RenegadeHeart

by Madeline Baker

  “That so? Around here, folks don’t take up residence on somebody else’s land without permission.”

  “This is free range,” the squatter protested belligerently. “I checked it out before I came.”

  “You made a mistake,” Tyree said flatly. “Pack your gear and move on.”

  “I got no place else to go,” the man argued. “I’ll have my floor in by tomorrow. I plan to have the walls up before the month is out.”

  “You’d best change your plans,” Tyree warned, “or I’ll change them for you.”

  The squatter was a young man, perhaps twenty-five years old. He was square-built, as solid as oak. He had dark brown hair and blue eyes that were looking scared.

  “You’ve got five minutes to pack up and be on your way,” Tyree said curtly.

  “And if I refuse?”

  Tyree jerked a thumb at the man’s gunbelt, lying atop a flat rock some six feet away. “You can try your luck with that.”

  “I’m no gunfighter,” the man protested, backing away from Tyree.

  Tyree’s smile was deadly. “I am.”

  “You’d shoot me down, in cold blood?” the young man asked incredulously.

  “No. You’ll have your chance. Buckle on that gunbelt.”

  “No.”

  “Then ride on.”

  The squatter stared at Tyree, his emotions as transparent as the water gurgling in the nearby stream. He did not want to leave. He had sold everything he owned to make the move West. He did not want to draw against a professional gunman, and he did not want to run.

  “It’s your move,” Tyree drawled softly.

  “Damn!” The man whispered the oath as he sidled toward his gunbelt. His eyes never left Tyree’s face. Almost in slow motion, he picked up his gunbelt. Then, flinging himself to the ground, he jerked the .44 out of the holster and pulled the trigger.

  The slug went wide, missing Tyree by a good two feet. Without conscious thought, Tyree drew his gun and sighted down the barrel. The squatter stared up at him, helpless as a rabbit in a trap, too scared to pull the trigger a second time.

  Tyree’s finger was steady on the trigger and taking up the slack when Rachel’s voice sounded in the back of his mind: “A gun may not know right from wrong,” her voice accused, “but a man does.”

  Abruptly, Tyree bolstered the Colt and rode on, leaving the squatter to stare after him in open-mouthed astonishment.

  Two weeks later, Annabelle sent Tyree out again, commanding him to finish the job this time. It was dusk when he left the hacienda, a rifle across his saddle, his Colt riding heavy on his hip.

  The squatters he sought were huddled around a cheery campfire when he arrived. There were four kids under twelve, a man and a woman. The family’s lively chatter came to an abrupt halt as Tyree rode into the firelight. The woman was plump in a pleasing sort of way, with a mass of russet-colored hair, brown eyes, and rough, work-worn hands. Her face paled visibly when she saw the rifle nestled in Tyree’s capable hands.

  Her husband rose slowly to his feet, his arms dangling harmlessly at his sides. He was short and thin, with sandy brown hair, gray eyes, and a full beard. He wore a knife sheathed on his belt. An old Colt’s Dragoon was shoved into the waistband of his trousers.

  “Hi, mister,” piped one of the kids, a girl about five years old. “That sure is a pretty horse.”

  “Tessie, hush!” her mother scolded.

  “They told me in town that you’d show up,” the man said dispiritedly. “I was hoping they’d be wrong.”

  “You’re not wanted here,” Tyree said.

  “We’re staying.”

  “No.”

  Slowly, the man shook his head. “I don’t hold with killing,” he said sadly. “But you do what you have to do.”

  “Suit yourself,” Tyree murmured. He jacked a round into the breech of the Winchester, swung the barrel in the direction of the squatter’s heart.

  And couldn’t pull the trigger.

  With a heavy sigh, he lowered the rifle. “You’re on Slash W range,” he said tersely. “Don’t be here tomorrow.”

  Wheeling the gray around, he galloped into the darkness without giving the man a chance to reply.

  He was in a foul mood when he returned to the Slash W ranch house. Annabelle was waiting for him in the parlor, a question in her green eyes.

  “It’s done,” Tyree said curtly.

  “They’re dead?”

  “No.”

