She touched the scars on his broad back, her fingertips lightly tracing the faint silvery lines. She imagined how he must have looked in prison, his long hair unkempt, his face a hard mask of impotent anger. In her mind’s eye, she could see the whip slice through the air, hear the sibilant hiss as the rawhide cut into his flesh. She knew, somehow, that Tyree had endured the pain without uttering a sound.
At her touch, Tyree stirred and drew her closer. Rachel nestled against him, to be lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of his heart and the soft tattoo of the rain on the roof.
When she woke, it was morning and Tyree was scattering the coals in the fireplace to make sure the ashes were cold. Rachel smiled up at him uncertainly, feeling all the joy and happiness of the night before shrivel in her breast as Tyree scowled at her. It was obvious he had a whale of a hangover.
“Let’s go,” he said tersely. “Your old man will be wondering what happened to you.”
Rachel dressed quickly, blushing when Tyree happened to glance in her direction. Bewildered, she wondered where all the magic had gone. She still felt the same. Why didn’t he? Her mind whirling with confusion, she followed Tyree outside.
The world was fresh and clean and beautiful. Raindrops sparkled on the emerald leaves, shining like tears on a sun-kissed cheek. The sky was a hard bright blue, so dazzling it almost hurt Rachel’s eyes just to look at it.
With exaggerated politeness, Tyree handed her into the buggy, took the seat beside her, and shook out the reins.
“Sorry about last night,” he apologized gruffly. “I was more than a little drunk and, well…things happen.”
Rachel felt a cold hand knot around her heart as Tyree casually shrugged off all that had happened between them the night before. The sweet words he had murmured, the intimacies they had shared, it had all been a lie and she had swallowed it whole. What a fool she had been, thinking he cared for her, when any woman would have done as well. She meant nothing to him, nothing at all other than an outlet for his drunken lust.
Suddenly she felt like crying. Instead, she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. He would never know how deeply his lovemaking had touched her heart.
Staring straight ahead, she said, icily, “When we get back to the ranch, I think you’d better pack up and ride on.”
For a long moment, Tyree didn’t say anything. Rachel held her breath, hating herself for hoping that he would admit he loved her, that last night had been as wonderful for him as it had been for her, that it hadn’t been just a casual encounter in the rain. But the words she yearned to hear did not come.
“Whatever you want,” Tyree drawled. “Giddyap, horse.”
Ten minutes after they arrived at the Lazy H, he was gone, leaving Rachel to explain his sudden departure to her father.
Chapter Nine
The streets of Yellow Creek were pretty much deserted when Tyree rode into town. After settling the gray into the livery stable, Tyree took a room at the Imperial Hotel. It was a small room, cheaply furnished considering the exorbitant price, smelling faintly of stale sweat and old cigar smoke. But the bed was reasonably firm and free of lumps and vermin, and the sheets were clean.
After a quick look around, Tyree dumped his gear on the bed and headed for Bowsher’s Saloon. Ordering a bottle of rye whiskey, he carried it to a table in the far corner of the room where he slowly and methodically worked his way to the bottom of the bottle.
The barkeep, a red-headed Irishman named Kelly, had a pot belly and a florid face. He had been a bar dog long enough to know trouble looking for a place to happen when he saw it, and Tyree looked like trouble with a capital T. Periodically, Kelly let his gaze wander in Tyree’s direction, but the explosion he anticipated never came. The liquor seemed to have no effect at all on the taciturn gunman, and he was still steady on his feet some hours later when he bought another bottle and left the saloon.
In the weeks that followed, Tyree spent a good part of every day in Bowsher’s Saloon, always sitting at the same table with his back to the wall, his right hand never far from the butt of his Colt. Customers came and went, but no one ever approached the grim-faced gunman. There was something about the way he sat there, calmly downing one drink after another, something about the chill look in his eyes that warned others to steer clear of his table. Even the saloon girls lacked the courage to get too close.
