RenegadeHeart (24 page)

Pausing to set in a sleeve, Rachel vowed to learn more about
the man she planned to marry. She would learn what he liked, and then strive
diligently to give him those things.

Surely, if she delved deep enough, she would find they
shared more in common than the fierce passion that burned between them.

News of Rachel’s engagement did not sit well with everyone.
Annabelle Walsh was furious with Tyree, and swore publicly and privately that
she hated him. But she did not want Rachel Halloran to have him.

Sitting alone in the Slash W ranch house, she stared into
the cold stone fireplace, her lovely brow creased and thoughtful. Her bargain
with Tyree was off now, and that meant Halloran was fair game as far as she was
concerned. But before she could move against the Lazy H, she had to dispose of
Tyree. His threat to come after her had been a warning she could not ignore.
She did not doubt for a moment that he would make her pay if anything happened
to Rachel or Halloran or the Lazy H.

Eyes narrowed, Annabelle rubbed her cheek, remembering the
pain and humiliation Tyree had inflicted upon her the day he walked out. He
would pay for that slap, she vowed, and pay dearly…

Clint Wesley viewed Rachel’s engagement with anger and
jealousy. He had been calling on Rachel regularly for more than two years,
courting her in his own shy style, hoping that one day she would agree to be
his wife. He had been taking her to church, and to socials, to parties and
dances. They had gone walking together in the moonlight. He had dinner at the
Lazy H at least once a week, but somehow their relationship had never gotten
past the hand-holding stage. And then Tyree had appeared on the scene. Damn the
man!

Wesley scowled darkly as he glanced out the jailhouse
window. Unconsciously, his hand stroked the butt of his bolstered Colt. He had
been practicing his draw for several months, and it was smooth and fast.

But was it fast enough?

Chapter Eighteen

The spring social was one of the most looked forward to
events of the year. Everyone in the valley was invited, and everyone attended.
For this one night, old grudges were forgotten or forgiven, petty quarrels were
put aside, debts were not mentioned, and having a good time was top priority.

Rachel hummed softly as she dressed for the big dance. It
was good to be alive, good to be in love. She laughed with exuberance as she
slipped her dress over her head and smoothed it over her hips. Twirling before
the mirror, she was pleased to see that the color was very becoming. The dark
lavender made her skin glow like rich cream, and turned her eyes to violet.

Wrapping a light wool shawl around her bare shoulders, she
floated down the stairway. Tyree was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.
Dark brown trousers hugged his long muscular legs, a rich maroon broadcloth
coat complemented his dark complexion. He smiled at her and Rachel felt a
little thrill of excitement dance in the pit of her stomach as she lifted her
face for his kiss.

Moments later, John Halloran stepped into the room. “Ready?”
he asked cheerfully, and the three of them left the house, chatting amiably.

When they arrived at the schoolhouse, the dance had already
started. The desks had been removed, and the ceiling was hung with colored
streamers and lamps. Long tables were set up along the edge of the dance floor,
laden with coffee and punch and cakes and cookies. Couples whirled around the
floor, talking and laughing, as the musicians played a waltz, a polka, a
fast-paced reel. On this one night, the men did not leave their ladies to argue
about cattle and crops and the rising price of land. Instead, they gallantly
courted their women, plying them with compliments and attention, and the women
responded by laughing and flirting outrageously with their husbands or beaux.

The next hour passed pleasantly. There was an abundance of
food and drink. The fiddler played tirelessly, now something fast, now
something slow, now fast again. Rachel was constantly amazed at the wide
variety of numbers that he played throughout the night.

During a brief lull, Annabelle Walsh made her entrance on
the arm of a tall, dark-haired man. Annabelle looked exquisite. Her gown, a
brilliant green silk, had been imported from France. The bodice clung to her
ample bosom like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. The full
skirt swished softly as she walked. Her hair was piled high atop her head, save
for one long red curl that fell over her left shoulder. Green satin slippers
hugged her feet.

Tyree frowned as he noticed Annabelle’s only adornment was
the ruby teardrop he had given her for Christmas.

Moments later, Clint Wesley strode into the room, his badge
shining brightly on the pocket of his dark blue coat. It was, Tyree mused
sourly, shaping up to be one hell of a night.

