RenegadeHeart

by Madeline Baker

  Breakfast seemed to last longer than usual. Rachel was thrilled that Tyree was sitting across from her at the table, that he was really here at last. She could not keep her eyes from his face, could not keep her heart from racing each time he looked in her direction. And yet, she felt uncomfortable when their eyes met. She kept waiting for him to make some veiled remark about the night before. What did he think of her? She professed to hate him, and yet she had fallen into his arms without so much as a verbal protest, her lips eager for his kiss, her body all too ready for his.

  When the meal was over, Tyree and her father returned to the parlor, leaving Rachel to tidy up the kitchen. She cleared the table and washed and dried the dishes, hardly conscious of what she was doing. Instead, she was haunted by the memory of Tyree bending over her, his amber eyes alight with desire, his hands gliding over her flesh, arousing her, pleasing her…

  Thrusting the image aside, she began to sweep the kitchen floor, but Tyree’s swarthy countenance kept intruding on her thoughts. All too clearly, she could picture his dark handsome face and recall the way his body felt pressed against her own. He had a handsome physique, as well, all hard muscle and bronzed flesh. True, he carried a multitude of scars on his back and chest from old wounds, but somehow they did not repulse her or mar his appearance in the least.

  She spent the rest of the morning baking bread and doing a few chores, always conscious of Tyree’s presence in the house.

  After lunch, Tyree and her father got involved in a game of five card stud while Rachel sat in a chair near the fireplace, a pile of mending in her lap. A fire blazed cheerfully in the hearth, and only the sound of the men’s voices and the sharp crackle of the flames disturbed the companionable silence of the room. Somehow, it seemed right for Tyree to be in the house, and Rachel felt strangely content each time she glanced up and saw him comfortably slouched in the chair across from her father.

  Dinner passed peacefully, with the men talking amiably about politics and the rising price of beef. Rachel said little, but she did not feel left out of their conversation. Indeed, she felt warm and secure, seated between the two men she loved best in all the world. For she did love him, in spite of everything.

  About ten o’clock, Rachel and her father bid Tyree good night, leaving him alone in the parlor. Alone for the first time that day, Tyree pulled off his boots and rolled a cigarette. Staring into the fireplace, he tried to remember when he had spent a more pleasant day.

  Halloran was good company and he had enjoyed talking to the old man. But it was Rachel who had made the day special, even though they hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words. Nevertheless, he had been acutely aware of her presence in the house, even when she was in another room. Once or twice, it had taken every ounce of his willpower to keep from reaching out to touch her, and it was only the fact that her father slept in the room next to hers that kept him from going to her now.

  Stripping off his shirt, Tyree stretched out on the rug in front of the hearth and closed his eyes, only to snap to attention as someone tiptoed into the room and closed the door.

  “Rachel!” Tyree murmured, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “I…I forgot something.”

  Tyree lifted one black brow. “That so?” he asked, his voice suddenly husky.

  Rachel nodded. She looked beguilingly beautiful standing there in a lacy white nightgown embroidered with dainty pink rosebuds. Her long honey-gold hair fell over her shoulders in wild abandon. Her deep blue eyes were wide and scared.

  Afraid he would frighten her off, Tyree made no move toward her, though he wanted desperately to go to her, to take her in his arms.

  Rachel coughed nervously. Coming here had seemed like such a good idea when she had been safe in her own room. She wanted Tyree. She admitted it freely, and so she had padded down the hallway, her heart pounding with excitement and anticipation. But now, with his eyes on her face, she felt shy and uncertain.

  “I left my…my book in here and I…please don’t make this hard for me, Tyree,” she whispered plaintively. “We both know why I’m here.”

  “Yeah,” he said softly, and held out his arms.

  Rachel let out a breathy sigh as she moved into Tyree’s arms. She spread her hands across his bare back, her face burrowing into the hollow of his shoulder. For long seconds he held her close, his hand moving soft as a whisper over her back and shoulders. She could hear the faint beating of his heart, feel her own heart pounding a quick tattoo as his fingers threaded through her hair. She drew a deep breath and the scent of cigarette smoke and leather and man filled her nostrils, stirring her desire.

