RenegadeHeart (7 page)

“That depends on you,” Tyree said, hunkering down on his
heels beside her.

His teeth flashed in a wry grin, confusing her still more.
“On me? I don’t understand.”

“Well, it’s like this,” Tyree explained. “I told Many Eagles
over there, that you’re my woman. He’s an old friend of mine, but he doesn’t
believe me. He wants proof.”

“Proof?” Rachel echoed, puzzled. “What kind of proof?”

Tyree’s dark amber eyes flickered over Rachel’s comely form,
causing a slow flush to spread from the roots of her hair to the tips of her
toes as she read the answer to her question in Tyree’s gaze.

“No, never,” she whispered, vigorously shaking her head.
“I’d rather die!”

“Suit yourself,” Tyree replied with a shrug. “Only dyin’
ain’t in the cards, at least not for you.” His voice went suddenly hard and
flat. He did not like the idea any more than she did, but it was the only way
for both of them to survive, and the sooner he could make her understand that,
the better. “You’d better face facts, honey. You’ve only got two choices, me or
them.”

“What kind of choice is that?”

“Not much, I reckon. But if you refuse me, Many Eagles is
gonna kill me for lyin’ to him. And when his bucks are through with you, you’ll
probably wish you were dead, too.”

“No,” Rachel whimpered plaintively. “No, no, no.”

“Well, like I said, it’s up to you.”

“But I hardly know you,” Rachel wailed inanely, and Tyree
chuckled.

“You don’t know them, either,” he reminded her with a rueful
grin. “But you will. Intimately.”

It was like a nightmare, Rachel thought in despair. Worse
than a nightmare. And whether she was ravaged by six leering savages or one
cool-eyed gunslinger didn’t really matter. The results would be the same. Her
reputation would be ruined, her virginity gone.

“Will they let us go, after?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Tyree answered honestly. “But there’s only
one way to find out.”

“But I’ve never… I mean, I’m still—”

Tyree swore irritably. “You tryin’ to tell me you’re still a
virgin?”

It sounded like a sin, the way he said it.

“Well, you won’t be much longer,” Tyree drawled
matter-of-factly, and a faint hint of amusement danced in his amber eyes as he
stood up and unbuckled his belt.

“This can’t be happening,” Rachel thought numbly. But it
was. As though hypnotized, she watched Tyree undress. His hands were big and
brown and they moved purposefully and without haste as he removed his pants. He
didn’t wear longjohns like most men and she gasped aloud as he stood partially
naked before her, his skin as dark as the skin of the leering Apaches.

“Lie down,” Tyree said curtly.

Sucking in a deep breath, Rachel did as bidden. The dirt was
hard beneath her, the sky above a brilliant blue. She stared at the setting
sun, trying to separate her mind from what was happening to her body.

Tyree threw Many Eagles a venomous glance, then, feeling
like some sort of damned sideshow freak, he lifted Rachel’s skirt and removed
her pantalets. Muttering an oath, he lowered himself over her, acutely aware of
six pairs of ebony eyes watching his every move.

Rachel’s body jerked and went rigid as Tyree’s bare legs
touched her own. With a small cry, she closed her eyes, her hands tightly
clenched at her sides.

“Relax,” Tyree whispered.

“I can’t,” Rachel retorted. “I’m too scared.”

“Yeah. Well, this is going to hurt you a hell of a lot more
than it does me, but whatever you do, don’t fight me. This has got to look like
just another roll in the hay between old married folks.”

Rachel’s eyes snapped open, anger and indignation blazing in
their depths. “Must you be so crude?”

“Sorry, honey,” Tyree said lightly. “Now, put your arms
around me like a loving little wife and let’s get this stupid charade over
with.”

Reluctantly, Rachel placed her arms around Tyree’s neck. His
dark hair was soft against her hands, the muscles in the back of his neck taut
with anger and desire as he drew her close.

She was frightened, more frightened than she had ever been
in her life. Of the Indians. Of Tyree. He was stroking her arms lightly,
kissing her eyes, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. Every instinct urged her to
fight him, to preserve her chastity, but her fear of the Indians was stronger
than her desire to remain chaste and she closed her eyes again, praying it would
soon be over.