  The green eyes narrowed ominously. “Why didn’t you kill them?”

  “Because there was no need. The man doesn’t have the guts to stay and make a fight of it. They’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

  “What’s the matter, Tyree?” Annabelle taunted. “Lost your nerve?”

  Lazily, Tyree reached out and grabbed her arm in a grip of iron. “Is that what you think?” he challenged. He gave her arm a cruel twist, but Annabelle only laughed up at him, delighting in his easy strength.

  But later, alone, her words came back to haunt him. Had he lost his nerve? Once, he would have gunned the squatter without a second thought. But that was before Rachel, he mused. Somehow, her values, her ideals of right and wrong had become his.

  * * * * *

  The following Saturday morning Tyree rode into town. He spent the early hours of the day loafing on the porch of the Palace Hotel, watching the townspeople go about their business, amused by the surreptitious glances they slanted in his direction. Everyone knew he was working for the Slash W and there was a lot of lively speculation about his unexpected change of employers.

  Clint Wesley rode by the hotel on his way out of town shortly after noon, and Tyree felt a mild sense of relief. Sooner or later, Wesley’s devotion to duty would overcome his good sense and when that day came, Tyree would have to kill him. He was glad it would not be today.

  Moments later, Tyree saw Rachel. She was alone, standing on the boardwalk in front of the doctor’s office. She looked good enough to eat, all dolled up in a pale yellow muslin day dress, and a white straw hat bedecked with long yellow streamers. It had been over two months since the night he seduced her at the Jorgensen place, and his eyes lingered hungrily on her trim form. He frowned thoughtfully as he glanced from Rachel’s face to the doctor’s office. With a grunt, he gained his feet and moved down the street.

  Rachel frowned when she saw Tyree striding purposefully toward her. Turning on her heel, she headed in the opposite direction, but she wasn’t fast enough to elude Tyree. His hand closed firmly over her arm, halting her flight.

  “Take your hand off me!” Rachel demanded, her voice pitched low so as not to attract any undue attention.

  “Afternoon, Miss Halloran,” Tyree said with exaggerated politeness. “Sorry I’m late for our appointment.”

  “Appointment?” Rachel exclaimed angrily. “What are you talking about?”

  “The one we have now,” Tyree said. “Come on, take a walk with me.”

  “No.”

  “You’re coming with me whether you like it or not,” Tyree growled. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”

  Rachel scowled irritably. He was just insolent enough to do such a scandalous thing.

  “Oh, very well,” she relented. “But take your hand off my arm.”

  “So you can run away? Not a chance.”

  “I won’t run,” Rachel promised sullenly. “Now unhand me.”

  Reluctantly, Tyree released his grip on Rachel’s arm. Side by side, they walked down the street toward the end of town.

  Rachel stared straight ahead, acutely conscious of the man walking beside her. Her skin was still warm and tingled faintly where his hand had grasped her arm. As they strolled silently down the street, Tyree’s hand brushed hers and she pulled away, not wanting him to touch her, even though all her senses screamed for the pressure of his body next to her own. Night after night she had lain wide awake, yearning for his touch, hating him because he had dumped her for Annabelle Walsh. The thought of Tyree kissing Annab
elle made her sick at heart. Oh, it wasn’t fair, Rachel wailed in silent rage. His face haunted her dreams. Her mouth hungered for the taste of his kisses. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that she hated and despised Logan Tyree, her body continued to yearn for his touch. She missed the sound of his laughter, his sardonic smile, the way his eyes lingered on her face as soft as a caress.

  They were at the outskirts of town before Tyree broke the silence between them. “How’re things at the ranch?” he asked gruffly. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes.” Rachel’s eyes were cold when she looked at him.

  “Your old man all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are the Walsh riders giving you any more trouble?”

  “No.”

  Tyree muttered a mild oath, annoyed by her curt monosyllabic replies. He scowled blackly, his narrowed eyes moving slowly over her full breasts and tiny waist.

  “How about you?” he rasped. “Are you fine, too?”

  For a moment, Rachel frowned at him. And then her cheeks flamed with embarrassment as she perceived the real meaning of his concern for her health.

