RenegadeHeart (15 page)

She frowned at her image. It wasn’t just base desire, she
mused. She wanted to com­fort him, to make him forget the Indian wom­an who had
been killed so savagely. She wanted to blot out the horrors of prison, to wipe
out all the unhappiness of his past and replace the misery with joy. She wanted
to erase the hard lines of pain and hurt from his face, to see him smile, hear
him laugh, bear his children. Tyree, Tyree. If only she could forget him…

A faint noise interrupted her melancholy thoughts and she
cocked her head toward the door, listening. And then it came again, a faint
knock on the front door. She felt a mild twinge of apprehension as she stood
up, drawing her blue cotton wrapper around her. Cahill and her father were
spending the night out on the range, and she was alone in the house.

Belting her robe snugly around her waist, Rachel padded
barefoot down the carpeted stairway, paused to light the lamp on the table
beside the front door before calling, “Who’s there?”

“Tyree.”

Tyree! Rachel felt her pulse quicken at the thought of
seeing him again, felt her cheeks flame as the memory of the night they had
shared at the Jorgensen place leaped to the forefront of her mind. Anger
followed hard on the heels of that memory. He had used her to satisfy his
drunken lust, letting her believe what they shared had been something beautiful
when it had been sordid and ugly. How dare he come back to the Lazy H. She
would send him packing, and right quick!

Hot words rose in her throat as she opened the door, but she
never uttered them. One look at Tyree stilled her tongue and cooled her anger.

“Good Lord,” she gasped. “What happened to you?”

“Annabelle Walsh set her dogs on me. Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course. Here, sit down.”

She hovered over him as he eased into one of the big,
overstuffed chairs in the parlor, her sky-blue eyes reflecting the horror of
what she saw. Tyree’s face was swollen, pale as death beneath the multicolored
bruises and drying blood. Both of his eyes were puffy and turning black; his
mouth was cut in several places, there was a jagged gash in his left cheek. His
shirt hung in tatters, exposing his lean torso and she saw that his chest, too,
was a mass of bruises and angry red welts. And his right hand… She turned away,
fighting the urge to vomit.

“Not a pretty sight, is it?” Tyree muttered. “Damn, it hurts
like hell. You got any whiskey?”

“I’ll get it. Just sit tight.”

Tyree leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Every
breath was an effort, but the pain caused by his broken rib was nothing
compared to the constant pulsing pain in his hand and he swore under his
breath, cursing Annabelle Walsh and her sadistic nightriders.

Rachel returned shortly, carrying a tray laden with salve,
bandages, scissors, and a tall bottle of scotch whiskey.

Tyree reached for the bottle and took a lengthy swallow as
Rachel began working on his hand. He flinched involuntarily each time she
touched him, swore aloud as she cleaned the wound with a disinfectant that
stung like hell.

Going to the kitchen again, she returned with a bowl of warm
water, and one of cold. Tyree grimaced as she placed his injured hand in the
cold water in hopes of reducing the swelling. While his hand soaked, she began
sponging the blood from his face and chest with a soft cloth dipped in warm
water.

“Tyree, I can clean up the blood and bandage the cuts on
your face and chest, but your hand… I don’t know anything about setting bones
that badly crushed.” There was a tremor in her voice, and her eyes were dark
with worry when she met his gaze. “I think I can splint your fingers,” she went
on uncertainly, “but I don’t know what to do about the rest. You need a
doctor.”

“What about the sawbones in Yellow Creek?”

“He’s gone back East to visit his daughter. She had a baby
last month.”

“Damn.”

“The only other doctor is over fifty miles away. I…I can
take you in the buggy, if you like.”

Tyree loosed a long sigh. Riding fifty miles across rough,
unbroken country with a busted rib and a ruined gun hand was out of the
question.

“Shit, Rachel,” he murmured wearily, “just do the best you
can, but do it the hell now.”

With a nod, Rachel removed what was left of Tyree’s shirt
and began to dab disinfectant on the wounds on his chest and face. The gash in
his cheek was deep and he swore aloud as she bandaged it. Another scar, she
mused, when he had so many. His side was badly bruised and discolored.