Tyree felt his desire rise swift and hot as he caressed
Rachel’s arms. She was sweet, so sweet, and he had wanted to make love to her
for so long. But not like this.

He heard the Indians ride away as he kissed Rachel, felt the
tension drain from his body as his lips slid over Rachel’s closed eyelids. So,
Many Eagles had been bluffing after all. Reluctantly, he drew away from Rachel.
Letting her go was the hardest thing he had ever done, and he regretted it
immediately. But violating virgins was something he’d never done, and he didn’t
intend to start now.

Rachel’s eyes flew open as Tyree took his mouth from hers.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“They’ve gone.”

She glanced around, her eyes wide with fear, her body
shaking visibly. She was so scared, and so cold. She looked at Tyree. He was so
brave. And his arms looked so strong and warm. Without conscious thought, she
reached out for him, needing to be held. He had come to her rescue. He would
protect her, shelter her from harm. In the face of fear and danger, he was all
that was solid and familiar.

Tyree let out a long sigh as Rachel’s arms slid around his
neck. She was shivering violently and he held her close, his arms wrapped
around her, his lips moving in her hair as he whispered words of comfort.

In that moment, she forgot that she hated him, forgot
everything but the security of his arms and the consoling warmth of his body
pressed to her own. She lifted her head, her lips seeking his. He hesitated for
a moment, and then he was kissing her, his mouth moving over hers slowly,
languorously, his tongue darting out to savor her lower lip. It was a
wondrously heady sensation, and totally unexpected. She tried to remind herself
that he was an outlaw, but even that didn’t seem to matter, not now with his
mouth on hers and her blood turning to fire. Tyree caressed her and she
responded in kind, her hands slipping under his shirt to roam over his broad
back and shoulders, reveling in the feel of his scarred flesh beneath her
fingertips.

All her fears fled as Tyree made love to her, answering a
need she had not known she possessed. She had been cold and afraid; now she was
warm and alive, every nerve end tingling, every inch of her skin attuned to his
touch.

Tyree tried to hold back, tried to resist, but her lips were
so sweet, her arms so welcoming. He vowed each kiss would be the last. Just
this one, and he would let her go before it was too late, before he could never
let her go. Just one more…

His tongue slid into her mouth, kindling new fires between
them. Rachel groaned with pleasure, her arms drawing Tyree closer, her body
pressing against his. Not realizing how she was affecting him, she knew only
that she wanted to be closer. Her tongue caressed his, then slid shyly into his
mouth, and it was too late to turn back.

His yellow eyes were ablaze with desire when he thrust into
her. Rachel uttered a little cry of pleasure and pain as his body melded with
her own, making her forget everything but the wonder of his touch as wave after
wave of ecstasy flooded her being, filling her with delight, until she lay
sated and spent in his arms.

Later, she lay silent and ashamed beside him, racked with
guilt. What had she done? Always, in the back of her mind, she had imagined it
would be Clint who would initiate her in the ways of love. They would be
married, of course, sheltered within the cozy darkness of their own little
house. She would be shy, hesitant, and yet eager to explore the intimate
secrets shared by a man and a woman. Clint would be strong and tender, pleased
with her inexperience, proud that she had saved herself for her husband…

She shook her head and the idyllic images faded. She had
ruined all that now, ruined any chance she might have had for a life with a
decent man. How could she have given herself to Tyree? How could she have let
him make love to her out in the open like some kind of primitive savage? Shame
flooded her cheeks with color. She was ruined now, soiled. Moments before, the
loss of her virginity had seemed a small price to pay for the security and
pleasure of Tyree’s touch. Now, as harsh reality set in, she realized the cost.
No respectable man would want her now. Damaged goods, they would say, and turn
away in disgust.

