RenegadeHeart
Page 16
“There’s no need,” she said quickly, and hurried out of the cabin before she did something foolish, like throw herself into his arms.
Rachel rode into Yellow Creek early the following morning. Mrs. Thorngood eyed her with open curiosity as she ordered a box of long nines and four boxes of ammunition. She was ordering flour, bacon, sugar, salt and canned goods when Clint entered the store. He smiled warmly when he saw Rachel standing at the counter.
“Morning, Rachel,” Wesley said, coming to stand beside her. He glanced at the cigars and cartridges stacked on the counter, then turned an inquiring eye on Rachel. “Your old man take up smoking cigars?”
“No,” Rachel said, not meeting his eyes. “They’re for Candido.”
Wesley nodded, though he could not remember ever having seen the Mexican wrangler smoke anything but a pipe. “Everything okay out at the ranch?”
“Yes, fine,” Rachel answered quickly. “Are you coming for dinner Sunday?”
“You bet. There’s going to be a dance at the Grange on Saturday night.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Pick you up at seven?”
“I’ll be ready. I’ve got to go now, Clint,” Rachel said, picking up her order and placing it in a burlap bag. She paid Mrs. Thorngood, smiled at Clint, and left the store.
Wesley stared after her, a bemused expression on his face. Something was wrong, but what?
Tyree shoved the heavy old Colt into the waistband of his pants and left the cabin. After a quick look around to make sure he was alone, he unloaded the Colt and replaced the weapon in his belt. Then, drawing a deep breath, he palmed the gun.
Like most gunfighters, he could shoot with his left hand, though his aim was only fair and his draw was nothing to brag about. True, there were gunmen who made a big deal about wearing two guns, and a couple of them were as fast with one hand as the other. But for a man who was good, one gun was usually enough to get the job done, because if you couldn’t hit your target with six shots, you weren’t likely to get six more, not if you were shooting at something that was shooting back.
Tyree drew the Colt with his left hand again and again, getting the feel of it, getting used to the weight and the balance. He practiced all morning. It was good to hold a gun again, good to feel the smooth walnut butt cradled against his palm.
He was still working on his draw when Rachel rode up. Tyree had taken off his shirt and she stared at his well-muscled torso, feeling a sudden stab of desire at the sight of so much masculine flesh. He was a big man, yet he moved with the silky grace of a tiger, his muscles rippling in the late morning sun as he turned to face her. His chest was still livid where Annabelle’s men had beaten him, his ribs were still tightly bound. His coarse black beard made him look like a pirate, but for all that, he appealed to something raw and earthy deep within her.
“I brought the things you asked for,” she said, and blushed under his frank gaze, wondering if he could read the unladylike thoughts tumbling through her mind. “I’ll go and put this stuff away. You go on with what you’re doing.”
It was suppertime when Tyree returned to the cabin. Stepping inside, he could see that Rachel had been hard at work. The cabin’s single window sparkled. The floor was dust-free. The cobwebs were gone from the corners. His blankets had been washed, the bed was freshly made. A red-checked cloth covered the table. He quirked an eyebrow inquiringly when he saw it was set for two. A clean shirt was laid out on the bed, together with a bar of yellow soap and a clean white towel. A basin of hot water was waiting on the counter, his razor beside it. There was a pot of stew simmering on top of the stove, a pan of biscuits warming in the oven.
Tyree whistled softly. “Nothing like a woman’s touch.”
“You might as well live like a civilized human being while you’re here,” Rachel retorted sharply, mistaking his compliment for sarcasm.
“Hey, calm down,” Tyree admonished. “I like it. It looks…nice.”
Mollified, Rachel said, “Dinner is almost ready.” She looked pointedly at the whiskers sprouting on Tyree’s chin. “You have time to shave first.”
“Shaving left-handed’s more trouble than it’s worth,” Tyree muttered, dragging a hand across his jaw.
“Would you like me to do it?”