Late one night, Flat-Nose Bowsher made one of her rare appearances in the saloon. Despite her years and the disfigurement to her nose, she was still an attractive woman. Her hair was snow-white, her face, though lined by years of hard living, managed to retain a ghost of its former beauty. Like a queen, she glided down the staircase, aware of the whispers and glances her presence elicited from the customers. Her narrowed eyes swept the room in a long glance, then came to rest on Tyree. She was not put off by his stern visage, or by the unfriendly look in his eye.
She gave Tyree a wisp of a smile as she pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Evening, Tyree,” she said in a raspy voice. “I heard you were in town.”
Tyree nodded. He was not in the mood for talk or company, but Flat-Nose was in the mood for both. Calling for a bottle of bourbon, she settled back in her chair.
“Was Yuma as bad as everyone says?” she asked.
Tyree nodded again as he poured her a drink of bourbon.
“I knew they wouldn’t keep you there long,” Flat-Nose said. “So, you left the Halloran spread. Too tame for you?”
“Flat-Nose, mind your own business,” Tyree said mildly.
She laughed at that, a big, booming laugh. Still smiling, she emptied her glass and poured herself another drink. The two of them sat there, drinking steadily, until the saloon closed five hours later.
Riders from the Walsh spread drifted into Bowsher’s now and then, always in groups of two or three, never alone. Arrogant and impudent, they strutted around the saloon as if they owned the place, bullying the other patrons, harassing the barkeep, making lewd suggestions to the saloon girls.
But they never bothered Tyree. The marshal made his rounds twice each night, but Clint Wesley also avoided Tyree, never acknowledging the gunman’s presence by so much as a glance.
Which suited Tyree just fine. Tyree overheard a lot of idle talk as he sat in Bowsher’s Saloon, most of it about Annabelle Walsh. Apparently, she had no intention of selling the Slash W, as Rachel had supposed. Indeed, Annabelle seemed to be every bit as land-hungry as her brother had been. Rumors were flying hot and heavy that the Walsh nightriders were operating again, and that one of their victims had been a homesteader who had the audacity to settle on a corner of property claimed by the Slash W. Not only that, but there were a lot of new men hiring on for Annabelle, and they weren’t all cowhands. But over and above all the gossip, the men talked excitedly about Annabelle Walsh herself. She was some looker, they said, with a mane of thick red hair and eyes the color of polished jade. She had a hell of a figure, too, if they were to be believed, and flaunted it by wearing low-cut peasant blouses and tight-fitting pants.
But the news that really made Tyree sit up and take notice was the five thousand dollar bounty Annabelle was offering for the name of the man who had killed her brother.
There was a lot of speculation on the subject of who had gunned Walsh, and Logan Tyree was the prime suspect. But it was just talk. There were no facts, no evidence, no witnesses. Nevertheless, Tyree could not help wondering if Annabelle would regard the hearsay as idle gossip, or accept it as gospel.
He was thinking about pulling up and leaving Yellow Creek the night he stepped out of Bowsher’s Saloon and found himself surrounded by five men armed with rifles and shotguns. Tyree was reaching for his Colt when a rifle barrel slammed into his right side.
“I wouldn’t,” warned the rifleman, and Tyree slowly raised his hands over his head.
One man, dressed in a fancy shirt with pearl buttons and a sheepskin vest, stepped forward and relieved Tyree of his hardware. Another man, younger
than the others, tied Tyree’s hands behind his back. That done, the men hustled Tyree down a dark alley that dead-ended against a two-story brick building.
A big bull of a man stepped out of the pack, a half-smile on his thick lips. “We’ve got a message for ya from Miz Walsh,” the man drawled in a voice as deep as six feet down. “She don’t want any gunmen running around Yellow Creek that ain’t on the payroll, so we’re here to make ya an offer.”
Tyree glanced with wry amusement at the man who stood before him like a solid wall of flesh. “Say your piece,” Tyree muttered sardonically. “Doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere for awhile.”
The big man grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth. “You’re smarter than I thought, ‘breed. Well, here’s the deal. Either you ride for the Slash W, or you ride outta town now, tonight.”
“That’s your offer?”
