RenegadeHeart

by Madeline Baker

  “He’s wrong for you. Can’t you see that?” He laughed suddenly, harshly, bitterly. “Hell, we’re probably arguing over nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tyree is probably heading for the border with Annabelle right now.”

  “No!”

  Wesley shrugged. “Then he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Rachel frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Annabelle showed me a confession, signed by Tyree, a couple of days ago. It said that Tyree killed Job Walsh. Annabelle wouldn’t tell me where she got it, or how, but when she told me about it, I figured she wanted Tyree out of the way, for one reason or another and was using the law to get rid of him for her, all nice and legal. But then two of her men broke him out of jail. Why? Either she’s decided to forgive Tyree for whatever he did to displease her, which I doubt, or…” Clint spread his hands in a gesture that spoke louder than words.

  “Or Annabelle decided to exact her revenge herself.”

  “Exactly.”

  Rachel chewed on the inside of her lower lip. What Clint said made good sense. Annabelle had wanted to see Tyree hang and then, for some reason, she had changed her mind. But why?

  Wesley reached for his hat, set it carefully on his head. It had been a hell of a night, but some good had come of it. Tyree was out of the way at last. Maybe, in time, Rachel would forget him. Maybe, in time, Clint could win her love. But for now, he just wanted to be alone.

  “Go on home, Rachel,” he said wearily.

  “I can’t leave you alone, not when you’re hurt.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Clint said roughly. “Go on home.”

  With a sigh of resignation, Rachel murmured a subdued farewell and walked out of the Marshal’s Office. She knew she had hurt Clint, hurt him deeply. But she could not marry a man she didn’t love just to spare his feelings.

  Outside, Rachel gazed into the darkness. Where was Tyree? Confused and sick at heart, she climbed into the buggy and turned the horse toward home.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tyree woke just after dawn. Nacho and Jorges were gone. But he was not alone. A six-foot rattlesnake lay coiled against his right side, its ugly, triangular-shaped head less than a foot from his own. An involuntary gasp brought a warning buzz from the disturbed reptile.

  A long sixty seconds followed, with the snake staring, unblinking, at Tyree, and Tyree staring back. He had seen a man die from a snake bite once. It had not been a pretty sight, the man’s leg swollen and turning black, his eyes wide with terror, the fever that shook him from head to toe as the poison spread through his system, convulsions…

  Another minute slid quietly into eternity. Tyree’s shirt was soaked with sweat. Perspiration dripped into his eyes, but he dared not blink it away. He knew a moment of gut-wrenching fear as the snake uncoiled and slithered slowly over his chest, its forked tongue darting in and out.

  Holding his breath, Tyree slowly raised his head. Risking a look over his shoulder, he breathed an audible sigh of relief as he watched the snake disappear into a shady spot beneath a squat cactus some eight yards away.

  Weak with relief, Tyree wriggled around on the hard ground, seeking a more comfortable position. It was then he saw the big blue bowl filled to the brim with water. Water that sparkled and shimmered in the early morning sunlight. He stared at the bowl, unable to believe it was real and not a mirage born out of his thirst.

  It was hard work, inching his way toward the bowl. His wounded arm throbbed with each movement, but he struggled forward, his eyes fixed on the bowl and the promise it held.

  He cursed with all the bitter rage of a man betrayed when the tether around his neck pulled him up a mere twelve inches short of his goal. He cursed until his throat was raw and his voice was reduced to a harsh rasp.

  When his anger cooled, he turned his back to the sun and closed his eyes. The hours crawled by on leaded feet. The air, hot and dry, covered him like a heavy blanket. Sweat poured out of him, soaking his clothing, stinging his eyes. Flies came to torment him, crawling over his wounded arm. His lips cracked and bled, and he sucked the salty moisture, desperate for any trace of wetness to ease his horrible thirst. His tongue grew thick in his mouth, his throat felt tight and swollen.

  Knowing it was useless, he pulled against his tether in a vain attempt to reach the beautiful blue bowl of crystal water that shimmered like liquid diamonds in the sunshine.

