RenegadeHeart

by Madeline Baker

  “What’s the matter, old man?” Yarnell taunted maliciously. “Afraid to find out I’m faster than you are? Or afraid you’ll miss?”

  Tyree snorted. “You’ve got the fastest mouth, that’s for sure. What do you do, talk your opponents to death?”

  Yarnell turned red around the ears as the other men began to laugh. Yarnell had a quick temper, Tyree mused, and that could be dangerous.

  “I’ll take you on, any time, any place,” Yarnell shouted. “Just name it!”

  “That so?”

  “Damn right!” Yarnell took a step forward, his hands poised over his guns, a gleam of anticipation in his coffee-colored eyes. “I can outdraw you any day of the week, old man,” he boasted. “And I’m ready to prove it here and now.”

  They might have settled it then and there if Annabelle hadn’t appeared on the scene.

  “Quit it, you two!” she snapped, annoyed by their childish bickering. “There’s a squatter setting up housekeeping out near Tabletop Mesa. I don’t know how he made it here through the snow, but I want him out.” Annabelle’s green eyes settled on Tyree. “And I want them dead this time.”

  Thirty minutes later, the two gunmen rode out of the yard. Yarnell rode his horse like a knight going to battle, his eyes alert and eager, a lethal smile on his thin lips.

  Tyree rode easy in the saddle, conscious of Yarnell’s eagerness to use the pair of matched .44’s he wore in cross-draw holsters. He was like a wolf on the scent of blood, Tyree thought sourly.

  The man they had come to roust had a handsome wife and six sandy-haired kids. They were living out of an old Conestoga wagon that had seen better days. The woman was stirring up a big pot of stew when Tyree and Yarnell rode into their camp. The man was cutting timber. Slash W timber, Tyree mused absently, because this time the intruders really were on Slash W property.

  The kids were helping their father, chattering happily while they trimmed the branches off the felled trees. A boy of about three was making a pile out of wood chips.

  The man was the first to notice the two riders. His eyes were light brown and they reflected a quick apprehension as the strangers drew rein beside the wagon. He sent a glance at his rifle, propped against a log some fifteen feet away, hopelessly out of reach if there was trouble.

  The woman threw her husband an anxious look. Fear was plainly etched on her face, and in her clear blue eyes. Her hair was long and reddish-brown, the figure beneath the worn calico dress still firm and trim in spite of bearing a half-dozen children.

  “This is Slash W land,” Yarnell said brusquely. “You’re not wanted here.”

  “I was told this is open range,” the man said affably, “and I intend to homestead it.”

  “And I intend to bury you on it,” Yarnell threatened. Lazily, his hand moved toward the gun riding on his left hip.

  There was a sudden explosion as the woman pulled a little over-and-under derringer from her apron pocket and fired at Yarnell. The slug creased the young gunman’s cheek, and he hollered with pained surprise as he glared at the woman.

  The man was moving now, his face white with horror as he lunged for his rifle.

  With an oath, Tyree slapped leather and fired a round into the squatter’s shoulder. As the man fell to the ground, barely conscious, the oldest boy, a gangly youth of about sixteen, made a wild dive for his father’s rifle. Rolling to his feet, the boy leveled the gun at Tyree.

  “Don’t do it, kid,” Tyree warned.

  Shaking his head, the boy pulled back the hammer of the old Spencer rifle. His finger was white around the trigger, his face streaked with tears.

  Tyree swore softly as he lined his Colt on the boy’s right shoulder. It was a dirty business, shooting at kids, even when you weren’t shooting to kill.

  He was squeezing the trigger of the Colt when a bright red stain blossomed on the boy’s chest. A look of surprise spread over the boy’s face as the slug from Yarnell’s gun slammed him to the ground. A convulsive tremor shook his slight frame, and then he was still, his pale blue eyes wide and staring.

  Tyree’s yellow eyes drilled into Yarnell. “Don’t ever do that again,” he warned in a voice heavy with menace.

  Yarnell looked surprised. “I just saved your life!” he exclaimed, punching the spent cartridges from the cylinder of his gun.

