Her thoughts came to an abrupt end as she heard Tyree step out of the tub. The vision of him standing naked in the kitchen filled her veins with fire and before she quite knew what she was doing, she was through the door and in his arms.
Without a word, Tyree lifted her in his arms and carried her through the parlor and down the hall to the bedroom, his mouth pressed over hers. Rachel clung to him, her whole being conscious of his damp flesh, of his hands deftly unfastening her shirt. His mouth never left hers as he undressed her and then they were lying side by side on the bed, their bodies pressed together.
That night, Rachel poured her whole soul into her lovemaking, wanting Tyree to know that he was loved, that he need never be alone again.
Later, he fell asleep holding her in his arms, holding her as if he would never let her go. Rachel lay beside him, studying his face, loving every line, every curve. The tears came then, falling silently down her cheeks until she, too, fell asleep.
When she woke, she was alone.
* * * * *
Tyree’s thoughts were filled with Rachel as he rode out of Yellow Creek. She was a hell of a woman, he mused. Bright, beautiful, full of spirit and fire. Damn, she had guts, too, going to the Apache, then riding into Mexico to rescue him from that damn mine. He had used her and abused her, and she still loved him. Not even Red Leaf had loved him with such an all-consuming, all-forgiving love.
He thought of Rachel nursing him when he had escaped from Yuma, thought of her standing at the foot of his bed, her bright blue eyes shooting sparks at him as she ordered him to stay put. He saw her spread-eagle between four Apache bucks in Sunset Canyon, her eyes filling with hope when she saw him. He saw her lovely face lined with real concern when he went to her after Annabelle’s men had whipped him and destroyed his gun hand. He saw the hurt welling in her eyes when he broke his promise to marry her and went to work for Annabelle instead. No other woman had ever shed tears for him.
Rachel. She was too good to be true. When had he fallen in love with her? When had she stopped being just a warm desirable body and become a person? When had he started to care what she thought of him?
With an effort, he put Rachel out of his mind as he crossed the narrow winding river that marked the beginning of the Slash W spread. Eyes and ears alert, he guided the Indian pony across the sleeping land. A cow bawled a warning as he passed too close to her calf, but other than that, his passing disturbed neither man nor beast as he closed in on his destination, the Slash W storehouse. Annabelle had always been careful to keep extra supplies on hand in case of an emergency, and Tyree had need of everything from boots to hat.
An hour later, the building he sought loomed in the darkness. Dismounting some two hundred yards from the storehouse, Tyree pulled the saddle and bridle from the Apache pony and shooed the horse away. If all went as planned, he would be mounted on a better animal before the night was out. If his plans went awry, he would have no need for a horse, or anything else.
Padding forward on silent feet, knife in hand, Tyree approached the storehouse, tiptoed warily around the corner of the building. A tall silhouette moved in the shadows, the telltale glow of a cigarette arched through the air as the cowhand guarding the storehouse tossed a burning butt into the dirt.
Soundless as a stalking cat, Tyree crept up behind the unsuspecting wrangler. Once he would have killed the man without a qualm, Tyree mused. But that was before Rachel entered his life. With a wry grin, he picked up a good-sized rock and hit the man across the back of the head, rendering him unconscious.
The door to the storehouse opened on well-oiled hinges as Tyree dragged the sentry inside and closed the door behind him. Using the wrangler’s kerchief, he tied the man’s hands behind his back. A quick search of the man’s pockets turned up a pack of matches and Tyree lit the lamp hanging inside the door. Turning the wick down low, Tyree moved through the storehouse, helping himself to a pair of black whipcord britches, a dark blue shirt. Picking through a pile of hats, he selected a black felt Stetson with a flat crown and a wide brim. Boots came next, and then a red silk kerchief which he knotted loosely around his neck. He lingered over a choice of guns and finally picked a used Navy Colt in a plain leather holster and a full cartridge belt.
Outside again, he ghosted toward the barn where a second Slash W cowhand fell victim to a sharp blow on the head. The butt of the Colt split the man’s scalp just behind his ear. Blood dripped on Tyree’s hands as he dragged the man into the barn. The blood was warm and wet and strangely satisfying and Tyree stared at the crimson smear for several moments, a bemused expression on his swarthy face. The quick violence, the blood on his hands, had released much of the anger he had been carrying around for the past six months.
Much. But not all.
He quickly hogtied the unconscious cowhand, stuffed a rag into his mouth and deposited him, none too gently, inside a vacant stall.
The inside of the barn smelled of animals and manure and hay. Moving carefully in the velvet darkness, Tyree headed for the stall that housed Annabelle’s own mount, a flashy paint stallion with a blaze face.
He was about to throw a bridle over the paint’s head when a familiar whinny stayed his hand. Grinning with real pleasure, Tyree made his way to a stall at the far end of the barn.
The gray mustang whickered a second time as Tyree opened the stall door and stepped inside. How like Annabelle, Tyree mused as he saddled the stud, to keep his horse for herself. A reminder, no doubt, of her victory over a man who dared walk out on her.
With a final tug on the cinch, Tyree led the gray outside. He tethered the horse to a nearby oak tree, then hunkered down on his heels in the shadows outside Annabelle’s bedroom, his eyes focused on her window.
