RenegadeHeart

by Madeline Baker

  Annabelle’s hand tightened on Tyree’s arm as Rachel Halloran glided swiftly past, her skirts held to one side, as if she were too good to associate with anyone from the Slash W.

  “Little snit,” Annabelle thought sourly. What had Tyree ever seen in John Halloran’s old maid daughter? Rachel’s face was as cold as stone. Little wonder she was still unmarried. Bedding her would probably be as exciting as bedding a dead fish.

  Tyree’s mouth thinned in an angry line as Rachel hurried past him without so much as a glance. For a brief moment, he was tempted to reach out and grab her arm, to pull her to him and kiss the blank expression from her face. But he could not do that. He had lost all right to Rachel when he consented to work for the Slash W. Mouthing an obscenity, he tore his gaze from Rachel’s back and pretended to be interested in what Annabelle was saying.

  Inside Lulu Mae’s Millinery Shoppe, Rachel leaned against the door frame, fighting the urge to cry. Damn him, damn him, damn him! Why did seeing Tyree with Annabelle have to hurt so much? Foolishly, she felt betrayed, almost as if she had seen her husband with another woman. She was being ridiculous, and she knew it. Tyree was nothing to her. Nothing at all. She had no claim on him. And yet, they had once been as close as a man and woman could be. Once, he had bared his soul to her. Then, apparently without even a smidgen of regret, he had turned to another woman.

  With a sigh, Rachel closed her eyes, and for a moment a horrible picture danced across her mind, a vivid image of Tyree bending over Annabelle, caressing her long red hair, whispering tender words of love in her ear…

  The image was too awful, and she opened her eyes to find Lulu Mae Harding staring at her curiously.

  “Aren’t you feeling well, Miss Halloran?” the pudgy shopkeeper inquired solicitously. “You look…upset.”

  I’m fine,” Rachel said, forcing a wan smile. “I just felt a little faint for a moment.”

  “Too much sun, perhaps?” Lulu Mae murmured sympathetically.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Rachel agreed quickly. “Could I see the hat in the window? The blue one?”

  Distracted by the prospect of a sale, Lulu Mae hurried to the display in the front window and carefully removed the hat Rachel had mentioned.

  “This is perfect for you,” Lulu Mae gushed. She placed the bonnet on Rachel’s head, tied the wide blue ribbon under Rachel’s chin. “My dear, this hat was made for you. Why, it makes your eyes glow!”

  “I’ll take it,” Rachel said. “Put it on my account, will you?”

  Without waiting for Lulu Mae’s reply, Rachel hurried out of the shop. She had to get away, to be alone with her thoughts.

  Rachel wore the blue hat to church the following Sunday, graciously accepted Clint’s compliment on how becoming it was. She got little out of the meeting, however, for engraved in her mind was the picture of Tyree walking beside Annabelle. His face, lean and brown and maddeningly attractive, seemed to mock her heartache. She had been right about him all along, she thought morosely. He was no good, nothing but a drifter, a man completely without morals or scruples. Once, she had been certain there was some good hidden beneath his gruff exterior. She had convinced herself of that the day he rescued Amy from harm’s way. She had even convinced herself that his words and kisses were sincere, that he had truly cared for her. Now she knew she had only been kidding herself. The nights they had spent in each other’s arms, those nights she cherished even now, had meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. Even his promise to marry her had proved to be nothing but a lie.

  “Annabelle made me a better offer,” he had said, and had ridden out of her life without a backward glance.

  Clint took her for a buggy ride after church. They stopped for a while beside a lazy stream, content to sit in the shade while the horse munched on the sparse yellow grass.

  “Dinner tonight?” Clint asked.

  “Of course,” Rachel replied. “You know how my father enjoys your company.”

  “And you?” Clint asked in a low voice. “Do you still enjoy my company?”

  “Of course,” Rachel said quickly. “Did you really arrest Mr. Pedersen for beating his wife last night? Carol Ann said he spent the night in jail.”

  Distracted, Clint launched into the story of Pedersen’s arrest.

