RenegadeHeart (25 page)

Yellow Creek was asleep under a pale yellow moon when Rachel
turned the buggy down the main street. Reining the horse to a halt in front of
the jailhouse, she drew a deep breath as she stepped carefully from the buggy.
The gun was cold in her hand as she climbed die steps to the Marshal’s Office
and she stifled a nervous giggle as she opened the door, thinking how surprised
Clint would be to see her wielding a gun and demanding Tyree’s immediate
release.

Closing the door softly behind her, Rachel hoped, fervently,
that Clint would accede to her demands. If he refused, all would be lost,
because there was no way on God’s earth she could shoot Clint.

The Marshal’s Office was empty, quiet as death. A lamp,
turned low, sent long shadows dancing on the walls as she glanced around the
room. Clint’s coat was hanging from a nail in the wall, his hat was on the top
of his desk. Knowing he usually slept on a cot in one of the empty cells when
he had a prisoner, Rachel tiptoed into the cellblock, thinking that, if she
were lucky, Clint would be sound asleep and she could free Tyree with no one
being the wiser.

But the keys to the cells were missing from the hook inside
the cellblock door, and all the cells were empty.

She was puzzling over the whereabouts of the marshal and the
gunman when a hoarse groan broke the eerie stillness. Rachel’s first instinct
was to run, but a second groan, louder than the first, sent her to investigate
and she found Clint sprawled on the floor of the last cell, his hands pressed
against the back of his head.

“Good heavens!” Rachel gasped, kneeling outside the cell.
“What happened? Did Tyree…?”

“No. Two of Annabelle’s thugs buffaloed me. I guess they
took Tyree.”

Wesley rose unsteadily to his feet. “Extra key,” he rasped.
“Bottom desk drawer.”

Rachel flew on winged feet into the office, muttering under
her breath about the awful clutter in the bottom drawer as she rummaged around
for the key to the cell. Apparently Clint never threw anything away, and she
was forced to paw through papers, a set of handcuffs, a pair of fur-lined
gloves, several socks that did not match, and an old wanted poster with Tyree’s
picture on it, before she found the extra keys.

Hurrying back to the cellblock, she unlocked the door and
stepped into the cell. “Are you all right?” she queried anxiously, not liking
the wan expression on his face, or the amount of blood matted in his hair. “Can
you walk?”

“Of course I can walk,” Clint retorted irritably, but his
steps were none too steady as he made his way down the narrow corridor to the
office. With a sigh, he eased down into the big leather chair behind the desk,
sat back, very carefully, and closed his eyes.

Rachel whisked around the office, heating water in a pan on
the pot-bellied stove, tidying up the top of the desk while she waited for the
water to get hot, sweeping the floor because she was too agitated to sit still.
When the water was warm, she took a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and
dipped it in the pan, then began to sponge the blood from the gash in Clint’s
head. He winced as the warm water dribbled into the cut above his left ear,
cussed aloud when she washed the wound with whiskey she found in one of the
other desk drawers.

“Don’t waste it all on my head,” Wesley admonished, reaching
for the bottle. “It’ll do a lot more good on the inside.”

Rachel frowned as he took a long drink from the bottle. She
did not hold with strong drink, but she had to admit his color quickly improved
after a swallow or two.

“What are you doing in town this late?” Clint asked, corking
the bottle. “Nice young ladies don’t generally come calling in the middle of
the night. Especially at the jail.”

“I came to break Tyree out,” Rachel admitted sheepishly.

Clint Wesley could not have been more surprised if she had
suddenly stripped naked and thrown herself across his lap. “Break him out of
jail!” Wesley exclaimed. “How’d you intend to do that?”

“With this,” Rachel said, taking the derringer from her
skirt pocket.

Clint stared at her, speechless. She was the most wonderful,
unpredictable woman he had ever known, and he loved her more than words could
say. Words, he mused bitterly. If only he had told her how he felt sooner, when
it mattered, perhaps she would not now be engaged to a no-good drifter like
Logan Tyree.

“I couldn’t let Tyree kill you,” Rachel explained. “And I
couldn’t let you hang him, so…” She shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at
the time.”

“You’re the beatenest woman I’ve ever known,” Clint
muttered. “How about helping me over to my place and fixing me something to
eat? I’m starved.”

