Tyree shook his head. Annabelle Walsh was the most blatantly beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her skin was the color of rich cream, her mouth pouting and red. Full breasts pushed impudently against the thin fabric of her blouse, and he had a crazy urge to tear away the flimsy material that covered her voluptuous breasts and see if they were real.
A smile of amusement played across Annabelle’s lips as she read Tyree’s thoughts—thoughts she had seen reflected in the eyes of every man she had ever met.
“Why have you come here?” Annabelle asked.
“To tell you not to send any more of your men after me. And to lay off the Lazy H.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied coolly.
“Then I’ll spell it out for you. I killed four of your gunmen less than an hour ago. And if one more cow turns up missing or dead on the Lazy H, I’ll come after you.”
“The way you came after my brother?”
“Now I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tyree lied smoothly. “Just remember what I said. If anything suspicious happens out at the Lazy H after today, if one cow gets sick or dies, I’ll come after you. And I never miss.”
It was not an idle threat, Annabelle was sure of that. He had severely wounded Willie McCoy, now he admitted to killing four of her best men. No doubt he had killed Job, too. Yes, she mused, Logan Tyree was an accomplished killer. He would not hesitate to kill a woman.
Giving her head an impatient toss, Annabelle smiled a secret smile. Perhaps, instead of fighting against Tyree, she should make him an ally. If she could hire his gun, Halloran’s remaining few men would desert the Lazy H like rats fleeing a sinking ship. And if he would not succumb to the lure of money, there were always other enticements. He was interested in her body. Even now he was having trouble keeping his eyes from her breasts and hips. Always, men had looked at her as if she were a melon ripe for the harvest. She had offered herself to other men when they possessed something she desired. And they had always yielded to her charms. Logan Tyree would be no different. For all his arrogance, she was certain he would do as she wished if she made him the right offer.
“Is that all you have to say?” Annabelle inquired coldly.
“I reckon that covers it.”
“Very well. Good day, Mr. Tyree.” With some amusement, Tyree realized he had been dismissed. But he made no move to leave the room, and neither did Annabelle Walsh.
Tyree stared openly at the lush figure clad in the blue skirt and virginal white blouse. But there was nothing virginal about Annabelle, he mused. She was a woman who had known many men. The knowledge was bright in her taunting green eyes, and in the pouting smile that curved her full red lips. But more than that, it rose from her like the musky scent of a mare in heat, alerting any stallion within range.
Unruffled by his steady gaze, Annabelle gestured at Tyree’s wounded shoulder. “You really should have that taken care of.”
“Yeah.”
“I have some salve and bandages in my room.”
“Fine.”
Annabelle turned on her heel and led the way through the parlor and down a long hall to her bedroom, secure in the knowledge that Tyree would follow her. She smiled smugly as she heard his footsteps start after her. It was always so easy.
Annabelle’s room was large and smelled of powder and perfume. A four-poster bed dominated the room. Heavy red velvet draperies were drawn across the windows, shutting out the late afternoon sunlight. A tall rosewood chest of drawers took up most of one wall. A small commode held a pitcher of water and a basin. There was a rosewood armoire, a full-length mirror, a painting of a wild stallion chasing a herd of mustangs hung on one wall. Tyree removed his shirt and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand idly toying with the soft red velvet spread while Annabelle bandaged his shoulder. He eyed her expectantly, waiting for her to make the next move. He did not have long to wait. “I want you to work for me, Tyree,” she murmured. Her fingers stroked his bare arm, caressing the muscles bulging there.
“I already said ‘no’ once, remember? It cost me a good right hand.”
“Change your mind.” Annabelle’s fingers trailed suggestively down his arm to rest on his thigh. “I’ll pay you whatever you ask, within reason.”
“Anything?” His hungry eyes traveled to the twin mounds of her breasts, and then to her inviting red lips, which were moist and slightly parted.
Annabelle laughed softly as Tyree’s amber eyes devoured her. Men! They were all alike. Always wanting just one thing from a woman.
