“Yes.” Annabelle leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Can you guess who she named as Job’s murderer?”
“No. Who?”
“You, Mr. Tyree?”
He did not have to turn around to know that the two Yaqui cowboys had drawn their guns. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes. I would like to hear it from your own mouth, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay, I killed him.” Tyree felt the hair raise along the back of his neck as he waited for Annabelle’s men to cut him down.
“Why did you kill my brother?” Annabelle’s eyes bored into Tyree’s, hard and cold and ruthless.
“What the hell difference does it make now?” Tyree asked impatiently. He heard one of the Yaquis take a step forward and his back grew rigid as he waited for a bullet to smash into him.
“I want to know,” Annabelle said.
“I did it as a favor to Halloran for saving my life.”
“Hogwash! You’ve never done anybody a favor in your whole life.” Annabelle looked at him shrewdly. “Halloran paid you, didn’t he?” she demanded. “He paid you to kill my brother!” She stamped her foot angrily when Tyree did not answer. “Tell me, Tyree, or you’ll never see Rachel Halloran alive again.”
“She’s nothing to me,” Tyree said with a shrug. But his insides were coiled tight as bedsprings. If anything happened to Rachel, Annabelle Walsh would pay, and pay dearly.
“My men will be glad to hear that,” Annabelle remarked, smiling smugly. “All twelve of them.”
The implication was all too clear, Tyree mused. Either he told Annabelle what she wanted to know, or Annabelle would turn her men loose on Rachel.
“You win,” Tyree conceded gruffly. “Old man Halloran paid me five hundred dollars to get your brother off his back. I did it the only way I know.”
Annabelle nodded as she sat back in her chair. “Yes, I thought as much.”
“What now?” Tyree asked dispassionately. “A quick bullet in the back?”
“Of course not,” Annabelle said, laughing softly. “I made you an offer last night. One that you rudely refused.” She pulled a piece of paper from her skirt pocket. “I still want you to work for me, Tyree. And I always get what I want.”
Tyree eyed the paper suspiciously. “That so?”
“Yes. This is a confession stating that you killed my brother. I would advise you to sign it.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Miss Halloran will wind up in the river. Dead, of course.”
“Of course,” Tyree repeated drily. “And if I sign?”
“I’ll lock this up in a safe place. You’ll come to work for me, and we’ll forget all this unpleasantness ever happened.” Rising, she placed her wineglass on a low table. Moving toward Tyree, she placed her hand on his shoulder, let it slide suggestively down his arm, secretly reveling in the taut muscles coiled beneath her fingertips. “Don’t be stubborn, Tyree,” she crooned. “We’ll be good together. And if it will make you happy, I’ll even let Halloran keep his ranch. All but the southeast section that borders on my back pasture. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“It’s blackmail, is what it is,” Tyree muttered.
“Surely working for me would be better than seeing that poor old man wind up in jail as an accessory to murder? And infinitely better than hanging.”
It was in Tyree’s mind to tell Annabelle Walsh to go to hell. But John Halloran had done him a favor, and he couldn’t ride out of Yellow Creek and leave the old man to face Annabelle’s ruthless greed alone. And then there was Rachel. The thought of Annabelle’s men, of any man, touching her made his blood run cold.
And what the hell, he mused. He was better suited to hiring out his gun to a woman like Annabelle Walsh than trying to settle down. A little voice in the back of his mind chided that he was taking the coward’s way out, but he refused to listen. He had known all along he was making a mistake by promising to marry Rachel. He would never make her happy, never in a million years.
And so he said, “Okay, Annabelle, you win. I’ll sign your confession. But only if you draft a new one that leaves Halloran’s name out of it completely.”
“All right,” Annabelle said agreeably. “I don’t see any reason to tell Rachel or her father about our bargain, do you?”
“No.”
“Good. Then it’s all settled.”
“Just one more thing. If anything happens to Rachel or her old man, I’ll come after you, confession or no confession. You remember that.”
“I’ll remember. Nacho, bring more wine. This is an occasion for celebrating.”