“Your place? I thought you stayed here?”

“Not any more. I bought the old Miller place.”

“Oh, I’ve always loved that old house. It’s so romantic,
with all those turrets and stained glass windows. And that wonderful balcony
that overlooks the town.”

“Yeah, I knew you liked it,” Clint said. He had bought the
house a few days before Rachel had announced her engagement to Tyree. “I bought
it because I hoped that you, that is, that we…” Clint coughed and looked away,
a flush spreading over his cheeks.

“Dammit, Rachel, I bought the place for you. For us.”

“But I’m engaged to Tyree.”

“I know,” Clint said gruffly. “But, dammit, Rachel, honey,
Tyree’s a wanted man in practically every part of the country. What kind of
life can you have with a drifter like that? He’s no good for you, Rachel. He
never will be. Sooner or later, somebody’s gonna hold onto him long enough to
give him the hanging he deserves, and then where will you be? I love you,” he
declared passionately. “I know I should have said something sooner, but I
thought you knew. Everybody else does. I’d make you a good husband, Rachel, or
die trying.”

He finished abruptly, his eyes begging her to accept his
proposal, to admit he was right about Tyree.

Momentarily taken aback, Rachel could only stand there, her
eyes wide with surprise at the unexpected force of Clint’s words, and the
fervent love shining in his mild blue eyes.

“But, Clint,” she stammered after a long moment. “I told you
before. I don’t love you. Not the way you deserve. I’m in love with Tyree.”

“Tyree!” The name spewed from Wesley’s mouth as if it were
poison. “Dammit, Rachel, the man’s not fit to wipe the dust from your shoes.
He’s a drifter, a hired killer! Hell, he’d probably gun you down if the price
was right.”

“Once, maybe, but not anymore. He’s changed.”

“Sure,” Clint said skeptically.

“It’s true! He wants to settle down, have a family…”

“For how long?” Clint interrupted. “He’s a loner, a man with
itchy feet. He’ll never settle down in one place.”

“Clint, please.”

“Rachel.” His love for her vibrated in his voice. For once,
he threw propriety to the wind, and took her boldly in his arms. His kiss was
filled with longing and desire and yet, for all that, it was a chaste kiss,
lacking the fire and promise that made Tyree’s kisses so tantalizingly
seductive.

With a sigh, Clint dropped his arms to his sides and took a
step backward. There was a sadly haunted expression in his eyes, a note of
despair in his voice when he spoke.

“He’s wrong for you. Can’t you see that?” He laughed
suddenly, harshly, bitterly. “Hell, we’re probably arguing over nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tyree is probably heading for the border with Annabelle
right now.”

“No!”

Wesley shrugged. “Then he’s dead.”

“Dead?” Rachel frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Annabelle showed me a confession, signed by Tyree, a couple
of days ago. It said that Tyree killed Job Walsh. Annabelle wouldn’t tell me
where she got it, or how, but when she told me about it, I figured she wanted
Tyree out of the way, for one reason or another and was using the law to get
rid of him for her, all nice and legal. But then two of her men broke him out
of jail. Why? Either she’s decided to forgive Tyree for whatever he did to
displease her, which I doubt, or…” Clint spread his hands in a gesture that
spoke louder than words.

“Or Annabelle decided to exact her revenge herself.”

“Exactly.”

Rachel chewed on the inside of her lower lip. What Clint
said made good sense. Annabelle had wanted to see Tyree hang and then, for some
reason, she had changed her mind. But why?

Wesley reached for his hat, set it carefully on his head. It
had been a hell of a night, but some good had come of it. Tyree was out of the
way at last. Maybe, in time, Rachel would forget him. Maybe, in time, Clint
could win her love. But for now, he just wanted to be alone.

“Go on home, Rachel,” he said wearily.

“I can’t leave you alone, not when you’re hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” Clint said roughly. “Go on home.”

With a sigh of resignation, Rachel murmured a subdued
farewell and walked out of the Marshal’s Office. She knew she had hurt Clint,
hurt him deeply. But she could not marry a man she didn’t love just to spare
his feelings.

Outside, Rachel gazed into the darkness. Where was Tyree?
Confused and sick at heart, she climbed into the buggy and turned the horse
toward home.

