RenegadeHeart (11 page)

Tyree watched with interest as a gangly young man with limp
brown hair and washed-out green eyes calmly proceeded to outshoot five
competitors.

The boy was good, Tyree allowed. Damn good. Fast as
lightning. But, even more important, he had a sharp eye and the kind of
eye-and-hand coordination that could not be taught. It was a gift, an innate
quality few men possessed, one that allowed a man to place his shots exactly
where he wanted them.

“That’s Pauley Norquist,” Rachel remarked. “He’s the best shot
in town. He’s won the Thanksgiving turkey shoot every year for the last five
years.”

Tyree grunted as Norquist shattered another bottle.

“He is good, isn’t he?” Rachel mused as Pauley drew his gun
and fired at three bottles thrown into the air in rapid succession.

“How many men has he killed?” Tyree asked flatly. “Anybody
can shoot bottles out of the air.”

“Is that all you ever think about?” Rachel exclaimed,
exasperated. “Killing?”

“I think about other things occasionally,” Tyree drawled,
and his amber eyes moved over her in a long, lustful glance that brought a
shiver to Rachel’s spine and made her heart flutter in a most peculiar fashion.

“He hasn’t killed anybody,” Rachel answered, wishing Tyree
would stop looking at her as if he could see through her clothing. “He’s a
shopkeeper, not a hired gun.”

There was a sudden cessation in the contests as a
swarthy-faced man in a flowered brocade vest and striped pants stepped out of
the crowd and put his arm around Pauley’s shoulders.

“Gents,” he said in a loud voice. “I’m prepared to back
Norquist, here, against all comers. Anybody got the guts to shoot against my
boy for twenty dollars?”

Several men stepped forward, and Tyree watched with real
admiration as Norquist beat them one by one.

When the last man walked away in defeat, Norquist’s backer
raised up a chubby hand stuffed with greenbacks. “I’ve got two hundred dollars
here,” he called out jovially. “And Pauley’s still rarin’ to go!”

“I’ll take that bet,” Tyree said, walking to where Norquist
and the gambler stood. “Pick a target.”

“How much of this do you want?” the gambler asked, rifling
the bills in his hand.

“All of it,” Tyree said, pulling a wad of greenbacks out of
his hip pocket.

There followed an extraordinary contest as Pauley Norquist
and Logan Tyree matched each other shot for shot, until there were no more
empty bottles left. It was a contest the likes of which Rachel had never seen
and she looked at the two men with awe. Truly, they were amazing.

“Looks like we’ll have to call it a draw,” Norquist said
good-naturedly. He holstered his gun, ready to call it quits.

“Or try a different kind of target,” the gambler suggested.

“We’re just wasting ammunition,” Tyree said, reloading his
Colt. “The kid, here, is a fine shot. I’m satisfied with a draw.”

“Well, I’m not,” the gambler said curtly. “We made a bet,
and it has to be decided, one way or the other.”

“Mr. Brockton, let him have the money,” Pauley Norquist
said. “It isn’t important.”

“Brockton!” Tyree whistled under his breath. “I thought you
cashed in down on the Panhandle.”

“Not hardly,” Brockton said impudently. “You killed a friend
of mine down there, Newt Ralston.”

“Ralston! I didn’t know that squaw lover
had
any
friends.”

“He had one. You as fast with that iron as they say?”

“Only one way to find out,” Brockton said. Very slowly, his
hand lifted to hover over his gun butt.

Tyree swore under his breath. He had not meant to goad the
man into a fight, not with Rachel standing behind him, her eyes wide and
frightened.

“Make your move,” Brockton challenged.

“Forget it.”

Brockton laughed. “I might have known any friend of
Ralston’s would be a coward. Go for your gun, squawman, or I’ll shoot you down
where you stand.”

“If you think you can do it, go ahead.”

Rachel’s gasp sounded like thunder in the sudden silence
that surrounded the two men. Brockton reached for his gun, his eyes shining
with confidence. But Tyree’s draw was quicker, smoother. The bullet slammed
into Brockton’s right shoulder, numbing his arm so that he dropped his gun into
the dirt.

“Get out of here,” Tyree said in a hard voice.

Brockton nodded, his face white as he turned away from the
crowd and made his way down the street.

Tyree stared after him. Once he would have killed the man
without a qualm, but not now. Not with Rachel watching his every move.

