While Rachel and the marshal exchanged pleasantries, Tyree’s eyes swept the main street. Satisfied there was no posse tagging along in the badge-toter’s footsteps, he shifted his position so that his back was toward the sun. It was a move that did not go unnoticed by Wesley, and Clint stepped away from Rachel, not wanting her to be caught in the line of fire if Tyree decided to take a shot at him.
“Afternoon, Tyree,” Clint said quietly.
“Marshal.”
“I was looking through some old flyers last night.”
“Good for you.”
“I found a couple that might interest you,” Wesley remarked, reaching inside his vest.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Tyree warned, and though his words were softly spoken and without menace, Clint quickly dropped his hand to his side, away from his gun.
“I guess you’ve seen those flyers before,” Wesley said. “There’s one from the Dakotas, and another from El Paso.”
“Keep looking. You’ll find one from Ellsworth, too. So what?”
Wesley took a deep breath. “So I’m gonna have to take you in.”
“That right?” Tyree drawled, looking amused.
“Dammit, Tyree, it’s my job.”
“You do what you have to do, Marshal, but I’m not going back to Yuma.”
“But it’s my job,” Wesley sputtered.
“So you said. Rachel, get in the buggy.”
She quickly did as bidden, afraid that Clint would actually try to arrest Tyree, and that Tyree would kill him without a qualm.
The two men stared at each other for a full minute; Tyree, cool and aloof, Clint nervous and showing it, eager to do his job, yet intimidated by Tyree’s reputation and by his own lack of experience.
For a moment, it looked like there would be gunplay, but then Tyree swung up on the seat beside Rachel, and Clint stomped off toward the jailhouse, his face flushed with anger.
Rachel stared after Clint, confused by the chaotic thoughts tumbling through her mind. On the one hand, she was glad Clint had sense enough not to tangle with a scoundrel like Logan Tyree. Clint was a fine man, a good town marshal, but he was no match for a professional gunman. And yet, perversely, she could not help being ashamed of Clint for not standing up to Tyree.
“The marshal’s got more sense than I gave him credit for,” Tyree drawled, slapping the reins across the lead horse’s rump. “Most law dogs would have felt duty-bound to try to take me in.”
“I guess you think he’s a coward!” Rachel snapped, hating herself for thinking the same thing.
Tyree stared at her, one dark eyebrow raised quizzically. “Did I say he was a coward?”
“No,” Rachel admitted sullenly. “But that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“No,” Tyree answered, shaking his head. “It’s what you’re thinking.”
They rode in silence for several miles, the animosity between them like a third person in the rig.
If only Tyree would go away, Rachel thought crossly. She had never felt angry and confused like this until Tyree entered her life. She had always been content, sure of who she was and what she wanted out of life, proud of Clint, certain he was the only man in the world for her. Even when they were having trouble with Walsh, she had been at peace within herself. But no more.
“It’s going to rain,” Tyree remarked, breaking into her thoughts.
Surprised, Rachel looked up to find the sky was dark with clouds. Moments later, a jagged bolt of lightning split the darkened skies. And then the thunder came, reverberating across the plains like the echo of distant drums.
They were still five miles from the ranch when the rain came, driven by a fierce wind that flattened the tall yellow grass and sent tumbleweeds spinning crazily down the road. In seconds, Rachel and Tyree were soaked to the skin.
“Any place where we can hole up until this blows over?” Tyree asked, shouting to be heard above the raging storm.
“There’s a cabin just over that ridge,” Rachel hollered back, pointing to a low rise. “It used to belong to a family named Jorgensen until Walsh drove them out.”
With a grunt of acknowledgement, Tyree reined the team off the road and urged them up the rain-slick slope. It was slow going. The horses slipped constantly in the heavy mud, and only Tyree’s firm hand on the reins kept them going.
The cabin was located at the foot of the ridge in a small grove of aspens. It was small, dark, and blessedly dry. It was also well furnished, giving Tyree the impression that the Jorgensen family must have lit out with little more than the clothes on their backs. Except for a thick layer of dust on the furniture and the cobwebs hanging in lacy strands from the ceiling, the cabin looked as if it were expecting the former inhabitants to return at any moment.