He sat there, quiet as the night surrounding him, waiting for her light to go out.
The time passed slowly, but Tyree possessed the patience of a warrior. As a youth, he had once crouched in a pit for two days, waiting for an eagle to alight on his hiding place so that he might grab the bird and help himself to three of the white-tipped feathers so prized by the Mescalero.
An owl sliced noiselessly through the sky, great wings outstretched, talons poised to strike should an unwary rabbit or mouse venture into the darkness. A cat moved soundlessly through the shrubbery. A coyote yapped in the distance. But Tyree remained motionless as a rock.
Memories drifted down the corridor of his mind. The sting of the whip across his back. The long months of endless darkness in the bowels of the earth, searching for silver that was not even there. The longing for fresh air and cool, clear water, for the touch of the sun on his face.
Anger stirred within him, making him impatient for the vengeance he had promised himself, and he thrust the memories aside. Briefly, he thought of Rachel, sleeping peacefully in her father’s house.
It was well after midnight when the light in Annabelle’s room went out. And still Tyree waited. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.
After thirty minutes had gone by, he rose quietly to his feet, carefully opened the window, and stepped over the sill. Annabelle was a dark shape on the bed. He watched her for a moment, glad she was alone. Striking a match, he lit the lamp on the rosewood table beside her bed and turned the wick down low. Then, moving light as a feather, he straddled Annabelle’s hips. His hands closed gently around her throat.
Annabelle’s eyes fluttered open and she stirred restlessly as she tried to dislodge the weight from her hips. She came instantly awake as she recognized Tyree. She stared up at him, unblinking, for a full thirty seconds before she whispered his name.
“Tyree.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
His hands tightened cruelly around her neck and she shuddered beneath him, her delectable body trembling with fear and apprehension. But she did not struggle, and she did not plead for mercy. She just lay there, passive, her luminous emerald eyes gazing up at him, her full breasts rising and falling, straining against the sheer pink fabric of her nightgown.
Th
e scent of her perfume was strong in Tyree’s nostrils, reminding him of the nights she had tried to lure him into her bed. He was glad now that he had never made love to her.
“I’ve missed you,” Annabelle said as he loosened his grip on her throat. She raked her nails over the muscles in his arms, let her hands slide down to caress his thighs. “I still want you, Tyree.”
Suddenly, he felt sorry for her. With a sigh, he took his hands from her throat.
Annabelle’s smile was a trifle smug as she rubbed a hand across her throat. She gazed up at him through her lashes, then patted the pillow next to hers, inviting him to join her under the covers, certain he would not be able to refuse such an invitation.
Tyree took a deep breath. She looked warm and willing, lying there, her green eyes alight with desire, and yet she did not stir him at all. She was nothing compared to Rachel.
Rachel. He stared at Annabelle, bemused. Why was he wasting time here when he could be with Rachel?
“Tyree?”
“So long, Annabelle.” He stood up, all thought of vengeance forgotten.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” he said in a voice filled with wonder. “Home to Rachel.”
“If that’s what you want,” Annabelle said with a shrug. Carelessly, she raised her hand and let it slide under her pillow. Home, indeed! If she could not have Tyree, then no one would have him. She smiled seductively as her fingers closed over the derringer.
Tyree swore as he realized she was reaching for her gun. Quick as a cat, he grabbed her wrist. Annabelle screamed with rage, her free hand clawing at Tyree’s face, her legs kicking wildly as she fought to keep hold of the gun.
Tyree dragged Annabelle off the bed and they struggled in taut silence for several moments. Once, catching sight of the hatred that twisted Annabelle’s face, Tyree wondered why he had ever thought her beautiful.
He had almost succeeded in wresting the gun from her hand when Annabelle kicked him in the groin, hard. With a grunt, Tyree doubled over, striking Annabelle’s shoulder and knocking her off balance so that she fell back on the bed, dragging Tyree with her. There was a muffled explosion as the gun, pinned between their bodies, went off.
Annabelle writhed violently, her arm knocking the oil lamp off the table beside the bed, her hand pushing against Tyree’s chest. An expression of horror contorted her face as Tyree stood up and she saw the blood welling up from her left breast. Then a shudder convulsed her body and she lay still, her green eyes vacant of life.
For a moment, Tyree stared at Annabelle, unmindful of the flames caused by the spilled oil lamp. Somehow, he thought it fitting that Annabelle had died by her own hand. And her own hatred. Then, as the fire began to lick at the sides of the bed, he turned on his heel and vaulted out the window.
He lingered in the darkness, watching the flames spread, watching as the hired hands fought to put out the raging blaze.
It was after dawn when he started for Yellow Creek.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rachel was sitting in the kitchen, staring into a cup of cold coffee, wondering…wondering if Tyree had left her for good. Wondering how he could leave without a word after the night they had shared. She would have sworn he loved her, would have staked her life on it even though he had never said the words. Now she was not so sure. Where was he?
A knock at the back door disturbed her thoughts and she hurried across the room, her heart beating fast. Perhaps Tyree had come back to her. Dear God, please let it be Tyree.