The crowd parted like soft butter as Tyree took Rachel’s arm
and headed for the schoolyard.

“Damn!” murmured Wesley, who had watched the whole thing
from the sidelines. “One of these days he’s gonna kill someone, and I’m gonna
have to take him in.”

Chapter Seven

It was John Halloran’s sixtieth birthday and Rachel was
planning a party. She spent several days organizing the menu, and then spent
another full day trying to decide how to get rid of Tyree on the night of the
party.

As it turned out, Tyree solved the problem for her. One look
at the guest list was all it took. Rachel had invited Essie O’Shay, who was the
Yellow Creek schoolmarm; Olaf Johnson, the blacksmith; Mr. and Mrs. Thorngood,
who owned the General Store; Gus Kibbee, who doubled as barber and dentist;
Vincent Myers, editor of the local newspaper; and her best friend, Carol Ann
McKee. The Reverend and Mrs. Jenkins were also on the list, as well as Clint
Wesley, and several other, equally dreary people.

It was the thought of making polite conversation with the
likes of the minister and the marshal that persuaded Tyree to spend the evening
in town.

He left the Lazy H just before dark.

Rachel’s party was a big success. The food was excellent,
the guests congenial, the conversation intelligent, interspersed with
witticisms and laughter. They ate and danced and played a few parlor games
before Rachel served the cake.

By midnight, everyone had gone home except for Clint Wesley,
who lingered on the front porch with Rachel, reluctant to bid her good night.

“It’s pretty out,” Rachel commented. “The stars are
beautiful.”

“You’re prettier than any star,” Clint murmured, taking her
in his arms. “You’re the prettiest, sweetest, most wonderful girl I’ve ever
known.”

“You probably say that to all the girls,” Rachel teased,
though she was flattered by his kind words.

“You know you’re the only girl for me,” Clint said
earnestly.

“Am I?” Rachel was boldly flirting now. “Millie Cloward
couldn’t keep her eyes off you in church last Sunday.”

“Millie Cloward!” Clint exclaimed in a pained tone. “She
looks like a pregnant heifer.”

“She does not. She has a lovely figure. And I overheard Mrs.
Cloward say she’d be happy as a clam to have a lawman in the family.”

Clint looked genuinely shocked. “You’re not serious?”

“Yes, indeed,” Rachel assured him with mock gravity. “Mrs.
Cloward is going to invite you to Sunday dinner next week. And Millie is making
a new dress for the occasion. I saw her in Thorngood’s picking out material and
she was all aflutter.”

Wesley groaned. “Whatever made her think that I… I never did
anything to… Why, I’ve hardly spoken ten words to the girl.”

“Well, you did buy her supper at the box social,” Rachel
pointed out, laughing impishly. “And you did look like you were enjoying
yourself.”

“Don’t be silly. I only bought that awful box because I felt
sorry for her. And so I could keep an eye on you and that gunslinger.”

“Well, Millie seems to think there was much more to it than
that. And I’m sure she would make you a truly fine wife.”

“Wife!” Clint choked on the word. “Rachel, you’ve got to get
me out of this. Invite me to dinner next Sunday.”

“Coward.”

“Guilty as charged,” Wesley allowed. “Can I come for
dinner?”

“Of course.” Rachel’s laughter was as light and musical as
the tinkling of Christmas bells. “You know you’re always welcome here. Listen!
Candido is playing his guitar.”

Wesley nodded as the faint strains of a Spanish love song
drifted up from the bunkhouse. Wordlessly, he held out his arms and Rachel
moved into his embrace, their feet moving to the melody as they danced across
the porch.

Tyree watched them from the shadows beside the house,
feeling a sharp twinge of jealousy as Clint Wesley kissed Rachel. They stayed
in each other’s arms a long time, now dancing, now kissing, now just standing
quietly close. The moonlight touched Rachel’s hair, turning the gold to silver.
Her expression was soft, warm, beautiful.

Rachel sighed as she laid her head on Clint’s shoulder. They
had been courting for over a year now, and still Clint had not asked her to
marry him. But he would. And she was content to wait. She felt safe with Clint,
secure. He would always be there, dependable as the sun. There were no high
mountains in their relationship, but there were no dark valleys, either.

“I guess I’d better be going,” Clint said with regret. “I’ve
got a meeting with Judge Thackery in the morning. Eight o’clock sharp.”