  But straining against the hangman’s rope only drew the noose tighter around his neck. Only a few inches, he mused ruefully. It might as well have been a mile. A wry grin turned down the corners of his mouth as he contemplated dying in the desert. He had always thought to meet his end quickly, from a bullet fired by that one gunman whose draw would be that fatal fraction of a second faster than his own. Or at the end of a rope. He had never imagined he would die an inch at a time under a blistering sun because he had walked out on a slut.

  And still the minutes moved slowly onward and the sun climbed higher in the sky, beating down on his unprotected head, burning into his brain. He closed his eyes against the blinding glare and distorted images from his past crowded his mind. He frowned as people long forgotten paraded through the mists of time. So much killing, so much death. He heard the Reverend Jenkens’ voice echo in his ears: “He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword…” and he laughed out loud. The Reverend was sure as hell wrong about that. He would have welcomed a bullet to the torture he now faced.

  He shook his head from side to side, seeking relief from the bitter memories that plagued him and suddenly Rachel’s image materialized before him. The other ghosts faded away and she stood alone in his memory.

  Rachel. Warm, loving, caring.

  Rachel. More beautiful than life.

  Rachel. Perhaps he had loved her from the moment he first saw her bending over him. Why had he been so reluctant to admit it?

  The hours and minutes they had spent together swirled together in his mind. Always, when he needed her, she had been there. Her tender care had saved his life. She had nursed his hurts, bandaged his wounds, made him realize the value of life. But, more importantly, she had healed the wounds he had carried inside, made him realize he was more than just a worthless saddle tramp, more than a hired gun.

  “Rachel.” He sobbed her name aloud, grieving for what might have been.

  With a start, Tyree opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the pretty blue bowl. No matter how many times he looked away, no matter how many times he cursed Annabelle, sooner or later his eyes were drawn back to the bowl and its precious, life-sustaining contents.

  Once, he surged forward with all his might, ignoring the pains that raced through his limbs, ignoring the noose that cut ever deeper into his neck, choking off his breath. He strained forward, straining until the world went black and he fell into a fathomless void.

  When he regained consciousness, the setting sun was turning the western horizon to flame. Great splashes of crimson and gold and orange stained the pale blue sky, gradually fading to lavender and then to gray as the sun dropped behind the mountains.

  Tyree let out a long breath, shuddered convulsively as his whole body screamed for relief.

  A soft mocking laugh drew his attention and he glanced over his shoulder to find Annabelle Walsh staring down at him. She was wearing a blue silk shirt, tight black pants, and black calfskin boots. Even now, when he was racked with pain and unbearable thirst, he could not help thinking she was the most blatantly beautiful woman he had ever known. The most beautiful and the most vindictive.

  “Thirsty, Tyree?” Annabelle purred wickedly “Hungry? Do your limbs ache from that dreadful position?” Her laugh was low and decidedly cruel. “You should never strike a lady, you know.”

  “I never have,” Tyree retorted hoarsely, and knew a faint moment of satisfaction as Annabelle’s green eyes grew dark with anger.

  “Still full of fire, I see,” Annabelle mused aloud. She dragged a hand through the thick man
e of her red hair. “But that fire will be out by tomorrow. Before the day is out, the vultures will be fighting over your carcass.”

  “You gonna stay and watch?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Annabelle’s eyes moved slowly over Tyree’s body, lingering on the taut muscles in his arms, the broad expanse of his chest, his long powerful legs. A melancholy expression softened the anger in her eyes. She had never wanted a man as much as she had wanted Logan Tyree. Why, of all the men she had desired, had he been the one to elude her grasp? No other man had ever been able to resist her feminine charm. Always, in the past, she had dominated the men in her life. But she had never been able to dominate Tyree. Always, he had been the master. Almost, she regretted her decision to kill him. Almost, she reached down to loosen his bonds.

  But then the memory of his hand striking her flesh intruded on the thought of what might have been, shattering her wistful reverie. A nasty smile twitched at the corners of her mouth as an involuntary shudder of pain wracked Tyree’s body. His pain pleased her, soothing her injured vanity. She was the master now.

  A flat rock provided a place to sit, and Annabelle curled her legs under her, deciding she would stay and watch Tyree die. It gave her a sense of power, knowing she held his life in her hands. She could kill him now, quickly, or let him die slowly. She wondered what it would be like to see the life drain out of his body, wondered, absently, if his cool self-control would shatter in the end. It would be immensely satisfying, she mused, to see him break, to hear him whine and beg for mercy.

