty of room.”
Tyree was about to refuse when he glanced at Rachel. She was sitting stiff as a board beside her father, her cheeks suffused with color, her hands folded primly in her lap. She refused to meet his eyes.
Tyree grinned roguishly, knowing his company was the last thing she wanted on this bright sunny morning.
“I think maybe I will join you after all,” Tyree decided, and climbing into the rig, he took a place next to Rachel.
It was a lovely morning for a ride, but Rachel found no pleasure in it. The flowers growing alongside the road might have been weeds, the sky overhead black with clouds instead of a clear sapphire blue. Trapped between her father and Tyree, she stared straight ahead, furious with them both. Men! Whatever had possessed her father to invite a man like Logan Tyree to church? And what in the name of all that was holy had prompted Tyree to accept?
As the miles slipped by, she grew increasingly aware of Tyree’s hard thigh pressed against her own, of the touch of his arm jostling hers whenever the buggy bounced over a rut in the road. Almost as tangible as the pressure of his arm and thigh was the bold way his eyes caressed her, making her blush with embarrassment. His holster was a hard lump against her hip, a constant reminder of who and what he was. How she hated him! He was the most arrogant, insufferable man she had ever known.
“It’s good to have things back to normal,” her father mused as they pulled onto the main road that led to town. “Cahill thinks we might have enough cattle to make a decent herd come spring.”
“He’s a good man,” Tyree remarked. “Handy with a rope.”
John Halloran ran a nervous finger around the inside of his shirt collar, knowing Rachel would not take kindly to what he was about to suggest. “Tyree, I’d, uh, like to have you stay on with us. Permanent.”
“Pa!” Rachel exclaimed in horror. “You can’t be serious.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Tyree said smoothly, his voice quietly mocking the despair in her eyes. “I’ve no intention of settling down and becoming a farmer. But I’m obliged for the offer, Halloran.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Rachel glanced at her father out of the corner of her eye. What was he thinking of, to ask Tyree to stay on at the ranch? Dear Lord, what would she have done if Tyree had accepted? There was no way she could face him every day. His presence was a constant reminder of something she longed to forget, and only the fact that he would soon be riding on made his presence bearable. Every time she looked at him, she knew he was remembering Sunset Canyon. The knowledge of what had happened between them was always lurking in the back of his eyes, tormenting her, taunting her. She could hardly bear to look at him.
The Yellow Creek Methodist Church was a small square flat-topped building crowned with a large wooden cross. Saguaro, ocotillo, Spanish bayonet and palo verde grew around the church, their leaves and flowers making bright splashes of color against the whitewashed walls. Buggies, wagons, and riding horses were tethered to the long hitch rail in front of the building.
Hat in hand, Tyree followed Rachel and John Halloran into the church and down the narrow aisle to their pew, which was located near the front of the chapel. He should not have come, Tyree mused glumly. He had only agreed to accompany them to annoy Rachel, after all, and not because of any deep, burning need to hear the gospel preached by some whey-faced minister who had probably never seen sin close up, or known how satisfying a bottle of good whiskey and a bad woman could be.
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.
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