“That’s it.”
Tyree let out a slow sigh. He had been planning to ride on, but all that was changed now. To ride on would look like he’d been run off, and he couldn’t live with that.
“Well, you can tell your boss lady that I’m obliged for her offer,” Tyree said evenly, “but I’m not looking for work just now.”
“That your final say on the matter?”
“That’s it.”
The big man shook his head sadly. “I guess you ain’t so smart after all.”
Tyree felt all his muscles tense as the big man handed his rifle to the youngster who had lashed Tyree’s hands together.
There was a moment of silence, then Annabelle’s men began to move. The man in the sheepskin vest grabbed Tyree’s bound arms so he couldn’t make a break for it. Another man went to stand watch at the mouth of the alley. The big man and a dark-skinned Mexican sporting a black eye patch stood before Tyree, flexing their muscles and cracking their knuckles, the lust for blood showing clearly in their eyes.
And then it began. One blow following hard on the heels of the last, pounding into Tyree’s flesh with smooth, steady precision, smashing into his face and throat, driving deep into his belly. A knee sent sharp slivers of pain racing through his genitals. A hard right cross sliced his cheek to the bone. There was blood in his mouth, his nose.
The faces of his attackers rushed toward him, then receded, like waves breaking on the sand. His vision blurred and there was a loud roaring in his ears. Vaguely, he wondered if Rachel would brand him a coward for not trying to defend himself. But only a fool tried to buck insurmountable odds, and Tyree had known from the beginning that Annabelle’s men did not intend to kill him. Not this time.
And so he took the awful beating, carefully imprinting the face of each man in his memory—making special note of the two men whose fists were brutally punishing his flesh. Sooner or later, they would meet again.
After what seemed like hours but was, in reality, no more than ten minutes, the big man hissed, “That’s enough, Rafe,” and the blows came to a merciful halt.
The young kid cut Tyree’s hands free and Tyree fell to his knees, panting for breath, his whole body throbbing with pain.
But they were not through with him yet. The big man knocked Tyree flat, while the man called Rafe pinned Tyree’s right hand to the ground, palm down.
“Miz Walsh had a feeling you wouldn’t cooperate,” the big man said. “But if you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll hightail it outta town while you can still walk, ‘cause if we see your ass in town again, we’ll drop you cold.”
The man at the mouth of the alley called, “Hey, Larkin, what the hell’s taking so long?”
“Shut up, Harris,” the big man snarled. Then, to Tyree, “Just in case you ain’t got the sense to skedaddle, me and Rafe, here, decided to put your gun hand outta commission. Permanent-like.”
Larkin was moving as he spoke. Grabbing his rifle from the youngster, he brought the butt crashing down on Tyree’s pinioned right hand. There was a sickening crunch as skin and bone splintered beneath solid wood. Tyree’s body shuddered convulsively; a low groan rumbled in his throat as waves of excruciating pain shot through his hand and arm.
As if from far away, he heard the sound of footsteps as Annabelle’s men left the alley. The man in the sheepskin vest kicked Tyree in the ribs as he passed by.
The big man, Larkin, was the last to leave and he chuckled maliciously as he stepped on Tyree’s shattered hand, grinding his boot heel into the torn flesh. The pain was unbearable and Tyree uttered a hoarse cry of agony as darkness closed in on him, mercifully dragging him down, down, into nothingness…
When he regained consciousness, it was after midnight. For a long time, he remained inert, trying to pretend that the pain radiating from his right hand belonged to some other poor bastard.
Larkin. Rafe. Harris. The names pounded in his skull, throbbing to the relentless beat of the pain hammering in his right hand. The ground was hard and cold beneath him, the air chill.
“Damn, you can’t stay here all night,” Tyree muttered through clenched teeth, and forced himself to his knees, and then to his feet. There was a sharp, stabbing pain in his side and he quietly cursed the man who had kicked him while he was down.
Hanging onto the wall for support, he made his way down the alley. The broken rib tortured him with each breath, and he was panting like a blown mustang by the time he reached the street.