“I was thinking of a thousand dollars a month,” Annabelle said.
“That’s a lot of money. What do you want in return?”
“Just your name, really. Once Halloran’s men find out you’re riding for the Slash W, they’ll hightail it out of the country. No one in his right mind will work for the old man once they know your gun is siding me. Halloran will be forced to sell out and when he does, I’ll give you a five thousand dollar bonus and you’ll be free to go.” The tone of her voice, the fire smoldering in her vibrant emerald eyes, assured Tyree he would not want to leave her. Ever.
Tyree whistled softly. “Five grand. That’s a hefty sum.”
“Yes.” She looked up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes, her eyes bright, her mouth forming a smile because it had been so easy.
“A hefty sum,” Tyree repeated. “But I don’t need the money. Thanks, anyway.”
Annabelle sucked in a deep breath that caused her ample breasts to strain against the thin cotton cloth that held them bound. Her eyes glowed like green fire as she purred, “Perhaps I could offer you something else?”
“Yeah?” Tyree asked, suppressing a knowing grin. “What did you have in mind?”
Annabelle pressed herself against Tyree. “Do I have to say it?”
Tyree’s mouth turned down, and his voice was cruelly mocking as he said, “You worth five grand? Most whores don’t come that high.”
He had expected her to get angry, but she only smiled up at him. “I’m worth much, much more, cowboy,” she boasted. “But you’ll never know unless you agree to work for me, starting today.”
Tyree’s laugh was humorless. “That right? What’s to stop me from taking you here and now?”
“Nothing,” Annabelle said with a small shrug of her creamy shoulders. “But a gift freely given is much more satisfying than one taken by force.”
“You think so? I’ve always found the victory sweeter when the battle is hard fought.”
Annabelle was sitting beside him, her leg pressed against his, her hand gently kneading the muscle in his thigh. At his words, she flounced over onto her stomach, leaving him to study her smooth back and softly rounded buttocks.
Too late, Tyree realized it was a ruse. In a quick, pantherish movement, Annabelle delved under the nearest bed pillow and withdrew a silver-plated derringer. With a triumphant smirk, she thrust the cocked weapon into Tyree’s groin.
“No man takes me against my will,” she hissed, all ice where she had once been fire. “No man! We do things my way, or not at all.”
“Suits me,” Tyree said easily. “Now put that gun away before I break your arm.”
Annabelle swallowed a triumphant smile as she slipped the gun back into its hiding place beneath the pillow. Men. They were so pliable, so easily led. Even Tyree, for all his rough talk, was willing to bend to her will just for the promise of bedding her.
His slap came as a shock, doubly so because she had been so certain of another easy victory. The blow brought quick tears of pain to her eyes, and a string of vituperative words to her lips as she reached for the derringer again, but Tyree knew what to expect this time and his long arm slid under the pillow first. With lazy grace, he unloaded the deadly little pistol and tossed the shells on the floor.
“Next time you try that, I’ll kill you,” he remarked, his tone easy and calm, as if he were commenting on something trivial, like the weather or the price of woo
l.
“How dare you strike me!” Annabelle shouted angrily. “Leave my house at once!”
“I’ll be going all right,” Tyree assured her. “But not until I’ve had a taste of what you’ve been offering ever since I walked through the door.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
Tyree’s insolent smile assured her that he would.
Grabbing a handful of her hair, he forced her back on the bed, his mouth closing over hers, his teeth bruising her lips. It was a brutal kiss, and Annabelle kicked and bucked beneath him, her fists pummeling his back in useless fury.
He did not release her, only caught her hands in his, rendering her helpless. He kissed her long and hard, until it was difficult for her to breathe, until she stopped struggling and lay passive beneath him.
Abruptly, she changed tactics and began to arch against him, pressing her breasts against his chest, twining her long legs around his waist, urging him to possess her fully. Her pulse began to race as Tyree’s kiss became more intimate. He was a big man, so much more masculine than the Kansas City railroad man she had conned out of several thousand dollars. So much more handsome than the rotund Chicago banker who had wined her and dined her and offered to buy her a fur coat for just an hour of her favors.