  Returning home later that afternoon, Rachel removed the becoming blue bonnet. Placing it carefully in a hat box, she placed it on a shelf in her closet, knowing she would never wear it again. Knowing that every time she saw that hat, she would remember Tyree walking with Annabelle.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Winter settled over the land. The rain, long overdue, came with a vengeance, flooding the gullies and arroyos, filling the natural granite tanks in the mountains to overflowing. The toads were treacherous, and people left their homes only when absolutely necessary. The Slash W lost a hundred head of cattle in the season’s first big snowstorm.

  For the time being, the fighting between the Slash W and the squatters was over. The settlers migrating westward would not be a problem again until after spring, and Tyree looked forward to a quiet, peaceful winter. He spent most of his time sprawled on the couch in the parlor, staring into the fire that burned night and day in the big stone fireplace, his thoughts obviously far away.

  Annabelle fretted over Tyree’s brooding silence, but he turned a deaf ear to her tantrums and tirades. He ignored her sultry looks, shrugged off her eager caresses.

  But Annabelle was a hot-blooded woman, one who could not go long without a man. And when Tyree continued to shun her favors, she salved her humiliation by taking a young gunman known as Morgan Yarnell under her wing. But even that failed to provoke a response from Tyree. And after awhile, Annabelle stopped trying to make Tyree jealous. Whatever was bothering him would pass. And until then, there was always Yarnell.

  Tyree was faintly amused by Annabelle’s behavior, but he had other things on his mind and when being cooped up in the house got to be more than he could stand, he saddled the gray and rode out across the vast Slash W range. Riding became a daily ritual, but no matter in which direction he started out, he invariably wound up on the outskirts of the Lazy H. He went there hoping to catch a glimpse of Rachel, though he would not admit such a thing even to himself. Sometimes he caught sight of her in the window of the Halloran house as she stared out at the blanket of snow that covered the land, but she never left the protection of the house, and he never rode into the yard.

  Christmas Eve came, and the Slash W ranch house glittered with shiny decorations and candles. Annabelle bought lavish gifts for everyone in her employ, hired hands, household servants, the boy who gathered the eggs, no one was left out. Her gift to Tyree was a new Winchester rifle. It was a handsome weapon, beautifully wrought, with his name intricately worked into the smooth rosewood stock.

  Tyree gave Annabelle a delicate ruby teardrop on a fine gold chain.

  The new year came amid a raging storm that dropped three feet of snow in two days. The cowhands worked doubly hard now, loading hay onto a great flatbed wagon and hauling it out to the range to feed the hungry cattle that bawled for food. Tyree smiled ruefully as he watched the wagon plough through the drifts of snow. Buffalo and horses would paw through the snow to search for food, but not a cow.

  And still the elements raged. Snow had to be shoveled from the roof of the house, pathways had to be shoveled between the buildings. Ice had to be removed from the water troughs. Cattle died, and their carcasses lay like fallen statues in the deep snow. The river froze solid. The trees stood naked and forlorn in the howling wind, their branches sagging beneath a blanket of white.

  Tyree grew increasingly restless. He paced the parlor floor until Annabelle feared he would wear a rut in the carpet. He grew quick-tempered and even more sullen until the servants refused to be in the same room with him, and even the other gunmen began to give him a wide berth.

  The first day there was a break in the weather, Tyree threw a saddle on the gray and rode out across the stark white wild
erness. Everyone on the Slash W was glad to see him go.

  Tyree drew in a deep breath as he left the Walsh hacienda behind. Nothing moved on the face of the land save for the gray stud plodding laboriously through the deep drifts.

  Tyree had gone a good ten miles when fat, lacey snowflakes began to fall. Just what they needed, he thought glancing skyward. Another storm. Reining the gray to a halt, Tyree checked his bearings. He was about halfway between the Slash W and the Lazy H, and for a moment he remained undecided. Then, clucking to the stud, he urged the animal toward the Halloran spread, feeling good for the first time in weeks.

  John Halloran’s eyes widened when he opened the door and saw Logan Tyree standing on the porch, hat in hand.

  “Something wrong?” the old man asked.

  “No. Mind if I come in?”

