RenegadeHeart (3 page)

“No,” Rachel said quickly. “I don’t think he should be moved
just yet.”

The stranger. She could think of little else. Caring for
him, she was increasingly aware of the breadth of his shoulders, of the way his
long black hair curled around her fingers. His moustache, though bristly to
look at, was soft beneath her fingertips. She tried not to stare at his
nakedness when she bathed the sweat from his body or changed the bandage
swathed around his middle, but her eyes continually strayed toward his flat
belly and lean flanks. He was very brown all over, and not just where the sun
had touched him. His legs were long, covered with fine black hair. His hands
were large and looked capable of great strength. She blushed furiously when she
found herself wondering what it would be like to be touched by those hands, to
be held in his arms.

He was trouble. Her instincts told her that. She knew she
should pray for his speedy recovery but deep inside, she did not want him to
leave and that was silly, because she didn’t even know the man. She knew she
should insist her father notify the proper authorities immediately, but she was
too softhearted to have the man sent back to jail now, when he was in such
obvious distress. There would be plenty of time for that later, when he was
well again.

Tyree woke to pain and darkness and a raging thirst made
worse by the fever burning through him. He stirred restlessly on the soft
mattress, tossing aside the blankets that weighed him down like lead. His
fingers tightened instinctively around the butt of the gun he still held in his
right hand as a slight figure materialized out of the shadows. A soft hand
rested lightly on his brow, a cool cloth gently wiped the perspiration from his
face and neck. He felt the tension drain from his body as he recognized the dim
outline of the woman who was constantly there to tend his needs.

“Lie still,” Rachel murmured. “You’re among friends.” She
glanced at the gun in his hand, but did not try to take it from him.

There were many questions Tyree wanted to ask, but when he
tried to speak, only a choked whisper emerged from his throat.

There was the sharp smell of sulphur, a sudden burst of
light as the woman touched a match to the candle on the bedside table.

“Are you in pain?” Rachel asked kindly. “Is the bandage too
tight?”

“No.” Tyree’s voice was weak, foreign to his ears.

“Is there anyone I should notify?” Rachel asked. “A wife,
perhaps?”

“No. Water.” His mouth formed the words but no sound
emerged.

But the woman understood and quickly poured him a glass of
water from the pitcher standing on the bedside table. She lifted his head while
he took a long drink. With his thirst quenched, he slept again.

The next few days passed in a kaleidoscope of pain and
fever. His side throbbed mercilessly, burning as if all the fires of hell were
kindled inside, and he tossed restlessly from side to side, unable to find
relief from the searing pain, or from the nightmare images that haunted his
dreams. Dreams of iron bars and cold gray walls, of men long dead, killed by
his own hand. At times, Red Leaf’s sweetly smiling face filtered into his
nightmares and he heard himself babbling incoherently in guttural Apache, heard
himself crying her name over and over again, like a frightened child whimpering
for its mother.

In his lucid moments, he was ever aware of the woman with
the lovely sky-blue eyes sitting quietly by his side. Her face was kind, her
eyes sympathetic whether she was gently sponging the rivers of sweat from his
brow or easing his thirst with countless cups of water. Always she was there
when he needed her, her voice soft and low, as pleasant to the ear as the sound
of summer rain on sun-bleached prairie grass. Even when he was wandering down
the dark corridors of the past, he was somehow aware of her presence lingering
nearby, willing him to get well. Perversely, he resented her constant attention
and concern, resented the weakness that made him dependent on another human
being.

But nothing lasts forever, and a man either gets better or
he dies. And Tyree was not ready to die. The day soon came when he opened his
eyes and knew the worst was over. His fever was down, leaving him weak as a
newborn pup. His side was stiff and sore, painfully tender to touch, but for
all that, he felt better than he had in days.

How many days, he wondered, glancing curiously at his
surroundings. There wasn’t much to see, just a narrow room sparsely furnished
with a small oak table, a tall chest of drawers, and the bed he occupied. His
clothes, neatly washed and ironed, were folded on top of the dresser. His .44
rested on the table beside the bed within easy reach of his hand. He wondered
how the woman had managed to wrest it from his grasp. He was surprised to
discover the Colt was still loaded, the hammer resting on an empty chamber.

