Reaper's Justice

by Sarah McCarty

  “Hello, Cole.” She nodded to the other two men. “Dane, Reese.”

  Reese smiled. “Hey, Addy girl. You all right?”

  “It’s been a rough three days.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question,” Dane prodded.

  Isaiah didn’t take his hand from her waist. It didn’t really matter. She wasn’t getting down anyway. Not when Cole had that mule-stubborn look on his face. Dane’s horse tossed his head. The bridle jangled loudly in the sudden silence. Addy licked her lips not trusting the calm. With Cole calm was often a prelude to the storm

  “Thanks to Isaiah, I am.”

  Dane didn’t smile. Cole motioned with the rifle.

  “Get on down, Addy.”

  “No.”

  She waited for the explosion. It didn’t come. Cole just sat silently taking in her refusal and Isaiah’s presence. Waiting.

  And as always, she felt the need to fidget. To apologize. To surrender. Isaiah tightened his grip on her and she tightened her grip on her worry stone, rubbing it through her fingers faster and faster. She’d always had a problem standing up to Cole. She could never forget how much he’d done for her, how much he’d sacrificed for her. Whenever she wanted to go against him, the guilt drained her dry.

  With a sharp motion of his hand that almost qualified as a snap, Cole pointed to the ground. “We’ll exchange pleasantries later. Get down.”

  Either Cole couldn’t read her as well as she read him, or he could read her too well and saw her weakness. Closing her fist around her worry stone, she shook her head. “Isaiah’s taking me home.”

  Cole angled the muzzle a bit higher, in direct line with Isaiah’s head. “Is that so?”

  It was Isaiah who answered. His voice was just as calm, just as unemotional. “That’s so.”

  Maybe she shouldn’t have told Isaiah to handle it. Cole didn’t take well to being challenged.

  “And just who are you to be telling me anything?”

  “No one.”

  Cole’s gaze narrowed. “Well, Mr. No One, the lady is my cousin and my responsibility—”

  “Not anymore.”

  “The hell you say. Addy?”

  She couldn’t get a word out.

  “Addy hired me to see to her safety.” Isaiah goaded.

  “We’re here. She’s safe,” Dane cut in.

  “Not according to her.”

  “Bullshit. Addy doesn’t need protecting from us,” Dane snapped.

  “Addy?” Cole asked.

  She didn’t know what to say, where to look.

  “You feeling cornered, Addy girl?” Reese asked.

  Of the three cousins, Reese was the one who understood the best. Maybe because, as the youngest of the brothers, he’d experienced the weight of Cole’s protection, too. Or maybe it was just because he was who he was—a Cameron with the self-confidence to see what he wanted to see.

  “I’ve told you I can take care of myself.”

  “You think hiring a stranger you met God knows where is taking care of yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Watch your language,” Isaiah ordered. All eyes turned to immediately to him.

  “Stay out of it,” Cole ordered right back.

  “Can’t do that.”

  The muscles in Cole’s jaw bunched. “Whatever she’s paying you, I’ll double.”

  “Thanks . . .”

  Addy’s heart stopped in her chest.

  “But I like to finish one job before starting the next.”

  The wave of relief that went through Addy was almost debilitating.

  Isaiah’s hand closed over hers and squeezed once before, with a strength that had her blinking, he lifted and dropped her over the other side of the horse. “Get back.”

  She did immediately, her breath catching in her throat. “Don’t kill him.”

  “Tying my hands with that, aren’t you?”

  She hadn’t been talking to Isaiah. Before she could point that out, Cole said, “If he leaves now, I might let him live.”

  Isaiah swung down off his horse and handed the reins to Addy. She took them, putting her hand on his arm. “Don’t.”

  He looked at her hand and then at her face and nodded. “No killing.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cole swung down from his horse, too. “Nice of you to make things easy for me, Addy.”

  “Make what? You leave him alone, Cole.”

  Cole dropped the reins and took a step forward. “Some bodyguard you hired, that he hides behind a woman’s skirt.”

  Isaiah took her hand off his arm, putting himself between her and Cole. “Get back.”