  “I’ve been killing my own snakes since you were in three-corner pants,” Tyree said coldly. “I think I can manage just a little longer.” His mouth curved down in a disdainful smile. “Or maybe that’s how you got that big rep you’re always bragging about, killing kids.”

  “Anybody with a gun in his hand is fair game,” Yarnell said brashly.

  “That right?” Tyree’s voice was cool, soft as silk. “There’s a gun in my hand.”

  Yarnell accepted the challenge without hesitation. He was thumbing back the hammer of his Navy Colt when Tyree shot him out of the saddle.

  “Fair game,” Tyree muttered under his breath. “C’mon, ma’am,” he said, holstering his gun and swinging out of the saddle. “Let’s look after your old man.”

  Annabelle was not happy with the news of Yarnell’s death. She had grown rather fond of the young gunman in the past few weeks, as fond as she ever grew of anyone. Yarnell had been an accomplished lover and while she would have preferred to have Tyree in her bed, she knew instinctively that Yarnell had proved easier to handle.

  She was giving Tyree the rough side of her tongue in the parlor later that day when he reached out and slapped her, hard, across the face.

  “Consider that my resignation,” he drawled impudently.

  Stunned by the blow, Annabelle raised a hand to her throbbing cheek. No man had ever dared strike her. “You’ll be sorry for that,” she hissed.

  “I’ve been sorry for a lot of things lately,” Tyree replied with a shrug. “Just remember, if anything happens to Rachel or her old man, anything at all, I’ll be back to take it out of your pretty hide.”

  “Come back here!” Annabelle shrieked as he walked purposefully toward the door. “No one walks out on me. No one! Damn you, Logan Tyree, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tyree was feeling good as he rode out of the Slash W yard. At last, he was his own man again, unhindered by ties of any kind, free as the wind.

  Putting his heels to the gray’s flanks, he headed east, toward Sunset Canyon and the Mescalero. Perhaps he would hole up there for a while until he decided what his next move would be. It would be good to see the People again, to live in the old way, hear the old songs.

  He had gone about three miles when he drew the stallion to a halt in the shade of a yellow bluff. Rachel. He swore softly as the memory of the nights they had spent together came to mind. The fragrance of her hair, the way she felt in his arms, the touch and the taste and the smell of her, all were fresh in his mind, and he knew he had to see her again. Perhaps, if she still wanted him, they would get married after all, even have some kids before it was too late…

  Tyree frowned as he urged the gray to a walk. He had never thought much about getting old before, but it came to him suddenly that he was almost thirty-five. Not a vast age, by any means, but mighty old for a man in his line of work. He grunted softly as he considered getting married again. He had never really thought of it seriously, not even that night at the Jorgensen place when Rachel had begged him not to go after Larkin and the others.

  But now, somehow, the idea of settling down with Rachel didn’t sound so bad, and he smiled faintly as he reined the gray toward the Lazy H. Imagine, Logan Tyree, drifter, gunman, escaped con, a family man!

  Rachel came to the front door looking as fresh and lovely as a spring day and Tyree felt a peculiar catch in his throat. Damn, but it made him feel good just looking at her.

  “Tyree,” Rachel murmured, looking confused. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. Can I come in?”

  Rachel hesitated for just a moment, her heart beating wildly, the
n she opened the door. “Come on in. I was just making a cake. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.” He followed her into the kitchen, dropped into a chair while she took a cup from the shelf and poured him a cup of steaming black coffee.

  Rachel was flustered by Tyree’s unexpected appearance. She could feel his eyes on her back as she poured the cake batter into the pan. Sliding the pan into the oven, she turned to face him.

  “What…why are you here?” she asked anxiously. “Did Annabelle send you?”

  “I’m through with Annabelle,” Tyree said quietly. “I quit today.”

  Rachel’s smile was radiant. At last, her prayers had been answered. Secretly, she was dying to know why Tyree had quit the Slash W, but her intuition warned her not to pry. He would tell her why he had quit in his own good time, and if not, well, it didn’t really matter. He was here and that was all that mattered.

  She went willingly into his arms when he reached for her, lifted her face eagerly for his kiss, sighed as he crushed her close.

  Tyree grinned as he pressed his lips to Rachel’s hair. Once, he had asked her if she thought the love of a good woman would make him mend his evil ways. He wasn’t quite sure how she had done it, but it had worked.