“You?” Tyree chuckled. “Hell, I’m game if you are.”
Tyree sat in one of the cabin’s rickety chairs while Rachel lathered his face and then, very carefully, began to shave him. Her touch was light, her fingers warm on his cheek, and a sudden tension sprang up between them as she continued to draw the razor across his jaw. Somehow, what had started out as a routine chore suddenly became much, much more, leaving Rachel to wonder how it had happened. She was acutely conscious of Tyree’s face only inches from her breast, of his thigh brushing hers as she moved from side to side.
Tyree was thinking about picking her up and carrying her to bed when Rachel wiped the last of the lather from his face and took a step back, head cocked to one side as she admired her handiwork. Seeing the look in Tyree’s eyes, she took another step back, putting herself out of his reach.
“Not bad,” she declared, offering him a hand mirror she had found in a drawer of the highboy. “What do you think?”
“Better than a barber,” Tyree decided. “Maybe I should set you up in business.”
“No, thanks. Dinner is ready.”
They ate in silence. Darkness came swiftly, enveloping the cabin and its occupants, shutting them off from the rest of the world. Rachel avoided Tyree’s eyes as she cleared the table, glad to have something to do with her hands, glad that she could turn her back to Tyree while she washed and dried the dishes. But even then she was aware of his presence only a few feet away.
Leaning back in his chair, Tyree chewed on the end of a cigar, openly admiring the way the lamplight played in Rachel’s hair, turning the honey-blonde to gold, finding pleasure in the graceful way she moved as she wiped the dishes and stacked them in the cupboard.
Removing her apron, Rachel ran a slender hand through her hair and coughed nervously. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to go.”
“You shouldn’t be riding home alone in the dark.”
“I’ll be all right.”
Tyree was about to argue with her when the shrill scream of an aroused stallion cut across the stillness of the night.
“The gray,” Tyree remarked. “Your mare must be in season.”
Rachel nodded, and then they were running for the corrals behind the cabin.
In the light of the full moon they could see the stud pacing the rail that separated him from Rachel’s mare. He had been pacing back and forth for some time as evidenced by the path cut into the soft dirt on his side of the fence. As Rachel and Tyree rounded the corner of the cabin, the stallion sailed over the six-foot fence.
“Tyree, stop him!” Rachel shouted. “I don’t want my mare to drop a late foal.”
“It’s too late. Look!”
Rachel’s mare was a maiden mare. Too frightened to run, she stood in one corner of the corral, her dainty head high, her eyes showing white as the stud pranced back and forth in front of her, his neck arched, his tail high. His organ dropped, swelled.
Rachel gasped. “No wonder Morgana’s afraid,” she murmured, unaware she had spoken the words aloud.
The gray herded the mare into the center of the corral, nipped her viciously on the right flank when she seemed unwilling to cooperate. Then, with a squeal that sent shivers down Rachel’s spine, the gray reared up and mounted the quivering mare.
“Damn!” Tyree breathed. “He’s magnificent.”
Rachel had to agree. The stallion was magnificent. And though she had seen mares covered before, there was something special about this occasion, and not just because her mare was involved. The other breedings she had seen had been at the ranch under controlled conditions, not like this, with the mare cowed into submission by a stallion that had run wild and free only a few short months ago.
A shuddering sigh racked the stud as, with a shake of his massive head, he withdrew from the mare to stand with his nose almost touching the ground, his sides heaving mightily.
“Come on, you old reprobate,” Tyree called softly, and the stallion followed him docilely into the adjoining corral.
“Let’s have some coffee while your mare settles down,” Tyree suggested.
“Might as well,” Rachel agreed. “The damage is done.”
“I’ll bet she throws a fine foal,” Tyree predicted. “She’s a good-looking mare, and the gray has good conformation for a range-bred stallion. I’ll bet he’s got some Thoroughbred somewhere in his background.”
“Could be,” Rachel agreed, stepping into the cabin. “He’s much too tall for a mustang.”