Abruptly, she burst into tears. Tyree drew a long breath and
blew it out slowly. He had wanted to make love to Rachel ever since the day he
had first seen her bending over him, her vibrant blue eyes filled with concern,
and he was a man who generally got what he wanted, one way or another.
Nonetheless, he was aware of a sudden wave of remorse for what he had done. No
matter that she had practically asked for it, no matter that she had been
scared and in need of comfort. Rachel Halloran was a nice girl, much too nice
for the likes of a drifting gunhawk like Logan Tyree. He had not bedded a
decent woman since he left the lodges of the Mescalero. He had taken his
pleasure in cheap cribs and cantinas, slaking his carnal desires with whores
who didn’t need sweet words and gentle wooing to satisfy a man’s hunger. Rachel
was not a harlot to be used and forgotten, no street girl to be paid a few
dollars and cast aside.

He slid a glance in her direction, wanting to apologize, to
say something that would ease the pain in her heart, but words would not come.
If only she had not put her arms around him. If only she had not kissed him
back. He might have been able to let her go but for that. And yet, he should
have held back anyway. Difficult as it would have been, he should have stopped.

Cursing softly, he stood up and pulled on his pants. The
Indians had taken Rachel’s mare, he noted with a shake of his head. But better
the horse than the woman.

Rachel sat up as her tears subsided. Reaching for her
pantalets, she drew them on, then stood up, drawing her skirts down over her
thighs, brushing the dust from her dress. The sun had gone down and the
darkening sky was stained with brilliant slashes of crimson, like the faint
smears of blood that stained her thighs.

She flinched as Tyree laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t
touch me,” she said. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”

Tyree cocked an eyebrow at her, surprised by the venom in
her voice.

“You cad!” she hissed. “I never want to see you again.”

“Now just a damn minute,” Tyree growled angrily. “You wanted
it as much as I did.”

“That’s a lie!” Rachel cried, her cheeks flooding with
color. “It was all your fault. You knew I’d never had a man before. You took
advantage of me.”

Tyree swore under his breath. “I took advantage of you? I
think you might have that just a little bit backwards.”

“I do not!” She stamped her foot, hating him because he was
right and she was wrong. But she simply couldn’t admit she had wanted him. It
was so much easier to blame him than admit the truth.

“Like hell. You were hotter than a July firecracker and now
you’re too damn gutless to admit it.”

“I hate you.” She spoke the words through clenched teeth,
meaning them. And then all the anger went out of her as she thought of going
home again, of facing the people she knew and loved.

Lowering her eyes, she said, “Promise me you won’t tell my
father about this. Not my father, or anyone else.”

“You mean Wesley, I guess,” Tyree muttered irritably.

“I mean anyone!” Rachel snapped crossly. But she did mean
Clint. What would he think of her if he found out what she had done, and with
whom? Would he still look at her as if she were the sweetest, most wonderful
girl in the world, or would he turn from her in disgust, his mild blue eyes
filling with revulsion?

As if reading her thoughts, Tyree muttered, “No one’s ever
gonna know what happened here today, so quit worrying about it.”

“I’ll know,” Rachel replied quietly. Indeed, it was
something she would never forget.

John Halloran was waiting for them on the front porch, a
worried expression on his weathered face.

“Everything all right?” he asked anxiously. His eyes sought
Tyree’s. “Where’s Rachel’s mare?”

“Your daughter had a little run-in with the Apache,” Tyree
answered, stepping down and lifting Rachel from the saddle. “They took her
horse.”

“Apaches!” Halloran exclaimed. “Rachel, are you all right?”

Rachel moved away from Tyree, her eyes not meeting her
father’s. “I’m fine, Pa,” she said flatly. “Just fine.”

Halloran’s glance skittered back and forth between his
daughter’s wan face and Tyree’s grim expression. There was something they
weren’t telling him, something they were both holding back, but what? He
watched Rachel as she slowly climbed the steps and disappeared into the house.

“Are you sure she’s all right, Tyree?” Halloran asked
dubiously. “She looks…upset.”

“She’s got a right to be upset. She had a bad scare, but
she’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”

“You’re a handy man to have around,” Halloran remarked,
somewhat relieved by Tyree’s assurance that Rachel was unhurt. “Think you could
stay on for a few more days, just to make sure we’ve had our last run-in with
the Slash W bunch?”

“Sure,” Tyree said, though he knew Rachel would be less than
pleased to have him underfoot. “I’ve got no place to go, and no one waiting for
me when I get there.”