  Cole kept coming. She wanted to run. She wanted to get between Cole and Isaiah. She wanted to put her hands over her head and cower as the tension slipped past her control and found the memories always so ready to come forward, take over. She swayed. Isaiah pulled her against his chest. Her cheek rested there.

  “You son of a bitch!” The snarl came from Dane, who stood beyond Isaiah.

  Too late, Addy realized how the embrace had to look to her cousins, who saw her as vulnerable. In the aftermath of her being stolen, a strange man being so familiar with her had to look bad.

  One second she was in Isaiah’s arms, and the next she was standing alone. She stumbled and braced herself against the horse. It sidestepped and snorted. In the same instant, she saw Cole move in on Isaiah, saw Isaiah spin so fast she wasn’t sure he’d even moved. Saw him catch Cole’s arm and turned him about. Saw Dane and Reese bring up their rifles, take aim.

  “No!”

  But it was too late. In the split second before her cousins fired, Isaiah had Cole in front of him. She closed her eyes. Oh no. The guns went off. Curses flew. Dirt sprayed her skirts. The worry stone bit into her palm. She couldn’t open her eyes. Was Cole or Isaiah dead? Neither was conceivable.

  “Goddamn it, Cole.”

  That was Dane.

  “Hell of a move, stranger.”

  That was Reese. She opened her eyes. Isaiah was in a half crouch, a knife to Cole’s throat, staring at Dane and Reese.

  “Sheathe the rifles.”

  Neither moved to comply.

  “Isaiah—”

  It was as far as she got. Isaiah cut her off.

  “I remember my promise.”

  “Then I guess that means we don’t have much to worry about,” Dane drawled.

  “In two seconds, I’m going to put this knife through his spine.”

  Addy gasped.

  “He won’t die,” Isaiah confirmed.

  “He just won’t be able to move,” Reese finished dryly.

  “You’re a cold-blooded son of a bitch,” Cole said as if he weren’t facing paralysis.

  “I get the job done.”

  “Even when hampered by a woman’s weakness.” Cole nodded carefully to Dane and Reese. They sheathed their rifles. “Interesting.”

  Isaiah removed the knife from Cole’s throat and stepped back. Cole stood, his eyes on the knife in Isaiah’s hand. So were Addy’s. There was blood on the tip and a few drops on Cole’s neck. Her stomach heaved. Isaiah held out his hand. Without thinking, she took it. He pulled her into his side. It was natural to lean her head against his chest. Breathing his scent settled her stomach and her nerves. The spot on her thigh itched and warmed. So did the one on her shoulder. She put her hand over it.

  Cole’s eyebrows lifted. He settled his hat back on his head. “Where did you find this one, Addy?”

  “He found me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  Cole looked at Isaiah. “You just stumbled upon her?”

  “Something like that.”

  “By our reckoning, at least thirteen men rode with the bandits.”

  “That would be about right.”

  “And they just handed her over.”

  “We discussed the matter.”

  “Like you just discussed things wi
th me?”

  Isaiah smiled a very cold, provoking smile.

  “Son of a bitch,” Dane drawled.

  “Not many men except Cole could do that,” Reese pointed out.

  “Not even I could do that,” Cole corrected.

  Yes, he could. He’d done it before. Addy had seen it. She rubbed the spot in the hollow of her shoulder, and whispered, “I want to go home.”

  Isaiah nodded. “Then we’ll go.”

  Cole headed back to his horse and gathered up the reins. “We’ll all go.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Isaiah swung up on the horse and held out his hand for hers. Without a qualm, Addy put hers in it. He might be the kind of man who could sever a man’s spine without a blink, but he was also the man who’d sworn to keep her safe. When Isaiah’s gaze met hers, she gave him a tentative smile. He didn’t smile back, just lifted her up.

  “She doesn’t have to ride in your lap,” Cole growled.

  “You’re wrong about that.” Isaiah pulled the horse up when it drew even with the brothers. “And you’re wrong about something else, too. She’s not weak.”