He was halfheartedly thinking of trying to get up when the
bedroom door swung open on well-oiled hinges and the woman with the sky-blue
eyes stepped into the room, skirts swishing about her ankles. She frowned as
Tyree’s hand closed over the butt of the .44, one long brown finger curling
automatically around the trigger.

“Surely you must realize I mean you no harm,” Rachel
remarked drily, and Tyree noticed for the first time that she was hardly more
than a girl, perhaps nineteen or twenty.

But what a beauty! A wealth of long honey-gold hair tied
back with a white grosgrain ribbon, eyes as deep and blue as the Pacific, a
small, tip-tilted nose, and a mouth made to be kissed. He had not seen a woman
in a long time and his eyes lingered on her figure, admiring the way it went in
and out in all the right places. A wide blue sash circled a waist so narrow, he
was certain he could span it with one hand.

For a moment, he contemplated dragging her into bed with him
and sampling the pouting pink lips that looked as soft as the petals of a wild
rose.

“Well?” Rachel said, looking pointedly at the gun he still
held in his hand.

With a wry grin, Tyree put the gun aside. “How long have I
been here?”

“Nearly a week.”

Tyree digested that for a moment, his face thoughtful. “The
kid that found me, she yours?”

“No. She’s Joe Cahill’s niece.”

“Cahill?”

“He’s our foreman. Amy lives in town, but she comes out to
visit Joe on weekends.”

“Well, I’m obliged to you and the kid,” Tyree said, swinging
his long legs over the side of the narrow bed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll
get dressed and be on my way.”

Rachel frowned at him. Was he kidding? He was in no
condition to travel. She was about to tell him so in no uncertain terms when
the sheet fell away from his body, exposing his lean torso, flat belly, and one
long, muscular thigh. A corner of the sheet barely covered his groin.

Rachel’s eyes strayed in that direction and she felt hot
color wash into her cheeks at his knowing grin. She had seen him nude, of
course, when she nursed him, but that had been vastly different. He had been
inert then, sick and unable to care for himself. But he was awake and alert now
and even though he was still weak and pale, there was an aura of strength and
vitality about him that she found both frightening and fascinating.

“Don’t you dare move!” Rachel snapped, stung by his abrupt
manner and his total lack of modesty. “You’re in no fit condition to travel.”

“I’ll manage.”

Rachel’s smile was poisonously sweet as she gathered up
Tyree’s clothing and tucked it securely under one arm. Her tone was equally
venomous when she spoke.

“I am sure you could manage quite well,” she said, biting
off each word. “But I do not intend to see my efforts in your behalf wasted.
You are not to set foot out of that bed for at least another week.” She gave
him another cloying smile. “Now, you just lie there like a good boy and I’ll
bring you some breakfast. You look like you could use some solid food.”

And so saying, she turned on her heel and flounced out of
the room, Tyree’s clothes bundled securely under one arm, her back ramrod
straight with determination.

Tyree swore under his breath. What the hell! Who did she
think she was, anyway, telling him what he could and couldn’t do? Damned
interfering female!

He grinned wryly as he settled back against the pillows.
Might as well be comfortable, he mused. He sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere,
not in his present state of undress.

He was sitting there, his arms crossed over his chest, the
sheet scandalously low on his hips, when she returned. She carried a large bowl
of oatmeal mush in one hand, a delicate china cup and saucer in the other.

Rachel came to an abrupt halt as she entered the room, her
eyes flaring at the sight of Tyree propped up in bed. The sheet, barely covering
his loins, looked very white against his swarthy skin.

She took a deep breath, determined not to let him know how
strongly the sight of his naked chest appealed to her.

“Shall I feed you?” she asked, each word dripping ice water.
“Or can you manage on your own?”

“I thought you said solid food,” Tyree growled, eyeing the
oatmeal with obvious distaste.

“This is solid enough for a man who’s had nothing but beef
broth in his belly for nearly a week,” Rachel retorted. “Take it or leave it.”