It was nearing two a.m. when Rachel taped the last bandage
in place. Tyree was quite a sight. A wide strip of cloth was swathed around his
middle to support his broken rib, a square of gauze covered the gash in his
cheek. His face was swollen and purple, one eye was nearly swollen shut. His
right hand was splinted and loosely wrapped.

With a sigh, Rachel stood up, one hand pressed against her
aching back. She had done her best to mend the damage to Tyree’s hand, and she
knew, with real regret, that her best had not been good enough. With luck, he
would eventually regain the use of his right hand, but only for the simplest
tasks. He would never fast-draw a gun with that hand again. She knew it as
surely as she knew her own name. And so did Tyree. The knowledge was clear in
his eyes, and in the bitter twist of his mouth.

Tyree got slowly to his feet, each movement an effort.
“Thanks, Rachel,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t have come here if I’d had anywhere
else to go.”

“It’s all right.” She lowered her eyes, suddenly shy in his
presence. So much had passed between them and yet, for all that, he seemed like
a stranger. “The spare bedroom is still empty,” she said in a low voice.
“You’re welcome to stay until you’re feeling better.”

“No.”

She had not expected him to refuse, nor had she thought to
feel such regret when he spoke of leaving.

“You’re welcome to stay,” she repeated. “Really.”

“I can’t,” Tyree said wearily. “I need a place to hole up,
someplace where no one will think to come looking for me.”

“But you just said you had nowhere else to go. Besides,
you’re in no fit condition to ride. Not tonight, anyway.”

“Oh? How the hell do you think I got here?”

“But where will you go?” Her concern was evident in her
voice, but Tyree did not seem to notice.

“Out to the Jorgensen place,” Tyree answered as if the idea
had just occurred to him. “I’d be obliged if you’d keep my whereabouts to
yourself.”

Rachel nodded. Once word got out that Tyree’s gun hand was
ruined, he would be a sitting duck for any bounty hunter in the territory.
Anyone catching him off-guard would have no trouble getting the drop on him.
She thought fleetingly of Clint.

“You’ll need a gun,” she said, thinking aloud. “Pa’s got an
extra one in his room. You’ll need some food, too, and a clean shirt.”

Before he could argue or agree, she began gathering the
items she had mentioned. With a sigh, Tyree sat down again. Closing his eyes, he
rested his head on the back of the chair. Damn, but he was tired. It would be
so pleasant to stay at the Lazy H and let Rachel take care of him. He had
missed her more than he cared to admit. But he could not stay. Annabelle’s men
would not waste any time bragging about how they had whipped Logan Tyree,
smashed his gunhand, and sent him running. Once word got around that he was
hurt, he would be fair game for anyone who felt like hauling him in to the
nearest lawman.

And he was not going back to jail. Not now. Not ever.

“Tyree?”

“Yeah?” It was an effort to open his eyes.

Rachel was standing before him, a burlap bag in one hand, a
shirt and an old Walker Colt in the other. With a low groan, he stood up,
reaching for the shirt with his good hand.

“Here, let me help you,” Rachel said quickly.

Halloran’s shirt was a trifle snug through the shoulders and
the sleeves were a couple of inches too short, but it was better than nothing.
Tyree accepted Rachel’s help because he had no choice, but it galled him
nevertheless. She could see that. He was a man who did not take kindly to
depending on others.

Wordlessly, she handed him the gun. The barrel of the old
Colt was too long to fit into his holster, so he shoved the gun into the
waistband of his pants.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly. Brushing her cheek with his left
hand, he picked up the sack of food and left the house.

Peering out the front window, Rachel watched Tyree hang the
sack over the saddle horn. Saw his face go gray with pain when he accidentally
jarred his right hand as he pulled himself into the saddle. Once mounted, he
sat there for several moments before he reined the stallion north toward the
old Jorgensen place.

Rachel watched him ride away into the darkness, bewildered
by her feelings. He had used her and abused her. He had taken her as callously
as he would have taken some cheap saloon girl. And yet, inexplicably, it
grieved her to see him in pain, to know he was alone and hurting.

She stayed at the window, staring down the empty road long
after Tyree was out of sight.

