Free RenegadeHeart by Madeline Baker Page B

Would he still look at her as if she were the sweetest, most wonderful
girl in the world, or would he turn from her in disgust, his mild blue eyes
filling with revulsion?
    As if reading her thoughts, Tyree muttered, “No one’s ever
gonna know what happened here today, so quit worrying about it.”
    “I’ll know,” Rachel replied quietly. Indeed, it was
something she would never forget.
    John Halloran was waiting for them on the front porch, a
worried expression on his weathered face.
    “Everything all right?” he asked anxiously. His eyes sought
Tyree’s. “Where’s Rachel’s mare?”
    “Your daughter had a little run-in with the Apache,” Tyree
answered, stepping down and lifting Rachel from the saddle. “They took her
horse.”
    “Apaches!” Halloran exclaimed. “Rachel, are you all right?”
    Rachel moved away from Tyree, her eyes not meeting her
father’s. “I’m fine, Pa,” she said flatly. “Just fine.”
    Halloran’s glance skittered back and forth between his
daughter’s wan face and Tyree’s grim expression. There was something they
weren’t telling him, something they were both holding back, but what? He
watched Rachel as she slowly climbed the steps and disappeared into the house.
    “Are you sure she’s all right, Tyree?” Halloran asked
dubiously. “She looks…upset.”
    “She’s got a right to be upset. She had a bad scare, but
she’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”
    “You’re a handy man to have around,” Halloran remarked,
somewhat relieved by Tyree’s assurance that Rachel was unhurt. “Think you could
stay on for a few more days, just to make sure we’ve had our last run-in with
the Slash W bunch?”
    “Sure,” Tyree said, though he knew Rachel would be less than
pleased to have him underfoot. “I’ve got no place to go, and no one waiting for
me when I get there.”

Chapter Three
     
    With Walsh’s death, life on the Lazy H soon returned to
normal. Cahill and two of the cowhands rode out into the hills to round up what
strays they could find, leaving the remaining two men to mend the fences
Walsh’s men had torn down and patch up the outbuildings that had fallen into
disrepair.
    Three days later, Cahill and his men returned with better
than sixty head of cattle. These were driven into the holding pens behind the
barn and for the next couple of days, the stench of scorched cowhide and the
bawling of unhappy cattle filled the air as calves long overdue for branding
were cut out of the herd and marked with the Halloran brand.
    From his place on the front porch, Tyree took it all in,
marveling that Halloran’s hired hands would work so hard for so little pay.
Why, he had made more money in two weeks killing rustlers down in the Panhandle
than these men would make in a year of range work. And he had made it with far
less effort, Tyree mused as he watched a bowlegged cowboy throw a bawling calf
to the ground while a second wrangler laid a hot iron against the animal’s
flank.
    Off in the distance, Joe Cahill and a freckle-faced cowboy
were perched on the top rail of a fence, taking a break while they watched
Candido try to break a flashy gray stallion to the saddle. From the way the men
were hollering and carrying on, Tyree figured the bronc was winning.
    Yeah, the place was jumping all right, no doubt about that.
Inside the house, he could hear Rachel singing softly as she swept the parlor
floor. She had a pleasant voice, Tyree thought. But then, everything about
Rachel was pleasant. Everything except her attitude toward him.
    She did not like the fact that he sat idle while everyone
else worked, and she said so, openly, bluntly, and often.
    “You could at least help water the stock,” she had remarked
earlier in the day. “Or feed the chickens.”
    “I could,” Tyree had replied easily. “But your old man ain’t
paying me to tend his stock.”
    That remark had unleashed a tirade that had gone on for
several minutes and had ended only when Tyree