  “I guess not,” Halloran said warily. “You look like you could use a drink, and a few minutes before the fire.”

  “Obliged,” Tyree replied. He shook the snow from his hat before stepping into the hallway.

  “What brings you out on a day like this?” Halloran inquired, leading the way into the parlor. He poured two drinks, handed one to Tyree. “Sit,” he invited. “Make yourself at home.”

  Taking a place on the sofa, Tyree stretched his long legs out in front of him. The whiskey was prime, and the fire and the smooth liquor quickly chased the chill from his bones.

  The parlor was a comfortable room, done in rich mahogany and native stone. A gun rack held several Henry repeaters and an old Sharps buffalo gun. There was a bearskin rug on the floor, a rack of antlers over the mantle. It was definitely a man’s room, and Tyree wondered how long Ellen Halloran had been dead. The only evidence he could find to indicate a woman’s touch was a vase of dried desert flowers on one of the tables.

  “I hear Annabelle lost some stock,” Halloran remarked after a lengthy silence.

  “Yeah, a couple hundred head or so. How about you?”

  Halloran made a vague gesture of defeat. “All dead. Somebody burned my winter hay a while back. The cows that didn’t freeze to death died hungry.” He laughed bitterly. “I guess we’re broke for sure.” The old man stared vacantly into the fireplace. “I had to let Candido and the others go. I guess, come spring, Annabelle will run me out.” There was a thinly veiled look of accusation in Halloran’s eyes when he glanced at his guest.

  “You think I’ll come gunning for you?” Tyree asked flatly.

  “I don’t know,” Halloran answered honestly. “I’d like to think not.”

  “But…”

  Halloran raised his shoulders, then let them drop. “I keep remembering Job Walsh. I paid you five hundred dollars and you gunned him down without a second thought. And now…”

  “And now I’m working for Annabelle,” Tyree muttered with a sigh. “And she can afford to pay more than five hundred dollars.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Stop worrying, Halloran. If she wants this place, come spring, she’ll buy you out.”

  “Annabelle seems to have a great deal of money,” Rachel said from the doorway. “And yet, I hear she’s paying you more than just cash for your services.” There was contempt in her tone and in her eyes as she stepped into the room.

  A muscle worked in Tyree’s jaw. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “It’s all over town. Are you going to deny it?”

  “Would you believe me if I did?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  Tyree scowled at her as she took a seat in one of the big brown leather chairs that flanked the fireplace, trying to ignore the way the blue wool dress she was wearing outlined her figure, and the way the flames danced in her hair, highlighting the thick golden mass with streaks of red. Looking at her stirred a familiar ache in his loins.

  “Just what are you doing here, Mr. Tyree?” Rachel asked bluntly.

  “I came by to see how you and your old man were making out,” Tyree replied curtly, angered by her rude tone of voice, and by the disdain shining in her eyes.

  “Why?”

  “Rachel!”

  “Oh, Pa, how can you sit here and talk to him like he’s a long lost friend? You know he’s only here because Annabelle sent him to spy on us.”

  “Dammit, that’s not true!” Tyree hurled the words at Rachel. “I came because…” The sentence died unfinished. “I’d better be going.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Halloran chided gruffly. “You can’t ride in this weather. You’ll freeze before you get out of the yard.”

  “Good riddance,” Rachel muttered under her breath, then flushed guiltily when she realized Tyree had heard her.

  “I don’t think I’m welcome here,” Tyree said with a wry grin. “But thanks for the drink and the fire.”

  “I’m still the boss in this house,” Halloran declared, silencing Rachel with a sharp glance. “And I won’t have you riding out in this storm. Supper’s about ready. And there’s enough for one more. Isn’t there, daughter?”

  “Yes, Pa,” Rachel answered sullenly.

  “Good. It’s settled then. You’ll stay the night, Tyree. And tomorrow, too, if the weather doesn’t clear.”

  When dinner was over they gathered in the parlor again, around the fireplace. Outside, the wind howled and the elements raged, but inside it was warm and comfortable, save for the strained atmosphere between Rachel and Tyree.

