WyndRiver Sinner

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Aye, well, you didn’t see the way he looked at that little gal. He was fair to eating her up with them golden eyes of his,” the older woman said, and then sighed so loudly Aingeal could hear her. “They say when a Reaper mates, he’s like a wolf and does it for life. The gods help anyone stupid enough to try to take her away from him.”

  Aingeal coughed—letting the couple behind the door know she was nearby. She pushed the door open and stuck her head in. “Could I have a couple of pieces of toast with my eggs?” she asked.

  “By Alel’s tooth, you sure can!” Katy said. She reached for a loaf of bread and sliced off two pieces. “Anything else you want, dearie?”

  “Some company while I eat?” she asked.

  Katy exchanged a look with the man Aingeal surmised was her husband. At the man’s careless shrug, Katy said she’d get herself a cup of coffee and join Aingeal as soon as the bacon finished frying up.

  Going to the windows, Aingeal was disheartened to see the rain coming down in sheets. Lightning still flashed in the distance, although the thunder wasn’t nearly as loud. Storm—the Reaper’s horse—was no longer tied to the hitching post in front of the eatery.

  “Bad day to be out and about,” Katy said as she came in with the tray of Aingeal’s food. She carried it to the table and waited until her guest was seated before putting the fresh plate in front of Aingeal. “It’s good to see a young one as skinny as you eating a decent amount of food.”

  “It’s good to be able to do so,” Aingeal confessed.

  Katy frowned. “He ain’t been feeding you?” she demanded, her eyes narrowed.

  “I just met him last evening,” Aingeal said, and risked a glance at the older woman, trying to gauge her reaction.

  Katy’s left eyebrow arched up into the fuzz of her white hair. “Well, I’d say you’ve done right good for yourself in a short amount of time, wouldn’t you?”

  Aingeal could feel her cheeks burning as she slipped her fork into the creamy eggs. “I think he’ll be good to me.”

  “Reapers are rich men,” Katy stated. “Or so I’ve heard.” She eyed the golden coins on the table. “This one seems generous, don’t he?”

  “Aye, he does.”

  The two women talked idly of the weather, the coming winter and the need to be safely in a town before the deluge of snow covered the plains. Aingeal finished everything on her plate and even managed to down a piece of peach cobbler. She sighed heavily—wishing she could take a long nap—then retrieved her hat before going to the door to look in the direction Katy was pointing.

  “Take the umbrella, dearie,” Katy said. “You can leave it at the livery. I won’t be going out in this muck today.”

  Thanking her hostess, Aingeal went out on the porch, opened the umbrella and headed across the slippery street where dirty red water was running in streams. Lightly picking her way across the muddy expanse, she was grateful for the boots Cynyr had fashioned for her.

  The livery smelled of hay and horse manure as she ducked inside, scraping her boots on the edge of the big double door. The Reaper’s horse was just inside the building, chomping on a small mound of hay. Storm greeted her with a soft nicker so she reached out to pat him. She could see her Reaper and a young man standing near the back. Cynyr was checking the cinch on a pretty little brown mare. He looked around as she came toward him.

  “I thought this pony would do nicely for you, wench, but maybe we need a palfrey, instead.”

  Aingeal rolled her eyes. “Very funny,” she said, and came up to him to stroke the mare’s velvety head. “She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”

  “Whatever you want to call her,” Cynyr replied. He was wearing a long black duster that covered him from neck to ankle.

  “Brownie,” Aingeal said. She kissed the little mare’s nose.

  Cynyr snorted. “What a unique name,” he drawled. “Here. Let’s get this on you.” He took a poncho that was hanging over the mare’s saddle and draped it over Aingeal’s head, settling it into place around her shoulders.

  “Sure is mighty bad weather out there, mo tiarna,” the liveryman said. “My aunt would be happy to put you up until it clears.”

  “We appreciate the offer, Danny, but I’ve got business in the Exasla Territory.”

  Aingeal saw the liveryman shudder, for everyone knew what kind of business a Reaper was about. She saw Danny O’Hare’s gaze flick down to the handle of the laser whip before snapping away again.