Shortly, Rachel and Tyree were huddled side by side before a cheery blaze, wrapped in dry blankets pulled from one of the beds. Outside, the rain came down in icy sheets, accompanied by a howling wind that rattled the cabin door and shook the glass in the windows.
Rachel cast an apprehensive glance at Tyree, who was sitting hunched beside her. He was staring into the flames, a dark, brooding expression on his swarthy countenance as he took long swallows from a flask pulled from his hip pocket.
Rachel huddled deeper into the blanket draped around her shoulders, acutely conscious of the man sitting beside her. Unbidden came the memory of Logan Tyree lying unconscious in bed, his long, lean body naked beneath the sheets. She remembered how shocked she had been the day she caught herself staring at his nakedness, unabashedly admiring the muscles corded in his arms and legs. She had never dreamed a man’s body could be beautiful, but Tyree’s was magnificent. His belly was flat as a tabletop, ridged with muscle, his chest was broad and lightly furred with curly black hair, his shoulders were as wide as a barn door. Even lying helpless in bed, he had radiated a kind of latent strength and power that she had found both frightening and intriguing.
He had not been so helpless that day in Sunset Canyon. He had taken her boldly. And he had enjoyed it, apparently feeling no shame at taking her maidenhead, no remorse for what he had done.
Rachel swallowed hard as she sensed Tyree’s eyes moving over her, felt herself caught in the web of his gaze.
Rachel felt her cheeks grow hot. If he mentions Sunset Canyon, I shall die of embarrassment, she mused, genuinely distressed, and frantically searched her mind for some safe topic of conversation that would take Tyree’s attention away from her and away from the fact that they were alone. Quite definitely alone.
“The gray stallion,” Rachel said quickly. “I hear you bought him.”
Tyree’s knowing grin assured Rachel that he was well aware of what she was trying to do. “Yeah,” he said, willing to go along with her, for the moment. “I gave your old man fifty bucks for him.”
“Fifty dollars for a mustang!” Rachel exclaimed. “Why so much?”
“He’s worth it,” Tyree answered succinctly. With a sly grin, he offered her the flask and chuckled aloud when she refused to sample the contents.
Another silence fell between them. Rachel fidgeted nervously for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Why are you so secretive about your past?” she queried, determined to make Tyree talk to her, if not about his past, then about something else, because she was afraid if she didn’t keep him talking, he would keep drinking until he was drunk. And she was afraid of drunken men. And of the hungry, waiting look that lurked in the back of Logan Tyree’s glittering yellow eyes.
“I’m not secretive about it,” Tyree countered. He took another long pull from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s just not particularly pleasant.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” Rachel coaxed prettily. “Please?”
Tyree gave her a long, probing glance; then, with a shrug, he stared at the flames again, his swarthy face wiped clean of expression.
“My old man was a half-breed Comanche,” he began in a voice gone cold and flat. “He w
as hung for horse stealing before I was born. My mother was a slut. She ran off with a faro dealer when I was three. Left me with some nuns. They kept me until I was eight or so, and then sent me off to live with a widow lady who needed help running her farm. We didn’t get along at all, me and that old lady, and she threw me out. The nuns sent me to live with a rich Yankee family next. Made ‘em feel like real Christians, taking in a poor little orphan. But the old man caught me stealing a dollar, and he sent me packing.
“My next home was with a preacher and his wife. I lasted there about six months, then it was back to the nuns. I guess I was about ten when an old German couple took me in. They were really just looking for some cheap help, but they were pretty decent people, and I might have stayed with them and turned into a dirt farmer if the Apaches hadn’t raided their place when I was twelve. The Indians killed the old couple and took me back to their village.”
“Goodness!” Rachel exclaimed. “Weren’t you scared?”
“No. I liked living with the Indians.” His voice grew less harsh. “They were supposed to be savages, but they were the only people who ever gave a damn about me. The only ones who ever cared about what I wanted, or what I thought.”