  John Halloran rambled on about crops and cattle and the advantages of barn feeding as opposed to pasture feeding until he ran out of small talk. Lighting his pipe, he stared at the flames, letting his thoughts wander back to the nights when Ellen had sat beside him, her small hand in his, her face warm with love as they dreamed and planned for the future. He remembered how beautiful she had been when she sat with Tommy at her breast, her face glowing like the Virgin Mary’s.

  Feeling a sudden tightness in his throat, Halloran rose abruptly to his feet and left the room.

  “I’ll be saying good night, too,” Rachel said, after her father left the parlor. “You can sleep in here, on the sofa, if you like. It’ll be warmer than the spare bedroom.”

  “What’s the matter, Rachel?” Tyree challenged. “Afraid to be alone with me?”

  Rachel’s chin went up defiantly. “Afraid? Why should I be afraid?”

  “I don’t know,” Tyree responded softly. “You tell me.”

  He was standing in front of her, so close she could smell the heady male scent of him. She had forgotten how tall he was, how overwhelmingly masculine. His nearness dwarfed the memory of every other man she had ever known, making them all seem pale and insignificant by comparison. A slow fire started in the core of her being, rising hotter and faster with every moment that passed, and it was all she could do to keep from reaching out to touch the dark hair brushing against his shirt collar.

  Tyree’s eyes danced with amusement and with the sure knowledge of what Rachel was thinking and feeling. The current between them was like a live wire, humming with shared longing, and Tyree whispered her name as he reached out to caress the curve of her cheek.

  Rachel stood like one hypnotized as Tyree’s long brown fingers touched her skin. Slowly, he tilted her face up. Slowly, he bent down to cover her mouth with his own. Her eyelids flickered down and she swayed toward him, her arms stealing around his neck, her body molding itself to his. She had dreamed of being in his arms for so long, so long, and now he was here.

  She breathed in the scent of him, let her fingers curl in his hair. Slowly, her hands dropped to his shoulders, marveling anew at the strength there before letting her fingers trail down his back, under his shirt to caress his skin. She heard Tyree groan softly, felt the tangible proof of his rising desire, and exulted in the knowledge that he wanted her.

  It was like a dream, she thought, gazing up into Tyree’s eyes. The snow falling outside the windows, the fire filling the room with primitive warmth. It never occurred to her to refuse him. She had waited for him, wanted him, for far too long to resist now and sh
e remained passive while he undressed her, felt her cheeks blossom with color as his eyes openly admired her bare flesh. She watched through eyes dark with passion as Tyree shed his own clothing, revealing a body of bronze perfection, and then he was stretching out beside her on the couch. She turned readily in his arms, hungry for his kiss, sighing with pleasure as he made her his at last.

  Rachel woke in her own bed the following morning with no recollection of how she had gotten there. But she had no trouble recalling what had happened in the parlor the night before, and her cheeks burned with shame. How would she ever face Tyree again after her wanton behavior of the night before?

  Oh, but she would do it all again, she mused. It had been heavenly to be in his arms, to feel his touch, hear his voice. No matter that he did not love her, no matter if he looked at her in that dreadful, mocking way, it had been worth it. She was all aflutter as she wondered how to behave when she went downstairs and then a terrible thought crossed her mind. What if he had already gone?

  Jumping out of bed, she dressed quickly, brushed her hair, and flew down the stairs, her heart pounding with the need to see him again, dreading the thought that he might already be gone.

  Tyree and her father were sitting in the parlor, talking about the weather, when Rachel rushed in.

  “Mornin’, Rachel,” Tyree said pleasantly, and for once there was no mockery in his voice or his eyes.

  “Something wrong, daughter?” Halloran asked. “You came running in here like the devil was at your heels.”

  “No, Pa. I was afraid… I mean, I overslept. I’ll get breakfast.”

  Cheeks red with embarrassment, Rachel fled to the kitchen. Glancing out the window, she saw that the world was still swathed in white. A light rain began to fall while she scrambled eggs and fried up a mess of bacon.

  She was grinning as she set the table. The rain would turn the roads to slush, making travel dangerous, and that meant Tyree would have to stay another day. The thought filled her with joy and dread at the same time.