RenegadeHeart

by Madeline Baker

  “I know, but it isn’t you I hate. It’s what you stand for.”

  “It’s pretty much the same thing, don’t you think?”

  “No,” Rachel argued softly. “It’s not the same thing at all.”

  For once, Tyree had no quick retort and Rachel could not help smiling. It was the only time she had ever seen him at a loss for words.

  Then his face closed against her and he said, flatly, “Go home, Rachel. You’ll only get hurt if you stay.”

  “Why? Don’t you care for me at all?”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “That has everything to do with everything.”

  “Shit, Rachel, life’s not that simple. In the next day or two, I’m gonna kill five men. And sooner or later, I’ll probably have to kill Clint Wesley, too. How are you gonna feel about me then? And what about Wesley? I thought you were sweet on him.”

  “I thought so, too.” Rachel dismissed the marshal with a wave of her hand. “Tyree, come back to the ranch and stay with us. We need you. I need you.”

  “Dammit, honey, I’m no farmer.”

  The hand Rachel placed on Tyree’s arm was soft and warm and trembling visibly. “Will you come home with me, Tyree?”

  “Do you know what you’re saying?” Tyree asked gently. “Do you know what you’d be getting? And what you’ll be giving up?”

  Rachel nodded slowly. Tyree would never be the kind of husband she had dreamed of when she was a young girl. He would never be completely content to live in a small town like Yellow Creek. He would never completely settle down. And though she did not like to think about it, she knew there was a strong possibility that he would tire of her in a year or two and ride out of her life. And yet…

  She looked at the man standing before her. He was tall and dark. His face was hard, his amber eyes unfathomable. She knew, logically, that Clint would make a far better husband. He was honest, even-tempered, well-liked and respected in the community, a hard worker, a man with ambition and roots. He would make an excellent husband, a good father, a reliable provider. But it was Logan Tyree who made her blood sing with longing, Tyree who made her feel vibrant and alive, Tyree who had captured her heart and soul.

  “Will you come with me, Tyree?” she asked again.

  Tyree looked at Rachel, and knew he should refuse. He would never make her happy, never in a million years. He could never be the kind of man she wanted, the kind of man she deserved. And yet he could not resist the love shining bright and clear in her eyes, could not shatter the hope he read in her expression. Or deny that he wanted her.

  “I’ll come,” he agreed. “But only after I’ve squared a few debts with the Slash W. Does that suit you?”

  “Can’t you let them go?”

  “No.”

  Tears sparkled in Rachel’s eyes as she begged, “Please let them go, Tyree. I can’t abide the thought of any more killing.”

  “It’s something I’ve got to do.”

  The closeness she had felt with him suddenly shattered, and she took her hand from his arm. “Why can’t you just forget it?” she cried out, frustrated by his stubbornness. “Killing them won’t make your hand whole again. Nothing will.”

  Anger flared deep in Tyree’s amber eyes. There was hate there, too, and an implacable desire for revenge. And suddenly Rachel thought she knew what was driving him so relentlessly.

  “It’s your pride, isn’t it?” she exclaimed incredulously. “That’s why those five men have got to be killed.”

  “Shut up, Rachel.”

  But now she was angry, too, and she shouted, “I will not shut up! You’re going after those men because they got the best of the great Logan Tyree in a dark alley!”

  Tyree did not deny it, only said, stonily, “It’s something I’ve got to do. If you can’t live with it, I’ll ride on.”

  “That’s not fair and you know it.”

  “Fair!” Tyree held out his ruined hand and his expression turned ugly. “How can you look at what those bastards did and still talk to me about what’s fair?”

  “I suppose you’ll have to kill Annabelle, too, seeing as how those men work for the Slash W.”

  “No. The beating was her idea and I could have lived with that. Hell, I’ve been whipped by experts. But breaking my hand, that was Larkin’s idea. And he’s going to pay for it.”

  The fight went out of Rachel then, leaving her drained and empty. “Will you come to me when it’s over?”

  “You still talkin’ marriage?” Tyree asked gruffly.

  “Yes.”

