RenegadeHeart (9 page)

Chapter Five

Early Monday morning, Tyree saddled his horse and rode into
town. He had been cooped up at the Lazy H for too long, he mused, and he felt
the need for a drink and a few hours of solitude at the local watering hole.

Riding down the main street, he stopped at the first saloon
he came to. Bowsher’s, the sign said, and Tyree grinned. Flat-Nose Beverly
Bowsher was a name known on both sides of the Missouri. Flat-Nose had been a
notorious madam in a swanky Denver saloon until she fell in love with a
half-breed Apache scout. The Indian had no understanding of a woman who sold
herself to men and sliced off the end of her nose. Beverly had fled Denver and
taken up residence in the quiet town of Yellow Creek. She was old now and kept
to her rooms above the saloon. But her name remained a legend.

Dismounting, Tyree looped the chestnut’s reins over the
hitch-rack, slipped the cinch, and gave the animal a pat on the neck before
stepping inside the saloon. Ordering a bottle of rye whiskey from the bar dog,
he carried the bottle to a rear table. Sitting there, with his back against the
wall, he slowly and methodically worked his way to the bottom of the bottle,
feeling his muscles relax as the pale amber liquid warmed his belly.

The saloon grew crowded as noontime approached. Shopkeepers
drifted in for a quick drink after lunch. Unemployed cowhands ambled in, hoping
to get a lead on a job at one of the local ranches.

Tyree studied each man that entered the saloon, sizing them
up with a practiced eye. Toward evening, a pair of hardcases swaggered in, and
Tyree felt himself grow tense as he recognized two of Walsh’s hired guns. The
Slash W riders spotted Tyree at the same time. Frowning, they stood with their
heads together for a few moments before they hurried out of the saloon.

It was late when Tyree returned to the Lazy H. Only one
light burned in the house and Tyree went inside expecting to find Rachel’s old
man asleep over his account books. Instead, he found Rachel curled up in a
chair, reading a volume of Shakespeare.

Damned if she didn’t look like some kind of golden temptress
sitting there, Tyree mused, what with her tawny hair spilling over her
shoulders and the lamplight softly caressing the curve of her cheek.

Rachel looked up, startled by his sudden appearance. “Mr.
Tyree. We thought you had left.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but I just took the day
off.”

Rachel wrinkled her nose with distaste as she caught a whiff
of his breath. “And spent it at the local saloon,” she muttered with obvious
disapproval.

“Yeah. You got any coffee?”

“There’s some left from dinner,” she said grudgingly.

“That’ll do. Think you could warm it up for me?”

“I suppose so.” Her tone implied she was less than pleased
with the thought of his prolonged presence.

“Thanks.”

Tyree followed her into the kitchen, admiring her tiny waist
and the supple sway of her hips.

“Would you care for something to eat?” Rachel asked, coolly
polite and impersonal.

“Just coffee.”

“Will you be staying with us much longer, Mr. Tyree?”

He chuckled softly. “Just can’t wait to get rid of me, can
you?”

“No,” Rachel answered bluntly. “My father may be charmed
with your presence here, but I am not. I’d like to know how much longer you
plan to stay with us.”

“Until your old man tells me to leave,” Tyree snapped,
annoyed as always by her too-obvious disaffection. “That coffee ready?”

“Yes.”

Tyree took the cup Rachel offered him, swallowed the hot,
bitter brew. Too bad it wasn’t poison, he mused wryly. That would put a smile
on her face.

“Got enough for another cup?” he asked, more to irritate her
than anything else.

Rachel refilled Tyree’s cup without speaking, not liking the
way his eyes moved over her, or the way he had maneuvered her into a corner, so
that he stood between her and the door. He drained the cup, his eyes never
leaving her face. She wished suddenly that she was wearing more than just a
cotton nightgown and a flannel robe. Unconsciously, she drew the robe tighter
around her waist.

Setting the empty cup on the table, Tyree reached out and
ran his hand through the heavy mass of Rachel’s hair. It was soft as cornsilk,
smooth as satin beneath his finger­tips. Stepping closer, he caught the faint
fragrance of lavender-scented soap, the aroma of fresh-baked bread. And over
all was Rachel’s own scent, warm and womanly.

Muttering a soft oath, Tyree took Rachel in his arms and
kissed her, his mouth hard and demanding, his lean body pressed suggestively
against hers.