The gray stood hipshot at the rail of Bowsher’s Saloon some ten yards away. Ten yards that looked like ten miles—and damn near felt like it as he staggered across the moonlit street. A quiet word to the stud sent the animal to its knees and Tyree congratulated himself on having had the foresight to teach the horse such a valuable trick.
Gritting his teeth, he stepped into the saddle. Every muscle in his body shrieked in protest as the gray lurched to its feet. For a moment, the world reeled drunkenly; when it stopped, he took a good look at his right hand. Swollen, caked with dirt and blood, it looked more like a slab of chewed-up meat than a human hand.
Indecision held Tyree motionless for a long moment. Unarmed, his gun hand useless, he was as vulnerable as a newborn babe. It was a new and decidedly uncomfortable feeling.
He grinned wryly as he wheeled the gray around and headed for the Lazy H. He would not be welcome at the Halloran spread, he mused ruefully, but he had no place else to go.
Rachel sat before her dressing table, absently brushing her hair. Tyree had been gone for almost five weeks. It seemed a lifetime. Funny, how all the joy of life seemed to have ridden away with him. She missed his sardonic laughter, his occasional ribald remarks, the sight of his lean, hawk-like face grinning at her from behind a long black cigar, an expectant look dancing in his amber eyes. She had often complained about his laziness, but now she missed seeing him lounging on the front porch steps, his hat pulled low, his legs stretched negligently before him. She remembered how considerate he had been when she sprained her ankle, how tenderly he had cared for her, the intimate dinners they had shared. She remembered dancing with him in the moonlight, his arms tight around her waist, his eyes caressing her. She remembered the night at the Jorgensen cabin…felt her cheeks grow hot with the memory. What a fool she had been, to think Logan Tyree had actually cared for her, that he could care for anybody. It had all been a monstrous joke, a cruel, cruel joke. How he must have laughed at her…silly country girl, to be so easily wooed and won. If only she could stop remembering. If only it didn’t hurt so much. If only she didn’t care.
She had filled her days with work, cleaning and polishing and waxing, as if her very life depended on spotless floors, shiny furniture, and gleaming windows. She sought out Carol Ann’s company, forcing herself to laugh and gossip and flirt as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She went out of her way to be nice to Clint. She volunteered to teach a Sunday School class, insisted on helping out at the Watkins place when Mabel Watkins broke her leg.
But endless chores and the company of other people failed to ease the ache in her heart. Night after night she lay awake, staring at the
ceiling, remembering.
She dropped the hairbrush onto the dressing table and stared at her reflection in the mirror. How had it happened? How had a man she had once despised managed to work his way so deeply into her heart? Did she really love him, or was it just lust?
She frowned at her image. It wasn’t just base desire, she mused. She wanted to comfort him, to make him forget the Indian woman who had been killed so savagely. She wanted to blot out the horrors of prison, to wipe out all the unhappiness of his past and replace the misery with joy. She wanted to erase the hard lines of pain and hurt from his face, to see him smile, hear him laugh, bear his children. Tyree, Tyree. If only she could forget him…
A faint noise interrupted her melancholy thoughts and she cocked her head toward the door, listening. And then it came again, a faint knock on the front door. She felt a mild twinge of apprehension as she stood up, drawing her blue cotton wrapper around her. Cahill and her father were spending the night out on the range, and she was alone in the house.
Belting her robe snugly around her waist, Rachel padded barefoot down the carpeted stairway, paused to light the lamp on the table beside the front door before calling, “Who’s there?”
“Tyree.”
Tyree! Rachel felt her pulse quicken at the thought of seeing him again, felt her cheeks flame as the memory of the night they had shared at the Jorgensen place leaped to the forefront of her mind. Anger followed hard on the heels of that memory. He had used her to satisfy his drunken lust, letting her believe what they shared had been something beautiful when it had been sordid and ugly. How dare he come back to the Lazy H. She would send him packing, and right quick!
Hot words rose in her throat as she opened the door, but she never uttered them. One look at Tyree stilled her tongue and cooled her anger.
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