RenegadeHeart (30 page)

At the end of the four days, the girls returned to their
lodges. It was strange, Rachel thought, that the Indians made such a fuss over
a condition of nature that white women spoke of only in whispers.

It was January when Rachel began to think about going home.
Pleasant as her stay with the Indians had been, she could not remain at the
rancheria indefinitely. Soon, her father and Claire would return from St.
Louis. She did not want her absence to cause her father to worry when there was
nothing to worry about. Not only that, but she was beginning to miss the
comforts she was accustomed to, things like a hot bath in a tub, clean sheets
on a soft bed, a downy pillow, fresh milk and cheese and bread. She wanted to
put on a clean dress and go shopping in town, buy a new hat, visit with Carol
Ann, go to church, read her Bible…so many things to do, things she had never
thought she would miss until they were out of reach.

Yes, it was time to go home. She voiced the idea to Tyree
later that night when they were alone in their lodge.

“Home.” Tyree stared into the coals. “For me, this is home.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed it all until now.”

He slanted a glance in Rachel’s direction, saw the dismay in
her eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said with a wry grin. “I’ll take you back to Yellow
Creek.” His voice grew harsh, his expression ominous. “I have a little
unfinished business with a certain black-hearted bitch.”

“Annabelle.” Rachel breathed the name aloud, hardly aware
that she had spoken.

“Yes,” Tyree said flatly. “Annabelle.”

“Tyree, I thought that we…that you and I…I mean.” She looked
at him helplessly. He had not mentioned loving her, had not mentioned marriage.
And now, suddenly, neither could she. “You know what I mean?”

“I know. We’ll talk about it later. Right now you’d better
get some sleep. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

They left the winter camp early the next morning. For
Rachel, going home had lost some of its enchantment. Tyree had spoken of the
Indian camp as home. Would he return to the Apache once he had delivered her
safely to Yellow Creek and her father’s house? She could not bear the thought
of losing him again, yet she could not summon the courage to ask what his plans
were. If he was going to leave her, she did not want to know it. Not yet. They
talked of inconsequential things as they rode across the prairie. Rachel spoke
of her father and Claire, of how Annabelle had burned the Lazy H, how Slash W
cattle were running on Halloran range. She spoke of the new mercantile, of the
five new families that had moved into town. She did not ask Tyree about the six
months he had spent in the mine, and he did not enlighten her. She knew,
nevertheless, that it had been hard on him. There was a new tenseness about
him, a new bitterness in his eyes. There was something else, too, an intangible
something she could not quite put her finger on. Sometimes she caught a hint of
it when he thought she wasn’t looking at him, an odd look lurking in the back
of his eyes. She worried over it for several days and then, late one night, she
saw Tyree staring into the flames and she knew what was driving him. It was a
deep-rooted need for vengeance against Annabelle Walsh.

Despite the heat of the fire, Rachel felt suddenly cold all
over. Logan Tyree was a violent man, a dangerous man to run afoul of. She felt
a sudden surge of pity for Annabelle.

It took ten days to reach Yellow Creek. Rachel breathed a
sigh of relief as she rode into the side yard and stepped wearily from her
horse. This place would never be home the way the Lazy H had been home, but
just now it looked like a king’s palace. She smiled at Tyree as he came up behind
her and took the buckskin’s reins.

“I’ll put the horses away,” he said.

Rachel nodded. “I’ll put the coffee on,” she remarked, and
hurried inside, weak with happiness because he wasn’t just going to drop her
off and ride on.

Claire’s house was not particularly large, but compared to
an Apache wickiup, it seemed huge. She bustled about, and all the while she was
thinking of Tyree, wanting Tyree.

She felt a rush of anticipation as he entered the kitchen
and closed the door.

“Would you like to wash up?” Rachel asked. “There’s a tub on
the porch. It will only take a few minutes to heat some water.”

“Sounds good.” He pulled a chair out from the table, threw a
leg over the seat and rested his arms on the back.

Rachel poured him a cup of coffee, aware of Tyree’s eyes
following her every move. She filled several large kettles with water from the
pump and set them on the stove to heat.

“How’s Wesley?” Tyree asked after a lengthy silence.

“He’s fine,” Rachel answered, frowning. “Why?”

Tyree shrugged. “Just curious. He still hanging around?”

“Not so much.”

“Does he still want to marry you?”

Rachel felt herself go cold all over. “Yes, he does.”

Tyree nodded, his eyes thoughtful.

“Tyree—”

“That water hot yet?”

“Yes.”

With fluid grace, he unfolded from the chair, brought the
tub inside, emptied the steaming pots of water into the tub. He swung around to
face her, one heavy brow raised in question. “You gonna watch?” he asked
laconically. “Or join me?”

