RenegadeHeart

by Madeline Baker

  In a week, his life had settled into a dreary routine far worse than anything he had ever imagined. He rose with the dawn. Ate a bowl of cornmeal mush. Relieved himself. And then it was time to go into the mine. Four hours later, a skinny Indian boy brought him a hunk of black bread and a cup of lukewarm water. At dusk, he was back in his cage. An hour later, a fat Mexican woman brought him his dinner. It was the highlight of his day, the only meal fit to eat. At dawn, the whole routine began again.

  Tyree had thought life behind the dreary walls of Yuma was surely the worst thing that a man could endure. But he had been wrong. His cell in prison had been a mansion compared to the tiny mesh cage. The dusty prison yard looked like the Garden of Eden when compared to the mine shaft. And the guards at Yuma, hell, they had been saints compared to the guards in the mine.

  Tyree had endured two weeks of hell when the guard known as Lobo stopped at his cage.

  “Gringo,” the guard called softly. “Are you awake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Luis tells me you are a famous gunfighter. Es verdad?”

  “Yeah, es verdad.”

  Lobo thumped his chest proudly. “I, too, have the desire to be a gunfighter.”

  “Congratulations,” Tyree muttered sarcastically.

  “Tomorrow, you will teach me.”

  “Get lost, Lobo.”

  “You will teach me, gringo pig,” Lobo said confidently. “Because it is the only way to avoid the mine. Tomorrow, you will work in the barn. I will meet you there.”

  “Whatever you say,” Tyree remarked indifferently. But he felt a quick flutter of hope. Anything would be better than the mine.

  Lobo was as good as his word, and the next morning Tyree found himself shoveling horseshit. It was hot, smelly work, but it was better than working in the dark bowels of the earth. He filled his nostrils with the scent of hay and leather and horseflesh. The barn reminded him of the Lazy H, and he thought briefly of Rachel.

  He was wondering what she was doing, and what she thought of his disappearance from jail, when Lobo called him outside.

  “Now, gringo,” the guard ordered cockily. “Teach me.”

  “Can you use that hogleg?” Tyree asked, gesturing at the Colt’s Dragoon holstered on the guard’s right hip.

  For his answer, Lobo drew and fired at a bottle he had earlier placed on a fence post.

  Tyree shook his head in disgust. “Is that the best you can do?”

  “I hit it, did I not?” Lobo boasted, thumping his chest.

  “You hit it all right, but I could have put six slugs in your gut while you drew your piece. Your draw has to be all one motion. You can’t draw your weapon, cock it, raise it to fire, aim, and pull the trigger. It should all be one continuous move.”

  Lobo looked skeptical. “Show me,” he demanded, handing Tyree an unloaded pistol and a holster.

  Tyree strapped the holster in place, then held up his bound wrists. “You’ll have to remove these chains.”

  Lobo hesitated for a moment, then removed the shackles from Tyree’s wrists. “Show me,” the guard said. “And if you are thinking of trying anything foolish, remember, I did hit the bottle. I will not miss anything so big as you.”

  Tyree grinned as he slid the gun into the holster. “Like this,” Tyree said. “You’ve got to thumb back the hammer as the gun comes out of your holster. Know where you want your shot to go before you draw your gun and then put it there.”

  Lobo watched carefully as Tyree drew his gun, thumbing back the hammer as the old .44 cleared leather, coming up smooth and fast, the barrel aimed at a bird perched on a bush some ten yards away. There was a soft click as Tyree squeezed the trigger.

  With a nod, Lobo bolstered his gun, drew and fired a second time. This time his speed was better, but he missed his target.

  An hour went by before Lobo called it quits. “Tomorrow, gringo,” he called over his shoulder. “Same time.”

  “You’re the boss,” Tyree muttered laconically, and returned to the stable.

  It was rather pleasant there, with just the horses for company. Lobo came in to check on him once in a while; other than that, he was left pretty much on his own. He cleaned the stalls, curried the horses, and thought about escape.

  A week slid by. For Tyree, it was seven days of relatively easy work. Lobo grew more and more cocky as his draw improved. Tyree could tell the man spent long hours practicing, for his speed and accuracy seemed to increase daily.

