stared at each other, speechless. Then, with a small cry
of dismay, Rachel ran into the house.
“I don’t think your daughter approves of your methods,”
Tyree remarked drily.
John Halloran recoiled as if he had been slapped. Now that
Walsh’s death was an accomplished fact, he felt an overwhelming sense of guilt
at what he had done.
“Neither do I,” Halloran muttered brokenly. “Dammit, Tyree,
neither do I.”
Rachel and Tyree crossed paths in the kitchen later that
day. Rachel’s lovely deep-blue eyes burned with bitter contempt when she looked
at Tyree, and her mouth thinned into a cold line of disapproval.
Walking past her to the stove, Tyree poured himself a cup of
coffee and sipped it slowly. The tension between them was so strong, he would
not have been surprised to see sparks dancing across the room.
Rachel’s flagrant, if unspoken, contempt annoyed Tyree more
than it should have, and he slapped his coffee cup down on the table, ignoring
the fact that the contents sloshed over the rim, making a dark brown stain on
the freshly laundered red-checked cloth.
“All right, spit it out,” he growled. “What’s eating you?
The fact that I killed Walsh, or the fact that your old man hired me to do it?”
Rachel turned on Tyree with all the fury of a treed cougar.
“Both, if you must know,” she lashed out angrily. “I cannot condone murder, not
even the murder of a man like Job Walsh.”
Tyree shook his head in genuine amazement. “Well, I’ll be go
to hell! The man was out to steal your ranch, and now you’re crying because
he’s dead.”
The contempt in Rachel’s eyes turned to pity as she stared
at Tyree. “You don’t hold life very dear, do you, Mr. Tyree?”
“Only my own, Miss Halloran,” he fired back.
“And does your life make you happy?”
“Happy?” There was a note of bewilderment in his tone.
“Yes, happy. Do you like the man you see in the mirror when
you shave?”
“I don’t use a mirror,” Tyree muttered, frowning at her.
“You know what I mean,” Rachel said crossly. “Don’t be
obtuse.”
“Obtuse? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means thickheaded,” Rachel explained in a syrupy voice.
“Slow to comprehend.”
“Thanks.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Rachel reminded him.
Tyree laughed shortly and without amusement. “What the hell
difference does it make to you whether I’m happy or not?”
“None,” Rachel answered with a shake of her head. “None at
all. Well, I suppose you’ll be moving on, now that you’ve earned your blood
money.”
“First thing in the morning,” Tyree assured her, and stalked
angrily out of the room.
Late afternoon found Tyree sitting on the porch steps,
absently chewing on the end of a long black cigar, content, for the moment,
just to sit back and stare out into the distance. It was good to be free, he
mused. Good to have a belly full of food that wasn’t rancid or half-raw. Good
to feel the weight of a Colt .44 riding his hip. Tomorrow he would ride on,
heading north. Perhaps he would spend the rest of the year with the Apache.
Perhaps he would ride on to Virginia City and try his hand at the gaming
tables. Perhaps not. He had never been one to plan ahead, and he saw no need to
start now. The money he had earned for gunning Walsh made a comfortable bulge
in his hip pocket. Blood money, Rachel had called it. And that was sure as hell
what it was. But it would take him wherever he wanted to go. He glanced around
the ranch yard, surprised to discover he didn’t particularly want to leave the
Lazy H. Or Rachel. He grinned wryly. Especially Rachel. No matter that she
thought he was dirt. He did not want to leave her. What he wanted was to kiss
her pouty red mouth until she admitted she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
She could yell she hated him, insist she loathed his touch and despised
everything he stood for, but the attraction between them was real.
He touched a match to his
of dismay, Rachel ran into the house.
“I don’t think your daughter approves of your methods,”
Tyree remarked drily.
John Halloran recoiled as if he had been slapped. Now that
Walsh’s death was an accomplished fact, he felt an overwhelming sense of guilt
at what he had done.
“Neither do I,” Halloran muttered brokenly. “Dammit, Tyree,
neither do I.”
Rachel and Tyree crossed paths in the kitchen later that
day. Rachel’s lovely deep-blue eyes burned with bitter contempt when she looked
at Tyree, and her mouth thinned into a cold line of disapproval.
Walking past her to the stove, Tyree poured himself a cup of
coffee and sipped it slowly. The tension between them was so strong, he would
not have been surprised to see sparks dancing across the room.
Rachel’s flagrant, if unspoken, contempt annoyed Tyree more
than it should have, and he slapped his coffee cup down on the table, ignoring
the fact that the contents sloshed over the rim, making a dark brown stain on
the freshly laundered red-checked cloth.
“All right, spit it out,” he growled. “What’s eating you?
The fact that I killed Walsh, or the fact that your old man hired me to do it?”
Rachel turned on Tyree with all the fury of a treed cougar.
“Both, if you must know,” she lashed out angrily. “I cannot condone murder, not
even the murder of a man like Job Walsh.”
Tyree shook his head in genuine amazement. “Well, I’ll be go
to hell! The man was out to steal your ranch, and now you’re crying because
he’s dead.”
The contempt in Rachel’s eyes turned to pity as she stared
at Tyree. “You don’t hold life very dear, do you, Mr. Tyree?”
“Only my own, Miss Halloran,” he fired back.
“And does your life make you happy?”
“Happy?” There was a note of bewilderment in his tone.
“Yes, happy. Do you like the man you see in the mirror when
you shave?”
“I don’t use a mirror,” Tyree muttered, frowning at her.
“You know what I mean,” Rachel said crossly. “Don’t be
obtuse.”
“Obtuse? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means thickheaded,” Rachel explained in a syrupy voice.
“Slow to comprehend.”
“Thanks.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Rachel reminded him.
Tyree laughed shortly and without amusement. “What the hell
difference does it make to you whether I’m happy or not?”
“None,” Rachel answered with a shake of her head. “None at
all. Well, I suppose you’ll be moving on, now that you’ve earned your blood
money.”
“First thing in the morning,” Tyree assured her, and stalked
angrily out of the room.
Late afternoon found Tyree sitting on the porch steps,
absently chewing on the end of a long black cigar, content, for the moment,
just to sit back and stare out into the distance. It was good to be free, he
mused. Good to have a belly full of food that wasn’t rancid or half-raw. Good
to feel the weight of a Colt .44 riding his hip. Tomorrow he would ride on,
heading north. Perhaps he would spend the rest of the year with the Apache.
Perhaps he would ride on to Virginia City and try his hand at the gaming
tables. Perhaps not. He had never been one to plan ahead, and he saw no need to
start now. The money he had earned for gunning Walsh made a comfortable bulge
in his hip pocket. Blood money, Rachel had called it. And that was sure as hell
what it was. But it would take him wherever he wanted to go. He glanced around
the ranch yard, surprised to discover he didn’t particularly want to leave the
Lazy H. Or Rachel. He grinned wryly. Especially Rachel. No matter that she
thought he was dirt. He did not want to leave her. What he wanted was to kiss
her pouty red mouth until she admitted she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
She could yell she hated him, insist she loathed his touch and despised
everything he stood for, but the attraction between them was real.
He touched a match to his
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