“Neither,” Rachel said, unable to stay the color suffusing
her cheeks. “I’ll wait in the parlor.”

She left the room quickly, her cheeks burning. With the
Apache, they had been so close. They had talked and laughed and shared the most
intimate moments she had ever known. But here, in this house, she felt shy and
ill at ease.

In the parlor, she paced the floor, her thoughts chaotic.
Why hadn’t Tyree mentioned marriage? What would her father say when he came
home and found Tyree in the house? What would she say to Clint? Even though she
had told Clint she could not marry him, ever, she knew he felt it was only a
matter of time before she changed her mind and said yes. What would she do if
Tyree left in the morning? And what about Annabelle?

Her thoughts came to an abrupt end as she heard Tyree step
out of the tub. The vision of him standing naked in the kitchen filled her
veins with fire and before she quite knew what she was doing, she was through
the door and in his arms.

Without a word, Tyree lifted her in his arms and carried her
through the parlor and down the hall to the bedroom, his mouth pressed over
hers. Rachel clung to him, her whole being conscious of his damp flesh, of his
hands deftly unfastening her shirt. His mouth never left hers as he undressed
her and then they were lying side by side on the bed, their bodies pressed
together.

That night, Rachel poured her whole soul into her
lovemaking, wanting Tyree to know that he was loved, that he need never be
alone again.

Later, he fell asleep holding her in his arms, holding her
as if he would never let her go. Rachel lay beside him, studying his face,
loving every line, every curve. The tears came then, falling silently down her
cheeks until she, too, fell asleep.

When she woke, she was alone.

* * * * *

Tyree’s thoughts were filled with Rachel as he rode out of
Yellow Creek. She was a hell of a woman, he mused. Bright, beautiful, full of
spirit and fire. Damn, she had guts, too, going to the Apache, then riding into
Mexico to rescue him from that damn mine. He had used her and abused her, and
she still loved him. Not even Red Leaf had loved him with such an
all-consuming, all-forgiving love.

He thought of Rachel nursing him when he had escaped from
Yuma, thought of her standing at the foot of his bed, her bright blue eyes
shooting sparks at him as she ordered him to stay put. He saw her spread-eagle
between four Apache bucks in Sunset Canyon, her eyes filling with hope when she
saw him. He saw her lovely face lined with real concern when he went to her
after Annabelle’s men had whipped him and destroyed his gun hand. He saw the hurt
welling in her eyes when he broke his promise to marry her and went to work for
Annabelle instead. No other woman had ever shed tears for him.

Rachel. She was too good to be true. When had he fallen in
love with her? When had she stopped being just a warm desirable body and become
a person? When had he started to care what she thought of him?

With an effort, he put Rachel out of his mind as he crossed
the narrow winding river that marked the beginning of the Slash W spread. Eyes
and ears alert, he guided the Indian pony across the sleeping land. A cow
bawled a warning as he passed too close to her calf, but other than that, his
passing disturbed neither man nor beast as he closed in on his destination, the
Slash W storehouse. Annabelle had always been careful to keep extra supplies on
hand in case of an emergency, and Tyree had need of everything from boots to
hat.

An hour later, the building he sought loomed in the
darkness. Dismounting some two hundred yards from the storehouse, Tyree pulled
the saddle and bridle from the Apache pony and shooed the horse away. If all
went as planned, he would be mounted on a better animal before the night was
out. If his plans went awry, he would have no need for a horse, or anything
else.

Padding forward on silent feet, knife in hand, Tyree
approached the storehouse, tiptoed warily around the corner of the building. A
tall silhouette moved in the shadows, the telltale glow of a cigarette arched
through the air as the cowhand guarding the storehouse tossed a burning butt
into the dirt.

Soundless as a stalking cat, Tyree crept up behind the
unsuspecting wrangler. Once he would have killed the man without a qualm, Tyree
mused. But that was before Rachel entered his life. With a wry grin, he picked
up a good-sized rock and hit the man across the back of the head, rendering him
unconscious.

The door to the storehouse opened on well-oiled hinges as
Tyree dragged the sentry inside and closed the door behind him. Using the
wrangler’s kerchief, he tied the man’s hands behind his back. A quick search of
the man’s pockets turned up a pack of matches and Tyree lit the lamp hanging
inside the door. Turning the wick down low, Tyree moved through the storehouse,
helping himself to a pair of black whipcord britches, a dark blue shirt. Picking
through a pile of hats, he selected a black felt Stetson with a flat crown and
a wide brim. Boots came next, and then a red silk kerchief which he knotted
loosely around his neck. He lingered over a choice of guns and finally picked a
used Navy Colt in a plain leather holster and a full cartridge belt.