  With greatly exaggerated gestures, she uncorked the canteen she had brought with her and took a long swallow. She was aware of Tyree’s eyes watching her every move. Out of pure cussedness, she shook the canteen under Tyree’s nose. The water sloshed inside, sounding delightfully cool and wet and refreshing, and Annabelle watched Tyree, waiting for him to beg her for a drink. It would be such fun to hear him beg. She might even give him a tiny swallow.

  But Tyree did not beg. He licked his lips as he watched Annabelle take a long drink. But he did not beg.

  When he remained mute, Annabelle poured a small amount into her hands and wiped her face and neck. Her sigh of pleasure was long and loud.

  “Would you like a drink, Tyree?” she asked, shaking the canteen under his nose again. “It’s so hot, and I know you must be dying for a drink.”

  It was in his mind to say yes, to beg her for just one swallow, but he knew her too well, knew she would only laugh in his face.

  “Damn you,” he rasped, hating her as he had never hated anyone in his life. “I hope you fry in hell.”

  The sound of approaching horses stifled Annabelle’s reply, and she stood up, peering into the darkness.

  Glancing past Annabelle, Tyree saw six men riding toward them. A sudden coldness engulfed Tyree as he recognized Joaquin Montoya riding in the lead. Montoya. Dealer in human flesh.

  Montoya drew rein near Annabelle. Gallantly, he removed his sombrero and bowed from the waist.

  “Ah, Señorita Walsh,” he said jovially. “Disposing of that troublesome gunfighter, I see.”

  “Montoya,” Annabelle said warmly. “How nice to see you again.” Her eyes sparkled with approval. Montoya was a handsome man, with laughing black eyes and a sweeping black moustache. They were much alike, she mused. Perhaps that was why they got on so well together.

  “The pleasure is all mine, chiquita,” Montoya replied. He gestured at Tyree. “He looks about done for.”

  “There’s life in him yet,” Annabelle remarked. “He will wish for death many times before it comes.”

  Montoya studied Tyree for a long moment. Then, dismounting, he squatted on his heels beside the gunman and ran a slender brown hand over Tyree’s arms and legs, grunting softly.

  “Why not sell him to me?” the bandit asked, rising to stand beside Annabelle.

  “Whatever for?”

  “I can sell him to the mines. They pay much for big men with strong backs. And this one, I think he could do the work of two men.”

  “No,” Annabelle said, shaking her head. “He must die. Slowly.”

  “As you wish,” Montoya conceded with a shrug. “But you can only kill him once. In the mine, he will die a little each day.”

  Annabelle regarded Tyree through thoughtful eyes. Montoya was right. You could only kill a man once. And for Tyree, death would come as a welcome release from the pain and thirst and suffering. But the mines…to be constantly underground, chained like a beast of burden, driven by the whip…ah, there was lasting punishment indeed, worse, in its own way, than death itself. The mine would humble him once and for all. Truly, he would rue the day he had left her.

  “You will see he works hard?” Annabelle asked, lifting her gaze to Montoya’s face.

  “Sí, very hard.”

  “And when he can no longer work?”

  Montoya shrugged. “He will be driven out into the desert to die. So you see, in a way, his end will be the same.”

  “Very well,” Annabelle said decisively. She dug into her pants pocket and withdrew the key to Tyree’s handcuffs. “He is yours.”

  With a nod, Montoya handed her a double eagle in exchange for the key.

  Logan Tyree’s eyes never left Annabelle’s face. Not when one of Montoya’s men cut the rope from his neck, not when they placed him on a horse, not when they tied his feet to the stirrups.

  It was spooky, Annabelle thought, the way Tyree stared at her, his yellow eyes cold and unblinking, like a snake’s. It was quite unsettling, and she turned away, shivering, as though someone had just walked over her grave.

  “Annabelle.”

  Tyree’s voice, raspy and harsh, reached out to her. Slowly, like one mesmerized, she pivoted to face him.

  “I’ll kill you for this,” Tyree vowed. “Some night, you’ll wake up to find my hands around your throat.”