Annabelle smiled smugly as Tyree’s hand slid along her breast. She would have to be careful in her handling of Logan Tyree. He was a dangerous man and not one to be trifled with. She had underestimated him, she mused, but she would not make that mistake again. No man had ever bested her. And Logan Tyree would soon learn to toe the mark, just like all the others.
Watching her, Tyree thought Annabelle looked like a spoiled kitten plotting mischief. He grinned wryly as he stood up.
Annabelle frowned. “Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“You’re not worth five grand,” he said with a shrug. “Sorry.”
Her angry screams followed him out of the house and into the dusk.
Chapter Twelve
Clint Wesley sat in his office, a sour expression on his handsome young face. Word of Tyree’s shootout with the four Walsh riders was the talk of the town. Tyree’s reputation, which was already formidable, was growing with each retelling of the tale. Everyone in Yellow Creek was yammering for Tyree’s scalp, but there wasn’t one man in the whole damn town willing to pin on a deputy’s badge and share the risk in bringing him in. And Clint did not have the guts to take him on alone. It was as simple as that. None of the townspeople really blamed the marshal for his reluctance, but they rode him hard just the same. After all, he was the law. It was his job, not theirs.
Clint ran a hand over his eyes, dragged it across his jaw and down his neck. It had always been such an easy job, keeping the peace in Yellow Creek. At least until Logan Tyree rode into town. Sure, there had been some trouble between the Lazy H and the Slash W. Halloran’s men had been killed, cattle stolen. John Halloran had sworn that Job Walsh was responsible for everything, but there had never been any real proof that Walsh’s men were gunning the Halloran cowhands. Not any proof that would stand up in a court of law. Of course, none of that mattered now that Walsh was dead and buried. But Tyree…damn! The man had killed four men in Bowsher’s Saloon in front of a score of witnesses. Everyone said Tyree had bushwhacked Walsh, too, but once again, there was no proof.
What a mess! Fingering his badge, Clint considered quitting and riding on. Let someone else tackle Logan Tyree. Let someone else try and bring the gunfighter in. The town wasn’t paying him enough to take on a professional killer like Tyree.
With his mind made up, Wesley unpinned the badge from his vest. The star felt heavy in his hand. Staring at it, he thought of Rachel. He would never see her again if he rode out of town with his tail tucked between his legs. Thirty bucks a month wasn’t worth getting killed over, but Rachel…that was a different story. She was every man’s ideal, beautiful, soft-spoken, with a promise of heaven in her sky-blue eyes and a radiant smile on her sweet red lips. Rachel. He would never be able to face her again if he backed down from doing a job that was rightly his.
Frowning thoughtfully, Clint unholstered his gun and laid it on the desk. Tyree hadn’t been born with a gun in his hand. He had to learn to draw and fire just like everybody else. No doubt it had taken hours of practice. Anybody could quick-draw a Colt if he practiced hard enough.
Face grim with determination, Clint pinned his badge to his vest where it belonged. Then, with a sigh of determination, he picked up his gun and went out behind the jailhouse to begin practicing his draw…
Chapter Thirteen
Tyree rose with the sun. Dressing, he gathered his gear together and stowed it in his warbag. Outside, he paused briefly on the front porch of the old Jorgensen place to watch the sun climb over the distant mountains. It was a sight he never tired of, though few people who knew him would have thought him capable of appreciating anything as ordinary as a sunrise.
Settling his hat on his head, he walked down to the corral. Minutes later, he was riding toward the Lazy H. He passed several bunches of cattle, all wearing brands that wouldn’t bear close inspection, and he wondered how many of the cattle wearing the Walsh brand belonged to the Lazy H. It seemed Annabelle was as big a crook as her brother had been.
Annabelle. Tyree grinned ruefully. Once, he would have taken what she had offered without a qualm. But Rachel’s sweet lovemaking had ruined him for all other women. Annabelle was beautiful in face and form, and yet she had left him cold and unmoved. Her kisses had been empty, her promises hollow.