  Gently, he tipped her face up, his head descending toward hers, blocking everything else from her sight. His eyes were like a deep yellow flame, and when his mouth closed over hers, she felt the fire of his kiss all the way to her toes. His lips played across her face, as gentle as rain, nourishing her desire. Her limbs felt suddenly weak, her pulse was racing, her stomach fluttering wildly.

  “Tyree.” She breathed his name, her voice shaky, her eyes clouded with passion.

  “I know,” he murmured huskily. “I know.”

  Carefully, he stretched out on the rug, drawing her down beside him. His hands and lips were gentle, unhurried, as though she were a rare treasure that must not be handled roughly, a fine wine that must be sipped to be appreciated.

  Sensations and emotions swirled through her, wrapping her in a cocoon that knew nothing but Tyree’s touch, nothing but the pleasure of his kisses.

  He caressed the nightgown from her shoulders, his mouth savoring each inch of her skin, his amber eyes telling her she was beautiful, desirable. She ran her fingertips over his back and shoulders, across his broad chest, over his hard, flat belly. She uttered a wordless cry of protest when she encountered his trousers and he shrugged them off, grinning at her impatience, then gasped with pleasure as she stroked his thigh.

  At last, when she could stand the sweet pain of wanting no more, she drew him close, her arms and legs wrapping around him, certain she would die if he did not satisfy the desire he had aroused.

  They came together with a rush, mouths fused together, bodies joined in passion’s embrace, as wave after wave of pleasure broke over them. There was no past, no future, only their love, as old as time, as new as the dawn.

  For the second time in as many days, Rachel woke in her own bed with no recollection of how she had arrived there. But this morning she felt no shame for what had gone on the night before, no regret, only a warm sense of fulfillment.

  Stretching languidly, she gazed out the window, and sighed heavily as her joy turned to ashes. The storm was over and a brilliant sun was rising in the east. Flouncing over onto her stomach, she punched her fist into her pillow. Tyree would be going home now. The words, “Home to Annabelle” whispered in the back of her mind, filling her with bitter despair. How could she have forgotten Annabelle?

  She dressed slowly, putting off going downstairs because she didn’t want to know if Tyree had already gone. So long as she was in her room, she could pretend he was downstairs in the kitchen, drinking coffee with her father.

  She brushed her hair carefully, just in case Tyree was still in the house, applied a bit of color to her mouth. Squaring her shoulders, she started down the stairs. If he was gone, he was gone, and if he wasn’t, she was wasting precious time.

  Happiness bubbled inside her when she entered the kitchen and found Tyree sitting at the table. He seemed to be in no hurry to return to the Slash W, but spent the morning in the kitchen, chatting with her father as he drank one cup of black coffee after another.

  Rachel left them there while she moved through the house doing her regular morning chores. For some reason, she found herself singing as she worked and she realized with a start that she hadn’t felt like singing since Tyree left the Lazy H months ago.

  Damn Logan Tyree! Why was it that he was the only man who had the power to stir the passion in her soul? Why didn’t sh
e feel the same quivering excitement in her flesh when Clint held her tight? Why was it that Tyree had only to look at her to make her blood sing and her heart beat like a wild thing caught in a trap?

  She puzzled over her feelings while she made the beds and dusted the furniture. Tyree was going back to the Slash W. Back to Annabelle’s voluptuous charms. The Lazy H was on the verge of being wiped out. They had no livestock left except their saddle horses, a few pigs and chickens; no cash money to speak of, no prospects for the future. But she was singing, and all because Logan Tyree was in the house!

  She had missed Tyree. She had worked hard at hating him ever since he had gone to work for Annabelle Walsh, reminding herself time and again that he was a killer, a hired gun with no scruples and no conscience to speak of. He had promised to marry her and then changed his mind, never telling her the reason except to say that Annabelle had made him a better offer. He had ridden out of her life without so much as a backward glance, offering no explanation for his behavior, no apology. Now, without rhyme or reason, he was back, threatening to steal her heart a second time. Oh, it wasn’t fair!

