RenegadeHeart

by Madeline Baker

  She was almost sorry when Tyree finally released her.

  “Go on, slap me again,” he invited impudently. “It’s worth it.”

  The next morning, Rachel’s mouth was still bruised from the force of Logan Tyree’s kisses. What an arrogant, insufferable man he was! And how readily she had responded to the touch of his mouth and hands.

  She was decidedly cool and aloof at breakfast, refusing to meet Tyree’s smugly knowing gaze, or to be drawn into any conversation with him.

  John Halloran frowned at his daughter. He knew she heartily disapproved of Tyree but, in his opinion, there was no reason to be rude to the man. Tyree was, after all, a hired hand and deserving of at least a modicum of polite attention.

  Rachel was relieved when breakfast was over and the men left the house. She quickly did the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, then returned to her bedroom, intending to put the finishing touches on a new dress she was making. But as she passed the window overlooking the yard, she spied a familiar figure lounging against one of the breaking pens watching Candido throw a saddle on a bronc. Candido was a top hand with horses, and she was somewhat surprised to see he was still attempting to break the big gray stallion that had recently been brought in off the range. The stud, once king of all he surveyed, was a fighter and his ears went flat the minute he felt the weight of the saddle on his back.

  With a last jerk, Candido pulled the cinch tight and stepped into the saddle. And all hell broke loose. Ears flat, back humped, nose to the ground, the maddened stallion began bucking. Amazingly, Candido rode the pitching bronc as if glued to the saddle. The mustang bucked like a rodeo bronc, now sunfishing, now swapping ends. And when bucking failed to dislodge the unwelcome rider, the stallion reared straight up and crashed over backward. But Candido was out of the saddle before the gray hit the ground, and nimbly remounted as the angry horse scrambled to its feet.

  With a shrill scream of rage, the stud grabbed the bit between its teeth and lined out in a dead run. Thinking the stallion meant to jump the corral fence, the wiry Mexican wrangler settled deeper into the saddle. But the mustang did not launch himself over the corral. Instead, he swung sideways at the last minute, slamming Candido against the stout wooden rail.

  The sound of breaking bone was sharp, punctuated by a high-pitched cry of pain as Candido’s right leg snapped. Sensing victory, the gray bucked again and Candido toppled out of the saddle and hit the ground, hard.

  With the quickness of a mountain cat, Tyree vaulted over the fence and grabbed the mustang’s bridle while a pair of cowhands slipped between the rails and dragged the luckless waddie out of harm’s way.

  Tyree paid no attention to the commotion outside the corral. He had eyes only for the horse as he stood at the stallion’s head, patting the animal’s lathered neck and shoulder, gently scratching its ears. And all the while he was talking to the horse, and the horse was listening.

  Still speaking to the horse, Tyree removed the saddle and sweat-dampened blanket, then led the skittish stud out of the corral toward the barn.

  Rachel stared after Tyree, her dress forgotten. How could a man be so gentle and patient with a wild animal and callously kill a human being?

  Early the following morning, Rachel saw Tyree working with the stud. From her bedroom window, she watched Tyree ease a halter over the gray’s head, then pick up a light saddle blanket and let the horse sniff it. That done, Tyree rubbed the blanket over the stud’s neck and withers, along its back, over its muscled rump and down each leg. Sacking out, the cowboys called it, though it wasn’t a common practice. Most cowhands just saddled a bronc and rode it out, breaking the horse by sheer force. But not Tyree. Again and again, Tyree dragged the blanket over the animal, showing the nervous horse there was nothing to fear.

  The saddle came next: on, off, on, off. And all the while she could see he was talking to the horse.

  Fascinated, Rachel left her room and took a place behind a tree, hoping to hear what Tyree was saying to the skittish mustang. But the words were harsh, foreign to her ears.

  Tossing the saddle and blanket aside, Tyree stroked the gray’s neck. And then, still speaking gently to the stud, he swung aboard the animal’s bare back. There was a moment when the stallion’s ears went flat, when its nostrils flared with suspicion and confusion, but Tyree was speaking to the horse again, soothing its nervousness with quiet words and gentle hands, and after a few halfhearted crowhops around the corral, the stallion stood quiet, ears twitching back and forth.

