RenegadeHeart (16 page)

It was suppertime when Tyree returned to the cabin. Stepping
inside, he could see that Rachel had been hard at work. The cabin’s single
window sparkled. The floor was dust-free. The cobwebs were gone from the
corners. His blankets had been washed, the bed was freshly made. A red-checked
cloth covered the table. He quirked an eyebrow inquiringly when he saw it was
set for two. A clean shirt was laid out on the bed, together with a bar of
yellow soap and a clean white towel. A basin of hot water was waiting on the
counter, his razor beside it. There was a pot of stew simmering on top of the
stove, a pan of biscuits warming in the oven.

Tyree whistled softly. “Nothing like a woman’s touch.”

“You might as well live like a civilized human being while
you’re here,” Rachel retorted sharply, mistaking his compliment for sarcasm.

“Hey, calm down,” Tyree admonished. “I like it. It
looks…nice.”

Mollified, Rachel said, “Dinner is almost ready.” She looked
pointedly at the whiskers sprouting on Tyree’s chin. “You have time to shave
first.”

“Shaving left-handed’s more trouble than it’s worth,” Tyree
muttered, dragging a hand across his jaw.

“Would you like me to do it?”

“You?” Tyree chuckled. “Hell, I’m game if you are.”

Tyree sat in one of the cabin’s rickety chairs while Rachel
lathered his face and then, very carefully, began to shave him. Her touch was
light, her fingers warm on his cheek, and a sudden tension sprang up between
them as she continued to draw the razor across his jaw. Somehow, what had
started out as a routine chore suddenly became much, much more, leaving Rachel
to wonder how it had happened. She was acutely conscious of Tyree’s face only
inches from her breast, of his thigh brushing hers as she moved from side to
side.

Tyree was thinking about picking her up and carrying her to
bed when Rachel wiped the last of the lather from his face and took a step
back, head cocked to one side as she admired her handiwork. Seeing the look in
Tyree’s eyes, she took another step back, putting herself out of his reach.

“Not bad,” she declared, offering him a hand mirror she had
found in a drawer of the highboy. “What do you think?”

“Better than a barber,” Tyree decided. “Maybe I should set
you up in business.”

“No, thanks. Dinner is ready.”

They ate in silence. Darkness came swiftly, enveloping the
cabin and its occupants, shutting them off from the rest of the world. Rachel
avoided Tyree’s eyes as she cleared the table, glad to have something to do
with her hands, glad that she could turn her back to Tyree while she washed and
dried the dishes. But even then she was aware of his presence only a few feet
away.

Leaning back in his chair, Tyree chewed on the end of a
cigar, openly admiring the way the lamplight played in Rachel’s hair, turning
the honey-blonde to gold, finding pleasure in the graceful way she moved as she
wiped the dishes and stacked them in the cupboard.

Removing her apron, Rachel ran a slender hand through her
hair and coughed nervously. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to go.”

“You shouldn’t be riding home alone in the dark.”

“I’ll be all right.”

Tyree was about to argue with her when the shrill scream of
an aroused stallion cut across the stillness of the night.

“The gray,” Tyree remarked. “Your mare must be in season.”

Rachel nodded, and then they were running for the corrals
behind the cabin.

In the light of the full moon they could see the stud pacing
the rail that separated him from Rachel’s mare. He had been pacing back and
forth for some time as evidenced by the path cut into the soft dirt on his side
of the fence. As Rachel and Tyree rounded the corner of the cabin, the stallion
sailed over the six-foot fence.

“Tyree, stop him!” Rachel shouted. “I don’t want my mare to
drop a late foal.”

“It’s too late. Look!”

Rachel’s mare was a maiden mare. Too frightened to run, she
stood in one corner of the corral, her dainty head high, her eyes showing white
as the stud pranced back and forth in front of her, his neck arched, his tail
high. His organ dropped, swelled.

Rachel gasped. “No wonder Morgana’s afraid,” she murmured,
unaware she had spoken the words aloud.

The gray herded the mare into the center of the corral,
nipped her viciously on the right flank when she seemed unwilling to cooperate.
Then, with a squeal that sent shivers down Rachel’s spine, the gray reared up
and mounted the quivering mare.