Chapter Ten

The cabin was cold and dark, empty of life save for an owl
perched on one of the overhead beams, its bright yellow eyes blinking in the
sudden light as Tyree lit a lamp. With a faint rustle of wings, the owl flew
out into the night. Tyree stared after the bird, frowning. The Apache believed
an owl was a bad omen, a forerunner of death.

Moving sluggishly, Tyree went outside, slipped the rigging
from the gray before turning him loose in one of the pole corrals located
behind the shack.

Inside again, he dropped his warbag on the floor, barring
the door behind him. Pain slashed through him with every move, and he cussed
long and loud as he eased down on the lumpy mattress, his left arm thrown
across his forehead, his right hand pillowed on his chest.

Outside, the wind came up, whispering mournfully as it blew
across the valley. Tyree stared out the curtainless window, his thoughts grim
as he watched the clouds drift across the inky sky. It would be weeks before
his right hand healed, and even then it would likely be as useful as teats on a
boar. And until then, what? He had money, but didn’t dare show his face in
Yellow Creek to buy supplies as long as he was crippled up. He could ride on,
he mused grimly, but the next town was over fifty miles away, and he was too
damn sore to travel that far. And too damn mad!

Unconsciously, he stroked the smooth walnut butt of the
Walker Colt jutting from his waistband. There were five men who had a debt to
pay and by damn, he meant to see they paid it. In full.

Courting thoughts of vengeance, Tyree fell into a troubled
sleep…and sleeping, began to dream—dark dreams peopled with the skeletal images
of men he had killed. The ghost of Job Walsh materialized in the midst of the
others, his eyes burning like twin coals plucked from the bowels of hell. With
a death’s-head grin, Walsh drew his gun, cocked the hammer, sighted down the
barrel. Tyree saw himself grinning confidently as he reached for his own gun.
But his hand refused to obey his mind’s command. Puzzled, he glanced down at
his right hand, screamed in horror at the gnarled and distorted claw growing
from the end of his arm and screamed yet again as his left hand withered before
his eyes. Helpless now, he looked up to find Walsh laughing at him, laughing
like a crazy man as he pulled the trigger again and again…

Tyree woke in a cold sweat. The bandages on his right hand
made a white blur in the shadowy darkness. He stared at his ruined hand for a
long time before sleep claimed him again.

He woke the following morning feeling ill-tempered and sore
as hell. Scowling blackly, he touched a match to the wood stacked in the
fireplace, dumped some coffee into the battered coffeepot, and put it on the
fire to boil. Rummaging in his warbag, he pulled out a slab of bacon, sliced it
awkwardly with his left hand, dropped the pieces in a cast-iron skillet. There
were a half-dozen biscuits in the sack, and he ate them with the bacon, washing
it all down with gulps of hot black coffee.

With breakfast over, he pulled a set of hobbles from his
pack and went out to check on the gray. The clear morning air was blue with the
sound of Tyree’s angry curses by the time he had the hobbles in place. That
done, he turned the stud out to graze on the sparse yellow grass growing around
the cabin.

He spent the day drowsing in the sun, letting its warmth
bake the ache from his battered body. Sitting there, he found himself thinking
of Rachel and wishing she didn’t have such a low opinion of him. He frowned as
he recalled how she had flung his past in his face, taunting him with the men
he had killed, like the supposedly unarmed man he had shot in Amarillo. True,
the man hadn’t been armed in the usual sense of the word, but he had been
swinging a double-bitted axe that was every bit as lethal as a six-gun. And
then there was that helpless woman. Rita Lacey, her name had been, wife of Tom
Lacey, one of the fastest gunmen this side of the Missouri. Tyree had killed
Lacey in a saloon brawl, and Rita had come looking for her husband’s killer,
shotgun in hand. And Tyree had killed her. He hadn’t liked killing a woman,
especially a woman as attractive as Rita Lacey had been, but what the hell. It
had been him or her. And it wasn’t her house that had burned down, but an El
Paso crib where Rita worked part-time.

And as for the man he had reportedly shot in the back
without even a call, shit, the man had never existed except in the mind of
whoever set the story in motion. Of course, there were dozens of other men he
had
killed. A sheriff in Texas. A Pinkerton man in Abilene. A drunken cowhand in
Dodge. A double-dealing gambler in Tombstone who tried to palm a fifth ace. The
list was endless, but he had never regretted killing any of them. He had chosen
the path he rode, and he would ride it to the end.