The single men, both young and old, flocked around
Annabelle, vying for her attention, arguing back and forth over who had the
next dance, and the next. Wesley stood with his back against the east wall, his
blue eyes moody as he watched Rachel dance by with Tyree.

Damn
, the marshal mused to himself. Why hadn’t he
proposed sooner? Why had he thought he had to wait until he had more money? Why
hadn’t he grabbed her and hauled her off to the preacher’s before it was too
late? But then, like everyone else, he had taken it for granted that Rachel
would marry him. And now he had lost her. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe, if
he told her how he felt, she would change her mind. It was a slim chance, but
one he had to take.

Squaring his shoulders, Clint marched boldly onto the dance
floor and tapped Tyree on the shoulder.

Tyree’s eyebrows went up in surprise as he surrendered
Rachel. It would have been pleasant to tell Wesley to go to hell, but Tyree
knew such a thing would have made Rachel angry. And he had no desire to make
her mad.

“Evening, Clint,” Rachel said, smiling warmly. “Isn’t it a
lovely night?”

“Lovely,” Clint agreed. “Rachel, I love you more than
anything in the world. I want you to marry me. I know I’ve been a fool not to
speak up sooner, but I wanted to have enough money put away to buy you a house
of your own. I wanted to be able to give you everything you wanted, to spoil
you. I love you. I…you must know how I feel, how I’ve always felt. I thought, I
hoped, you felt the same.”

Rachel stared at him, her mouth slightly open, completely
surprised at his outburst. Why had he chosen this particular moment to bare his
soul? And what could she possibly say?

“Rachel?” Clint whispered her name, his heart in his eyes.

“Clint, I…I love you, but I’m not in love with you. I…it
wouldn’t have made any difference if you had a lot of money, or if you had
asked me to marry you months ago. I love Tyree. I don’t know how it happened, I
can’t explain it, but I love him with all my heart.”

Clint nodded. There was nothing more to say.

Standing at the makeshift bar located at the back of the room,
Tyree ordered a beer. From the corner of his eye, he saw Annabelle swishing
toward him, and he muttered a mild oath under his breath.

“Good evening, Tyree,” Annabelle purred.

“Miss Walsh,” he replied formally.

“That’s a lovely tune they’re playing,” Annabelle remarked.
“It’s always been one of my favorites.”

“If you want to dance, just say so,” Tyree growled, annoyed
by her coy attitude.

“I want to dance.”

With a scowl, Tyree led her onto the dance floor, gingerly
took her in his arms. He would as soon hold a snake, he mused. Certainly a
rattler could not be more dangerous than the green-eyed vixen gazing up at him
through the dark veil of her lashes.

“How have you been, Tyree?” Annabelle asked, her fingers
kneading his left shoulder.

“Fine. You?”

“Fine. My new man, Ricardo, is very pleasant. So much more
agreeable than you ever were.”

“Then why aren’t you dancing with him?”

“He dances like an elephant,” Annabelle replied, laughing
coquettishly. “Few big men are as light on their feet as you are.”

“Save the flattery.”

“Rachel looks well with the marshal, don’t you think? Such
an attractive young couple.”

“Yeah. Thanks for the dance.”

Tyree left Annabelle as soon as the music ended, swiftly
crossed the floor to where Rachel and Wesley were standing. Without a word,
Tyree took Rachel by the arm and guided her, none too gently, toward the punch
bowl.

“Tyree, you’re hurting me,” Rachel protested, pulling away.
“What’s the matter with you, anyway? You look ready to explode.”

“Just jealous, I guess,” Tyree admitted somewhat sheepishly.

“
You’re
jealous!” Rachel exclaimed. “How do you think
it makes me feel to see you with Annabelle, knowing the two of you used to
be…friends.”

“Rachel, I never made love to Annabelle.”

“Never?” Could it be true? Oh, please let it be true.

“Never.” Tyree grinned at Rachel, his good humor restored.
“Let’s go home,” he suggested, throwing her a wicked glance, “and be friends.”

“Tyree, you know we agreed to wait until after the wedding
before we…you know.”

“Change your mind,” he whispered.