“If you were happy with the Indians, why didn’t you stay?”
“Things happen,” Tyree said curtly.
“What things? Why did you leave?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Rachel.” Scowling, he took a quick drink, and then another. His fingers were white around the flask.
“What is it?” Rachel asked curiously. “You look like you’re about to explode!”
“Dammit, I said I don’t want to talk about it!”
“I’m sorry,” Rachel murmured contritely. “I just thought it might help if you got it off your chest.”
For a moment, Tyree looked at her as if she were completely insane. Help? Nothing had ever helped. In the beginning, he had looked for solace in whorehouses and saloon brawls and when that didn’t ease the pain caused by Red Leaf’s death, he had turned to drink. But that hadn’t helped either.
Abruptly, Tyree began to laugh, a harsh bitter laugh filled with pain. Too late, Rachel wished she had not pried into something that was none of her business.
“So you think talking might help,” Tyree drawled gruffly. “Let’s talk about it then! I lived with the Indians for thirteen years. Learned their language. Prayed to their gods. Fought their enemies. Married one of their women. It was a damn good life. And then one day I took her hunting with me.”
He paused, as if seeing it all in his mind. “We were on our way home when six white men attacked us. One of them decked me with a rifle butt. Knocked me out cold. When I came to, she was dead. They hadn’t killed her right away, though. They raped her first. And when they were through, they mutilated her body, hacked off her fine black scalp, and rode away.”
“Tyree, I’m so sorry,” Rachel whispered, stricken by the grotesque images his words had evoked. “So very sorry.”
“So were they, when I caught up with them.”
“You killed them.” It was not a question.
“Damn right. And they died hard.” Tyree stared at her, his eyes glittering like shards of bright yellow glass. “Shall I tell you how they died?”
Rachel shook her head. She was not surprised to learn Tyree had killed those six men. It was no less than she had expected. No less than they deserved.
With a shrug, Tyree raised the flask, draining it in a single swallow. For a moment, he stared at the empty container as if it had betrayed him. Then, muttering a vile oath, he hurled the bottle across the room where it struck a wall and shattered into a thousand sparkling pieces.
“You loved her,” Rachel murmured, her voice tinged with wonder. It was hard to imagine Tyree loving anyone. He seemed so hard, so self-sufficient.
“More than my life,” Tyree said flatly.
“Was she beautiful?”
“Yeah.” Tyree’s voice grew soft, almost wistful. “Her hair was long and thick, black as sin. Her eyes were dark, dark brown and always filled with laughter. She was just a kid, no more than fifteen or sixteen when I married her. All the young bucks wanted her, but she loved me.” Tyree laughed softly. “That was the miracle, you know. She loved me.”
Tyree’s eyes were naked with pain when he faced Rachel again. It was the first time she had seen the real Logan Tyree. Not the arrogant gunman who was a law unto himself, but the man who had experienced a terrible loss and was still hurting deep inside. It was an awful thing, Rachel thought compassionately, to see a man’s soul laid bare.
“You were wrong, Rachel,” Tyree muttered brokenly. “Talking doesn’t help.”
Tyree laughed bitterly and Rachel realized he was more than a little drunk.
“Drinking doesn’t help, either,” Tyree mumbled. “Nothing helps.”
“I’m sorry, Tyree. I never knew. I never dreamed—”
“It’s been ten years,” Tyree said, staring into the dancing flames. “Ten long years. You’d think it would stop hurting after ten years.”
Pity and compassion welled in Rachel’s breast. How tragic, to love someone as dearly as Tyree had loved his Indian wife, and then lose her in such a dreadful way. No wonder he was bitter.
Thinking only to comfort him, Rachel drew Tyree close, cradling his dark head against her breast as if he were a small child in need of solace. But Tyree was not a child, and his hands were sure and strong as they slid around Rachel’s waist, drawing her against him. His mouth closed over hers, stifling her surprised gasp. She had not meant to encourage him, only to let him know she cared.
