RenegadeHeart

by Madeline Baker

  “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.

  Chapter Five

  Early Monday morning, Tyree saddled his horse and rode into town. He had been cooped up at the Lazy H for too long, he mused, and he felt the need for a drink and a few hours of solitude at the local watering hole.

  Riding down the main street, he stopped at the first saloon he came to. Bowsher’s, the sign said, and Tyree grinned. Flat-Nose Beverly Bowsher was a name known on both sides of the Missouri. Flat-Nose had been a notorious madam in a swanky Denver saloon until she fell in love with a half-breed Apache scout. The Indian had no understanding of a woman who sold herself to men and sliced off the end of her nose. Beverly had fled Denver and taken up residence in the quiet town of Yellow Creek. She was old now and kept to her rooms above the saloon. But her name remained a legend.

  Dismounting, Tyree looped the chestnut’s reins over the hitch-rack, slipped the cinch, and gave the animal a pat on the neck before stepping inside the saloon. Ordering a bottle of rye whiskey from the bar dog, he carried the bottle to a rear table. Sitting there, with his back against the wall, he slowly and methodically worked his way to the bottom of the bottle, feeling his muscles relax as the pale amber liquid warmed his belly.

  The saloon grew crowded as noontime approached. Shopkeepers drifted in for a quick drink after lunch. Unemployed cowhands ambled in, hoping to get a lead on a job at one of the local ranches.

  Tyree studied each man that entered the saloon, sizing them up with a practiced eye. Toward evening, a pair of hardcases swaggered in, and Tyree felt himself grow tense as he recognized two of Walsh’s hired guns. The Slash W riders spotted Tyree at the same time. Frowning, they stood with their heads together for a few moments before they hurried out of the saloon.

  It was late when Tyree returned to the Lazy H. Only one light burned in the house and Tyree went inside expecting to find Rachel’s old man asleep over his account books. Instead, he found Rachel curled up in a chair, reading a volume of Shakespeare.

  Damned if she didn’t look like some kind of golden temptress sitting there, Tyree mused, what with her tawny hair spilling over her shoulders and the lamplight softly caressing the curve of her cheek.

  Rachel looked up, startled by his sudden appearance. “Mr. Tyree. We thought you had left.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but I just took the day off.”

  Rachel wrinkled her nose with distaste as she caught a whiff of his breath. “And spent it at the local saloon,” she muttered with obvious disapproval.

  “Yeah. You got any coffee?”

  “There’s some left from dinner,” she said grudgingly.

  “That’ll do. Think you could warm it up for me?”

  “I suppose so.” Her tone implied she was less than pleased with the thought of his prolonged presence.

  “Thanks.”

  Tyree followed her into the kitchen, admiring her tiny waist and the supple sway of her hips.

  “Would you care for something to eat?” Rachel asked, coolly polite and impersonal.

  “Just coffee.”

  “Will you be staying with us much longer, Mr. Tyree?”

  He chuckled softly. “Just can’t wait to get rid of me, can you?”

  “No,” Rachel answered bluntly. “My father may be charmed with your presence here, but I am not. I’d like to know how much longer you plan to stay with us.”

  “Until your old man tells me to leave,” Tyree snapped, annoyed as always by her too-obvious disaffection. “That coffee ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Tyree took the cup Rachel offered him, swallowed the hot, bitter brew. Too bad it wasn’t poison, he mused wryly. That would put a smile on her face.

  “Got enough for another cup?” he asked, more to irritate her than anything else.

  Rachel refilled Tyree’s cup without speaking, not liking the way his eyes moved over her, or the way he had maneuvered her into a corner, so that he stood between her and the door. He drained the cup, his eyes never leaving her face. She wished suddenly that she was wearing more than just a cotton nightgown and a flannel robe. Unconsciously, she drew the robe tighter around her waist.

  Setting the empty cup on the table, Tyree reached out and ran his hand through the heavy mass of Rachel’s hair. It was soft as cornsilk, smooth as satin beneath his fingertips. Stepping closer, he caught the faint fragrance of lavender-scented soap, the aroma of fresh-baked bread. And over all was Rachel’s own scent, warm and womanly.

  Muttering a soft oath, Tyree took Rachel in his arms and kissed her, his mouth hard and demanding, his lean body pressed suggestively against hers.

  For a moment, Rachel stood limp in his arms, her knees suddenly weak, as if his kiss had drained all the strength from her limbs. A
slow fire started in the pit of her stomach and spread downward as his hands caressed her back. She felt bereft when he took his lips from hers and she swayed against him, her face upturned, her mouth strangely eager for his kiss.

  Tyree chuckled softly as he covered her mouth with his own. “Sweet,” he murmured, nibbling her lower lip. “So sweet.”

  His breath tickled her ear as his mouth moved up her neck and against her hair. Rachel sagged against him, shuddering with pleasure as his hands kneaded her lower back and buttocks, grinding her hips against his groin, leaving her breathless and yearning for more. Her arms went around his waist, her hands roaming over his muscled back and shoulders. He was so big, so tall, so very male. All her senses responded to his touch as her questing hands moved up and down his arms, excited by the play of powerful muscles beneath the black cotton shirt he wore.

  “Sweet,” Tyree said again, and his hand was warm on her bare flesh as he loosened her robe and dropped his hand inside her gown.

  The touch of Tyree’s calloused hand on her breast shocked Rachel into a sudden awareness of what she was doing, and with whom. With a squeal of alarm, she twisted out of Tyree’s grasp. Two bright spots of color stained her cheeks, and her eyes blazed with anger and indignation as she slapped him with all the strength at her command.

  The print of her hand stood out clearly on Tyree’s cheek, as livid as the rage that flickered and died in his eyes. With a muffled cry, Rachel pushed past Tyree and headed for the door, but before she could escape, Tyree grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her backward. Trapping her within the hard prison of his arms, he turned her toward him and kissed her a third time, his tongue boldly raping the soft inner recesses of her mouth.

  Rachel struggled in vain, and the more she fought him, the harder Tyree kissed her until, at last, she stood passive in his embrace. There was a dull roaring in her ears, a peculiar quivering in her limbs, and a growing desire to stand there forever, with Tyree’s arms tight around her and his mouth pressed to hers, evoking wave after wave of delightfully wicked longings deep in the core of her being.