Chapter Three

With Walsh’s death, life on the Lazy H soon returned to
normal. Cahill and two of the cowhands rode out into the hills to round up what
strays they could find, leaving the remaining two men to mend the fences
Walsh’s men had torn down and patch up the outbuildings that had fallen into
disrepair.

Three days later, Cahill and his men returned with better
than sixty head of cattle. These were driven into the holding pens behind the
barn and for the next couple of days, the stench of scorched cowhide and the
bawling of unhappy cattle filled the air as calves long overdue for branding
were cut out of the herd and marked with the Halloran brand.

From his place on the front porch, Tyree took it all in,
marveling that Halloran’s hired hands would work so hard for so little pay.
Why, he had made more money in two weeks killing rustlers down in the Panhandle
than these men would make in a year of range work. And he had made it with far
less effort, Tyree mused as he watched a bowlegged cowboy throw a bawling calf
to the ground while a second wrangler laid a hot iron against the animal’s
flank.

Off in the distance, Joe Cahill and a freckle-faced cowboy
were perched on the top rail of a fence, taking a break while they watched
Candido try to break a flashy gray stallion to the saddle. From the way the men
were hollering and carrying on, Tyree figured the bronc was winning.

Yeah, the place was jumping all right, no doubt about that.
Inside the house, he could hear Rachel singing softly as she swept the parlor
floor. She had a pleasant voice, Tyree thought. But then, everything about
Rachel was pleasant. Everything except her attitude toward him.

She did not like the fact that he sat idle while everyone
else worked, and she said so, openly, bluntly, and often.

“You could at least help water the stock,” she had remarked
earlier in the day. “Or feed the chickens.”

“I could,” Tyree had replied easily. “But your old man ain’t
paying me to tend his stock.”

That remark had unleashed a tirade that had gone on for
several minutes and had ended only when Tyree dropped a hand over Rachel’s
mouth, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

“Why don’t you just calm down and admit what’s really
bothering you?” Tyree had suggested.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Rachel had replied stiffly.

“The hell you don’t! You’re still in a lather about what
happened at Sunset Canyon, and we both know it.”

Rachel had thrown Tyree a withering look. Then, head high as
a spooked filly, she had turned on her heel and flounced angrily into the
house, her cheeks awash with color.

That had been better than an hour ago, and though she had
been in and out several times since then, she had never acknowledged Tyree’s
presence on the porch by so much as a glance. Oh, she was mad all right, he
mused. No doubt about that.

Tyree spent the whole day loafing on the porch, content to
sit in the shade with his hat tilted over his eyes, his long legs stretched
negligently in front of him, his arms folded over his chest.

Rachel burned every time she saw him sitting there,
catnapping or smoking a thin black cigar while everyone else toiled in the sun.
There was so much to be done, and so few hands to do it. There were still stray
cattle to be rounded up, calves that needed branding, fields to plow, hay to
cut, fences that needed mending, stock to be fed and watered, harness that
needed repairing, wood to cut. And there was a large hole in the kitchen roof
that simply had to be patched before the rains came.

Oh, there were a hundred things that needed doing and one
more pair of hands would be welcome, even the hands of a gunslinger like Logan
Tyree. But no, he could not be bothered with anything as mundane as manual
labor.

“Too bad we don’t have another land-grabber for him to
kill,” she muttered crossly. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind adding another notch to
his gun.”

His gun. That was another area of contention. He never took
it off, not even at the dinner table, and that irritated Rachel more than
anything else. She had asked him, politely, to please remove his gunbelt during
dinner, but he had refused with a curt, “Sorry, no.”

He had usurped her father’s place at the head of the table,
too, offering no apology or explanation. Later, her father had pointed out that
Tyree insisted on sitting at the head of the table because it put his back to
the only wall in the room that didn’t have a window in it, and afforded a clear
view of the door.

“Self-preservation, honey, that’s all it is,” Halloran had
explained. “You can’t blame a man for being careful. Especially a man in
Tyree’s line of work.”