“Tyree, behave yourself,” Rachel scolded, but inwardly she
was pleased. It was a heady feeling, knowing he found her desirable. Almost,
she was sorry they had decided not to be intimate again until after the
wedding.

Unmindful of the eyes watching them, Tyree pulled Rachel
into his arms and gave her a kiss that took her breath away.

“Sure you won’t change your mind?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” Rachel said with regret. “Anyway, we can’t just
go off and leave my father here with no way home.”

“I don’t think he’d even miss us,” Tyree said, jerking a
thumb in Halloran’s direction. “He hasn’t left his lady love’s side all night.
She’d probably be glad for an excuse to put him up for the night so they could
be ‘friends’.”

“Tyree!” Rachel gasped, shocked at the very idea of her
father and Claire Whiting doing anything so scandalous.

“Okay, okay. Come on, let’s dance.”

From across the room, Clint Wesley felt a sharp stab of
jealousy tear at his heart. Somehow, some way, he would get rid of Logan Tyree
and win Rachel’s love.

Annabelle’s eyes burned with a dark and fierce rage of their
own as Tyree and a blushing Rachel whirled around the dance floor, oblivious to
everyone else. Rachel’s face was radiant, her eyes warm with devotion as she
gazed up at Tyree. And Tyree! When had he ever smiled at her like that! His
amber eyes were ablaze with desire and, yes, Annabelle thought angrily, with
love. Love for that snit in his arms. Abruptly, a slow smile spread across
Annabelle’s face as she spied the marshal standing across the room.

Wesley looked puzzled as Annabelle Walsh glided toward him.
He had never met the woman, but he was aware of her flawless beauty, and of the
great wealth she controlled.

“Marshal Wesley,” Annabelle said, extending her hand. “I
don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced.”

“No,” Clint replied, taking her hand. “Is there something I
can do for you?”

“I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your
time.”

“Now?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Could we go outside, perhaps?”

“Sure,” Clint said. Feeling like a serf escorting a queen,
he took Annabelle’s arm and guided her around the edge of the dance floor and
out the side door.

Tyree let out a deep breath as he saw the two of them
disappear into the shadows. There was trouble brewing, sure as death and hell,
and Annabelle was the master brewer.

Outside, Annabelle smiled up at the marshal as she took his
hand in hers. “I have something to tell you,” she said, her voice low and
confiding. “Something important, but…” She looked over her shoulder, as if
fearful of being watched.

“You can tell me,” Clint assured her. “Don’t be afraid.”

Fluttering her lashes prettily, Annabelle stepped closer to
the marshal, as if his nearness gave her courage. “I have proof that Logan
Tyree killed my brother.”

“Proof!” Clint exclaimed. “Where? What kind of proof?”

“A signed confession.”

“No shit! Excuse me, Miss Walsh. But where did you get such
a thing?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Annabelle murmured. “But it is
quite genuine, I assure you.”

Wesley grinned exuberantly. At last! He had Logan Tyree by
the short hairs. A signed confession! It was too good to be true.

“This confession,” he said eagerly. “Do you have it with
you?”

“No. It’s in my safe at the ranch.” Annabelle smiled up at
the marshal. “But if you will come by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be glad to let
you see it.”

“I’ll be there,” Clint assured her. “You can count on that.”

“About noon?” Annabelle asked.

“Noon,” Clint said.

Hardly able to contain his excitement, Wesley escorted
Annabelle back to the schoolhouse, then hurried toward his office. The circuit
judge would be coming to town in less than two weeks. With Tyree’s signed
confession as evidence, the trial would be a mere formality, followed by a
quick hanging. And then, at long last, Logan Tyree would be out of his life,
and Rachel’s, once and for all.

Chapter Nineteen

Tyree and Rachel lingered over a second cup of coffee the
following morning. Tyree was wondering just what kind of mischief Annabelle had
been stirring up with the marshal when Rachel’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“What do you want to do after the wedding, Tyree?” she
asked, smiling prettily.

“After?” He lifted one black brow. “The same as most couples
do, I reckon.”

Rachel blushed under his lustful gaze. “I didn’t mean that.
I mean, are you going to be happy staying on here? Would you rather go
somewhere else and start a place of our own? Do you want children? Do you like
beets?”