For a moment, Rachel stood limp in his arms, her knees
suddenly weak, as if his kiss had drained all the strength from her limbs. A slow
fire started in the pit of her stomach and spread downward as his hands
caressed her back. She felt bereft when he took his lips from hers and she
swayed against him, her face upturned, her mouth strangely eager for his kiss.

Tyree chuckled softly as he covered her mouth with his own.
“Sweet,” he murmured, nibbling her lower lip. “So sweet.”

His breath tickled her ear as his mouth moved up her neck
and against her hair. Rachel sagged against him, shuddering with pleasure as
his hands kneaded her lower back and buttocks, grinding her hips against his
groin, leaving her breathless and yearning for more. Her arms went around his
waist, her hands roaming over his muscled back and shoulders. He was so big, so
tall, so very male. All her senses responded to his touch as her questing hands
moved up and down his arms, excited by the play of powerful muscles beneath the
black cotton shirt he wore.

“Sweet,” Tyree said again, and his hand was warm on her bare
flesh as he loosened her robe and dropped his hand inside her gown.

The touch of Tyree’s calloused hand on her breast shocked
Rachel into a sudden awareness of what she was doing, and with whom. With a
squeal of alarm, she twisted out of Tyree’s grasp. Two bright spots of color
stained her cheeks, and her eyes blazed with anger and indignation as she
slapped him with all the strength at her command.

The print of her hand stood out clearly on Tyree’s cheek, as
livid as the rage that flickered and died in his eyes. With a muffled cry,
Rachel pushed past Tyree and headed for the door, but before she could escape,
Tyree grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her backward. Trapping her within
the hard prison of his arms, he turned her toward him and kissed her a third
time, his tongue boldly raping the soft inner recesses of her mouth.

Rachel struggled in vain, and the more she fought him, the
harder Tyree kissed her until, at last, she stood passive in his embrace. There
was a dull roaring in her ears, a peculiar quivering in her limbs, and a
growing desire to stand there forever, with Tyree’s arms tight around her and
his mouth pressed to hers, evoking wave after wave of delightfully wicked
longings deep in the core of her being.

She was almost sorry when Tyree finally released her.

“Go on, slap me again,” he invited impudently. “It’s worth
it.”

The next morning, Rachel’s mouth was still bruised from the
force of Logan Tyree’s kisses. What an arrogant, insufferable man he was! And
how readily she had responded to the touch of his mouth and hands.

She was decidedly cool and aloof at breakfast, refusing to
meet Tyree’s smugly knowing gaze, or to be drawn into any conversation with
him.

John Halloran frowned at his daughter. He knew she heartily
disapproved of Tyree but, in his opinion, there was no reason to be rude to the
man. Tyree was, after all, a hired hand and deserving of at least a modicum of
polite attention.

Rachel was relieved when breakfast was over and the men left
the house. She quickly did the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, then returned
to her bedroom, intending to put the finishing touches on a new dress she was
making. But as she passed the window overlooking the yard, she spied a familiar
figure lounging against one of the breaking pens watching Candido throw a
saddle on a bronc. Candido was a top hand with horses, and she was somewhat
surprised to see he was still attempting to break the big gray stallion that
had recently been brought in off the range. The stud, once king of all he
surveyed, was a fighter and his ears went flat the minute he felt the weight of
the saddle on his back.

With a last jerk, Candido pulled the cinch tight and stepped
into the saddle. And all hell broke loose. Ears flat, back humped, nose to the
ground, the maddened stallion began bucking. Amazingly, Candido rode the
pitching bronc as if glued to the saddle. The mustang bucked like a rodeo
bronc, now sunfishing, now swapping ends. And when bucking failed to dislodge
the unwelcome rider, the stallion reared straight up and crashed over backward.
But Candido was out of the saddle before the gray hit the ground, and nimbly
remounted as the angry horse scrambled to its feet.

With a shrill scream of rage, the stud grabbed the bit
between its teeth and lined out in a dead run. Thinking the stallion meant to
jump the corral fence, the wiry Mexican wrangler settled deeper into the
saddle. But the mustang did not launch himself over the corral. Instead, he
swung sideways at the last minute, slamming Candido against the stout wooden
rail.

The sound of breaking bone was sharp, punctuated by a
high-pitched cry of pain as Candido’s right leg snapped. Sensing victory, the
gray bucked again and Candido toppled out of the saddle and hit the ground,
hard.