The minute Tyree shut the cabin door, Rachel knew returning to the cabin with him had been a mistake. The mating between the horses had affected Tyree, too. There was a hungry look in his eye, a telltale bulge rising in the crotch of his Levi’s.
“I’ll put some water on,” Rachel said with forced lightness, but Tyree shook his head.
“Well, if you’ve changed your mind about that coffee, I’ll be running along. It’s a long way home, and I’m tired.” She was babbling, and she laughed self-consciously. “Morgana’s probably tired too,” she said, and could have bitten her tongue. “So long, Tyree.”
“Rachel.”
His voice stopped her as she reached for the door latch. Slowly, she turned to face him. “No, Tyree,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”
But she made no move to avoid the hand that reached out to stroke the curve of her cheek. Nor did she turn away when he bent to kiss her.
Hating herself, Rachel let Tyree lead her to the bed and willingly sank down beside him on the lumpy mattress. Later, she would be ashamed of the brazen way she responded to his touch, would be embarrassed to recall the love words she had whispered in his ear. But not now.
With provocative deliberation, Tyree began to undress her. Slowly, using his good hand alone, he unfastened her shirt and slipped it off her shoulders, then began to remove her jeans. For a moment, his fingers stroked her naked belly and thighs. Rachel stared up at him, her whole body quivering under his burning gaze. He did not take his eyes from hers as he stood up and began to undress. In moments, he stood naked before her and Rachel marveled anew at the span of his shoulders, the spread of his black-furred chest, the length of his legs, the strength in his arms.
With a little cry, Rachel reached for Tyree, pulling him down beside her on the narrow bed, loving the touch of his skin against hers as she explored his scarred body with shameless abandon. She was surprised to find that his lean nakedness did not repel her. Surprised to learn his nakedness excited her, that she thought his body beautiful to behold.
Lying beside Tyree, feeling his hand caress her flesh, tasting his kisses, she felt loved and protected and terribly female. He was so completely masculine, so virile it made her more glad than ever to be a woman. Oh, but it was wonderful to know that Tyree found her desirable, wonderful to glory in the easy strength of the arms enfolding her, wonderful the way their bodies came together, as if they had been born to share this one glorious moment…
When Tyree woke in the morning, Rachel was gone. The cabin seemed empty without her gentle presence.
Rising, he dressed, ate, and then got to work filing the front sight off the barrel of the Walker Colt so that it wouldn’t catch on the holster. That done, he began working on the holster Rachel had brought him, softening it, rubbing it inside and out with oil, shaping it so that the leather fit the gun like a second skin.
When both gun and holster suited him, he blocked everything from his mind and concentrated on drawing the weapon. Ten times, twenty, fifty, a hundred times he drew the heavy Colt until he was satisfied with the way the gun felt in his hand, satisfied that his draw was flawless. Only then did he load the gun.
Long hours of target practice followed. He fired at his target from all angles, with the sun at his back, with the sun in his face, standing, kneeling, prone on the ground. He practiced in full daylight, in the changing shadows of twilight, in moonlit darkness.
Days passed, and he thought of nothing but the Colt, touching it, handling it, until it was like an extension of his hand.
But the nights…ah, at night, when he stretched out on the bed, he thought only of Rachel, wondering if she would come to him again, remembering her warm softness beneath him and the sweet taste of her lips. She had left in the pre-dawn hours, after their lovemaking, no doubt embarrassed by what had passed between them. She had made no mention of returning. Grudgingly, he admitted he missed her, but there was no time to fret over her absence. There was only time to practice with the Colt and he did so from dawn ‘til dark, hoping, in a far corner of his mind, that the long hours of practice would prove to be unnecessary and that, when healed, his right hand would be as good as ever even though he knew that such a miracle was virtually impossible.
Draw and fire. Draw and fire. At a leaf, a rock, a bottle, a tin can. Draw and fire. At a twig, a squirrel, a jar tossed into the air. Remembering, always remembering, the man who had crushed his hand. Always remembering the pain, the anger.