  11

  THE FRESH SCENT OF YEAST AND LEMON OIL WELCOMED Addy back into its embrace as soon as she renetered her kitchen after changing her clothes. She breathed deeply, letting the familiarity sink in. The dough she’d prepped before changing because she’d needed that reconnection with normal would almost be ready. Orders were no doubt piled up outside the front in the box set there to collect them. Wood needed bringing in and the stove needed firing but she was home. Inside calm, slowly blossomed. She was home.

  Hard to believe after the events of the last three days, but looking around it was almost as if she’d never left. The bright blue flowers in the wallpaper, chosen because they didn’t remind her of blood, shone brightly against the pale yellow background. She’d paid her cousin dearly for the paper. He’d bought it off the wagon of a peddler from back East who’d misjudged the wealth he’d find along the way to the gold mines of San Francisco. She’d never regretted the expenditure.

  She loved the paper. She loved her cousin. She’d even begun to love the life she’d made for herself. But now, because someone had a grudge against Cole, his guilt was kicking in again and her lifestyle was in danger.

  She sensed more than heard Isaiah come up behind her.

  “It’s just the way you left it.”

  Was it her imagination, or was there a question in that statement? She looked around the room. It wasn’t exactly as she’d left it. She’d been drinking her tea when they’d taken her. She remembered it spilling, her panic at the thought of the teacup breaking. Her cup wasn’t on the table, however. Instead, it was on the counter on the towel beside the sink, the handle facing inward so it wouldn’t get broken. Exactly the way she always left it—the way she would have left it if she hadn’t been kidnapped.

  A chill went down her spine as she stared at that cup. There was only one person who could have done that. Reaching for her worry stone, she rubbed it between her fingers. “Just how long have you been watching me?”

  Isaiah didn’t answer right away. And when she turned around, he was eyeing her carefully. That didn’t bode well. She remembered how he’d slipped through the darkness like one of the shadows, how he’d had those horrible evil bandits shaking in terror. She remembered how he’d stood up to her cousins, how he’d saved her, how wonderfully he’d made love to her. She took a shallow breath and squeezed her worry stone between her fingers. Maybe it didn’t matter how long he’d been watching her, maybe she had a better question to ask. “Why have you been watching me?”

  His expression went totally blank. That was an answer he didn’t want to give her.

  She considered pushing for a response, but she took in the breadth of his shoulders and that wild look in his eyes that never really went away, and she reconsidered.

  As good as Isaiah had been to her, he was still an unknown quantity. A man likely broken by the War. A man of unstable temperament. Pushing the subject could make him react badly—or worse. She looked around her little kitchen, the haven she’d created for herself. He could leave. And if he left, her cousins would find out and one of two things would happen. Either they’d place one of their own guards on her or they’d drag her kicking and screaming back to the relative safety of the ranch. The ranch wasn’t all they’d cracked it up to be, but it was the land over which they had dominion.

  She looked around the kitchen again and then looked at Isaiah again. Sometimes a woman had to take a chance. Beneath that rough exterior perhaps was a man damaged by war, but he was also a man with a will of iron and she’d hired that will of iron to be her muscle. Whether Isaiah was unstable, or whether other people thought he was appropriate, deep down, she trusted him to give her what she wanted. That was all that mattered. She sighed. That was all she had.

  Addy held up her hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  His eyebrow went up. As always, he seemed to say more with the flick of an eyebrow, or twitch of a lip, than most said with a thousand words. “Why?”

  “I’ve decided it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why?”

  Always he was asking “why.” It annoyed her. “Because whatever happened in your past is the past, and right now, I need you to be exactly what you are.” Walking over to the cupboard, she got her cup and opened her tea tin. The lid rattled as she set it down. She picked up her kettle and gave it a shake. It was too much to hope there’d be water in it.

  Isaiah held out his hand. “I’ll get you some.”

  “Thank you.”

  As he took the kettle, his fingers brushed hers. Heat shot up her arm. She couldn’t contain her start. The bite on her shoulder gathered the heat before sending it shooting to her core. She shifted her position as the mark on her thigh heated, too. What was it about the man that made him a match to her flame?