  “I heard you were the best,” Lobo remarked one afternoon. “Even here, we have heard of your reputation.”

  “You heard right,” Tyree admitted. “Give me a loaded gun, and I’ll show you.”

  “You have given me an idea!” Lobo exclaimed, hitting his forehead with his flat palm. “El Patron has a bodyguard who is rumored to be the fastest gun in all of Mexico. I think it would amuse El Patron to see you and Paulo face each other.”

  “I think you’re out of your mind.”

  “No, no. It is a great idea. I will give you a week to practice.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I think maybe you will meet with a little accident in the mine. Maybe tomorrow. You comprende?”

  “Yeah,” Tyree drawled. “I comprende.”

  The shootout between Paulo and Logan Tyree was a big success. El Patron and his guards turned out in force to cheer the Mexican gunman. Bets were made, tequila was passed around, and there was much laughing and joking as the two gunmen stood face to face across six feet of sun-bleached ground.

  Paulo was a slight young man with a dark olive complexion, straight black hair, and the cold, unblinking eyes of a born killer. He was dressed in tight black pants and a white linen shirt. His gunbelt was hand-tooled leather, all done in fancy scrollwork. His gun was a new, ivory-handled Colt .45.

  Tyree looked ridiculous in contrast to the Mexican. His pants and shirt were coarse and ill-fitting. His gunbelt was scarred and worn, his gun an ill-cared for Smith & Wesson.

  Both guns were empty because this was a contest for speed only.

  Still, there was a decided air of tension between the two gunmen. No blood would be shed, no life hung in the balance, but a man’s pride was just as dear as life itself.

  Tyree stood easy beneath the blazing sun, his hands loose at his sides, a faint grin on his lips as he contemplated drawing against the younger man. The gun on his left hip was a welcome, familiar weight. His hands, temporarily freed of their restricting shackles, felt as light as air.

  When all was ready, El Patron and his men fell silent. Lobo stepped forward to give the signal. Tyree’s muscles tensed, though there was no outward change in his expression or his stance.

  The signal was given, and Paulo made his move. He was like a snake, smooth and swift, all coiled energy and economy of movement. But Tyree was faster, smoother, more sure of himself. His gun cleared leather and he dry-fired the weapon as Paulo’s gun cleared leather.

  There was an audible sigh of defeat from El Patron and his cronies; a few quiet cheers from the handful of guards who had backed the gringo gunfighter.

  Minutes after the match was over, Tyree’s shackles were back in place and he was in his cage again. His vacation was over. The following morning he was back in the mine, back into the bowels of the earth to toil from dawn to dark. He saw men tortured to death, saw them starved and whipped and abused in ways that made the Mescalero look like amateurs.

  Sometimes, at night, he could hear the anguished screams of the poor unfortunate wretches who had foolishly angered one of the guards, or broken a rule. But Tyree felt nothing for the men who labored beside him in the mine. They shared his pain. They shared his misery. They shared his dreams of freedom, but he was a man alone. He did not join in on those rare occasions when the prisoners were permitted to talk to each other, nor did he make any effort to get acquainted with the man in the cage next to his. He had always been a loner, and he felt no need to lament his fate with the other prisoners.

 
But one thing they all shared in common was a dream of freedom. Tyree spent many hours in the dark of night dreaming of the time when he would be free again, when his life would be his own. It was a hope that kept him going, that made his life worth living.

  Sometimes, at night, when the wind was right, the haunting strains of a Spanish guitar drifted down to the cages, reminding Tyree of the night he had danced with Rachel in the yard of the Lazy H. The music, always bittersweet, filled Tyree with a deep sadness as he listened to the other prisoners reminisce about their wives and sweethearts and children.

  Lying on his back in the cramped cage, Tyree stared up at the indigo sky and thought about Rachel. If his crude calendar was correct, it was May the 24th. Tomorrow would have been his wedding day. Closing his eyes, he envisioned Rachel clad in a gown of spotless white. Likely, she’d marry Wesley now, he mused bitterly, but maybe it was for the best. The marshal would make a fine husband, a good father… He mouthed an obscenity as he pictured Rachel married to another man, and he put the thought out of his mind and instead imagined Rachel moving about the sunlit kitchen back at the Lazy H, her golden hair cascading down her back, a song on her lips. He remembered the taste and the touch and the womanly scent of her, and the memory aroused such a fierce longing in his heart he thought he would go mad.