Rachel’s tears had long since dried up, but the fear remained, tying her stomach in knots, making it difficult to swallow, to think clearly.
Hours had passed since Annabelle’s men had brought her to this run-down cabin. Hours that seemed like days. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to see the faces of the men leering at her. They had stripped her down to her chemise and petticoat, and she could feel their eyes on her breasts, barely concealed beneath her lacy chemise. Occasionally, a man ran his hand over her leg or through her hair, sometimes they made crude remarks about her anatomy.
She had never known such paralyzing fear, had never felt so helpless and alone. Somehow, the Indians at Sunset Canyon had not seemed so threatening. They had been savages and had acted as such. But these were white men, most of them, civilized men. Men she had seen in town.
She shivered, her fear making her cold. Dared she ask for a blanket? She opened her eyes and quickly closed them again. It was eerie, the way the men just sat there, staring at her.
She jumped as the cabin door swung open, gave a small cry of joy when she saw Tyree outlined against the darkening sky. She had never been so glad to see anybody in her life.
Tyree swore softly as he stepped into the dingy cabin and closed the door behind him. Rachel was lying on a filthy mattress, her wrists and ankles tied to the rusty bed frame. A grimy red kerchief was tied over her mouth. Her left eye was swollen and discolored, her right cheek was badly bruised, as if someone had hit her, hard.
He swore again. Seeing Rachel bound and gagged stirred him in a way he did not like. Scowling blackly, he tore his gaze from Rachel’s violently trembling body and glanced around the room. Annabelle had not been bluffing. There were twelve men present, and a more disreputable-looking bunch would have been hard to find. Any one of them looked capable of raping Rachel until she was unconscious, and then slitting her throat without a qualm.
Annabelle’s men expressed no surprise at seeing Tyree, and he felt a quick surge of anger. She had been very sure of him, damn her.
He said the password Annabelle had given him and the Slash W riders filed out of the shack, grousing a little because Tyree had arrived and spoiled their fun.
When the last Walsh gunman was gone, Tyree cut the ropes binding Rachel’s hands and feet and removed the gag from her mouth.
Embarrassed by her scant attire, Rachel crossed her arms over her breasts. “Tyree—” It was a plea and a prayer combined, the way she whispered his name.
“You all right?” he asked.
Rachel nodded wordlessly, flushing scarlet as Tyree’s eyes moved over her exposed flesh.
“Good,” he said curtly. “Get dressed.”
“She knows,” Rachel said, reaching for her dress. “Annabelle knows you killed her brother.”
“It’s all right.”
“I had to tell her,” Rachel said in a small voice. Her brilliant blue eyes pleaded for Tyree’s understanding and forgiveness. “She said she would let her men amuse themselves with me if I didn’t tell her what she wanted to know. At first, I thought she was just trying to scare me. But then she brought me out here.” Rachel’s words came faster and faster as she relived the horror of the past few hours. “Her men passed me back and forth, kissing me, making remarks about…about… Oh, Tyree, it was awful! And then, when I still wouldn’t tell her anything, she told one of the men to tie me to the bed. When he started to take off
his pants, I knew she wasn’t bluffing. Tyree, she said she would let all twelve of her men have me, and I believed her. I had to tell her. I was so afraid!”
“It’s all right, Rachel,” Tyree assured her. With a sigh, he took her in his arms and held her while she cried, thinking all the while that a good hiding with a bullwhip would benefit Annabelle Walsh immensely, though it would be a sin to permanently mar that exquisitely sculpted alabaster body.
“Come on,” Tyree coaxed when Rachel’s tears subsided. “We’d better get you home. Your old man is worried sick.”
Something in his tone made Rachel’s heart go cold. “You’re not coming with me, are you, Tyree?”
“No.”
“Why not? What’s happened to change your mind?”
“Annabelle made me a better offer,” Tyree said flatly. He winced at the hurt rising in Rachel’s eyes. Damn! He had never meant to hurt her, never meant to get so deeply involved. He knew now it had been a mistake to promise to marry her. He was too old to hang up his gun, too set in his ways to start a new life. “Let’s go.”