  “I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she snapped. “And if I were, I’d kill myself before I gave birth to a child sired by a varmint like you!”

  Anger flared deep in Tyree’s yellow eyes, shining bright as summer lightning before it died away. A cynical smile curved his mouth-line. “‘Death to dishonor’,” he drawled lazily.

  “Honor!” Rachel’s laugh was cold. “What would you know about honor, you…you—” She stamped her foot in frustration as words failed her.

  “Murderer?” Tyree supplied the word, his tone hard as flint. “Despoiler of fair damsels?”

  “Yes,” Rachel lashed out scathingly. “You’re all those things and worse.” She lifted her head, her clear blue eyes burning into his. “A man was found dead near Coyote Butte last month. You killed him, didn’t you?”

  “If I said no, would you believe me?”

  “If you didn’t kill him, who did?”

  “Yarnell.”

  “Why?”

  “The man was on Slash W land,” Tyree answered tersely. “Annabelle wanted him off.”

  “That’s open range and you know it,” Rachel retorted.

  “The Slash W has been grazing cattle there for years. Annabelle considers it a part of the ranch.”

  “And Annabelle always gets what she wants, doesn’t she?” The words “including you” hung unspoken in the air between them. “Tell me, Tyree, how much did Annabelle pay you to gun that man down in cold blood?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “I don’t believe you. Everyone knows that’s why Annabelle hired you. Did you give that man the same chance you gave Job Walsh?”

  “Dammit, Rachel, back off!”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’ve developed a conscience at this late date?”

  That was the trouble, Tyree thought bitterly. He had developed a conscience.

  He glared at Rachel, confused by the anger he felt. His hands were balled into tight fists at his sides, and a muscle worked in his jaw. For a moment, Rachel feared she had pushed him too far and that he might strike her. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving her standing in the hot sun feeling alone and strangely sad.

  Tyree was in a foul mood the rest of the day. Maybe a leopard couldn’t change his spots. Maybe it was too late to try. He had never thought of himself as a murderer before, not really. Sure, he’d gunned down more than a dozen men, but never, without a call. Never in cold blood. Damn her! Who was she to judge him? If it hadn’t been for his gun, her old man would be dead by now, and Job Walsh would be running his cattle on the Lazy H.

  Annabelle looked at Tyree with a question in her eyes more than once as the day wore on, but he remained stubbornly silent, refusing to be drawn into any conversation, answering her questions in as few words as possible. He drank several glasses of wine with dinner and later, sitting alone on the veranda, he emptied a bottle of tequila.

  Wisely, Annabelle left Tyree alone. There was little about men she feared, but the look in Tyree’s eye carried a warning she was loath to challenge.

  It was late when Annabelle went to bed. Lying there alone, she stared out the window at the stars. For weeks, she had been trying to seduce Tyree, but to no avail. No matter how she teased, no matter how brazenly she coaxed, he never touched her. No other man had ever been able to resist her charms. No other man had ever filled her with such desire.

  Unable to sleep, she drew on a thin cotton wrapper and went outside.

  Tyree was there, standing in the yard, his profile dark and unfathomable. He was shirtless and the sight of his lean bronze torso stirred Annabelle as never before, making her blood sing with desire.

  Tyree turned at the sound of her footsteps. It took but one look at Annabelle’s face to know what she wanted and he expelled a deep, shuddering sigh as he took her in his arms and kissed her. Why not make love to Annabelle? She wanted him. She didn’t care how many men he had killed. She didn’t care about a damn thing.

  And that was what was wrong with her.

  With a vile oath, he pushed her away. He did not want Annabelle Walsh. He wanted a girl with flaxen hair and eyes as blue as a summer sky. He wanted Rachel, blushing and modest in his arms.

  “Tyree?”

  He shook his head. “Forget it,” he muttered, and stalked out of the yard, leaving Annabelle to stare after him, a puzzled expression on her lovely face.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Autumn came in a colorful panorama of changing leaves, of warm, sun-kissed days and crisp, cool nights. And now, at last, there was peace between the Slash W and the Lazy H.