Tyree. He stayed up long after everyone else had retired for
the night. Often, from her window upstairs, Rachel saw the faint glow of his
cigar as he took a last turn around the house, or paced the length of the front
yard. Dressed all in black, with his cigar casting eerie shadows across his
swarthy face, she often thought he looked like Satan prowling the bowels of
Hell. Not a pleasant comparison, she admitted, but then, Logan Tyree was not a
particularly nice person. Arrogant, yes. Self-assured, yes. But pleasant? Definitely
not!

But what bothered Rachel the most was her father’s attitude
toward Tyree. Somehow, her father had resolved his feelings of guilt regarding
his part in Walsh’s death and seemed to have thrust the matter behind him. He
never mentioned the incident and seemed to have forgotten it ever happened.

Not only that, but her father seemed to have developed a
genuine fondness for Tyree’s company and the two of them spent many an evening
discussing the ranch, debating whether it would be wiser to take their small
herd to market this year, or wait until the following spring.

Rachel was bewildered by Tyree’s attitude, as well. She knew
he cared little for the ranch, or for the problems facing them, yet he listened
patiently while her father waxed long and loud about his hopes for the Lazy H.
On occasion, Tyree even offered worthwhile suggestions. Men! There was no
understanding any of them.

As time went on, there was considerable speculation about
what would become of the Slash W ranch now that Walsh was dead. There was talk
in town that an eastern syndicate was thinking of buying the place. Another
rumor concerned a Scotsman and a flock of sheep. There was even mention of some
English lord coming out to look the place over, but Rachel dismissed such talk
as idle gossip. Most likely, Walsh’s sister, who lived in Amarillo, would sell
the Slash W to some nice family man with a dozen kids and that would put an end
to the trouble in the valley once and for all.

Sunday found Tyree slouched in his usual place on the front
porch, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, his hat pulled low. Rachel was
inside singing
Nearer, My God, to Thee
while she dressed for church.
Halloran was down at the barn, talking to Cahill while one of the hands hitched
a pair of spirited bay geldings to a shiny black buggy.

The ranch was quiet today. Candido had already left for
town, bound for Mass. The freckle-faced wrangler was going courting. You could
always spot a cowhand with romance on his mind. They were squeaky clean and
usually smelled heavily of lilac water.

Tyree pushed his hat back on his head as Rachel opened the
front door and stepped out onto the porch. She looked lovely, as always, her
face was lightly powdered and a few tendrils of golden hair peeked out from
beneath the brim of a perky straw bonnet. Her slender figure was modestly clad
in a dress of some dark blue material trimmed in delicate white lace. The dress
outlined every luscious curve. Just looking at her made his mouth water.

Rachel frowned as she stood on the edge of the porch,
waiting for her father to bring the buggy up from the barn. Why did Tyree have
to be sitting on the porch just now, she wondered dourly. It was a beautiful
morning and she didn’t want anything, or anyone, to spoil it. She was reluctant
to acknowledge his presence. The sight of his lip curling down in that hateful
way made her angry, but it was his amused silence that goaded her into
speaking.

“Good morning, Mr. Tyree,” she said coldly, formally. She
glanced toward the barn, wishing her father would hurry.

“Mornin’, ma’am,” Tyree drawled. As usual, she was ill at
ease in his presence. Her face mirrored her relief when Halloran drove up in
the buggy.

“Morning, Tyree,” Halloran called cheerfully. “Care to come
to church with us?”

“Now what would I do in church?” Tyree asked, flashing a
sardonic grin.

“Well, now—” Halloran began, only to be cut off in
mid-sentence by his daughter.

“You could pray for the souls of all the poor unfortunate
men you’ve gunned down,” Rachel suggested sweetly.

“You must have a hell of a long service,” Tyree replied
easily. “I’ve killed a lot of men.”

Rachel stared at Tyree, her face pale, her eyes filled with
condemnation. What kind of monster was he, to talk so casually about the men he
had killed? Didn’t he feel any remorse, any guilt or regret, at taking a human
life?

The horrified look on Rachel’s face sparked Tyree’s anger.
Who was she to sit in judgment on him? When had she ever known anything but
love and security? What did she know about him, or his past? What did she know
about pain?