  Isaiah stopped at the door, his expression inscrutable, and asked, “What am I to you?”

  It was just a look. Nothing to make her nervous, but her breath caught anyway, and her pulse kicked up a notch. And the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Addy didn’t dare lie. “A means to an end. Why?”

  “Just curious.” He turned and walked through the door, closing it quietly behind him.

  And it was her turn to wonder why. Again.

  ONLY after he got to the small stone well did Isaiah realize he probably should have grabbed the bucket, too. Addy was going to need more water than this today. After her excursion, she was going to want a bath. A long, hot bath. He eyed the distance from the kitchen to the well, calculated if he had time to get in and out before she noticed, and decided not. He’d have to slip in later and get the bucket. She should have her bath.

  The back door creaked. Addy stepped out onto the porch and bent to gather kindling from the small supply there. As with everything, she did it with elegant control. He admired the graceful arch of her back as she bent—the elegance of her neck, the fineness of her hands. A scratch on the back of the left glared red in the sunlight. Anger rumbled again deep inside. They’d had no right to touch her. She straightened the kindling riding her hip.

  The light flickered from bright to dark. Time slipped from Isaiah’s grasp as reality wavered like an image viewed through a glass of water, expanding and contracting, slowing until he could almost see the woman. Almost see the stick in her hand, almost feel the blow. Birds still sang but he wasn’t there. He knew that. On some level, Isaiah knew this was the past. He braced himself for the pain. The anger. It flowed over him in a torrent he couldn’t stop. Along with it came helplessness. The protective growl started deep inside, building on that unfathomable rhythm until it found his pulse. His racing pulse. Closing his eyes, Isaiah focused on his heartbeat, struggling to slow it as he fought the memory and the emotions. He wasn’t sure, but he’d theorized the beast’s power subsided with his pulse rate. It was worth a try. Anything that could stop the transformation was wor
th a try. He might never be human again, but there had to be a way to fake it. As his pulse slowed, so did the image. The beast faded to the background. With the fading image came composure and reality. He looked at the rusted iron pump.

  Water. He was here to get water. Holding that chore as his anchor, Isaiah pumped the handle several times before he remembered he needed to prime it. A few minutes later, he felt the pressure that signified water was coming. Almost detached, he watched as he snapped the kettle under the spray before the water could hit the ground. He had a memory, a quick flashback of the past, of a time when—He didn’t know when it was. Just a time when fetching water had been difficult, when spilling it was an offense. An image of a bucket tipping. Past. Water poured over his hand, cold and wet. Present. Water had spilled then, too, splashing on the ground, the stain in the dust spreading right along with his terror.

  Trapped in the past, he glanced at the house, seeing instead of the neat two-story wood frame structure, mud and thatch, a dark hole in the ground, a place of terror haunted by the shadow of an angry woman and the child who’d just wanted a home. He tried to focus on the memory. It was the past, maybe even his past. He shook his head as the memory faded. Or maybe it was just something he’d heard—a tale from a book. There was so much confusion whenever he reached for who he was, who he’d been before the dark time. Inside, he felt the beast stretch and howl, responding as it always did to tension. He slammed the door shut.

  The beast didn’t belong here. Here he needed to be a man. Water sloshed in the kettle as he jerked at the thought. He had no business thinking like that. He was what he was, and whatever that was, whatever it meant, he wasn’t human anymore.

  Pouring the excess water out of the kettle, Isaiah headed back to the house. The sounds of his footsteps marked his progress while a strange feeling churned in his blood. Excitement, he realized as he climbed the two steps to the back porch. He was excited to be with Addy. He shook his head, trying to understand it.

  Excitement was something he was used to feeling while he waited for the opportunity to complete a mission. To kill, he admitted to himself, tired of dressing up what he’d been. The beast enjoyed killing with a primitive intensity. He paused, hand on the door, drawing a deep breath. Checking. The beast was unpredictable. He didn’t want to risk it mistaking this excitement for the excitement of a kill.