Tyree frowned as he pulled his thoughts back to the present,
and Rachel. His only regret in life was taking her virginity. She was a lovely
young woman, much too good for the likes of a washed-up gunfighter. And too
good for a man like Clint Wesley, too.

Wesley. Tyree spat into the dirt. Wesley wasn’t a bad kid,
but unless he got rid of that badge, or got a lot better with his gun, he
wasn’t going to live long enough to marry Rachel, or anyone else. A green kid
packing a gun was just asking for trouble.

The days passed with annoying slowness. Inactivity made
Tyree restless and irritable, his inability to use his left hand with the same
sureness and dexterity as he had used his right hand made him angry and
bad-tempered. Cooking, eating, shaving, bathing, dressing, looking after the
stallion, even combing his hair—all the simple everyday tasks he had once
performed with ease now took twice the time and required twice the effort and
concentration.

Thoughts of vengeance crowded his mind every time he looked
at his ruined hand, and he spent long hours plotting the demise of the five men
responsible.

As his strength increased, he took long walks to pass the
time. Sometimes he took the gray stud along for company. The horse trailed at
his heels like an overgrown puppy.

He played countless games of solitaire, cussing mightily
every time he tried to shuffle the cards.

He was about out of food, cigars and patience when Rachel
showed up at the cabin door.

“I hope you don’t mind a little company,” she said by way of
greeting. She was glad to see he was looking much better. His face was no
longer swollen, though it was still slightly discolored. The gash in his cheek
had scabbed over; it would leave a ragged scar. She noticed he had not shaved
in several days.

“Come on in,” Tyree invited. “Sit down. What brings you
clear out here? Come to gloat?”

“Of course not. I…I just thought you might be a little
lonesome.”

“Did you?”

Rachel lowered her lashes, unwilling to meet his probing
gaze. Regaining her composure, she looked up and smiled. “You look like you
could use a shave,” she remarked, resisting the temptation to reach out and
stroke his beard.

“Reckon so,” Tyree agreed, rubbing his left hand across the
dark stubble sprouting on his jaw.

“This place could use some cleaning up, too,” Rachel
observed, glancing with distaste at the dirty dishes stacked in the sink, and
at the empty bottles and papers piled in one corner.

“Yeah,” Tyree muttered glumly. “And the window is dirty and
the blankets need washing, and the floor needs sweeping. And, dammit, I need a
drink.”

Rachel’s laugh was soft and musical, like the purling of
spring water over a mound of mossy stones. “Poor baby,” she crooned, “got a
broken hand and can’t go into town.”

Tyree’s deep amber eyes glittered angrily. “Dammit, Rachel,
it’s not funny!”

“I know,” she said, instantly contrite. “Everyone is
wondering what happened to you. Larkin and his bunch are bragging about how
they whipped you and ran you out of town.”

“I’ll bet they are.”

“Yes.” Rachel smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling merrily.
“The way they tell it, you were tougher than Hickock and Cody rolled into one.”

Tyree snorted derisively. “But not too tough for Larkin and
his thugs, right?”

“Right. They’re boasting, modestly, of course, that they
went through you like a hot knife through butter.”

“They’ll pay dearly for that bit of bravado,” Tyree vowed
quietly. “Damn, I wish I had a drink.”

“Would you like me to ride into Yellow Creek and buy you a
bottle?”

“Yeah. And some ammunition. And a holster for a left-handed
draw. And a box of the best long nines the town has to offer.”

“Are you planning to live on cartridges and cigars?”

“If I have to.”

“Be serious. How’s your food supply holding up?”

“Cupboard’s about bare. Here.” He pressed a wad of bills
into Rachel’s hand. “Buy whatever you think looks good.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Tyree?”

“You need more money?”

“No, this is plenty. Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask.”

“Why did you become a gunfighter?”

Tyree regarded her for a long moment while he considered and
discarded several answers, and then he shrugged. “A man has to do something for
a living.”

“I’m sure you could have found another line of work if you
had tried.”

“Sure. I could have swamped out saloons for two bits a day.”