Her face mirrored her disappointment when she opened the door and saw Clint Wesley standing there, his face a mask of concern.
“Morning, Clint,” she said without much enthusiasm. “Come in.”
“Rachel, you darn fool, I just got through talking to Candido. Are you out of your mind, running off into the desert like that? You might have been killed. Or worse.”
“I’m fine,” she replied dully. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No.” Clint shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “Did you find him?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Clint did not believe her, and he was about to say so when footsteps sounded in the hallway. He drew his gun as Logan Tyree stepped into the kitchen.
Too late, Rachel started to call out a warning. Then, with a shrug, she sat back in her chair, a sudden intuition admonishing her not to interfere between the two men this time.
Tyree did not seem surprised to find the marshal standing in the kitchen with a gun in his hand. Calm as could be, he crossed to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. For the first time in his life, he knew exactly what he wanted. It was a good feeling.
He shifted his coffee cup to his right hand, smiled lazily. “Morning, Marshal,” he drawled, his eyes fixed on the Colt .44 nestled in Wesley’s hand.
“Keep your hand away from that gun,” Clint warned curtly. “I don’t want to have to kill you.”
“No?”
“No. I want to see you hang for the murder of Job Walsh, among other things.”
“I’d like to avoid that, if you don’t mind.”
“Shut up!” Wesley snapped. He cocked the Colt, his mild blue eyes alight with the force of his hatred. If it weren’t for Logan Tyree, Rachel would have been his wife long ago.
Tyree stirred impatiently. “Wesley, I don’t want to draw on you, but if you don’t put that gun down, I’m gonna take it away from you.”
Wesley snorted. “I may not be a fast gun, Tyree, but I think I can crank off a round or two before you can…damn!” He swore as Tyree’s bullet slammed into his forearm, knocking the Colt from fingers gone suddenly numb.
“You talk too much,” Tyree mused, holstering his weapon.
Without a word, Rachel picked up a tea towel and wrapped it around the shallow wound in Clint’s arm.
“This doesn’t solve anything,” Clint said through clenched teeth. “I intend to see you hang if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
“Wesley, you’re a damn fool,” Tyree observed without rancor. “And you’ll never amount to anything as a lawman if you don’t wise up. When you’ve got the drop on a man, you don’t stand around listening to him jaw. You either take his gun from him, or you kill him.”
“Thanks for the lesson,” Wesley muttered sarcastically.
“No charge,” Tyree replied with a grin. “As for killing Walsh, you’ve got no proof that I gunned him. No witnesses. No evidence.”
“I’ve got proof,” Clint said triumphantly. “I’ve got your signed confession.”
“Really? I’d like to see it.”
“It’s out at the Slash W. Annabelle showed it to me months ago.”
“Forget it, Marshal. The Slash W went up in smoke late last night.”
Rachel and Clint stared at Tyree, mouths agape, and then Wesley sighed heavily.
“All right, Tyree,” the marshal said wearily. “You win.” He glanced at Rachel, then swung around to face Tyree again. “You’re no good for her!” he lashed out. “You told me so yourself.”
“That’s true,” Tyree said soberly.
“I’d make her a better husband than you ever could.”
“True again,” Tyree agreed with a shrug.
“And I love her.” Clint looked at Rachel, his eyes pleading with her. “I do love you,” he said fervently.
“I think he means it,” Tyree said. “Any fool can see he’s crazy about you.”
Clint smiled exuberantly. Things were going better than he had dared hope. “He’s a drifter, Rachel. I’ll bet he’s never stayed in one place longer than a few months at most.”
“All true,” Tyree agreed, grinning broadly. “But you’ve left out one thing. I love Rachel. And she loves me.”
“Yeah.” Wesley sighed heavily. Anyone could see that Rachel loved Tyree. It was there in her happy smile and in the warmth of her eyes when she looked at Tyree.
“Clint,
I’m sorry—”
“It’s all right, Rachel,” Wesley said, forcing himself to smile. “Be happy.” Picking up his gun, he shoved it in his holster and left the house. Somehow, in his heart, he had known Rachel would never be his.
“Well?” Tyree said, taking Rachel in his arms. “Say something.”
“I love you.”
“I know that,” he growled. “Dammit, Rachel, I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I know,” she said quietly, and then she smiled up at him, her face radiant, her eyes glowing. “You were right all along,” she said, laughing merrily. “The beautiful princess should always marry the dragon.”
“Told you so,” Tyree said, grinning at her. It wouldn’t be easy, hanging up his gun, settling down in one place. But with Rachel by his side, he could do it. By damn, he could do anything!
For a moment, Rachel fretted over the way she had hurt Clint, and then she brightened. Carol Ann would be there to comfort Clint, to give him the love and support every man needed. They were perfect for each other.
And then Tyree was kissing her, kissing her as if he would never let her go, and there was no room in Rachel’s heart or thoughts for any other man. Only Tyree, always Tyree…
About Madeline Baker
Madeline Baker started writing simply for the fun of it. Now she is the award-winning author of more than thirty historical romances and one of the most popular writers of Native American romance. She lives in California, where she was born and raised.
Madeline welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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