  Tyree stared at her for a full minute, his face inscrutable. Hell, maybe he could change. Maybe, with Rachel’s help, he could settle down and become a respectable citizen. And maybe hell would freeze over, he mused wryly. But she was so lovely, so sweet, and perhaps she was his last chance for a decent life. He was almost tempted to forget about the Walsh riders, but he knew he would never rest until they were dead.

  “I’ll come,” he said at last. “When it’s over.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Rachel murmured, and left the cabin without a backward glance.

  Chapter Eleven

  John Halloran studied his daughter carefully as she prepared breakfast the following morning. Her eyes seemed red, puffy, as if she had spent the night crying. She was unusually quiet, preoccupied, her thoughts obviously worrisome.

  “Rachel. Rachel?”

  “Yes, Pa?”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. Pa, I…I might be getting married soon.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t seem very happy about it,” Halloran remarked.

  “I am. Really.”

  Halloran grinned broadly. “So! Clint finally proposed. Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “No, I… Pa, I asked Tyree to marry me.”

  “Tyree!”

  Rachel nodded. “Would you mind? Having him for a son-in-law, I mean.”

  Halloran shook his head slowly. “No, not if it’s what you want. Is that where you’ve—” Halloran coughed, not knowing exactly how to ask what he wanted to know.

  “Yes. I’ve been meeting him out at the old Jorgensen place.”

  “So that’s where he went to ground,” Halloran mused. “I didn’t think he’d run far. Not Tyree.” Halloran chuckled. “Won’t Larkin and his bunch be surprised when they learn they didn’t scare him off after all.”

  Rachel nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

  “What is it, honey?” Halloran asked. Reaching out, he laid his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “You can tell me.”

  “Tyree’s planning to kill Larkin and the other men responsible for breaking his hand. I tried to talk him out of it, Pa, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s determined to make them pay for what they did.”

  Halloran nodded. “Can’t say as I blame Tyree, daughter. It was an awful thing they did to him.”

  “I know, but… Oh, Pa, he’s killed so many men. I can’t stand the thought of more killing. When will it end?”

  “Do you love Tyree?”

  “Yes,” Rachel answered fervently.

  “You knew what he was when you asked him to marry you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t change him, Rachel. You’ll either have to learn to live with what he is and hope he’ll change on his own, or spend the rest of your life together being miserable. That, or give him up.”

  “I can’t give him up, Pa. I love him so very much.”

  “I think he’s a good man, honey. I think, deep inside, he’s everything you want. Everything you need. If I didn’t think so, I’d try to talk you out of marrying him.” Halloran gave Rachel’s hand another squeeze. “When’s the big day?”

  Rachel smiled through her tears. “I’m not sure. Tyree said he’d come for me when it was over.”

  Father and daughter looked at each other, neither voicing the thought that lurked in the backs of their minds. Five to one, the odds were.
And no matter how good Tyree was, there was always a chance that he couldn’t beat the odds.

  The next few days were hard on Rachel. She didn’t know when Tyree planned to make his move, didn’t know how much longer he would practice with the Colt before he felt ready to take on Larkin and the others. She filled her days with work, dusting, washing, ironing, mending, sweeping, rearranging the furniture, cleaning closets and cupboards, tidying up the attic, waxing and polishing. She pulled an old cookbook out and tried a dozen new recipes. She baked pies and cakes and cookies and bread until her father begged her to stop. She bought several yards of dress goods and began making herself a new wardrobe to please Tyree: a Sunday go-to-meeting dress of soft blue wool because Tyree liked her in blue; a day dress of green-sprigged muslin with a square neck and a wide white sash.

  When chores and sewing and baking grew tiresome, she began to take long rides on Morgana. Often, she was tempted to ride out to the Jorgensen place to visit Tyree, but she never did. She had gone to him, offering her love, begging him to marry her. Now he must come to her.

  The nights were the worst of all. Lying alone in her bed in the dark, she went over every word, every touch and warm embrace they had shared, remembering the strength of his arms, the magic of his kiss, the sound of his voice. Doubts crowded her mind. What if Tyree had changed his mind? What if he killed Larkin and the other Slash W men and then rode out of Yellow Creek, never to return? What if he were killed?