  “Do you need help mounting, wench?” Cynyr asked.

  “I think I can manage,” she replied. She lifted her foot, placed it in the stirrup and climbed easily into the saddle. She took the reins from Cynyr and smiled smugly at him.

  The Reaper was power in motion as he swung up on Storm’s back. The black leather duster settled over the horse’s rump with a flourish then he tugged his hat more snugly on his head, checked to make sure Aingeal was covered properly and led her out of the livery.

  The rain slashed against her as they exited the stables and Aingeal bit her lip. It was going to be a miserable ride. The wind had turned chill and it was blowing the rain into her face.

  “You sure you’re up to this?” Cynyr asked.

  “I would rather be with you and be a drowned rat than wait here for Otaktay to find me and slit my throat,” she said.

  The Reaper’s golden eyes flowed scarlet red for a moment as a stitch of lightning lit the sky overhead but he made no reply to her remark. Instead, he kicked his mount lightly and took off at a trot, expecting Aingeal to follow.

  Most of the buildings were aglow with candlelight as the duo left Briscoe. Aingeal caught a glimpse of shifting curtains falling to as they passed and knew the inhabitants of the town would breathe easier with the Reaper gone. News of his presence there would have spread like wildfire despite the foul weather.

  Chapter Four

  For over three hours the two lovers rode in beating rain and bone-chilling wind. The Exasla Territory was still a day away, and with the ground as sodden as it was, finding a dry place to camp for the night would be impossible. By noontime, Cynyr had decided to find a hotel room for them. Despite her poncho, Aingeal was wet and shivering, and although she made no complaint, he knew she was very uncomfortable.

  “We’ll stop in Haines City for the night,” he shouted to her over the din of the storm.

  “Okay,” she agreed, striving to keep her lips from trembling. She couldn’t hide the look of relief that passed over her tired features. “If that’s what you want.”

  The Reaper wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and hold her. He didn’t tell her that had he been alone, he’d have ridden straight through to the Exasla Territory border.

  As they rode, the sky to the south of them grew darker and darker until there was hardly any light left. Waves of rain slammed against them so brutally, Cynyr led his lady beneath a low, sheltering tree to wait out the punishing downpour. In the distance, they heard what sounded like a train.

  “Are there tracks near here?” she asked, worry furrowing her brow.

  “That’s a tornado, wench” Cynyr replied. “Sounds like it’s headed this way.”

  Before he finished speaking, hail rained down from the sky, skittering through the overhead branches. A few smaller shards of ice fell through the lacy canopy and struck the riders. Thankfully, the tree shielded them from the larger hailstones.

  Off in the distance a darker wedge appeared from the heavens and seemed to be moving at a slow pace.

  “I’ve never seen a tornado,” Aingeal said, staring at the phenomena in awe.

  “It’s a damned destructive force of nature,” he told her.

  All around them lightning was spearing from the sodden sky and the wind howled as it pushed against the riders. The horses were skittish and had to be held close-reined and in check. As it was, the mounts shied with each piercing shriek of lightning and violent rumble of thunder.

  After twenty minutes of sheltering beneath the tre
e, Cynyr indicated it was safe to continue on. The rain had slackened and to the south, a feeble gray glow could be seen amongst the dark clouds. The storm was breaking up, but the wind had hardly slackened in intensity.

  They began seeing the rubble when they were less than a mile from Haines City. A farmhouse was nothing more than piles of sticks scattered about the land. A man and his wife were standing at the top of their root cellar staring at what had once been their home.

  “Is everyone okay?” Cynyr called out.

  The man barely looked up. He simply waved a hand. His wife stood sobbing beside him.

  “That’s tough,” Aingeal said. She kept glancing back at the couple as she and Cynyr continued on.

  There were a few dead animals strewn about the countryside alongside bits and pieces of metal roofs and crushed sections of buildings. A water tower had tumbled to the ground and beneath it a small river had formed.

  “They’ve got a hell of cleanup up-coming,” Cynyr observed.