Rachel followed Tyree meekly out of the shack, climbed stiffly into the saddle of the horse he had brought for her to ride. She stared straight ahead as they made their way through the dark night, her mind in turmoil. Tyree, too, was staring into the darkness and Rachel felt her heart melt with longing as she studied his swarthy profile. What happened, she wanted to cry. Why have you changed yourmind? But her pride kept her tongue mute and the silence between them grew thick and impenetrable.
Tyree reined the gray to a halt under the high double arch that marked the beginning of the Halloran ranch yard. “Tell your old man the Walsh riders won’t be bothering him anymore.”
Rachel looked at Tyree askance, one delicate brow rising like a butterfly in flight.
“And tell him I’ll be over one day soon to get his signature on a bill of sale deeding your southeast section to Annabelle.”
“So that’s the way it is,” Rachel said dully. “You’re working for her now.”
“Yeah.”
It was too much for Rachel to absorb: the kidnapping, the awful hours in the shack with Annabelle’s men, and now Tyree talking to her in a cold, impersonal tone, as if she were a stranger.
With a curt nod, Rachel slammed her heels into her mount’s flanks and galloped down the tree-lined road toward home and the solid comfort of her father’s arms.
Chapter Fourteen
Life was easy on the Walsh spread. Two dozen Mexican vaqueros handled all the ranch work, while a handful of house servants waited on Annabelle and her hired guns.
As was his wont, Tyree kept to himself, ignoring the other gunmen whenever possible. But Annabelle could not be ignored. She was as bold and beautiful as a crimson flower in a patch of dry weeds.
She appointed Tyree as her personal bodyguard and insisted he sleep in the main house in the bedroom that adjoined her own. She dressed always in rich, vibrant colors that accentuated her flawless complexion and complemented her luxurious red hair and emerald eyes. She rarely wore dresses, preferring tight pants and low-cut silk blouses that outlined the generous curve of her hips and the proud thrust of her breasts. Tyree often thought she was wasting her time on a ranch when her true talents could be put to better use in the rooms above Bowsher’s Saloon.
Annabelle ruled the Slash W like a queen, granting favors when she was pleased, meting out quick and severe punishment when she was offended. And she was easily offended. The servants were quick to obey her slightest wish, wary of arousing her fiery temper.
She was riding high, Tyree thought sardonically. Mistress of all she surveyed and loving every minute of it. She certainly enjoyed bossing him around, there was no doubt about that. And Tyree let her get away with it because it amused him, for the moment, to let Annabelle think she held the upper hand.
She made no secret of the fact that she found Tyree tremendously desirable. Time and again she came to his bedroom, her voluptuous form barely concealed in some flimsy gown that accentuated every curve. Often, she sat on the edge of his bed, her hand boldly stroking his thigh.
Some nights, when he was lying alone in the dark and Annabelle came to him, he was tempted. Sorely tempted. Annabelle was beautiful, and she was more than willing to ease the ache in his loins, but he could not bring himself to make love to Annabelle Walsh, not with the memory of Rachel’s sweetness so fresh in his mind.
Rachel. He missed her more than he cared to admit. She was always in his thoughts. He missed seeing her every day, missed the sound of her voice, the warmth of her smile.
As the days passed, it grew harder and harder to put Annabelle off. She was a comely wench when she was getting her own way, all seductive smiles and tempting softness. So filled with pride and arrogance she never realized Tyree was humoring her because it suited him at the moment. Tyree had never thought of himself as a coward, but the truth was, the idea of marrying Rachel scared him to death. It had seemed easier to give in to Annabelle’s demands, to let Rachel believe he found Annabelle more enticing, than to admit he had cold feet. For now, it amused him to placate Annabelle, to let her think he was cowed by her threat to turn him in for killing her brother. Hell, he was already wanted for murder in Kansas and Texas, and they could only hang him once. For now, he would play Annabelle’s game and when he tired of her tricks, he would move on.
Annabelle wielded all her charms the night Joaquin Montoya came to call. Montoya was an outlaw who traded in human flesh, kidnapping men, women, and children and selling them into slavery south of the border. The women were sold to brothels, the men and children were sold to the mines. No one was safe from Montoya’s grasping hand, and he sold those of his own blood as quickly as gringos.