Scowling, Tyree accepted the bowl, grimacing as he swallowed
a spoonful of oatmeal.

Rachel studied him openly while he ate. His face was hard
and unyielding, his eyes cold and cynical beneath straight black brows. There
was a wary tenseness about him now that he was fully conscious, a kind of
hunted animal alertness, as if he were waiting for a trap to be sprung.

Setting the bowl aside, Tyree met Rachel’s frank gaze with
one of his own. “I ate my mush like a good boy,” he said with a wry grin. “But
I draw the line at tea.”

“Would you prefer coffee?”

“I’d prefer whiskey.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for coffee,” Rachel said
firmly. Collecting his dirty dish and the untouched cup of tea, she glided out
of the room.

Tyree stared after her, his expression dark with anger and
frustration.

When the woman returned, a sturdy old man accompanied her.
“I’m John Halloran,” the old man said, extending his left hand. “I guess you
know my daughter, Rachel.”

John Halloran was tall and straight, with hair the color of
iron and skin that resembled old saddle leather. His right shirt sleeve, empty
from the elbow down, was tucked inside his pants pocket. His grip was firm as
they shook hands.

Halloran’s bright blue eyes twinkled merrily as he noticed
Tyree staring at his empty shirt sleeve. “Lost my arm in a cattle stampede
years ago,” he remarked good-naturedly. “But I’m better now. How about you?”

“Much better. I’m obliged for your hospitality.”

“Glad to help out, though Rachel, here, has to take most of
the credit. I, uh, don’t believe I caught your name.”

“I don’t believe I gave it, but you can call me Smith.”

“On the run, eh?” Halloran surmised, chuckling. “Well, rest
easy, Smith. We’re a long way from any real law out here.” He glanced briefly
at die gun lying on the table beside the bed. “You any good with that iron?”

Tyree shrugged. “I usually hit what I aim at.”

John Halloran nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I reckon you do at
that. Well, an extra gun might come in handy,” he muttered cryptically, and
ambled out of the room, his bushy white eyebrows drawn together in a thoughtful
frown.

When they were alone, Rachel asked bluntly, “Are you wanted
by the law, Mr. Smith?”

“Listen, lady,” Tyree answered testily, “I’m obliged to you
for taking care of me, but my status with the law is none of your business.”

“I don’t think I like you,” Rachel retorted, her sky-blue
eyes flashing fire.

“Not many do.”

“And you like it that way, don’t you?” Rachel observed
intuitively. “Ever since I came in here this morning, you’ve done your best to
be unpleasant. Why? What are you trying to prove?”

“You’re a nosy brat,” Tyree muttered. “Didn’t your old man
teach you not to pry into other people’s affairs?”

Rachel recoiled as if she had been slapped. “Pardon me,” she
said, the frost on her words an inch thick and rising. “I’ll not pry into your
personal life again.” And drawing her dignity around her like a cloak, she left
the room.

Tyree stared after her for a long time, mentally cursing her
for taking his clothes. He couldn’t very well go parading out of the place
wearing nothing but his boots and a smile. Damn the woman! Why didn’t she mind
her own damn business and let him mind his?

He slept away the rest of the morning, dutifully accepted
the thin beef broth and fresh baked bread the woman served him for lunch, and
politely asked for seconds.

Mollified by Tyree’s sudden appetite and subdued manner,
Rachel brought him a second slice of bread still warm from the oven along with
his soup. She also offered him a cup of hot black coffee modestly laced with
brandy. She tidied up the room while he ate, ever aware of his eyes on her
back.

“I’m sorry for this morning,” Tyree said after awhile. His
voice was gruff, giving Rachel the distinct impression that he was unaccustomed
to apologizing for either his words or his actions.

“I’m sorry, too,” Rachel said, smiling.

“You and your old man run this place alone?”

“Just about. Job Walsh and the Apaches have scared off most
of our hands.”

“Walsh?”

“He owns the Slash W Ranch just east of here. It’s the
biggest spread in this part of the territory.”

“And he wants this place, too.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“It’s an old story,” Tyree said shrugging. “You must have a
pretty good piece of land if Walsh wants it.”

“Yes. Do you know Walsh?”