Outside again, he ghosted toward the barn where a second
Slash W cowhand fell victim to a sharp blow on the head. The butt of the Colt
split the man’s scalp just behind his ear. Blood dripped on Tyree’s hands as he
dragged the man into the barn. The blood was warm and wet and strangely
satisfying and Tyree stared at the crimson smear for several moments, a bemused
expression on his swarthy face. The quick violence, the blood on his hands, had
released much of the anger he had been carrying around for the past six months.

Much. But not all.

He quickly hogtied the unconscious cowhand, stuffed a rag
into his mouth and deposited him, none too gently, inside a vacant stall.

The inside of the barn smelled of animals and manure and
hay. Moving carefully in the velvet darkness, Tyree headed for the stall that
housed Annabelle’s own mount, a flashy paint stallion with a blaze face.

He was about to throw a bridle over the paint’s head when a
familiar whinny stayed his hand. Grinning with real pleasure, Tyree made his
way to a stall at the far end of the barn.

The gray mustang whickered a second time as Tyree opened the
stall door and stepped inside. How like Annabelle, Tyree mused as he saddled
the stud, to keep his horse for herself. A reminder, no doubt, of her victory
over a man who dared walk out on her.

With a final tug on the cinch, Tyree led the gray outside.
He tethered the horse to a nearby oak tree, then hunkered down on his heels in
the shadows outside Annabelle’s bedroom, his eyes focused on her window.

He sat there, quiet as the night surrounding him, waiting
for her light to go out.

The time passed slowly, but Tyree possessed the patience of
a warrior. As a youth, he had once crouched in a pit for two days, waiting for
an eagle to alight on his hiding place so that he might grab the bird and help
himself to three of the white-tipped feathers so prized by the Mescalero.

An owl sliced noiselessly through the sky, great wings
outstretched, talons poised to strike should an unwary rabbit or mouse venture
into the darkness. A cat moved soundlessly through the shrubbery. A coyote
yapped in the distance. But Tyree remained motionless as a rock.

Memories drifted down the corridor of his mind. The sting of
the whip across his back. The long months of endless darkness in the bowels of
the earth, searching for silver that was not even there. The longing for fresh
air and cool, clear water, for the touch of the sun on his face.

Anger stirred within him, making him impatient for the
vengeance he had promised himself, and he thrust the memories aside. Briefly,
he thought of Rachel, sleeping peacefully in her father’s house.

It was well after midnight when the light in Annabelle’s
room went out. And still Tyree waited. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.

After thirty minutes had gone by, he rose quietly to his
feet, carefully opened the window, and stepped over the sill. Annabelle was a
dark shape on the bed. He watched her for a moment, glad she was alone.
Striking a match, he lit the lamp on the rosewood table beside her bed and
turned the wick down low. Then, moving light as a feather, he straddled
Annabelle’s hips. His hands closed gently around her throat.

Annabelle’s eyes fluttered open and she stirred restlessly
as she tried to dislodge the weight from her hips. She came instantly awake as
she recognized Tyree. She stared up at him, unblinking, for a full thirty
seconds before she whispered his name.

“Tyree.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His hands tightened cruelly around her neck and she shuddered
beneath him, her delectable body trembling with fear and apprehension. But she
did not struggle, and she did not plead for mercy. She just lay there, passive,
her luminous emerald eyes gazing up at him, her full breasts rising and
falling, straining against the sheer pink fabric of her nightgown.

The scent of her perfume was strong in Tyree’s nostrils,
reminding him of the nights she had tried to lure him into her bed. He was glad
now that he had never made love to her.

“I’ve missed you,” Annabelle said as he loosened his grip on
her throat. She raked her nails over the muscles in his arms, let her hands
slide down to caress his thighs. “I still want you, Tyree.”

Suddenly, he felt sorry for her. With a sigh, he took his
hands from her throat.

Annabelle’s smile was a trifle smug as she rubbed a hand
across her throat. She gazed up at him through her lashes, then patted the
pillow next to hers, inviting him to join her under the covers, certain he
would not be able to refuse such an invitation.

Tyree took a deep breath. She looked warm and willing, lying
there, her green eyes alight with desire, and yet she did not stir him at all.
She was nothing compared to Rachel.

Rachel. He stared at Annabelle, bemused. Why was he wasting
time here when he could be with Rachel?

“Tyree?”

“So long, Annabelle.” He stood up, all thought of vengeance
forgotten.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” he said in a voice filled with wonder. “Home to
Rachel.”

“If that’s what you want,” Annabelle said with a shrug.
Carelessly, she raised her hand and let it slide under her pillow. Home,
indeed! If she could not have Tyree, then no one would have him. She smiled
seductively as her fingers closed over the derringer.