  Doubts and dreams warred within her, but through it all she held fast to her love for Tyree. She loved him and he loved her. She knew he did even if he had never said the words. She believed it with her whole heart. She had to believe it, or drown in despair.

  Each day, as she combed out her hair before the mirror, she whispered, “Today. He’ll come today.”

  And each night, she whispered, with a little less conviction, “Tomorrow. He’ll come tomorrow for sure.”

  And then she cried herself to sleep.

  Dawn, and the air was frosty cold. Tyree’s breath produced a cloud of white vapor as he saddled the gray. He cussed mightily as he fumbled with the cinch, wondering, ruefully, if he would ever get the hang of doing things one-handed.

  Swinging up into the saddle, he reined the stallion toward the Slash W, his face impassive, his mind closed to everything but the five men he intended to kill before the sun went down.

  Willie McCoy left the Walsh ranch shortly after breakfast. Gigging his spotted pony into a lively trot, he headed for Yellow Creek. There was a girl in town, a very expensive girl, and he grinned with anticipation as he patted the roll of greenbacks in his jeans. Today he could afford to buy all Ginny’s time, and that was just what he intended to do, even if it cost him every cent of the five hundred dollars he had earned for his part in roughing up Logan Tyree.

  Willie frowned as he mulled over that particular job. Annabelle Walsh had promised equal shares for working over the gunman, but Larkin had doled out the money, taking the lion’s share for himself and his sidekick, Rafe Hobbs. The others, Harris and Tolman, were good guns, but neither had the guts to argue with Larkin about the split. And neither did Willie McCoy. Better a live coward with a pocket full of money than a dead hero.

  Lifting his paint pony to a lope, Willie put Gus Larkin and the others out of his mind and turned his thoughts back to Ginny, and the endless hours of pleasure he would find in her arms.

  Tyree reached the Walsh spread just as the sun topped the distant mountains. White-faced cattle stirred at his passing, staring at him out of wild, suspicious eyes. A covey of quail burst from a clump of sagebrush, spooking the gray stallion. Tyree grinned as the stud tossed its head and danced sideways. Damn, but it was good to be alive.

  Tyree covered ten miles before he spotted a lone rider off in the distance. Reining the gray to a halt, he dismounted in the cover of a low rise, waiting patiently for the rider to come within range.

  Tyree grinned coldly as he recognized the youngest of the Walsh gunnies. Muttering, “This must be my lucky day,” he palmed the Colt, thumbed back the hammer, and stepped into the open.

  “Hold it, cowboy,” he called, and Willie McCoy pulled his horse to a sharp halt. The young gunman’s face went white as he recognized the man behind the gun.

  “Hi, kid,” Tyree drawled. “Remember me?”

  Willie McCoy was scared. Too scared to speak. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and then he nodded vigorously.

  “Good,” Tyree said flatly. “Get those hands up.”

  McCoy looked at his hands as if he had never seen them before.

  “Get ‘em up!” Tyree snapped.

  Slowly, as if they weighed a great deal, Willie McCoy raised his hands above his head. He screamed with sudden pain as Tyree fired two quick shots, sending a bullet through each of the youngster’s palms.

  “Tell your friends I’ll be waiting for them at Bowsher’s,” Tyree said to the sobbing youth. Holstering his Colt, he stepped into the saddle and rode toward Yellow Creek.

  Tyree left the gray tethered at the rail of Bowsher’s Saloon. Inside, he ordered a bottle of rye, carried it to his usual table in the back of the room where he could keep one eye on the door and his back to the wall.

  Thoughts of Rachel crowded his mind. Whatever had possessed him to agree to marry her? Did she really think he could give up drifting and settle down? Did he? Tyree stared at the pale amber whiskey in his glass as, unbidden, came the memory of the life he had shared with Red Leaf. Theirs had been a good marriage, filled with laughter and harmony. He had liked the feeling of belonging to someone, of having someone who belonged only to him. But that had been long ago. He was not the same man now that he had been then.