“Damn!” Tyree breathed. “He’s magnificent.”

Rachel had to agree. The stallion was magnificent. And
though she had seen mares covered before, there was something special about
this occasion, and not just because her mare was involved. The other breedings
she had seen had been at the ranch under controlled conditions, not like this,
with the mare cowed into submission by a stallion that had run wild and free
only a few short months ago.

Rachel licked her lips, suddenly conscious of the man
standing close beside her, and she sent a furtive glance in his direction. He
was like the gray, she thought, blushing furiously. Half-wild and totally
unpredictable.

A shuddering sigh racked the stud as, with a shake of his
massive head, he withdrew from the mare to stand with his nose almost touching
the ground, his sides heaving mightily.

“Come on, you old reprobate,” Tyree called softly, and the
stallion followed him docilely into the adjoining corral.

“Let’s have some coffee while your mare settles down,” Tyree
suggested.

“Might as well,” Rachel agreed. “The damage is done.”

“I’ll bet she throws a fine foal,” Tyree predicted. “She’s a
good-looking mare, and the gray has good conformation for a range-bred
stallion. I’ll bet he’s got some Thoroughbred somewhere in his background.”

“Could be,” Rachel agreed, stepping into the cabin. “He’s
much too tall for a mustang.”

The minute Tyree shut the cabin door, Rachel knew returning
to the cabin with him had been a mistake. The mating between the horses had
affected Tyree, too. There was a hungry look in his eye, a telltale bulge
rising in the crotch of his Levi’s.

“I’ll put some water on,” Rachel said with forced lightness,
but Tyree shook his head.

“Well, if you’ve changed your mind about that coffee, I’ll
be running along. It’s a long way home, and I’m tired.” She was babbling, and
she laughed self-consciously. “Morgana’s probably tired too,” she said, and
could have bitten her tongue. “So long, Tyree.”

“Rachel.”

His voice stopped her as she reached for the door latch.
Slowly, she turned to face him. “No, Tyree,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”

But she made no move to avoid the hand that reached out to
stroke the curve of her cheek. Nor did she turn away when he bent to kiss her.

Hating herself, Rachel let Tyree lead her to the bed and
willingly sank down beside him on the lumpy mattress. Later, she would be
ashamed of the brazen way she responded to his touch, would be embarrassed to
recall the love words she had whispered in his ear. But not now.

With provocative deliberation, Tyree began to undress her.
Slowly, using his good hand alone, he unfastened her shirt and slipped it off
her shoulders, then began to remove her jeans. For a moment, his fingers
stroked her naked belly and thighs. Rachel stared up at him, her whole body
quivering under his burning gaze. He did not take his eyes from hers as he
stood up and began to undress. In moments, he stood naked before her and Rachel
marveled anew at the span of his shoulders, the spread of his black-furred
chest, the length of his legs, the strength in his arms.

With a little cry, Rachel reached for Tyree, pulling him
down beside her on the narrow bed, loving the touch of his skin against hers as
she explored his scarred body with shameless abandon. She was surprised to find
that his lean nakedness did not repel her. Surprised to learn his nakedness
excited her, that she thought his body beautiful to behold.

Lying beside Tyree, feeling his hand caress her flesh,
tasting his kisses, she felt loved and protected and terribly female. He was so
completely masculine, so virile it made her more glad than ever to be a woman.
Oh, but it was wonderful to know that Tyree found her desirable, wonderful to
glory in the easy strength of the arms enfolding her, wonderful the way their
bodies came together, as if they had been born to share this one glorious
moment…

When Tyree woke in the morning, Rachel was gone. The cabin
seemed empty without her gentle presence.

Rising, he dressed, ate, and then got to work filing the
front sight off the barrel of the Walker Colt so that it wouldn’t catch on the
holster. That done, he began working on the holster Rachel had brought him,
softening it, rubbing it inside and out with oil, shaping it so that the
leather fit the gun like a second skin.

When both gun and holster suited him, he blocked everything
from his mind and concentrated on drawing the weapon. Ten times, twenty, fifty,
a hundred times he drew the heavy Colt until he was satisfied with the way the
gun felt in his hand, satisfied that his draw was flawless. Only then did he
load the gun.