  Dismounting, Tyree led the horse around the corral, first one way, then the other. A second time he swung effortlessly onto the animal’s back. Dismounted once again. Then, as if he had been doing it every day for years, he saddled the gray and stepped aboard. And the mustang stood there like it had been carrying a man all its life.

  “Care to try him, ma’am?”

  Startled, Rachel stepped out from her hiding place. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Smelled you. Wanna try him?”

  “That outlaw? No, thank you!”

  “He’s no outlaw,” Tyree said, patting the gray’s neck. “He’s just been mistreated, but he’ll come around. You’ll see. Some kind words, a light hand on the reins, and he’ll be as gentle and law-abiding as your own mare was.”

  “Too bad those methods don’t work with people,” Rachel muttered dourly.

  “Meaning me, I suppose,” Tyree said testily.

  “Exactly you.”

  Dismounting, Tyree led the stallion out of the corral. He grinned wickedly as he came to stand beside Rachel.

  “Maybe it would work,” he suggested. “Why don’t you try being nice to me for a few days and see what happens?”

  “I am nice!” Rachel snapped.

  “Yeah,” Tyree agreed, laughing softly. “Real nice. And soft-spoken, too.”

  Rachel felt her cheeks grow hot. He was baiting her again, trying to make her angry. And he was succeeding, damn him. Hands clenched at her sides, she took a deep breath, determined not to bandy words with Tyree this time. Smiling sweetly, she inclined her head toward the stallion. “What were you saying to him?”

  “I’m not sure,” Tyree answered with a shrug. “It’s Apache horse talk.”

  “It’s certainly effective.”

  “Yeah, works every time.” His eyes searched hers, then dropped suggestively to the swell of her breasts beneath her yellow shirtwaist, and the curve of her hips. “Too bad it doesn’t work as well with women.”

  “Meaning me, I suppose?” Rachel replied. The words, meant to sound light and teasing, emerged as a choked whisper. The look in Tyree’s cool amber eyes were doing odd things to her heart and a sudden heat, like liquid fire, ignited deep in the core of her belly as a slow smile spread over his face. Why did he have to be so disgustingly handsome, she lamented. And why did her heart behave so queerly whenever he was near? Clint’s smiles didn’t make her toes curl with pleasure, nor did Clint’s kisses leave her breathless and longing for more.

  “Exactly you,” Tyree drawled softly, intimately.

  For a timeless moment, they faced each other, a vibrant heat pulsing between them. Rachel stared at the man standing beside the gray stallion. He was arrogant, full of self-confidence, always so damnably sure of himself. He reminded her of the Indians that roamed the mountains. Like them, he was as wild as the wind, free as the air, deadly as a sidewinder. But there was something about Tyree that attracted her, that made her want to delve into his heart and soul and discover who he really was. Her mind told her he was exactly what he appeared to be, a ruthless killer, a man who could snuff out a human life without turning a hair. And yet, in her heart, Rachel knew he had a gentler side. She had seen the softer side of Tyree when he suspected no one was watching. She had seen his hands, so big and brown and strong, softly caress Amy’s hair. Had seen him rescue a baby bird from the jaws of a hungry cat. And she herself had felt his tenderness at Sunset Canyon.

  Tyree cocked his head to one side, o
ne black brow rising inquisitively under Rachel’s prolonged gaze. What was she thinking? he wondered. What mischievous thoughts were running around inside her pretty little head? What would she do if he reached out and grabbed her trim waist and planted a kiss on that delectable mouth? Would she scream? Slap him? Run back to the shelter of the house? Or admit that she found him desirable and kiss him back?

  As if reading his mind, Rachel took a step backward and crossed her arms over her breasts.

  “Apache horse talk?” she said, breaking the spell between them. “Where did you ever learn such a thing?”

  “From the Mescalero. I lived with them awhile back.”

  There was something in his tone that warned her not to ask any more questions, but they popped into her mind willy-nilly, one after the other. How long ago had he lived with the Indians? Why had he lived with them? Was that where he had learned to walk with that cat-footed grace that was so rare in big men? Was that why he was so secretive about his past? Had he ridden the war trail with the Apache? Rachel shivered in the sunlight. It was all too easy to imagine Tyree looting and killing and scalping. And liking it.