So the days passed, each one the same as the last. Practice with the Colt during the day, dream of Rachel at night.
Eventually, Tyree was satisfied that he could draw and fire the Colt with his left hand as proficiently as he had with his right. Then and only then did he remove the bandages from his right hand.
Face impassive as stone, he studied his hand as if it belonged to someone else. He watched the fingers move, stiff as old leather. Noted that the first three fingers were permanently deformed, that the skin on the back of his hand was fishbelly white, and badly scarred.
A muscle worked in his jaw when he discovered that he could not make a tight fist. He was standing there, staring at his ruined hand and remembering the face of each man responsible, when Rachel entered the cabin. One look at his face, at the hard set of his jaw and the angry look in his eye, told her clearly that his hand had not healed the way they had hoped it would, the way she had prayed it would.
“Tyree?”
He looked up slowly, surprised to find her there.
“I’m sorry, Tyree. I did the best I could. I…I feel like it’s my fault.”
“Well, it isn’t,” he said curtly. “Go on home.”
“Is there anything I can do before I go?”
“No.”
“Please let me help.”
“Dammit, Rachel, I don’t need your help, and I don’t want your pity. Just get the hell out of here and leave me alone!”
Arms akimbo, Rachel glared up at him, a challenge rising in her vivid blue eyes. “Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself then?” she demanded crossly. “Just because you can’t hold a gun in that hand doesn’t mean your life is over.”
“A gun!” Tyree snarled. “Shit, I can hardly hang onto a cup of coffee. You ever try saddling a bronc with one hand? Or tying a knot? Or shuffling a deck of cards?”
“My father can do all those things,” Rachel replied quietly. “And he lost half an arm.”
“You’re right,” Tyree admitted ruefully. “I am feeling sorry for myself. I guess I was hoping for a miracle.” He laughed bitterly. “Imagine me, hoping for a miracle. I can’t think of anyone who deserves one less.”
“Let me fix you some lunch,” Rachel coaxed. “I brought some roast beef and potato salad with me.”
“You win. Let’s eat.”
Tyree sat down at the table while Rachel served him, staring glumly at his right hand while she sliced the meat and dished up the potato salad.
“Tyree?”
“Yeah?”
; “Are you going to eat, or just sit there, brooding?”
“Sorry.”
She tried not to stare at him as he endeavored to cut the thick slice of roast beef on his plate with a fork, wondering why she hadn’t thought to slice it thin, like she did for her father. As it was, it had to be cut with a knife. And Tyree could not manage both knife and fork with one hand.
Thinking only to help, Rachel reached across the table to cut the meat for him.
It was a mistake. Growling an oath, Tyree hurled his fork against the far wall. “You gonna feed me, too?” he rasped. And pushing away from the table, he unleashed his pent-up anger and frustration in a string of the most foul epithets Rachel had ever heard.
When he finished, he went to the window where he stood looking out, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Tyree—”
“Dammit, Rachel, stop treating me like a kid.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
“Oh, hell, I’m not used to being waited on. I’m not used to having people do for me. I don’t like it. Never have.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.”
“Tyree, why haven’t you ever remarried?”
Tyree swung around to face her, his eyes mirroring his astonishment. “What?”
“You heard me. Why haven’t you ever remarried?”
“Are you crazy? What girl in her right mind would marry a gunfighter?”
“I would,” Rachel said, and it was a toss-up as to who was more surprised by her unexpected reply, Logan Tyree, or Rachel herself.
Tyree stared at her for several seconds, too stunned to speak. Marriage! Good Lord.
“You can’t be serious?” he said, shaking his head.
“But I am.”
The corner of Tyree’s mouth twitched in a wry grin. “You think the love of a good woman will make me mend my evil ways?” he asked, amused.
“Don’t make fun of me, Tyree.”
“I’m not. I just can’t believe you mean it. I thought you hated me. You’ve certainly said so often enough.”