Chapter Twenty

Tyree woke just after dawn. Nacho and Jorges were gone. But
he was not alone. A six-foot rattlesnake lay coiled against his right side, its
ugly, triangular-shaped head less than a foot from his own. An involuntary gasp
brought a warning buzz from the disturbed reptile.

A long sixty seconds followed, with the snake staring,
unblinking, at Tyree, and Tyree staring back. He had seen a man die from a
snake bite once. It had not been a pretty sight, the man’s leg swollen and
turning black, his eyes wide with terror, the fever that shook him from head to
toe as the poison spread through his system, convulsions…

Another minute slid quietly into eternity. Tyree’s shirt was
soaked with sweat. Perspiration dripped into his eyes, but he dared not blink
it away. He knew a moment of gut-wrenching fear as the snake uncoiled and
slithered slowly over his chest, its forked tongue darting in and out.

Holding his breath, Tyree slowly raised his head. Risking a
look over his shoulder, he breathed an audible sigh of relief as he watched the
snake disappear into a shady spot beneath a squat cactus some eight yards away.

Weak with relief, Tyree wriggled around on the hard ground,
seeking a more comfortable position. It was then he saw the big blue bowl
filled to the brim with water. Water that sparkled and shimmered in the early
morning sunlight. He stared at the bowl, unable to believe it was real and not a
mirage born out of his thirst.

It was hard work, inching his way toward the bowl. His
wounded arm throbbed with each movement, but he struggled forward, his eyes
fixed on the bowl and the promise it held.

He cursed with all the bitter rage of a man betrayed when
the tether around his neck pulled him up a mere twelve inches short of his
goal. He cursed until his throat was raw and his voice was reduced to a harsh
rasp.

When his anger cooled, he turned his back to the sun and
closed his eyes. The hours crawled by on leaded feet. The air, hot and dry,
covered him like a heavy blanket. Sweat poured out of him, soaking his
clothing, stinging his eyes. Flies came to torment him, crawling over his
wounded arm. His lips cracked and bled, and he sucked the salty moisture,
desperate for any trace of wetness to ease his horrible thirst. His tongue grew
thick in his mouth, his throat felt tight and swollen.

Knowing it was useless, he pulled against his tether in a
vain attempt to reach the beautiful blue bowl of crystal water that shimmered
like liquid diamonds in the sunshine.

But straining against the hangman’s rope only drew the noose
tighter around his neck. Only a few inches, he mused ruefully. It might as well
have been a mile. A wry grin turned down the corners of his mouth as he
contemplated dying in the desert. He had always thought to meet his end
quickly, from a bullet fired by that one gunman whose draw would be that fatal
fraction of a second faster than his own. Or at the end of a rope. He had never
imagined he would die an inch at a time under a blistering sun because he had
walked out on a slut.

And still the minutes moved slowly onward and the sun
climbed higher in the sky, beating down on his unprotected head, burning into
his brain. He closed his eyes against the blinding glare and distorted images
from his past crowded his mind. He frowned as people long forgotten paraded
through the mists of time. So much killing, so much death. He heard the
Reverend Jenkens’ voice echo in his ears: “He who lives by the sword shall die
by the sword…” and he laughed out loud. The Reverend was sure as hell wrong
about that. He would have welcomed a bullet to the torture he now faced.

He shook his head from side to side, seeking relief from the
bitter memories that plagued him and suddenly Rachel’s image materialized
before him. The other ghosts faded away and she stood alone in his memory.

Rachel. Warm, loving, caring.

Rachel. More beautiful than life.

Rachel. Perhaps he had loved her from the moment he first
saw her bending over him. Why had he been so reluctant to admit it?

The hours and minutes they had spent together swirled
together in his mind. Always, when he needed her, she had been there. Her
tender care had saved his life. She had nursed his hurts, bandaged his wounds,
made him realize the value of life. But, more importantly, she had healed the
wounds he had carried inside, made him realize he was more than just a
worthless saddle tramp, more than a hired gun.

“Rachel.” He sobbed her name aloud, grieving for what might
have been.

With a start, Tyree opened his eyes and the first thing he
saw was the pretty blue bowl. No matter how many times he looked away, no
matter how many times he cursed Annabelle, sooner or later his eyes were drawn
back to the bowl and its precious, life-sustaining contents.