Lifting the stallion into an easy lope, Tyree put everything from his mind, losing himself in the smooth, rocking motion of the gray, and in the pastoral beauty of the wild land, savoring the wondrous sense of freedom and well-being he always experienced when riding alone across the open prairie.
He rode for a long time, stopping once to watch a handful of Indians on the move. They were heading south to spend the coming winter in Mexico. They were a sorry sight, the warriors mounted on scrawny, slat-sided ponies, the women walking behind the men, their long cotton skirts dragging in the dust. A sorry sight, indeed. Even the dogs looked beat. And yet, for all that, Tyree felt a sudden urge to ride after them, to forget the complicated ways of the white man and go back to the blanket.
The urge to follow them was strong, but he had promised Rachel he would return to her, and his word was about the only honorable thing he had left. It would not be easy, settling down, living summer and winter under the same roof, loving only one woman, but what the hell, Rachel wanted him, and it was for sure no one else did. He thought briefly of Annabelle, but she did not want Tyree, the man. Just his gun.
Turning north, the land changed as the flat, unbroken ground gradually gave way to gently rolling hills and thick stands of timber. A tall sandstone spire loomed in the distance, pointing like a finger toward heaven. A lone eagle soared overhead, wheeling and diving in an endless search for prey.
Riding on, Tyree passed a line shack, long unused judging by the broken windows and the sagging front door.
And then he was on Halloran ground. As he rode toward the ranch, he could readily understand why Job Walsh had coveted the Lazy H, and why Annabelle was trying to get her hands on it now. There was plenty of good grass, water all year ‘round.
The sun was high in the sky when he drew the gray to a halt beside a quiet stream that flowed in the valley between two low hills. Dismounting, he stripped the rigging from the stallion, then, placing his gun within easy reach, he shucked his clothing and stepped into the chill water. Squatting on his heels in the shallow stream, he rinsed away the dust of the trail. Later, feeling relaxed and refreshed, he stretched out under a leafy cottonwood and took a nap.
The sky was aflame with color when he rode into the Halloran yard. He spent twenty minutes currying the gray before going up to the house. Tossing his hat on the rack inside the front door, he headed for the kitchen, expecting to find
Rachel stirring up some supper.
Instead, he found John Halloran hunched over the kitchen table, staring bleakly into a cup of cold black coffee.
“What’s going on?” Tyree asked, standing hipshot in the doorway. “Where’s Rachel?”
Halloran did not look up. “I don’t know,” he said heavily. “She rode out early this morning. Her horse came back three hours ago. Candido and the men are out looking for her now—”
Tyree did not wait for any further explanations. Grabbing his hat, he ran down to the corral, whistled for the gray. He did not waste time with a saddle, merely threw a hackamore over the stud’s head and vaulted onto its bare back. A sharp kick sent the mustang thundering out of the yard, hell-bent for the Slash W.
Annabelle was waiting for him in the parlor, coolly sipping a glass of red wine. Two mean-looking Yaqui cowboys stood off to one side, their arms crossed over their chests. A third vaquero stood behind Annabelle’s chair, a shotgun cradled in his burly arms.
“Why, Mr. Tyree,” Annabelle purred as he stomped into the room. “How nice of you to drop by so soon after your last…visit.”
“Cut the crap!” Tyree said tersely. “Where’s Rachel?”
“Quite safe, for now.” Annabelle gestured at the chair beside her. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Where is she?” Tyree repeated through clenched teeth.
“Keeping company with a few of my men. As I said, she’s quite safe. For now. Whether she stays that way depends entirely on you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Rachel and I had a rather interesting little talk this afternoon,” Annabelle remarked in a conspiratorial tone. “As you know, I’ve been rather curious to know who killed my brother, and after a little, ah, persuasion, Miss Halloran was kind enough to tell me what I wanted to know.”
Tyree’s face remained expressionless, but he felt his muscles begin to grow tense. His left hand curled into a tight fist. “That so?”
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