With the quickness of a mountain cat, Tyree vaulted over the
fence and grabbed the mustang’s bridle while a pair of cowhands slipped between
the rails and dragged the luckless waddie out of harm’s way.

Tyree paid no attention to the commotion outside the corral.
He had eyes only for the horse as he stood at the stallion’s head, patting the
animal’s lathered neck and shoulder, gently scratching its ears. And all the
while he was talking to the horse, and the horse was listening.

Still speaking to the horse, Tyree removed the saddle and
sweat-dampened blanket, then led the skittish stud out of the corral toward the
barn.

Rachel stared after Tyree, her dress forgotten. How could a
man be so gentle and patient with a wild animal and callously kill a human
being?

Early the following morning, Rachel saw Tyree working with
the stud. From her bedroom window, she watched Tyree ease a halter over the
gray’s head, then pick up a light saddle blanket and let the horse sniff it.
That done, Tyree rubbed the blanket over the stud’s neck and withers, along its
back, over its muscled rump and down each leg. Sacking out, the cowboys called
it, though it wasn’t a common practice. Most cowhands just saddled a bronc and
rode it out, breaking the horse by sheer force. But not Tyree. Again and again,
Tyree dragged the blanket over the animal, showing the nervous horse there was
nothing to fear.

The saddle came next: on, off, on, off. And all the while
she could see he was talking to the horse.

Fascinated, Rachel left her room and took a place behind a
tree, hoping to hear what Tyree was saying to the skittish mustang. But the
words were harsh, foreign to her ears.

Tossing the saddle and blanket aside, Tyree stroked the
gray’s neck. And then, still speaking gently to the stud, he swung aboard the
animal’s bare back. There was a moment when the stallion’s ears went flat, when
its nostrils flared with suspicion and confusion, but Tyree was speaking to the
horse again, soothing its nervousness with quiet words and gentle hands, and
after a few halfhearted crowhops around the corral, the stallion stood quiet,
ears twitching back and forth.

Dismounting, Tyree led the horse around the corral, first
one way, then the other. A second time he swung effortlessly onto the animal’s
back. Dismounted once again. Then, as if he had been doing it every day for
years, he saddled the gray and stepped aboard. And the mustang stood there like
it had been carrying a man all its life.

“Care to try him, ma’am?”

Startled, Rachel stepped out from her hiding place. “How did
you know I was here?”

“Smelled you. Wanna try him?”

“That outlaw? No, thank you!”

“He’s no outlaw,” Tyree said, patting the gray’s neck. “He’s
just been mistreated, but he’ll come around. You’ll see. Some kind words, a
light hand on the reins, and he’ll be as gentle and law-abiding as your own
mare was.”

“Too bad those methods don’t work with people,” Rachel
muttered dourly.

“Meaning me, I suppose,” Tyree said testily.

“Exactly you.”

Dismounting, Tyree led the stallion out of the corral. He
grinned wickedly as he came to stand beside Rachel.

“Maybe it would work,” he suggested. “Why don’t you try
being nice to me for a few days and see what happens?”

“I am nice!” Rachel snapped.

“Yeah,” Tyree agreed, laughing softly. “Real nice. And
soft-spoken, too.”

Rachel felt her cheeks grow hot. He was baiting her again,
trying to make her angry. And he was succeeding, damn him. Hands clenched at
her sides, she took a deep breath, determined not to bandy words with Tyree
this time. Smiling sweetly, she inclined her head toward the stallion. “What
were you saying to him?”

“I’m not sure,” Tyree answered with a shrug. “It’s Apache
horse talk.”

“It’s certainly effective.”

“Yeah, works every time.” His eyes searched hers, then
dropped suggestively to the swell of her breasts beneath her yellow shirtwaist,
and the curve of her hips. “Too bad it doesn’t work as well with women.”

“Meaning me, I suppose?” Rachel replied. The words, meant to
sound light and teasing, emerged as a choked whisper. The look in Tyree’s cool
amber eyes were doing odd things to her heart and a sudden heat, like liquid
fire, ignited deep in the core of her belly as a slow smile spread over his
face. Why did he have to be so disgustingly handsome, she lamented. And why did
her heart behave so queerly whenever he was near? Clint’s smiles didn’t make
her toes curl with pleasure, nor did Clint’s kisses leave her breathless and
longing for more.