  Still, for the first time in months, her heart was light and she was happy, and she knew it was all because Logan Tyree was sitting in the kitchen. Just knowing he was nearby made her feel vibrant and alive, and she hurried through her chores, anxious to return to the kitchen, always afraid he would leave without saying goodbye.

  Breathless, she almost ran into the kitchen. Tyree was still there, his long legs crossed negligently in front of him, his hat pushed back on his head.

  Tyree’s hand reached out to brush hers as she moved to the countertop and began slicing apples for a pie. His touch went through her like an electric shock.

  “I don’t know what we’ll do, come spring,” her father was saying. “I owe Mort Walker a sizeable debt. I’d planned to pay him out of next year’s calf crop, but now…” Halloran shrugged and stared out the window, his brow furrowed. If Lew Harris over at the Cattleman’s Bank wouldn’t give him an extension on their loan, they would have to sell the ranch to pay the mortgage. The thought rankled. Ellen was buried here. And Tommy. Rachel’s roots were here. It was the only home she had ever known. He could not let the place go. He just couldn’t. Discouraged, Halloran muttered something to Tyree about going out to check on the horses and left the house, his steps heavy with defeat.

  Rachel concentrated mightily on the ingredients she was measuring into a bowl, keenly aware of Tyree’s eyes on her back, and of the fact that they were alone in the house. Where only moments before she had been glad that Tyree was still here, she now wished he would just go and get it over with.

  She heard the scrape of a chair as he pushed away from the table and her hands began to tremble. He was standing behind her. She could feel his presence there and she grew suddenly tense as she waited for him to take her in his arms. She knew a moment of swift disappointment when nothing happened.

  Abruptly, she whirled around. His yellow cat’s eyes trapped hers in a long, lingering gaze filled with desire and Rachel felt her knees go weak as he reached for her. She experienced a moment of panic, not because he was going to take her in his arms, but because she was so helpless to resist him. Her feet felt rooted to the floor and she swayed against him, powerless to stem the powerful urgings of her own heart.

  Tyree’s kiss was gentle, his hands light on her shoulders as he drew her close. Time seemed to stand still and Rachel wished that she could stay thus in his arms forever.

  With a muffled oath, Tyree turned away and strode out the back door, leaving Rachel to stare after him. For a moment, she was speechless, and then she ran out the door after him, calling his name.

  Tyree stopped, waiting for her to catch up. His expression was cold when he turned to face her.

  “I love you,” Rachel said in a rush. “Please don’t go back to Annabelle.”

  “Don’t waste your love on me, Rachel,” Tyree said in a rough tone. “I’m not worth it.”

  “You are!”

  “No. I’m all the things you accused me of being when I first came here.”

  “I don’t believe that. Not anymore.”

  “You believed it well enough then.”

  “Please stay, Tyree. I’ll make you happy. I’ll live and die for you. Please don’t go.”

  “Rachel, I…” He swore under his breath. The love shining in her eyes reached out to him, warmer than the summer sun, trusting as a young child who believed wanting something bad enough could make it so.

  Tyree gazed into Rachel’s eager, upturned face. He had never intended to make love to her. He had only wanted to see her, make certain she and her father were doing all right. Even when he had kissed her that first night, he had expected nothing more, but she had been on fire for him, her arms stealing around his neck, her body pressing against his, arousing his own. What had happened that night and the next had seemed so right at the time. But now, when he was about to return to the Slash W and Annabelle, it all seemed so wrong.

  Feeling like the worst kind of heel, Tyree turned and walked quickly toward the barn.

  Rachel did not follow him.

  Annabelle was furious when she found out where Tyree had weathered the storm. She ranted and raved for three days, calling him all manner of names, names no decent woman should even know, let alone speak aloud. Tyree let her carry on until, at last, she ran out of steam.

  “I’m going into town,” he said the morning of the fourth day. “You want anything?”