“Will I see you Saturday?”

“You bet. And Sunday, too,” Clint reminded her. “And every
Sunday until old lady Cloward gets the message.”

Rachel laughed softly as she took Clint’s arm and walked
with him down the stairs to where his horse was tethered. Still smiling, she
lifted her face for one last kiss.

Dreamy-eyed, she stared after Clint as he rode out of the
yard. She was picturing herself as Clint’s wife when she became aware of
someone standing behind her. Startled, she whirled around to find Tyree at her
shoulder. With a curt nod of her head, Rachel acknowledged his presence, then
started toward the front steps.

“Seems a shame to let that music go to waste,” Tyree
drawled, pulling her into his arms, and before Rachel could protest, he was
waltzing her around the moon-dappled yard.

“I never thought of you as a dancing man,” Rachel remarked,
hoping a little lighthearted conversation would cover the nervousness she felt
at his nearness.

“Oh, I’ve got a lot of talents you’ve never dreamed of,”
Tyree assured her. “Shall I whisper sweet nothings in your ear, and tell you
you’re prettier than all the stars in the sky?”

Anger flared deep in Rachel’s eyes as she twisted out of
Tyree’s arms. “How dare you spy on us!”

“I wasn’t spying. I just happened to get back while the two
of you were on the front porch.”

“You should have made your presence known,” Rachel accused.

“Maybe,” Tyree allowed with a shrug. “But it seemed a shame
to intrude on such a romantic moment.”

Rachel glared at him, irritated by the sardonic laughter
dancing in the depths of his amber eyes. Oh, but he was incorrigible!

“Come here,” Tyree whispered.

Rachel shook her head, confused by the conflicting emotions
that warred within her breast. She knew she should go inside the house, knew
that it was wrong to be alone in the moonlight with a man like Tyree. He wanted
only one thing from her, and she had vowed it would never happen again. And
yet, knowing all those things, she did not resist when he drew her into his
arms a second time.

The music from Candido’s guitar filled the air with a
haunting melody that spoke of lost love and bitter tears shed in the darkness
of a long and lonely night. Tyree’s arms were strong around her as they danced
under the stars, and Rachel’s body molded to his as if they had danced together
for years. He was incredibly light on his feet, and she thought again how
catlike Tyree was, his movements always quick and sure with a smooth, masculine
grace, his eyes yellow-gold, like a tiger’s.

Tyree was intensely aware of the woman in his arms. The
scent of her perfume filled his nostrils, her nearness filled his senses and
his arms tightened around her waist, drawing her closer, closer.

His eyes met hers, then dropped downward to linger on her
mouth. He felt the sudden intake of her breath and he knew she was remembering
Sunset Canyon, just as he was.

Rachel flushed under his probing gaze, but could not draw
her eyes from his. Tyree’s kiss came unexpectedly, catching her off guard. One
moment he was gazing into her face, and the next his mouth was slanting over
hers, sending sparks to every part of her body. For a time, she remained placid
in his embrace, caught up in the magic of the music and the moonlight and the
waves of pleasure his merest touch sent spiraling through her.

“You really are lovely,” Tyree murmured in her ear. “Your
eyes are as blue as cornflowers, and your hair is as soft as new grass.” His
lips moved to her neck, nibbling softly. “Sweet,” he whispered huskily. “So
sweet.”

“Tyree, you mustn’t—” Rachel protested weakly.

“Mustn’t what?”

Confused, Rachel shook her head. “I don’t know. You make me
feel so strange.”

“There’s nothing strange about this,” Tyree said. His hands
caressed her back while his mouth traveled up her neck toward her left earlobe.
“It’s all perfectly natural. Kiss me, Rachel.”

“No. Go away and leave me alone.”

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” he asked, but there
was no anger in his voice, no reproach, only a husky yearning.

“No,” Rachel replied quickly. “I like men who are
gentlemen.”

“I can be a gentle man,” Tyree purred in a low tone. “Kiss
me and see.”

Feeling as though she were in a trance, Rachel stood on
tiptoe and pressed her mouth to Tyree’s, bewildered by the tremors that shook
her from head to foot as his mouth met hers. She did not even like Logan Tyree,
she thought absently, and yet his kisses left her weak and wanting, sparking a
hunger deep in her insides the likes of which she had never known. Clint’s
kisses never aroused her in such a way, never left her longing for more than
just kisses. But Tyree had only to touch her and every nerve ending in her body
sprang to life, straining toward him, eager to be touched and caressed. It was
most peculiar.