Once, he surged forward with all his might, ignoring the
pains that raced through his limbs, ignoring the noose that cut ever deeper
into his neck, choking off his breath. He strained forward, straining until the
world went black and he fell into a fathomless void.

When he regained consciousness, the setting sun was turning
the western horizon to flame. Great splashes of crimson and gold and orange
stained the pale blue sky, gradually fading to lavender and then to gray as the
sun dropped behind the mountains.

Tyree let out a long breath, shuddered convulsively as his
whole body screamed for relief.

A soft mocking laugh drew his attention and he glanced over
his shoulder to find Annabelle Walsh staring down at him. She was wearing a
blue silk shirt, tight black pants, and black calfskin boots. Even now, when he
was racked with pain and unbearable thirst, he could not help thinking she was
the most blatantly beautiful woman he had ever known. The most beautiful and
the most vindictive.

“Thirsty, Tyree?” Annabelle purred wickedly “Hungry? Do your
limbs ache from that dreadful position?” Her laugh was low and decidedly cruel.
“You should never strike a lady, you know.”

“I never have,” Tyree retorted hoarsely, and knew a faint
moment of satisfaction as Annabelle’s green eyes grew dark with anger.

“Still full of fire, I see,” Annabelle mused aloud. She
dragged a hand through the thick mane of her red hair. “But that fire will be
out by tomorrow. Before the day is out, the vultures will be fighting over your
carcass.”

“You gonna stay and watch?”

“Perhaps.”

Annabelle’s eyes moved slowly over Tyree’s body, lingering
on the taut muscles in his arms, the broad expanse of his chest, his long
powerful legs. A melancholy expression softened the anger in her eyes. She had
never wanted a man as much as she had wanted Logan Tyree. Why, of all the men
she had desired, had he been the one to elude her grasp? No other man had ever
been able to resist her feminine charm. Always, in the past, she had dominated
the men in her life. But she had never been able to dominate Tyree. Always, he
had been the master. Almost, she regretted her decision to kill him. Almost,
she reached down to loosen his bonds.

But then the memory of his hand striking her flesh intruded
on the thought of what might have been, shattering her wistful reverie. A nasty
smile twitched at the corners of her mouth as an involuntary shudder of pain
wracked Tyree’s body. His pain pleased her, soothing her injured vanity. She
was the master now.

A flat rock provided a place to sit, and Annabelle curled
her legs under her, deciding she would stay and watch Tyree die. It gave her a
sense of power, knowing she held his life in her hands. She could kill him now,
quickly, or let him die slowly. She wondered what it would be like to see the
life drain out of his body, wondered, absently, if his cool self-control would
shatter in the end. It would be immensely satisfying, she mused, to see him
break, to hear him whine and beg for mercy.

With greatly exaggerated gestures, she uncorked the canteen
she had brought with her and took a long swallow. She was aware of Tyree’s eyes
watching her every move. Out of pure cussedness, she shook the canteen under
Tyree’s nose. The water sloshed inside, sounding delightfully cool and wet and
refreshing, and Annabelle watched Tyree, waiting for him to beg her for a
drink. It would be such fun to hear him beg. She might even give him a tiny
swallow.

But Tyree did not beg. He licked his lips as he watched
Annabelle take a long drink. But he did not beg.

When he remained mute, Annabelle poured a small amount into
her hands and wiped her face and neck. Her sigh of pleasure was long and loud.

“Would you like a drink, Tyree?” she asked, shaking the
canteen under his nose again. “It’s so hot, and I know you must be
dying
for
a drink.”

It was in his mind to say yes, to beg her for just one
swallow, but he knew her too well, knew she would only laugh in his face.

“Damn you,” he rasped, hating her as he had never hated
anyone in his life. “I hope you fry in hell.”

The sound of approaching horses stifled Annabelle’s reply,
and she stood up, peering into the darkness.

Glancing past Annabelle, Tyree saw six men riding toward
them. A sudden coldness engulfed Tyree as he recognized Joaquin Montoya riding
in the lead. Montoya. Dealer in human flesh.

Montoya drew rein near Annabelle. Gallantly, he removed his
sombrero and bowed from the waist.