  He emptied the glass in a single swallow, absently poured another drink. He had not shared his life with anyone else since Red Leaf’s death. He had shut out the world, and the people in it. Perhaps, with Rachel, he could recapture the magic he and Red Leaf had shared…

  His melancholy thoughts were interrupted as Flat-Nose Beverly glided over to his table. She looked truly elegant this day, with her silver-white hair piled atop her head and her thin figure clad in a blood-red gown.

  “Afternoon, Tyree,” she murmured.

  “Flat-Nose.”

  She gave him a ghost of a smile. “Be careful.”

  Tyree nodded. A moment later, Gus Larkin and his men pushed their way into the saloon.

  Tyree stood up, all thoughts of Rachel forgotten. There was no past now, and no future. There was only this moment. Hand hovering over the butt of his gun, he called to Annabelle’s men.

  Three wranglers standing at the bar scrambled for cover at Tyree’s warning call, tripping over each other and their own feet in their haste to get out of the line of fire.

  Kelly swore softly as the trouble he had been expecting ever since the tall gunman first entered his place finally arrived. The barkeep crossed himself as he ducked behind the safety of the solid mahogany bar.

  The four Walsh gunmen whirled around as if pulled by the same string. Gus Larkin was fast. His gun was in his hand and seeking a target when Tyree’s bullet found him. The heavy .45 caliber slug smashed into the side of Larkin’s head and exited amid a red tide of blood and brain tissue.

  Tyree’s second shot took out the man called Rafe.

  Satisfied he had killed the two men he wanted most, Tyree dropped to the floor, rolling to the left and then to the right as he hosed off the remaining rounds in his gun, oblivious to the bullets whizzing around his head like angry hornets.

  He swore softly as a chunk of flying lead nicked his arm, gouging a deep furrow in his right shoulder.

  In less than a minute, four men were dead.

  Rising to his feet, Tyree reloaded the Colt and walked out of the saloon. Swinging into the saddle, he reined the gray out of town toward the Slash W Ranch.

  The Walsh spread was built around a courtyard, Spanish-style. Flowers bloomed in colorful clay pots and hanging baskets. A dozen cages housed
twice that many canaries and their cheerful trilling filled the air. A wide veranda circled the house, offering shade from the fierce desert sun.

  It was a nice-looking spread. The outbuildings gleamed with a fresh coat of whitewash, the corrals were snug and well-built, filled with blooded horses and a pair of Texas longhorns.

  A fat Mexican woman clad in a severe black bombazine dress answered Tyree’s knock.

  “Where’s your mistress?” Tyree demanded brusquely.

  “Taking a siesta,” the woman replied in stilted English. “Go away.”

  “You go get her, pronto, or I will,” Tyree said firmly. “You savvy?”

  “Sí, sí,” the woman answered quickly, and scurried toward the back of the house.

  Stepping inside, Tyree closed the door behind him, stood in the entry hall examining his surroundings. The hallway was dark, hung with several paintings of the desert and a sunset. The parlor beyond was a large, high-ceilinged room. Colorful rugs covered the floor, a few smaller ones, Navajo in design, decorated the walls. A sofa and two large chairs upholstered in dark leather were grouped around a huge stone fireplace. Several oil lamps hung from the ceiling. A life-sized statue of St. Francis stood in one corner, surrounded by lacy ferns and flowering plants. A large mirror hung over the fireplace. A shelf housed a small display of Indian pottery.

  Annabelle Walsh entered the room on silent feet. She was tall for a woman, dressed in a simple blue cotton skirt and an off-the-shoulder white blouse which was decorated with tiny blue and yellow flowers. Her hair was rich and red and fell in soft waves around her face and over her shoulders.

  She halted six feet away from Tyree, her bright green eyes running over him, appraising him in much the same way a man judged a horse he was thinking of trying.

  “You must be Logan Tyree.” Her voice was deep, husky, with a sensual quality that kindled a quick desire in Tyree’s loins.

  He nodded curtly. “And you must be Annabelle Walsh.”

  “Yes. Would you care for a drink? Food?” She glanced pointedly at the blood caked on his shoulder. “Bandages, perhaps?”