“You’re beautiful,” Tyree said, his voice low and husky,
mesmerizing. He stroked her hair, bent to breathe in the scent of it. “So damn
beautiful.”

“Tyree, don’t—”

“I want to make love to you. Now. Tonight.”

Rachel shook her head. She had vowed never to surrender to
Logan Tyree again. One mistake was enough.

“Rachel.” His voice was warm and coaxing, sweeter than
honey.

He kissed her again. Unbidden, unwanted, came the memory of
his body pressing against hers, possessing her. As though reading her thoughts,
he pulled her close. His tongue slid over her lips, teasing the soft inner
flesh of her lower lip like a darting finger of flame, spreading a delicious
warmth to every fiber of her being. His hands moved lazily over her shoulders
and back and hips, gentling her to his touch, arousing her to fever pitch,
letting her feel his rising desire, until she stood trembling in his arms, her
eyes half-closed, her heart fluttering wildly, her face lifted for his kisses.

Mesmerized by his touch, she sagged against him while he
continued to murmur soft words in her ear. It felt so good to be in his arms,
to feel his hard length pressed against her. His voice was soft, husky,
entreating.

It was only when she found herself being carried swiftly
toward the barn that sanity returned. Alarmed, she slapped Tyree’s face with
all the force at her command. Who did he think he was, that he could woo her so
easily! Did he think a few sweet words would render her completely senseless,
so that he could have his way with her?

Tyree stared down at Rachel, anger and surprise reflected in
his hot yellow eyes.

“Logan Tyree, you put me down this instant,” Rachel demanded
indignantly.

“Change your mind?” Tyree asked. But he did not put her
down.

“No! Yes! Oh, I never intended for you to…to…and you know
it!”

“You seemed pretty willing a minute ago.”

“I was not. I…you tricked me.”

One black eyebrow arched upward like a question mark.
“Tricked you?” Tyree mused. “Don’t be silly. Why don’t you just admit you’re as
eager for it as I am?”

Rachel’s cheeks flushed crimson as words failed her
completely. A sudden guilt brought tears to her eyes and she lowered her head,
refusing to look at Tyree because what he said was true. All too true. She did
want him. Desperately. No matter that she constantly professed to hate him. No
matter that she continually professed to despise his touch and all he stood
for. The truth was that she
liked
Logan Tyree and that thought
frightened her almost as much as the way her body responded to the desire in
his eyes and the slightest touch of his hands. Even now, she longed to let him
carry her to the barn and satisfy the need he had aroused in her. But it was
wrong, so very wrong.

Tyree held her in his arms for what seemed like forever and
then, gently, he set her on her feet and walked away, leaving Rachel standing
alone in the moonlight, feeling suddenly empty and very alone.

Rachel was trying to understand her feelings for Tyree the
next morning when she slipped on the back stairs and sprained her ankle. It was
Tyree who found her lying in a heap at the bottom of the steps, her face white
with pain.

Wordlessly, he carried her into the house and up the stairs
to her bedroom, where he deposited her gently on the bed. Panic took hold of
Rachel as Tyree stood looking down at her. Only the night before he had tried
to seduce her, and now she was helpless, and quite alone in the house.

“Tyree—”

“Just sit tight,” he said, ignoring the anxiety that was
evident in her voice and eyes. “I don’t think anything’s broken.”

“It hurts like blazes.”

“You want me to send for your old man?”

Rachel considered that for a moment, then shook her head.
Her father had left before dawn to visit an old friend who had been in a bad
accident, and now that her initial panic had subsided, she saw no reason to
summon him home. There was nothing he could do. And surely even a man as
callous as Tyree wouldn’t try to take advantage of her now.

Tyree’s hands were surprisingly gentle as he wrapped her
ankle in a towel he had soaked in cold water.

“You’ll be all right,” he assured her. “Lie back and take it
easy. I’ll send for the saw­bones.”

To Rachel’s distress, the doctor prescribed two weeks in
bed.

“Two weeks!” Rachel complained to Tyree later. “Who’ll look
after the house while I’m stuck in bed?”

“I think I can handle things around here until you’re back
on your feet,” Tyree said with a shrug.