  Most of the town was still intact with only a few buildings lying in ruins at the outskirts. From the deep gully and uprooted trees cutting a swath through that end of the town, the path taken by the tornado was apparent. Hardly a light glowed behind the windows of the standing buildings, but there was activity going into and coming out of the town’s hotel.

  “Might not find lodging here, wench,” Cynyr warned her.

  “I’ve slept in barns before,” she said, pointing at the livery. “As long as there’s a roof, I’ll be happy.”

  He looked at her and felt a degree of pride warming his insides. She hadn’t complained at all—not once—since leaving the warmth of O’Hare’s Eatery. Conversation had been impossible with the pounding rain and howling wind, but each time he had glanced at her, she’d smiled at him.

  There was no room to hitch their horses in front of the hotel so they had to dismount a few buildings down and make their way across buckled planks to the brightly glowing structure. The closer they came to the hotel’s door, the louder the din. It seemed nearly every person in town was in the hotel and shouting to be heard.

  As soon as the Reaper ushered his lady inside, the din cut off suddenly. People backed away from the door—putting distance between them and the black-clad bounty hunter. Nearly every head lowered and hats were swept off in a fury of movement. The only set of eyes staring at them belonged to a man with a star pinned to his leather vest.

  Cynyr directed his gaze to the lawman. “We’re looking for shelter,” he said simply.

  Aingeal heard sighs of relief come from those gathered, and a few people glanced up then away.

  The sheriff was standing with his hat in his hand, rolling the brim around and around as he shuffled forward. “I’m sure a room can be found for you, sir,” he said, his voice a thin squeak of sound.

  “All we’re asking for is something dry and halfway comfortable,” the Reaper said. “We don’t want to put anyone out.”

  Heads lifted quickly at that remark. It was obvious from the townpeople’s reaction they had expected something different from the bounty hunter. A few were curious enough to stare at Aingeal and she looked back at them with an expressionless face.

  A middle-aged man came forward hesitantly. His florid face looked pained as he spoke. “I’ve a room I will give you free of charge, sir.”

  Cynyr shook his head. “I pay for what I get, mister,” he said.

  “But he’ll pay your normal rate,” Aingeal said, “and not the one you’re trying to gouge your fellow townsmen with.”

  “She’s got your number, Guthrie!” a man mumbled.

  Cynyr slipped his arm around his lady. “Is there anything we can do to help while we’re here?”

  Shocked glances were exchanged. To hear a Reaper offer assistance was unheard of. Men of his kind usually rode into town, dispatched whomever they’d been sent to find then rode out again without so much as a howdy-do. But then again, no Reaper had ever ridden into town with a woman at his side. Eyes slid to Aingeal and held.

  “That’s very kind of you, sir,” the sheriff said, trying to smile but unable to. “Most folks have been accounted for. Only one family ain’t here but I heard tell they were all right.”

  “Wiped out, but all right,” the hotelman put in.

  “That must have been the couple we passed on the way here,” Aingeal told her lover then sneezed.

  Cynyr glanced down at her and frowned. He looked at the faces watching them. “If we can be of any assistance, just let me know.”

  “We appreciate the offer, sir,” the sheriff said softly. “Thank you for caring.”

  Cynyr nodded. “Is the liveryman here?”

  A man stepped forward, his hat in his hand. “That would be me, sir. Brett Samuels at your service.”

  “Would you see to my horses? He’s the big black and she’s the sorrel hitched a few doors down.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a silver coin, which he flipped to the liveryman.

  “Yes, sir!” the man replied. He jammed his hat on his head and started out of the room.

  “If you would, bring me my saddlebag when you return.”

  Those gathered mumbled amongst themselves. The Reaper had made no demand but a request, and he’d been polite about it.

  “I’ll do that, sir!”

  Cynyr turned to the hotelman. “If there isn’t anything we can do, would you show us to our room? My lady is coming down with a cold and I’d like to get her warm.”

  The eyes staring at Aingeal flared at the possessive tone in the Reaper’s voice.