  But yearning for Rachel was not the worst torture because, even worse than his yearning for a woman was the gradual realization that only death would free him from the misery of the mine.

  It was a fact he had always known, deep down. And yet, for the first few months, there lingered a faint unacknowledged hope that he would miraculously win his freedom, that he would once again be the master of his own fate, free to follow the sun, to chase the wind across the prairie, to love a woman with tawny hair and sky-blue eyes.

  It was a hope that died hard, but in time it was crushed beneath a burden of misery and despair that grew too heavy to bear as, seven days a week, he toiled in the mine, never seeing the sun. His hair grew long and matted, his body was layered with filth. He grew thin, thinner. His hands blistered, bled, scabbed over, and blistered again, until they became hard and calloused. His ruined right hand did not keep him from working in the mine or affect his work in any way. Indeed, the constant hard work and the long hours spent swinging a pick and shovel restored much of the strength to his right hand. With grim-faced amusement, he thought that, if he ever managed to escape from the mine, he would have to thank Annabelle for the increased dexterity of his broken hand. Thank her, and then kill her.

  The days and weeks passed with incredible slowness. Like a dumb beast, Tyree moved obediently to the familiar tune of the whip across his back, silently cursing Annabelle Walsh each time the lash bit into his flesh.

  As the weeks became months, Rachel ceased to exist for Tyree, as did everything else in the outside world. There was no room in his life for thoughts of a golden-haired girl with sweet lips and honeyed flesh. There was only room for hatred. Hate for Annabelle, for Montoya, for the guards who ruled his every waking moment. There was no place for memories of happier times. There was only room for hate, and for impotent dreams of vengeance.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The days that passed so slowly for Logan Tyree passed slowly for Rachel, as well. She refused to believe he was dead. Perhaps Annabelle had nothing to do with the two men who had freed Tyree from jail. Perhaps Tyree had somehow gotten word to those men that he was in jail and needed help. Perhaps Annabelle had regretted her decision to be avenged on Tyree and that was why she sent her men to break Tyree out of jail.

  A dozen times a day, she looked out the window, or went to the front door, eyes searching the horizon for some sign of a tall, dark-haired man riding toward her. Nightly, she lay awake in her bed, praying he would come for her. She would do anything he wanted, go anywhere he desired. Anywhere. Even if it meant going to live with the Indians where he had once known happiness.

  But Tyree did not come, and as the days became weeks, Rachel stopped waiting for him and resigned herself to the fact that he was not coming—ever. The tears she had been holding back came then—hot, bitter tears that somehow helped to ease the dreadful ache in her heart.

  The twenty-fifth of May was the worst day of her life. She spent most of the afternoon in her room, alone, staring out the window. Where was Tyree? Fighting tears, she went to her closet and ran her hand over the dress that was to have been her bridal gown. With a strangled sob, she snatched the dress from the hanger and began to tear at the fabric with her hands and when the material refused to give way, she grabbed a pair of scissors and slashed the dress to ribbons.

  “I hate you, Tyree!” she screamed. “Hate you, hate you, hate you!”

  Tears streamed from her eyes and she sank to the floor, her face buried in the soft white material of the ruined gown.

  Clint Wesley came to see her almost daily. At first, Rachel was cold, almost rude, blaming him for what had happened to Tyree. But as time passed, her anger turned to apathy, and then tolerance. Clint told her frequently that he loved her, that he had always loved her. And when he kissed her, it was the kiss of a man who knew his own mind, and not the kiss of a shy boy. He brought her flowers and candy, courting her in earnest, determined to make her love him. He took her to church every Sunday, escorted her to social functions, took her for walks and picnics, anything to cheer her and bring a smile to her face.

  For Wesley, it was a time of waiting: waiting for Rachel to forget Tyree, waiting for her affection to turn to the love he so desired, waiting for the day she would agree to be his wife. He wooed her with kind words and tender kisses, never pushing, never demanding, but the waiting was hard.