“Can’t you ever be serious?” Rachel snapped.

“I am being serious. Take a good look at me, honey. I’m a
‘breed. Nobody’s gonna give me a job that amounts to anything. Besides, I like
what I do.”

“I can’t imagine why. Just look at you. You can’t even ride
into town for fear of being shot at, or arrested. Why don’t you quit?”

“I can’t,” he retorted, somewhat bitterly. “No matter where
I go, there’s always someone who knows me, some young punk who thinks he’s
faster than I am, and won’t rest until he takes a stab at proving it.”

“Have you ever tried to quit?”

“Once. I went to California. Cut my hair. Changed my name.
Grew a beard. But it didn’t work. I’d only been there a week or so when
somebody recognized me. Next thing I knew, I’d killed two men and I was on the
move again. So I figured, what the hell. Might as well cash in on it. And I
have.”

“You could try again. To quit, I mean.”

“Maybe.”

Tyree’s eyes probed Rachel’s, wondering what lay behind her
questions, and her sudden silence.

“I’d better be going,” Rachel announced abruptly. “I’ll be
back tomorrow with your supplies.”

“Rachel—”

“Yes?” She looked up at him, her heart aching to hold him,
to mother him, to feel his mouth on hers. She did not like to think of him
staying in such a dreary place alone, with no one to care for him, to love him.

“I seem to be thanking you for something every time I turn
around.”

“There’s no need,” she said quickly, and hurried out of the
cabin before she did something foolish, like throw herself into his arms.

Rachel rode into Yellow Creek early the following morning.
Mrs. Thorngood eyed her with open curiosity as she ordered a box of long nines
and four boxes of ammunition. She was ordering flour, bacon, sugar, salt and
canned goods when Clint entered the store. He smiled warmly when he saw Rachel
standing at the counter.

“Morning, Rachel,” Wesley said, coming to stand beside her.
He glanced at the cigars and cartridges stacked on the counter, then turned an
inquiring eye on Rachel. “Your old man take up smoking cigars?”

“No,” Rachel said, not meeting his eyes. “They’re for
Candido.”

Wesley nodded, though he could not remember ever having seen
the Mexican wrangler smoke anything but a pipe. “Everything okay out at the
ranch?”

“Yes, fine,” Rachel answered quickly. “Are you coming for
dinner Sunday?”

“You bet. There’s going to be a dance at the Grange on
Saturday night.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Pick you up at seven?”

“I’ll be ready. I’ve got to go now, Clint,” Rachel said,
picking up her order and placing it in a burlap bag. She paid Mrs. Thorngood,
smiled at Clint, and left the store.

Wesley stared after her, a bemused expression on his face.
Something was wrong, but what?

Tyree shoved the heavy old Colt into the waistband of his
pants and left the cabin. After a quick look around to make sure he was alone,
he unloaded the Colt and replaced the weapon in his belt. Then, drawing a deep
breath, he palmed the gun.

Like most gunfighters, he could shoot with his left hand,
though his aim was only fair and his draw was nothing to brag about. True,
there were gunmen who made a big deal about wearing two guns, and a couple of
them were as fast with one hand as the other. But for a man who was good, one
gun was usually enough to get the job done, because if you couldn’t hit your
target with six shots, you weren’t likely to get six more, not if you were
shooting at something that was shooting back.

Tyree drew the Colt with his left hand again and again,
getting the feel of it, getting used to the weight and the balance. He
practiced all morning. It was good to hold a gun again, good to feel the smooth
walnut butt cradled against his palm.

He was still working on his draw when Rachel rode up. Tyree
had taken off his shirt and she stared at his well-muscled torso, feeling a
sudden stab of desire at the sight of so much masculine flesh. He was a big
man, yet he moved with the silky grace of a tiger, his muscles rippling in the
late morning sun as he turned to face her. His chest was still livid where
Annabelle’s men had beaten him, his ribs were still tightly bound. His coarse
black beard made him look like a pirate, but for all that, he appealed to
something raw and earthy deep within her.

“I brought the things you asked for,” she said, and blushed
under his frank gaze, wondering if he could read the unladylike thoughts tumbling
through her mind. “I’ll go and put this stuff away. You go on with what you’re
doing.”