Annabelle introduced Tyree to Montoya, and the two men shook hands. They disliked each other immediately.
Somehow, Tyree was not surprised to find that Annabelle and Montoya were well acquainted. They talked amiably all through dinner about people and places they had known in the past. Annabelle smiled at Montoya often, frequently finding an excuse to touch his arm, his shoulder, his hand. Montoya paid her several compliments, his dark eyes praising her beauty.
Tyree remained silent through most of the meal, amused by the whole thing. He was not surprised, or jealous, when Montoya followed Annabelle to bed. Only relieved that she would not be pestering him.
Montoya left early the following morning, and Tyree was glad to see him go.
As the days passed, the other gunslicks in Annabelle’s employ became increasingly jealous of Tyree’s relationship with the boss, but that was their problem, not his, and Tyree went his own way, unperturbed by their envious glances and snide remarks. If they wanted to believe he was sleeping with Annabelle, it was no skin off his ass.
During those first few weeks in Annabelle’s employ, the hardest thing Tyree had to do was face Rachel. He had hurt her deeply, and he was sorry. But far better to cause her a little heartache now than marry her and subject her to a lifetime of regret.
Rachel was sitting on the front porch darning a pair of her old man’s socks the morning Tyree rode over to get Halloran’s signature on a Bill of Sale. She looked as fresh as a spring flower, what with her hair shining like liquid gold and her skin glowing soft and smooth. Looking at her, he wondered how he had ever thought Annabelle Walsh remotely attractive.
Tyree reined the gray to a halt near the porch steps. “Mornin’, Rachel,” he said quietly. “Is your old man home?”
“He’s inside,” Rachel answered coldly. She rose to her feet, her fingers digging into her palms. Why did her heart lurch with such longing at the mere sight of him? She yearned to run to him, to throw her arms around his neck and pour out her heart, to beg him to love her as she loved him. But pride stilled her tongue and stiffened her spine. “I’ll get him.”
She did not invite Tyree into the house, and he did not dismount.
John Halloran came out of the house alone. Pen in hand, he took the
deed from Tyree, quickly signed his name to the paper that gave Annabelle Walsh title to a section of land long coveted by the Slash W.
“How long before she takes the rest of the place?” Halloran asked bitterly.
“She won’t.”
Halloran laughed hollowly as he thrust the deed at Tyree. “No? Who’s gonna stop her? You?”
“If I have to,” Tyree replied calmly. “So long, Halloran.”
From inside the house, Rachel watched Tyree ride out of the yard. For a moment, she tried to fight back the tears welling in her eyes. Then, with a sob, she sank down in a chair and let the tears flow. It felt good to cry, good to release the hurt she had been carrying within her heart.
How foolish she had been to think Tyree would change, to think he would hang up his gun and become a rancher. She had been kidding herself all along. Maybe he was too old to change. Maybe he had never cared for her at all. The thought made the tears come faster, blurring her vision, making her eyes red and swollen, her throat sore.
She cried until she was empty inside, but the heartache remained and she knew she would love Logan Tyree as long as she lived.
Tyree had been in Annabelle’s employ about a month when she decided it was time he earned his keep.
“There’s a squatter out near Coyote Butte,” she remarked one night after dinner. “Get rid of him for me, will you, Tyree?”
It was not a request, Tyree mused, but a command wrapped in velvet.
He left the Slash W early the following morning. It was a beautiful day, blessed by a brilliant blue sky that reminded him of the color of Rachel’s eyes, and a soft summer breeze that held the heat at bay.
The squatter had chosen a wooded section of land watered by a narrow, gurgling stream. It was a pretty spot, perfect for a homestead. A good place to put down roots, raise kids and crops and cattle.
The man was sawing the branches off a newly fallen tree when Tyree rode up and stepped easily from the saddle.
“Folks usually wait to be asked to step down back where I come from,” the squatter remarked, shading his eyes so he could see Tyree’s face.
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