  He sought Rachel’s advice in decorating the old Miller place, painted the rooms in the colors she preferred, bought furniture she liked, arranged it as she thought best, always hoping that someday she would share the house with him.

  Once Rachel had convinced herself that she would never see Tyree again, she tried to love Clint, tried to convince herself that she was better off without Logan Tyree who had been nothing but an outlaw and a hired gun, after all, while Clint Wesley was a fine honorable man whose thoughts and actions were sincere and above reproach. Clint loved her dearly and proved it in every way possible. But no matter how she tried, she could not persuade her stubborn heart to forsake the love she felt for Tyree…

  Once, she tried to explain to Clint how she felt, but he kissed her to silence, declaring he did not give a damn how she felt about Logan Tyree.

  “I love you,” Clint had said firmly, “and I won’t give up on us until the day you marry someone else. And if that man turns out to be Tyree, then I’ll dance at your wedding and wish you all the best. But until then, I aim to keep trying to win your love.”

  John Halloran looked favorably upon Clint Wesley and the possibility of having him as a son-in-law. Clint was a good man. He would be good for Rachel if she would just give him half a chance. And perhaps Clint would be good for the Lazy H, as well. Perhaps, with a lawman in the family, Annabelle Walsh would stop trying to take over the ranch. Since Tyree’s disappearance, Halloran cattle were being stolen from the new herd, fences were being cut, crops were destroyed in the fields.

  Often, Halloran wondered why Annabelle did not have him killed out of hand the way she had killed others who opposed her. But no attempts were made on his life, or Rachel’s. There was only a constant fight to survive. It was not until Slash W cattle began filtering into his grazing land that he realized Annabelle no longer considered him a threat.

  Contemptuously, she allowed him to remain alive, knowing there was nothing he could do to hurt her. Still, seeing Slash W cattle on his range was like a slap in the face, but he could not fight, and he would not run.

  In July, Rachel’s mare gave birth to a long-legged bay filly.

  Rachel watched in wonder as the filly entered the world, first two dainty hoofs, then a silky muzzle, followed by the head, body and hindquarters. Morgana had a
n easy time delivering her first foal and Rachel felt tears prick her eyes as the mare whickered softly to her foal, then licked the filly’s face and ears. Within minutes, the filly was trying to stand. Rachel did not interfere, knowing the foal needed to learn to control her long, spindly legs, knowing there was strength in struggling. Finally, after several attempts, the foal managed to gain her feet. Morgana blew softly, and then she began to lick the filly dry.

  Rachel grinned as the filly began to root around the mare’s underbelly, looking for nourishment. Her thoughts were no longer on the miracle of birth, but on a warm night in August when the gray mustang had sired the filly. The night she had spent in Tyree’s arms. It was a night she would never forget. Tyree had been like a stallion himself that night, wild and untamed, bending her to his will, dominating her as the gray stud had dominated Morgana. And she had reveled in it, had gloried in his strength as she surrendered to him, totally and completely.

  Tyree, Tyree, would she never be free of him? He was there, wherever she looked. She thought of the night he made love to her before the fire, the night he had danced her around the yard, the day they had spent at the box social, the time he had saved Amy from harm, the hours he had spent taming the gray stallion. Every room in the house held a memory of Tyree.

  In August, John Halloran surprised everyone by proposing to Claire Whiting, and she accepted. The wedding was held a week later at the church in town. Claire was an attractive, middle-aged woman, and she made a lovely bride.

  Rachel wept quietly as the Reverend Jenkins pronounced Claire and her father man and wife. The lovely ceremony, the timeless words that united a man and a woman into one flesh, all seemed to mock the loneliness in Rachel’s heart. She had been so certain Tyree would come back to her if he could. So certain. It was hard to admit she would never see him again, harder still because she was certain he was still alive. Somehow, she knew she would feel it if he were no longer alive. Better to think of him alive and well in some Mexican border town, even if it meant she would never see him again, than to picture him dead, his vitality forever stilled. No matter what the future held for her, no matter what man she eventually married, if she married at all, she knew Tyree would always have a place in her heart.