Tyree laughed softly. “Don’t most women find out this kind
of stuff before they say yes?”

“I guess so. But our courtship hasn’t been exactly normal,
you know.”

Tyree nodded, his expression indulgent.

“I’d really like to know,” Rachel said. “We’ve never talked
about our future, never made any plans. Sometimes I feel as though I hardly
know you.”

“Getting cold feet?”

“Of course not.”

Tyree’s gaze drifted past Rachel to the window. He stared
outside for a moment before returning his gaze to her face. “I’ve never spent
much time making plans for the future. Guess I figured I probably didn’t have
one.”

Rachel nodded. “I understand. But that’s all changed now.”

“Yeah.”

Rachel cocked her head to one side. “You haven’t answered my
questions yet.”

“I know, but let me ask you one. Do you want to leave here
and start over somewhere else?”

“Not really. I love it here.”

“I know you do. So if it’s all right with your old man,
let’s just sit tight.”

“I’d like that,” Rachel said. She leaned across the table
and squeezed Tyree’s hand. “I don’t think I could bear to leave the Lazy H. My
whole life has been spent here.”

“That’s settled then. As for children,” Tyree said with a
grin, “I guess I’d like nine or ten.”

“Nine or ten!” Rachel exclaimed, blinking at him. “Are you
kidding?”

“No, but I guess I’d settle for three or four. However many
you want, as long as they’re all girls as beautiful as their mother.”

“I want boys,” Rachel remarked. “Lots of boys with black
hair and blue eyes.”

“Boys are nothing but trouble,” Tyree replied quietly. “I’m
proof of that.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re the best thing that ever happened to
me.”

“Am I?” Tyree’s eyes probed hers and it occurred to Rachel
that beneath all his arrogance there lurked a little boy after all, one who was
looking for love and acceptance, a little boy who had been bad so long he
couldn’t believe anyone could love him.

“The very best thing,” Rachel answered sincerely.

Tyree grinned at her. Then, rising to his feet, he lifted
her from her chair and gave her a resounding kiss on the mouth.

“Got to go,” he said briskly. “I’m a farmer now. There’s
stock to feed out on the range, woman! There’s fields to plow and harnesses to
mend. But I’ll be back for lunch.”

So saying, he picked up his hat and ambled out the door,
leaving Rachel to stare after him, her eyes dancing with amusement.

The next day, Tyree was sitting on the front porch of the
Lazy H, mending a bridle for the gray, when Clint Wesley rode into the yard.

Rising, Tyree tossed the bridle aside and moved to stand
near the steps as the marshal swung out of the saddle.

“You’re a long way from town,” Tyree remarked.

“I’ve come to take you in,” Wesley said, the words coming
hard and fast, before his courage deserted him. “I have a warrant here,
charging you with the murder of Job Walsh.”

Tyree looked faintly amused. “That so?”

“Yes, that’s so!”

“Seems I told you once I wasn’t going back to jail.”

“So you said.”

“I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Be that as it may, I’m taking you in. Today.”

“Suit yourself, kid,” Tyree growled, no longer amused. “I’d
just as soon kill you as look at you, so make your play or get the hell out of
here.”

For a moment, it looked like Wesley would back down; but
then, with a suddenness that surprised both men, he reached for his gun.

Tyree reacted instinctively. His left-handed draw was smooth
as silk and his Colt was out of the holster, the hammer cocked, the muzzle
directed at Wesley’s chest, before the marshal’s gun cleared leather.

Wesley’s face went chalk white as he stared death in the
face. The barrel of Tyree’s Frontier Colt looked as big as a canyon, and
Tyree’s eyes, staring down at him, were as cold as the grave.

And then Rachel’s voice cut across the heavy stillness.
“Tyree! Don’t!”

It was a near thing. Tyree’s finger remained curled around
the trigger, but the hammer didn’t fall, and Wesley held his breath waiting, as
Rachel ran out of the house and laid her hand on Tyree’s arm.

“Please don’t kill him,” Rachel pleaded softly, and when
Tyree failed to respond, she stepped purposefully into the line of fire.