“A lot of men,” Tyree repeated, some perverse quirk of
nature urging him on. “Widows and orphans, too,” he added sourly. He was
kidding, of course, but Rachel took him seriously, and that angered him still
more.

“Maybe you should say a prayer or two for your own soul,”
Rachel murmured quietly, her voice filled with pity. “Though I doubt it would
do much good at this late date.”

John Halloran cleared his throat as the tone of their
conversation grew heavy. “Rachel, that’s enough.”

“I’m sorry, Pa. Mr. Tyree.” Lifting her skirts, she hurried
down the steps to the side of the buggy.

She was about to step in when two strong hands closed around
her waist. “Allow me, ma’am,” Tyree said with exaggerated politeness, and
before Rachel could protest, he had lifted her onto the high front seat as
though she weighed no more than a sack of feathers.

“Thank you,” Rachel said through tight lips.

“Sure you won’t join us?” Halloran asked. “We’ve plenty of
room.”

Tyree was about to refuse when he glanced at Rachel. She was
sitting stiff as a board beside her father, her cheeks suffused with color, her
hands folded primly in her lap. She refused to meet his eyes.

Tyree grinned roguishly, knowing his company was the last
thing she wanted on this bright sunny morning.

“I think maybe I will join you after all,” Tyree decided,
and climbing into the rig, he took a place next to Rachel.

It was a lovely morning for a ride, but Rachel found no
pleasure in it. The flowers growing alongside the road might have been weeds, the
sky overhead black with clouds instead of a clear sapphire blue. Trapped
between her father and Tyree, she stared straight ahead, furious with them
both. Men! Whatever had possessed her father to invite a man like Logan Tyree
to church? And what in the name of all that was holy had prompted Tyree to
accept?

As the miles slipped by, she grew increasingly aware of
Tyree’s hard thigh pressed against her own, of the touch of his arm jostling
hers whenever the buggy bounced over a rut in the road. Almost as tangible as
the pressure of his arm and thigh was the bold way his eyes caressed her,
making her blush with embarrassment. His holster was a hard lump against her
hip, a constant reminder of who and what he was. How she hated him! He was the
most arrogant, insufferable man she had ever known.

“It’s good to have things back to normal,” her father mused
as they pulled onto the main road that led to town. “Cahill thinks we might
have enough cattle to make a decent herd come spring.”

“He’s a good man,” Tyree remarked. “Handy with a rope.”

John Halloran ran a nervous finger around the inside of his
shirt collar, knowing Rachel would not take kindly to what he was about to
suggest. “Tyree, I’d, uh, like to have you stay on with us. Permanent.”

“Pa!” Rachel exclaimed in horror. “You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Tyree said smoothly, his voice quietly
mocking the despair in her eyes. “I’ve no intention of settling down and
becoming a farmer. But I’m obliged for the offer, Halloran.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Rachel glanced at
her father out of the corner of her eye. What was he thinking of, to ask Tyree
to stay on at the ranch? Dear Lord, what would she have done if Tyree had
accepted? There was no way she could face him every day. His presence was a
constant reminder of something she longed to forget, and only the fact that he
would soon be riding on made his presence bearable. Every time she looked at
him, she knew he was remembering Sunset Canyon. The knowledge of what had
happened between them was always lurking in the back of his eyes, tormenting
her, taunting her. She could hardly bear to look at him.

The Yellow Creek Methodist Church was a small square
flat-topped building crowned with a large wooden cross. Saguaro, ocotillo,
Spanish bayonet and palo verde grew around the church, their leaves and flowers
making bright splashes of color against the whitewashed walls. Buggies, wagons,
and riding horses were tethered to the long hitch rail in front of the
building.

Hat in hand, Tyree followed Rachel and John Halloran into
the church and down the narrow aisle to their pew, which was located near the
front of the chapel. He should not have come, Tyree mused glumly. He had only
agreed to accompany them to annoy Rachel, after all, and not because of any
deep, burning need to hear the gospel preached by some whey-faced minister who
had probably never seen sin close up, or known how satisfying a bottle of good
whiskey and a bad woman could be.