  The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew Tyree’s attention and he glanced over his shoulder to see a tall, blond young man ride up to the house, dismount, and look around. A smile spread over the stranger’s face when he saw Rachel and he started toward her at a brisk walk.

  Rachel was smiling too, her vibrant blue eyes sparkling with pleasure as she took the man’s hands in her own.

  “Clint,” she said warmly. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  Bending, Clint Wesley kissed Rachel on the cheek. “Did you really miss me?” he asked huskily.

  “You know I did.”

  “How much?”

  “More than I can say,” Rachel answered with mock gravity, and then they both laughed, as though sharing a private joke.

  Tyree studied the blond young Adonis, taking special note of the shiny six-pointed tin star pinned to the man’s black leather vest, and of the .45 Colt holstered on his right hip. The gun didn’t look as if it had seen much action, but it was well cared for.

  Tyree glanced at the marshal again, annoyed to see the man was still holding Rachel’s hands.

  “Say, Rachel,” Wesley was saying, “you’re still going to the box social with me, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” Rachel answered, dimpling prettily. “I wouldn’t miss it. Can you come for dinner tonight? I know Pa would love to see you.”

  “Sure.” Wesley seemed to notice Tyree for the first time. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Rachel said, some of the enthusiasm draining from her voice. “Clint Wesley, this is Logan—”

  “Matt Logan,” Tyree interjected smoothly.

  The marshal nodded, a faint look of suspicion clouding his mild blue eyes. It was a look Tyree had seen countless times before. It was a look that went with the badge.

  “You a friend of the family, Mr. Logan?” Wesley asked.

  “Just a hired hand.”

  Wesley rubbed a hand across his jaw, his eyes thoughtful. “You been in these parts before?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Hmmmm. Your face looks familiar. Mind if I ask where you’re from?”

  That was another thing about lawmen, Tyree thought sourly. They were nosy as hell. “Yeah, I do mind,” he said curtly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting back to work.”

  And before Wesley could object, Tyree vaulted into the saddle and gigged the gray toward the barn.

  “Not a very friendly cuss, is he?” Clint muttered.

  “No. I hate him. When did you get back?”

  “Just now. I haven’t even been to my office yet.”

  “You were gone so long, I was beginning to worry about you.”

  Clint shrugged. “I got tied up with a bunch of red tape at the territorial prison.”

  Rachel nodded. If Clint hadn’t been to town, then he probably hadn’t heard about Walsh. But he would. And if he turned up proof that Tyree killed Job Walsh, what then? It was true that Tyree had pulled the trigger, but her father would be equally culpable before the law.

  “Well, I’d better be going,” Clint said reluctantly. “I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on. Dinner at six?”

  “Yes,” Rachel answered absently, and lifted her face for his kiss.

  Rachel prepared Clint’s favorite dinner that night, roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn-on-the-cob, green beans, biscuits dripping butter and honey, and deep-dish apple pie for dessert.

  “Lordy, John, I’m surprised you’re not as fat as old man Emerson’s hogs,” Wesley laughingly remarked as he helped himself to a second slice of apple pie. “I know I would be if I ate this good every night.”

  “Well, it could be arranged,” Halloran said, winking broadly.

  “Pa, stop it,” Rachel admonished. But she slid a shy smile in Clint’s direction. He looked wonderfully handsome, all decked out in a bright red shirt and brown whipcord britches. Unconsciously, she compared Clint to Tyree, who was dressed all in black, as usual. Clint was the more handsome of the two, she decided, and yet there was something earthy and sensual about Tyree that appealed to her, though she was loath to admit it, even to herself. And Tyree was handsome, ruggedly so.

  “Did you get Curly Bob delivered to Yuma all safe and sound?” Halloran asked Wesley. “There was some talk that his gang might try to spring him.”

  “Never saw hide nor hair of any of them,” Clint replied, chuckling. “I put the word out that I’d blow Curly Bob’s head clean off at the first hint of trouble.”