  John Halloran hired three new cowhands. They hailed from Montana and they were young and strong and eager to work. Halloran was pleased with their enthusiasm and he began making plans for a cattle drive the following spring.

  In late October, he began courting Claire Whiting, the seamstress in Yellow Creek, and he went around the house whistling cheerfully, his steps lighter than they had been in years. Claire made him feel young, carefree, and life was suddenly good again.

  Rachel was happy to see her father in such high spirits, but she could not shake the gloomy feelings that permeated her days and nights. In an effort to dispel the lassitude that gripped her, she threw herself into a fit of housecleaning, dusting furniture and waxing floors as if her very life depended on shiny tabletops and slick parquet. Windows sparkled, wood surfaces gleamed. Curtains and bedspreads and tablecloths were washed and ironed until they looked like new. Cupboards and closets were duly put in order, rugs were aired, pillows were fluffed. A fresh coat of paint covered the walls in the kitchen.

  Rachel worked unceasingly as if, by keeping herself constantly busy, she could keep all thought of Logan Tyree at bay, hoping, perhaps, that she could sweep Tyree’s memory from her heart as easily as she swept the dust from the floors.

  Why, of all men, did she have to fall in love with a man like Tyree? And now that he was out of her life, why couldn’t she forget him?

  When the house was so clean there was nothing left to do, she turned her attention to the bunkhouse, putting up curtains, waxing the plank floor, airing the mattresses, refurbishing the beds. John Halloran grinned and shook his head helplessly when the men began to complain that Rachel was turning their world upside down.

  “If this keeps up, she’s gonna have us in ruffled shirts and patent-leather boots,” Candido grumbled. “Hell, this is a bunkhouse, not the White House!”

  When Rachel ran out of chores to keep her busy at the ranch, she began to spend time in town with her friend, Carol Ann. Together, they shopped for material and patterns and began sewing new dresses for church. Carol Ann was like a breath of fresh air, her idle gossip about the townspeople humorous and harmless. Betty Miller was pregnant with number six. Lydia Foreman was engaged. One of the blacksmith’s sons had r
un away with a saloon girl, shaming his family and friends.

  Spending so much time in town, Rachel could not help seeing Clint Wesley. His attention was like a healing balm to her aching heart. Clint was everything Tyree was not, everything a woman could want in a man. He was kind, polite, attentive, eager to please her. He brought her flowers and candy, took her for long walks, escorted her to church and to parties. He was tolerant of her quicksilver mood changes. He complimented her beauty, admired her new dress, was never crude or demanding or unkind. If only she could love him, Rachel lamented. If only his shy kisses had the power to make her heart beat with excitement the way Tyree’s did. Clint was so unfailingly sweet, why couldn’t she love him as he deserved? Why did her heart continue to yearn for a scoundrel like Logan Tyree?

  It was late one blustery afternoon when Rachel drove into town, bent on a visit to Lulu Mae’s Millinery Shoppe, her heart set on a darling bonnet she had seen in the window the day before.

  Stepping from the buggy, she was halfway across the street when she saw Annabelle Walsh walking down the boardwalk, one gloved hand laid possessively over Tyree’s arm.

  A sharp pain tore through Rachel’s heart when Tyree looked down into Annabelle’s face, laughing softly at something Annabelle had said. Why did Tyree have to be in town today, of all days? And why did he have to look so devilishly handsome? As usual, he was dressed all in black except for a red silk scarf that was loosely knotted at his throat. Rachel tried not to notice how the black silk shirt clung to his broad shoulders, or the way the tight whipcord britches outlined his long muscular legs. He wore expensive black kid boots and a black Stetson hat, and she wondered, peevishly, if Annabelle had paid for his clothing.

  Quivering with jealousy, Rachel tried not to stare at Annabelle Walsh. She had to admit, if grudgingly, that the woman was beautiful. Her hair was a glorious shade of red, her eyes as green as new grass, her smooth skin flawless. Her figure, clad in a gaudy blue and yellow striped dress, could not be faulted.

  Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, Rachel walked past the couple, her eyes riveted on the rectangular red and white sign that hung over the doorway to Lulu Mae’s salon.