  “You still want to get married?” Tyree asked gruffly.

  “Yes,” Rachel answered happily. “Oh, yes!”

  “Well, set the date. I’ll talk to your old man about it tonight, after dinner.”

  John Halloran did not seem surprised to find Tyree sitting at the dinner table that night, nor was he taken aback by the gunman’s desire to marry Rachel. He gladly gave the pair his blessing, and Rachel set the date for May 25, just three months away.

  In the days that followed, Rachel could not stop smiling. Her spirits soared, her feet flew from task to task, her eyes sparkled with happiness. A kiss from Tyree sent her smiling off to bed, a kiss in the morning set the tone for the day. She watched, pleased, as he followed her father around the Lazy H, learning the ins and outs of running a cattle ranch.

  Nights, after dinner, Tyree sat in the parlor with her father, going over the books, debating the necessity of hiring on some help for the summer.

  It was during one of their nightly sessions that Halloran remarked, “Funny thing. Somebody paid off my loan at the Cattleman’s Bank. Squared my debt at the general store, too.”

  “That right?” Tyree murmured.

  “Yeah. Wasn’t for that, we’d be out in the cold. I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have settled my accounts in town?”

  “Beats me,” Tyree muttered. “Going around doing good deeds ain’t exactly my style.”

  “Yeah,” Halloran agreed. He looked the tall gunman square in the eye. “Still, if I knew who it was, I’d sure be beholdin’ to him. He really saved my neck.”

  “Some do-gooder in town, no doubt,” Tyree suggested.

  “Okay, okay,” Halloran conceded amiably. “Have it your way. But if you ever find out who it was, you tell him thanks from the Lazy H.”

  Sunday morning, they all went to church. Tyree had gone into town earlier in the week and bought a pair of brown slacks and a cream-colored coat, as well as a couple of shirts, a new pair of boots, and a new Frontier Colt. He donned the brown pants, a tan shirt and the coat for church, and Rachel thought he looked terribly handsome in his new duds. A thrill of excitement danced along her spine as she laid her hand on his arm. And then she frowned.

  “Do you have to wear your gun to church?” she asked.

  Tyree nodded, his eyes warning her not to argue.

  “All right,” she said softly. “I understand.”

  Tyree smiled at her. “I’ll hang it up one day,” he promised. “But not just yet.”

  “Okay,” Rachel said, smiling back at him. “But I’ll hold you to it.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  The good ladies of the town treated Tyree to the same disapproving stares as before, but Tyree just tipped his hat and smiled pleasantly as he followed Rachel and her father into the pew. Tyree’s smile, when it was not cold and cruel or mocking, could charm the spots off a leopard, and several of the town dowagers began to think maybe they had misjudged the man. After all, how bad could he be if Rachel approved of him? And she quite obviously approved. A blind man could see that. Why, she hardly took her eyes off the man for a moment, and the open adoration in her eyes caused the good ladies of the town to take a second look at Logan Tyree. And they saw that, besides being something of a gentleman after all, he was quite handsome to boot. Not in the usual, clean-cut way, to be sure, but extremely handsome nevertheless.

  “You’ll have the women eating out of your hand in no time at all if you keep smiling at them like that,” Rachel teased, squeezing Tyree’s hand. “Just remember, I saw you first.”

  Tyree was all charm and sweet talk after the meeting, too. He tipped his hat to the ladies again, shook hands with several of the men, complimented the Reverend Jenkins on a fine sermon, smiled winningly at Carol Ann.

  Carol Ann returned Tyree’s smile hesitantly, then gave Rachel a friendly hug.

  “Carol Ann!” Rachel exclaimed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Guess what? Tyree and I are going to be married in May!”

  Tyree grinned good-naturedly as Carol Ann blurted, “Oh, no!”

  “I thought you would be happy for me,” Rachel said coolly, stung by her best friend’s blatant shock and disapproval.

  “I’m sorry, Rachel,” Carol Ann murmured contritely. “Truly, I am. It’s just such a surprise. I…congratulations to you both.”