  “Town?” Annabelle queried suspiciously. “What for?”

  “I don’t think it’s any of your business how I spend my free time,” Tyree drawled, grinning at her in a way that made her eyes flare with anger.

  “Well, you’re wrong!” Annabelle shrieked. “You don’t have any free time. I bought your time, gunfighter. And paid for it. All of it. And don’t you forget it.”

  “Whatever you say,” Tyree muttered, unruffled by her outburst. “I’ll be back early.”

  Mort Walker was a short, florid-faced individual with round blue eyes and chin whiskers the color of tobacco. He looked askance at Tyree as the gunman pressed a wad of currency into his fat little hand, admonishing him to mark John Halloran’s debt paid in full, and to keep quiet about where the money came from.

  “Yessir, Mr. Tyree,” Walker agreed in a cowed tone. “I don’t want any trouble with you.”

  “And you won’t get any so long as you keep your mouth shut about this.”

  Lew Harris was a tall, dignified gentleman with a mane of silver hair and eyes the color of pewter. He readily accepted Tyree’s money in payment on the Halloran loan, but protested at having to keep Tyree’s name out of the transaction.

  “I’ll have to tell Mr. Halloran something when he asks where the money came from,” Harris protested briskly.

  “Tell him anything you want,” Tyree replied with a wry grin. “Anything but the truth.”

  “You don’t expect me to lie?” Harris gasped, horrified.

  “I don’t care what you do,” Tyree warned. “But Halloran is not to know where that money came from. And if he finds out, I’ll be back.”

  Tyree’s threat to return produced the desired results. “Very well,” Harris agreed meekly. “I’ll think of something.”

  Satisfied with the day’s events, Tyree went to Bowsher’s Saloon to while away the rest of the afternoon. There would be hell to pay if Annabelle found out who had settled Halloran’s debts, he mused, but he didn’t really care. Annabelle was at her best when she was mad. Perhaps that was why she got mad so often.

  It was after midnight when he returned to the Slash W. There was a light burning in Annabelle’s room and he stepped inside without knocking, intending to tell her he had picked up her mail while he was in town. He grinned as Morgan Yarnell’s curly red head popped up from under the covers, his expression sheepish and smug at the same time.

  “Sorry,” Tyree murmured. Stifling the urge to laugh, he backed ou
t of the room and closed the door.

  Yarnell accosted Tyree early the next morning, a satisfied smirk on his handsome young face, a challenge lurking in the back of his deep-set brown eyes.

  “Knock first, next time,” Yarnell said curtly.

  “What makes you think you’ll have a next time?” Tyree retorted.

  “Because she’s through with you,” Yarnell said insolently. “From now on, it’s me and Annabelle. You’re out of it.”

  “That so?”

  Yarnell swelled up like a turkey gobbler. “You heard me say so, didn’t you?”

  Tyree shrugged indifferently. “I’ve heard you say you’re the fastest man with a gun, too, but that doesn’t make it so.”

  “Just name the time and the place, old man,” Yarnell said daringly. “I’ll be there.”

  The next day was Sunday. Tyree slept late and woke to the sound of gunfire. His first thought was that someone was attacking the ranch, but then he realized some of the hands were indulging in a little target practice to while away the time.

  Rising, Tyree pulled on his pants and boots and made his way to the kitchen where he poured himself a cup of coffee before going out onto the back veranda.

  In the yard, Yarnell and three other men were shooting at bottles lined up along the top rail of the nearest corral.

  Tyree watched with professional interest as Morgan Yarnell drew and fired. The man was fast, and he never missed. The other slingers were good, too. They hit their targets nine times out of ten, and they unleathered their weapons with little wasted motion, but they lacked the inbred eye-and-hand coordination that came naturally to men like Yarnell. And men like Tyree.

  Yarnell turned around, expecting to see Annabelle on the veranda. The welcome in his eyes turned to contempt when he saw Tyree.

  “Like to try a few, gunfighter?” Yarnell said with a sneer.

  “Only kids waste their time showing off,” Tyree retorted disdainfully.