“Ah,
Señorita
Walsh,” he said jovially. “Disposing of
that troublesome gunfighter, I see.”

“Montoya,” Annabelle said warmly. “How nice to see you
again.” Her eyes sparkled with approval. Montoya was a handsome man, with
laughing black eyes and a sweeping black moustache. They were much alike, she
mused. Perhaps that was why they got on so well together.

“The pleasure is all mine,
chiquita
,” Montoya
replied. He gestured at Tyree. “He looks about done for.”

“There’s life in him yet,” Annabelle remarked. “He will wish
for death many times before it comes.”

Montoya studied Tyree for a long moment. Then, dismounting,
he squatted on his heels beside the gunman and ran a slender brown hand over
Tyree’s arms and legs, grunting softly.

“Why not sell him to me?” the bandit asked, rising to stand
beside Annabelle.

“Whatever for?”

“I can sell him to the mines. They pay much for big men with
strong backs. And this one, I think he could do the work of two men.”

“No,” Annabelle said, shaking her head. “He must die.
Slowly.”

“As you wish,” Montoya conceded with a shrug. “But you can
only kill him once. In the mine, he will die a little each day.”

Annabelle regarded Tyree through thoughtful eyes. Montoya
was right. You could only kill a man once. And for Tyree, death would come as a
welcome release from the pain and thirst and suffering. But the mines…to be
constantly underground, chained like a beast of burden, driven by the whip…ah,
there was lasting punishment indeed, worse, in its own way, than death itself.
The mine would humble him once and for all. Truly, he would rue the day he had
left her.

“You will see he works hard?” Annabelle asked, lifting her
gaze to Montoya’s face.

“
Sí
, very hard.”

“And when he can no longer work?”

Montoya shrugged. “He will be driven out into the desert to
die. So you see, in a way, his end will be the same.”

“Very well,” Annabelle said decisively. She dug into her
pants pocket and withdrew the key to Tyree’s handcuffs. “He is yours.”

With a nod, Montoya handed her a double eagle in exchange
for the key.

Logan Tyree’s eyes never left Annabelle’s face. Not when one
of Montoya’s men cut the rope from his neck, not when they placed him on a
horse, not when they tied his feet to the stirrups.

It was spooky, Annabelle thought, the way Tyree stared at
her, his yellow eyes cold and unblinking, like a snake’s. It was quite
unsettling, and she turned away, shivering, as though someone had just walked
over her grave.

“Annabelle.”

Tyree’s voice, raspy and harsh, reached out to her. Slowly,
like one mesmerized, she pivoted to face him.

“I’ll kill you for this,” Tyree vowed. “Some night, you’ll
wake up to find my hands around your throat.”

“You dare threaten me?” Annabelle asked in amazement. “Even
now, when I hold your life in my hands?”

“Damn you!” Tyree hurled the words at her. “If you want my
life, take it and be done with it!”‘

Annabelle frowned as she stared at Tyree, bemused by the
faint glimmer of fear lurking deep in his eyes. He was not afraid of dying. She
knew that. Of what, then, was he afraid?

“It is the loss of his freedom he fears,” Montoya explained,
reading the question in her eyes. “Life is cheap to a man who sells his gun to
the highest bidder. But freedom, ah, freedom is much to be prized.”

Head cocked to one side, Annabelle looked up at Tyree, and
saw the truth of Montoya’s words mirrored in Tyree’s eyes. Her smile was cruel
as she said, with finality, “There will be no death for you this night, Tyree,
or for many days and nights to come. Only the rattle of chains on your feet,
and the song of the whip on your back. Remember me, every time you pray for
death. Montoya, take him away!”

It took six days to reach the silver mine located in a green
valley in Mexico. Tyree spent most of that time dozing on the back of a horse,
his hands cuffed behind his back, his feet lashed to the stirrups. Nights, when
the outlaws made camp, he was shackled to a tree, or to one of the outlaws.

Montoya and his men spent their nights around a comfortable
fire, eating, drinking, laughing. Looking forward to the time when they would
be rid of Tyree and back home with their women.

Tyree had hoped that, somehow, he would find a way to escape
before they reached Mexico, but Montoya was an expert in handling prisoners. He
took no chances, made no mistakes, and there was no opportunity to make a break
for it.