Tyree’s kiss was not gentle. Rather it was filled with raw, primal passion and a deep yearning hunger. Rachel’s first thought was to resist, but she sensed that Tyree needed her, needed to feel the strength of her love, to know she understood. With a little sigh, she surrendered to his lips, giving herself over to the exquisite thrill of being in his arms again. Tyree drew back, a little surprised by her quick capitulation. He had expected her to resist. Perhaps he had hoped she would struggle so that he could hurt her and by hurting her, ease a little of his own pain. But what he saw in her eyes drove all thought of hurting her from his mind.
Rachel whispered his name as she put her hand at the back of his neck and pulled his head down, her mouth seeking his. With a shock, she realized she had been waiting, hoping, for this very thing to happen. It was a bitter thing to admit, but true nonetheless. No matter how she had scorned his attention in the past, no matter how loudly she professed to despise Logan Tyree and everything he stood for, she had secretly yearned for the wonder of his touch, burned for the taste of his kisses.
Now, as his hands caressed her flesh and his tongue tickled her ear, she was filled with an urgent sense of need. It was a frightening sensation, and yet, strangely satisfying at the same time. He kissed her ardently, his hands lazily exploring the smooth curves and contours of her body, and Rachel moaned low in her throat as wave after wave of sensual pleasure washed over her. His hands and mouth, the merest touch of his naked flesh against her own, aroused her to fever pitch. This was what she wanted. This was where she belonged.
And then Tyree was removing her dress and petticoat, shrugging out of his pants and shirt, and Rachel realized he was not going to settle for a few kisses and a quick caress.
The sight of Tyree’s fully aroused male body smothered the fire in Rachel’s blood. What was she doing?
Tyree felt the change in her and he drew back. “Change your mind?” he asked thickly.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Rachel, I…”
She laughed softly, warmed by the desire in his eyes, and by his willingness, however reluctant, to let her go if that was what she wanted. She gazed into his face, so strong, so handsome, and now so vulnerable. Had he been about to confess that he needed her? The thought filled her with tenderness. He did need her, whether he knew it or not. And she needed him.
“Make
love to me, Tyree,” she whispered, and sighed with pleasure as he made them one, carrying her higher, higher until there was only layer upon layer of ecstasy. His breath was hot upon her skin, his eyes intense, burning with a clear amber flame. He growled her name as his teeth nibbled her neck, her shoulder, her breast, and each touch was more wonderful, more thrilling, than the last.
Rachel cried his name, begging him to satisfy the need he had created and he obliged her willingly, smiling down at her as she let out a whimper of wonder and fulfillment.
Moments later, with a long, shuddering sigh, Tyree rolled off her, though he continued to hold her body close against his own.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, its steady roar drowning out all other sound save for the crackling of the flames.
It was dark when Tyree made love to her again. Rachel gloried in his touch, reveling in the wondrous waves of ecstasy that crested and broke and crested again. She was fascinated by his hands—strong brown hands that could so masterfully tame a wild stallion. Angry hands that could callously snuff out a human life. Warm, gentle hands that knew how to arouse the sensuous hunger sleeping in a woman’s soul.
Later, with Tyree’s arm lying heavily across her stomach, Rachel stared thoughtfully into the darkness. So this is love, she mused, this wonderful sense of peace and contentment. She glanced fondly at the man sleeping beside her. He had made no mention of loving her, had said nothing of marriage, but surely no man could possess a woman as completely and thoroughly as Tyree had just possessed her without loving her deeply. And she loved him. Perhaps she had loved him all along.
Through eyes warm with affection, Rachel studied the man who had brought her such pleasure. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned toward her. Once, on a picnic, Clint had fallen asleep, and Rachel had studied him in much the same way. She had thought how innocent Clint looked lying there on the grass, almost like a little boy.
But there was no such hint of innocence in Tyree. Even when he was asleep, there lurked about him an air of violence ready to explode at the slightest provocation and Rachel felt that, should she waken him suddenly, he would pounce on her like a tiger roused from its nap.
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