  “You dare threaten me?” Annabelle asked in amazement. “Even now, when I hold your life in my hands?”

  “Damn you!” Tyree hurled the words at her. “If you want my life, take it and be done with it!”‘

  Annabelle frowned as she stared at Tyree, bemused by the faint glimmer of fear lurking deep in his eyes. He was not afraid of dying. She knew that. Of what, then, was he afraid?

  “It is the loss of his freedom he fears,” Montoya explained, reading the question in her eyes. “Life is cheap to a man who sells his gun to the highest bidder. But freedom, ah, freedom is much to be prized.”

  Head cocked to one side, Annabelle looked up at Tyree, and saw the truth of Montoya’s words mirrored in Tyree’s eyes. Her smile was cruel as she said, with finality, “There will be no death for you this night, Tyree, or for many days and nights to come. Only the rattle of chains on your feet, and the song of the whip on your back. Remember me, every time you pray for death. Montoya, take him away!”

  It took six days to reach the silver mine located in a green valley in Mexico. Tyree spent most of that time dozing on the back of a horse, his hands cuffed behind his back, his feet lashed to the stirrups. Nights, when the outlaws made camp, he was shackled to a tree, or to one of the outlaws.

  Montoya and his men spent their nights around a comfortable fire, eating, drinking, laughing. Looking forward to the time when they would be rid of Tyree and back home with their women.

  Tyree had hoped that, somehow, he would find a way to escape before they reached Mexico, but Montoya was an expert in handling prisoners. He took no chances, made no mistakes, and there was no opportunity to make a break for it.

  Tyree had recovered from his ordeal in the desert when Montoya handed him over to Pedro Diaz, the mine boss.

  Diaz was a grossly fat, ugly man with a bald pate, wide-set black eyes, and a mouth full of rotten teeth. He examined Tyree thoroughly.

  “Not bad,” Diaz muttered. “Not bad. I will give you two hundred for him.”

  Montoya looked hurt. “Two hundred? Really, Pedro, I think even a blind man could see he is worth
more than that.”

  “No. Look, he has a bad right hand.”

  “Two seventy-five,” Montoya argued. “He is worth at least that much.”

  “Let us say two fifty and part friends,” Diaz countered.

  “You drive a hard bargain, amigo,” Montoya said with a wry smile.

  The fat man’s paunch shook like jelly as he laughingly reached into his pocket and withdrew a roll of bills. “You wanted two fifty all the time,” Diaz remarked as he counted out the correct amount, “and we both know it. Come, let us drink to a bargain well made.”

  It was then that Tyree’s nightmare began. He was issued a pair of worn white cotton breeches, a threadbare cotton shirt, and a pair of thick leather sandals. When he was dressed, a beetle-browed guard shoved a rifle barrel in his spine and marched him down a dirt path that led to a row of square cages constructed of tin and thick wire mesh.

  It took three burly men to wrestle Tyree into the cage; he shuddered as the door was locked behind him.

  Like an animal, he paced the small cage. Three short strides took him from one end of the cage to the other. There was nothing to block his way, no bed, no chair, not even a chamber pot. Back and forth, back and forth, he paced, the tension growing in him all the while. The sun beat down on the tin roof and sweat poured down Tyree’s face and neck and back. And still he prowled restlessly to and fro, driven by his anger, and by a virulent hatred for Annabelle Walsh that grew and thrived like a malignant tumor feeding upon itself.

  It was just after sunset when the other prisoners emerged from the dark bowels of the mine. They walked with heavy steps and downcast eyes, faces devoid of all expression. The long line of men drew to a halt, and each man stepped into one of the cages. The doors closed. The locks were secured. The work day was over.

  Tyree did not sleep that night. The cage was too small to allow for much movement and its sides seemed to close in on him, growing even smaller and more confining.

  Worse things were waiting for him the next day. His hands and feet were fitted with shackles, and he was herded into one of the shafts along with a dozen other slaves. The shaft was long and narrow, dimly lit by lanterns strung from the sagging beams that shored up the tunnel. One of the guards ordered him toward a narrow vein of silver and told him to dig until the vein ran out. It was back-breaking work. The air was stale. His hands blistered. His hatred for Annabelle grew with each stroke of the axe.