  “Hot damn!” Halloran chortled in amusement. “I guess they knew you’d do it, too.”

  “I reckon. Say, I saw Walsh’s sister in town this afternoon. She’s a mighty pretty woman.”

  “She planning to sell the ranch?”

  “I don’t know, John. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her. But judging by the amount of baggage she brought along, I’d say she’s planning to stay on for quite a spell.”

  Halloran nodded, his face thoughtful.

  “Funny thing about Walsh being bushwhacked,” Clint mused aloud. “Nobody seems to have any idea who did it, or why.”

  Rachel glanced sideways at her father, waiting for him to reply, but he was staring into his coffee cup, his mind apparently on something else.

  “It was a dreadful thing,” Rachel said quickly. “Tell me, Clint, did you stop to see the O’Brians on your way to Yuma? Has Molly had her baby yet?”

  Tyree grinned to himself as Rachel adroitly steered the conversation to safer ground.

  With dinner over, the three men retired to the parlor for brandy and cigars while Rachel cleared the table and washed the dishes.

  If the marshal thought it peculiar that Matt Logan was the only hired hand to take his dinner at the main house with the boss and to linger for brandy afterward, he did not remark on it, though he had treated Tyree to several long speculative glances during dinner. Now, as John Halloran filled their glasses, Wesley said, “I saw a couple of Slash W riders in town this afternoon. They seem to think somebody paid to have Walsh disposed of.”

  “That so?” Tyree asked disinterestedly.

  “Do they have any idea who was behind it?” Halloran asked bleakly.

  Tyree’s face remained impassive, but John Halloran’s guilt was etched across his weathered face as clearly as print on a page. But Clint Wesley did not see it. He was staring at the man called Matt Logan. Wesley’s eyes gave him away even before his hand started toward his gun.

  “I wouldn’t,” Tyree warned flatly. “Not if you expect to walk out of here.”

  Clint Wesley swallowed hard as he stared into the yawning maw of the .44 that had magically appeared in Tyree’s hand.

  “Tyree,” Wesley muttered sheepishly. “Logan Tyree.”

  “Took you long enough,” Tyree chided in a mild tone.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Wesley accused. �
�You gunned Walsh.”

  “Did I?”

  “You just rode in and shot him down in cold blood.”

  “Anybody see me do it?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah. Well, what now? You gonna gun me down the way you killed Job Walsh?”

  Tyree laughed shortly and without amusement. “You hopin’ I’ll make a slip and say yes? Well, forget it. I didn’t bushwhack Walsh and I’m not aimin’ to kill you unless you do something stupid.”

  Halloran had been nervously silent during the exchange between the two younger men. Now, he cleared his throat and said, curtly, “Tyree, put that gun away. I’ll not have any gunplay in my home. And you, Clint, you just forget that badge for a minute and remember you’re a guest in this house.”

  “I don’t feel very welcome just now,” Clint replied, rising stiffly to his feet. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll go bid Rachel good night and take my leave.”

  Halloran and Wesley shook hands and then Clint left the room, his back rigid, as if he expected a bullet to follow him out the door.

  “Damn!” The word whispered past Halloran’s lips and his face was suddenly drained of color. “He knows,” the old man murmured, shaking his head in dismay. “He knows.”

  “He doesn’t know a damn thing,” Tyree stated flatly. He drained his glass in a single swallow. Striding to the table where Halloran kept his liquor, Tyree poured himself another drink. “Don’t worry, old man,” he said calmly. “I didn’t backshoot Walsh. And even if I had, there weren’t any witnesses.”

  “I never should have hired you,” Halloran said wearily. “I haven’t had a peaceful night’s sleep since Walsh died. Dammit, I wish I had given him the ranch!”

  “Would you feel better if I told you I shot Walsh in a fair fight?”

  “Did you?” Halloran asked hopefully.

  Tyree grinned at the eager expression on the old man’s face. “Sure I did,” he lied smoothly. “Sleep easy tonight, Halloran, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Halloran didn’t believe him, not for a minute. But he wanted to…needed to, and so he nodded. “Thanks, Tyree. See you in the morning.”