Cursing himself for a fool, Tyree lowered his gun.

It was a chance Clint Wesley could not pass up. Taking a
quick step to the right, he jerked his gun from the holster and lined it
squarely on Tyree’s chest as Rachel stepped out of the way.

“Drop it!” Clint commanded. There was a marked quiver in his
voice, but his gun hand was steady as a rock.

“Clint, what are you doing?” Rachel demanded, shocked by the
sudden turn of events.

“Stay out of this, Rachel,” Wesley warned curtly. “He’s a
wanted man, and I’m taking him in.”

Tyree stared at Wesley, weighing his chances of raising and
firing his gun before the marshal could pull the trigger. The odds were slim,
but there was always a chance because Wesley was green as grass and not likely
to expect such a desperate move. But even as Tyree considered it, he rejected
the idea. He could not gun Wesley down in front of Rachel, could not abide
seeing the love in her eyes turn to disgust as he killed a man she was fond of.

Nevertheless, he did not release his hold on the Colt, and
his delay made Wesley nervous. Unconsciously, Clint tightened his finger on the
trigger. He was as surprised as everyone else when his gun went off. The bullet
went high, plowing a shallow furrow along the outside of Tyree’s left arm.

Muttering an angry oath, Tyree dropped his gun as the
marshal’s bullet raked his flesh.

For a moment, Wesley stared blankly at the blood dripping
from Tyree’s arm. And then he grinned hugely. By damn, he had done it! Logan
Tyree was his prisoner.

Looking extraordinarily pleased with himself, Wesley fished
a set of handcuffs out of his back pocket. “Get down here, Tyree,” he ordered
brusquely.

But the tall gunman refused to obey.

“Clint Wesley, I don’t know what you think you’re doing,”
Rachel scolded, “but I’ll never forgive you for this. Never as long as I live!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Rachel,” Clint said stolidly.
“I’m just doing my job. Get down here, Tyree!”

“You want me, come up and get me,” Tyree challenged, and
some of the smugness went out of Wesley’s expression.

Red-faced and wary, the marshal climbed the porch stairs and
locked the handcuffs in place, then he picked up Tyree’s gun and shoved it in
the waistband of his trousers. He heaved a sigh as he realized it was over.
Tyree was unarmed, his hands cuffed behind his back.

Moments later, the two men were riding toward Yellow Creek.
Rachel stared after them, utterly shocked by what had happened. Slowly, she
began to smile. Who would have thought that Clint would actually summon the
nerve to arrest Tyree? “Well, Mr. Wesley,” she mused, “you have him now, but
you won’t have him for long.”

The Yellow Creek Jail was a red brick building sandwiched
between Wong’s Chinese Laundry and the newspaper office. It was a long, low
building, with two narrow windows facing the street, and a stout oak door.

Inside, Wesley motioned Tyree into the cellblock, opened the
door to the first cell. With a grimace, Tyree stepped into the cell, shuddered
imperceptibly as the iron-barred door closed behind him.

Clint Wesley turned the key, removed Tyree’s handcuffs, then
heaved a sigh of relief. The job was done and, by damn, he had done it! He was
whistling a cheerful tune as he stepped out of the cellblock and closed the
door that separated the Marshal’s Office from the jail.

Tyree stared out the tiny barred window set high in the rear
wall of his cell while memories of the Yuma pen flitted across his mind, the
high gray wall, the drab cell, the mean-spirited guards, the twang of the whip
striking cowering, cringing flesh. The long days and longer nights. The
unpalatable food, the tepid water green with slime.

He began to pace the tiny cell, unconsciously padding back
and forth like a tiger in a cage. Damn Annabelle Walsh! He could see her fine
hand in all this. And damn his own stupidity. He should have known she would
make good on her threat. Obviously, she had given that damn confession he had
signed to the marshal. No doubt she would be the first one at the hanging, the
last one to leave. He could see her now, standing right in the front row so she
could watch him kick!

Swearing softly, he came to an abrupt halt. Pacing endlessly
back and forth would get him nowhere, and he stretched out on the narrow cot
that filled most of the cell, only to rise moments later to pace again.