  Mollified, Rachel said, “You’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Carol Ann glanced at Tyree. What did Rachel see in him? The man was a murderer, a hired killer. He had shot down four men in Bowsher’s Saloon not very long ago, and everyone said he had killed Job Walsh in cold blood. She flushed guiltily as Tyree’s eyes met hers, quickly looked away.

  “Can you come over Friday?” Rachel asked, excited once more. “We’ll have to decide on colors and I want you to help me with a pattern and, oh, there’s so much to do. You will help me?”

  “Of course I will. See you Friday. Good day, Mr. Halloran. Mr. Tyree.”

  Tyree was frowning as he handed Rachel into the buggy. “You’re not going to turn our wedding into a big shindig, are you?”

  “Not too big,” Rachel promised, smoothing her skirt over her hips. “But I do want a nice one. After all, a lovely wedding is something every girl dreams of from the minute she realizes boys and girls are different.”

  “Girls are different, all right,” Tyree muttered, climbing in beside Rachel.

  Heads turned as the Halloran buggy made its way out of town, and more than a few of the single young women wondered why they had ever thought Logan Tyree a boorish clod and not worthy of their notice. He was really quite a gentleman. And so very, very handsome, especially when he smiled.

  John Halloran slapped his thigh with glee when they reached the road that led to the Lazy H. “Damn, Tyree,” he chuckled, “I never knew you had so much charm. I think Rachel’s right. I think you’ll have old Mrs. Fairchild and Dorothy Monahan and all the other old cats inviting you over to Sunday supper before you’re through.”

  Halloran’s words proved to be prophetic. The redoubtable Mrs. Fairchild cornered Rachel in Thorngood’s General Store the next day and invited her and her young man to dinner the following Sunday after church.

  Rachel accepted politely, then fretted the entire week, fearing the evening would turn out to be a disaster. She dressed carefully that night, choosing a light blue muslin with puffy sleeves, a square neck, and a full skirt. Tyree looked wonderful in a pair of black whipcord britches and a wine-red shirt.

  Rachel’s fears for the evening were quickly put to rest. Tyree played the country gentleman to the hilt. It was all Rachel could do to keep from laughing out loud when he gallantly kissed Mrs. Fairchild’s pudgy pink hand.

&
nbsp; Selma Fairchild blushed to the roots of her carefully coiffed gray hair as Tyree made a courtly bow over her hand, but from that night on, Logan Tyree could do no wrong in her sight.

  Rachel listened in astonishment as Tyree politely answered Mrs. Fairchild’s none-too-subtle questions about his past. Of course, many of Tyree’s answers were lies. His past was painful and was not something to be discussed over dinner. But he freely admitted to being an orphan and to being raised by Catholic nuns. He did not mention the fact that his father was a half-breed horse thief, or that his mother had been a whore. Nor did he mention that he had lived with the Indians, though he did admit to having some Indian blood in his background.

  The following Sunday, they went through the same thing again, at Dorothy Monahan’s house. Indeed, for the next five Sundays, they ate out at a different home as the town dowagers took turns entertaining Rachel and her beau. The consensus was that, despite his unsavory past, Logan Tyree was a gentleman and a good catch.

  Carol Ann spent many days at the Lazy H in the weeks that followed, helping Rachel make plans for the wedding. Secluded in Rachel’s bedroom, the two girls spent hours sewing their dresses. Carol Ann’s dress was pale pink silk, with a high ruffled collar, long sleeves edged in lace, and a full skirt. Rachel’s wedding gown was a study in simple elegance. Made of white taffeta, it was uncluttered by frills or bows, save for the dainty white lace that was gathered along the throat and cuffs. Her veil trailed to the floor in a cloud of soft white.

  “Remember how we used to dream about the men we would marry,” Carol Ann mused one sultry afternoon. “I always planned to marry a banker or a lawyer; somebody with brown hair and brown eyes, who would think I was the most wonderful girl in the world. And you always wanted to marry a man with blond hair and blue eyes, like Clint.”

  “Things don’t always turn out the way we plan,” Rachel remarked, threading her needle. “I certainly never planned to fall in love with Tyree. I always thought I’d marry Clint, but the magic just isn’t there. I love him, but I’m not in love with him. Do you know what I mean? He’ll never be more to me than just a good friend.”