Long hours of target practice followed. He fired at his
target from all angles, with the sun at his back, with the sun in his face,
standing, kneeling, prone on the ground. He practiced in full daylight, in the
changing shadows of twilight, in moonlit darkness.

Days passed, and he thought of nothing but the Colt,
touching it, handling it, until it was like an extension of his hand.

But the nights…ah, at night, when he stretched out on the
bed, he thought only of Rachel, wondering if she would come to him again,
remembering her warm softness beneath him and the sweet taste of her lips. She
had left in the pre-dawn hours, after their lovemaking, no doubt embarrassed by
what had passed between them. She had made no mention of returning. Grudgingly,
he admitted he missed her, but there was no time to fret over her absence.
There was only time to practice with the Colt and he did so from dawn ‘til
dark, hoping, in a far corner of his mind, that the long hours of practice
would prove to be unnecessary and that, when healed, his right hand would be as
good as ever even though he knew that such a miracle was virtually impossible.

Draw and fire. Draw and fire. At a leaf, a rock, a bottle, a
tin can. Draw and fire. At a twig, a squirrel, a jar tossed into the air.
Remembering, always remembering, the man who had crushed his hand. Always
remembering the pain, the anger.

So the days passed, each one the same as the last. Practice
with the Colt during the day, dream of Rachel at night.

Eventually, Tyree was satisfied that he could draw and fire
the Colt with his left hand as proficiently as he had with his right. Then and
only then did he remove the bandages from his right hand.

Face impassive as stone, he studied his hand as if it
belonged to someone else. He watched the fingers move, stiff as old leather.
Noted that the first three fingers were permanently deformed, that the skin on
the back of his hand was fishbelly white, and badly scarred.

A muscle worked in his jaw when he discovered that he could
not make a tight fist. He was standing there, staring at his ruined hand and
remembering the face of each man responsible, when Rachel entered the cabin.
One look at his face, at the hard set of his jaw and the angry look in his eye,
told her clearly that his hand had not healed the way they had hoped it would,
the way she had prayed it would.

“Tyree?”

He looked up slowly, surprised to find her there.

“I’m sorry, Tyree. I did the best I could. I…I feel like
it’s my fault.”

“Well, it isn’t,” he said curtly. “Go on home.”

“Is there anything I can do before I go?”

“No.”

“Please let me help.”

“Dammit, Rachel, I don’t need your help, and I don’t want
your pity. Just get the hell out of here and leave me alone!”

Arms akimbo, Rachel glared up at him, a challenge rising in
her vivid blue eyes. “Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself then?” she
demanded crossly. “Just because you can’t hold a gun in that hand doesn’t mean
your life is over.”

“A gun!” Tyree snarled. “Shit, I can hardly hang onto a cup
of coffee. You ever try saddling a bronc with one hand? Or tying a knot? Or
shuffling a deck of cards?”

“My father can do all those things,” Rachel replied quietly.
“And he lost half an arm.”

“You’re right,” Tyree admitted ruefully. “I am feeling sorry
for myself. I guess I was hoping for a miracle.” He laughed bitterly. “Imagine
me, hoping for a miracle. I can’t think of anyone who deserves one less.”

“Let me fix you some lunch,” Rachel coaxed. “I brought some
roast beef and potato salad with me.”

“You win. Let’s eat.”

Tyree sat down at the table while Rachel served him, staring
glumly at his right hand while she sliced the meat and dished up the potato
salad.

“Tyree?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to eat, or just sit there, brooding?”

“Sorry.”

She tried not to stare at him as he endeavored to cut the
thick slice of roast beef on his plate with a fork, wondering why she hadn’t
thought to slice it thin, like she did for her father. As it was, it had to be
cut with a knife. And Tyree could not manage both knife and fork with one hand.

Thinking only to help, Rachel reached across the table to
cut the meat for him.

It was a mistake. Growling an oath, Tyree hurled his fork
against the far wall. “You gonna feed me, too?” he rasped. And pushing away
from the table, he unleashed his pent-up anger and frustration in a string of
the most foul epithets Rachel had ever heard.

When he finished, he went to the window where he stood
looking out, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.