A doctor came to dress his wound. It would heal nicely in a
few weeks, the sawbones said. Wesley smiled, and Tyree scowled. If Wesley had
his way, Tyree would not have a few weeks.

Tyree was pacing his cell again sometime later when the
cellblock door swung open, and Clint Wesley stumbled into view. The marshal’s
face was drained of color; his hands, held high above his head, trembled
visibly. Behind Clint, armed with sawed-off shotguns, stood Jorges and Nacho
Arango, two of Annabelle’s most ruthless killers.

Jorges shoved Wesley into an empty cell, jabbed his shotgun
into the marshal’s chest while he looked askance at his brother.

Wesley held his breath and closed his eyes as he waited for
Nacho to give the word that would scatter him all over the jailhouse wall.

But Nacho shook his head, and Jorges had to content himself
with knocking the marshal unconscious before backing out of the cell and
locking the door.

Tyree stood in the middle of his cell, also waiting, feeling
his stomach knot as Jorges unlocked the cell door. Nacho stepped inside, his
cocked shotgun buried in Tyree’s gut, while Jorges handcuffed Tyree’s hands
behind his back, then shoved Tyree out of the cell.

The gray stud was waiting outside, along with a dun gelding
and a black Morgan mare. Jorges hustled Tyree into the saddle, took the gray’s
reins, and then they were riding out of Yellow Creek toward Coyote Butte at a
brisk trot.

Sometime later, Jorges and Nacho slowed the horses to a
walk. The streets of Yellow Creek had been deserted when they left the jail.
Likely, no one had yet discovered that the marshal was unconscious, his
prisoner gone.

Tyree glanced at his captors. The Arango brothers were
short, stocky men. He recalled seeing them at the Slash W. Neither could speak
because they had run afoul of a couple of Apache warriors who had cut out their
tongues and left them in the desert to die. Rumor had it that Job Walsh had
saved their lives, and they’d been riding for the brand ever since.

It was full dark when they reached Coyote Butte. Jorges
dismounted and pulled Tyree from the saddle while Nacho drove an iron spike
deep into the hard ground, and then lashed Tyree’s ankles together. That done,
Nacho pulled a length of rawhide from his pocket, pushed Tyree to the ground,
and tied his ankles and wrists together behind his back. Lastly, Nacho dropped
a loop over Tyree’s head, jerked it snug around his neck, then secured the
loose end to the iron spike.

That done, Jorges and Nacho prepared a quick meal of beans
and hard biscuits, then rolled into their blankets and were quickly asleep.

Wide awake and trussed up like a Christmas turkey, Tyree stared
up at the stars, wondering what the hell Annabelle was up to. Apparently, she
had decided not to settle for anything as quick as a hanging, unless she meant
to tie the knot herself. He glanced at the lone cottonwood some twenty feet
away, swore softly as the rope around his neck suddenly seemed to grow tight.
Hanging was a bad way to die. The Apache feared it as nothing else, believing
that a man’s soul left his body with the last breath. When a man was hung, his
soul was forever trapped within his corpse.

Tyree shifted uncomfortably. It was not a pleasant way to
spend the night, lying on his side in the dirt with his arms and legs drawn
together behind his back and a rope around his neck. There was no way to get
comfortable and before long, his muscles began to knot up on him.

The moon was on the wane when he finally fell asleep
courting thoughts of vengeance.

Rachel was still furious with Clint Wesley when she rode
into town late that night. But mingled with her anger was a grudging admiration
for his nerve. Who would have thought that Clint would actually try to arrest
Tyree? The fool! She could not help wondering if it had occurred to him yet
that but for her timely interference, he would be laid out in Buckman’s Funeral
Parlor right now. Instead, thanks to her intervention, Clint was alive and well
and Tyree was in jail, wounded and facing the prospect of a speedy trail and a
hanging that was likely long overdue.

Patting her skirt pocket, Rachel felt a measure of comfort
as her hand touched the derringer nestled inside. She had gotten Tyree into
jail, and now she meant to get him out. Clint would be madder than hell when
she insisted, at gun point, that he release Tyree. And her father would be
appalled when he discovered she had broken a man out of jail. But it could not
be helped. She could not stand quietly by and let Tyree hang.