  “Right this way, sir,” the hotelman said. He held his arm out to indicate the stairs. “We’ll bring up some hot soup if she’s of a mind to partake of it.”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate that,” Cynyr agreed, and allowed Aingeal to precede him up the stairs.

  As she climbed the stairs, Aingeal was aware of the weight of the stares settling on her. She wasn’t sure she liked the attention she was getting.

  “You might as well get used to it, wench,” Cynyr told her. He was so close to her she could feel the heat of his body as they climbed. “You’re a Reaper’s mate and that’s just one rung below the devil himself.”

  Aingeal sniffed. There wasn’t anything demonic about her lover—at least where she was concerned. She had no doubt he could be hell on wheels when it was necessary but she refused to think of him in any other way than the gentle, considerate man she was fast growing to love.

  Aingeal stopped on the stair, making Cynyr run into her. Where had that thought come from? she wondered.

  “Who wouldn’t love me?” he asked, prodding her into motion once more. “I’m such a lovable cur.”

  It unnerved her that he could read her mind. She knew she was going to have to be very careful around him if she wanted to keep anything private and to herself. The Reaper’s snort as that thought drifted through her mind made her groan. Keeping her privacy wasn’t going to be an easy thing to accomplish.

  The room to which the hotelman led them held only a bed, a nightstand, a small dresser with a pitcher and ewer sitting atop it and a single ladder-back chair, but it was clean and warm.

  “It’s the best in the house,” the man said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Only the best for you, sir.”

  Cynyr reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of paper bills. He peeled one off and handed it to the man. “This should cover our stay,” he said.

  Peeking down at the money in his hand, the hotelman’s eyes lit up. “More than enough, sir!” he agreed, quickly stuffing the bill into his pocket. “I’ll see to that soup, now. Would you like a bowl for yourself?”

  The Reaper nodded and asked for something a little more substantial for the two of them. He also ordered a hot toddy for his lady.

  “I don’t drink liquor,” Aingeal said when the hotelman had left. She hadn’t wanted to contradict Cynyr in front of the man. She sneezed again.

  “You will today,” Cynyr told her. “Now ge
t out of those wet clothes.”

  She pursed her lips. “Why can’t you just—” She didn’t finish, for in the blink of an eye she was standing there as naked as the day she was born. Her lips parted and she was about to berate him for his devilishness but a warn flannel gown settled lovingly around her and she sighed. “This is just what I had in mind. I can really get used to this, Reaper,” she said, smoothing her hand down the soft fabric.

  “You’d better,” he replied. He went to the bed and turned down the covers. “Now, in you go.”

  Like a child, she hurried to the bed and flounced upon it. Although the covers were a bit musty, they were starched and soothing as she thrust her feet beneath the lightweight blanket.

  “My feet are freezing,” she complained as she pulled the covers to her chin.

  Cynyr removed his hat and shrugged out of the duster. He laid them on the chair then took off his gun belt. Even as she watched, his own damp clothing vanished with a wave of his hand and he was standing there barefoot in a black silk shirt opened halfway down his chest and a pair of dark britches. He came over to the bed and sat down at the foot. He pushed the covers aside and took one of her feet in his hands.

  “You’re right,” he said as he began gently massaging warmth into her flesh. “Your feet are like ice, wench.”

  Aingeal started to tell him how nice his ministrations felt but she sneezed then sneezed again.

  A knock at the door announced the arrival of the hotelman and a serving maid bearing a tray heaped with bowls of soup, freshly baked bread and slices of country cured ham. Two steaming mugs of hot toddy sent the wafting aroma of cinnamon and whiskey through the room. The maid set the tray on the dresser and the hotelman placed Cynyr’s wet saddlebag on the floor by the dresser.

  “If you need anything else, you just holler,” the hotelman said. He was staring at the Reaper’s hands as they massaged Aingeal’s feet.

  “That should do us,” Cynyr said, not bothering to look at the man. His gaze was locked on his lady, but from the corner of his eye he saw the hotelman glance at the gun belt that was draped over the chair.