Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (2 page)

entrance.

Sheriff Watts moved back so quickly he nearly tumbled from the boardwalk. He slammed up against the

overhang railing and stood there quivering like a leaf in a breeze as the Reaper came toward him.

“Caspar John Hul,” the stranger said, pulling a wanted poster from his shirt pocket and unfolding it.

“Here’s his death warrant.” He extended the paper toward the sheriff.

“Yes, sir,” Sheriff Watts agreed, taking the paper in trembling hands. He didn’t bother to look at it, for

when a bounty hunter was sent after a man, he had the High Council backing him up. He didn’t even

want to know the stranger’s name for the records. As far as he and the town were concerned, the less

they knew of the Reaper, the better. He couldn’t even meet the bounty hunter’s eyes.

Without another word, the stranger moved down the steps and over to his horse. The beast neighed

softly as his master approached and the bounty hunter patted his neck, speaking softly in a language the

sheriff didn’t understand.

“Ah, the Lady Belle has clean rooms if you’re of a mind to spend the night, mister,” the sheriff felt

compelled to say. He was watching the stranger untying his mount.

“Much obliged, but I don’t take to town life,” the stranger said, vaulting into the saddle.

Sheriff Watts breathed a sigh of relief, for the longer one of the stranger’s kind was in town, the more

uneasy the inhabitants. As it was, the streets were deserted and every curtain drawn tightly closed. Even

the dead man who’d been lying in the street since late afternoon was out of sight lest the stranger have

reason to complain.

Tipping his hat to the sheriff, the stranger pulled gently on his mount’s reins and headed back the way

he’d come.

“Sweet merciful Alel,” Sheriff Watts said, and took off his hat to arm away the sweat that had formed on

his forehead. His mouth was dry and his gut was roiling. The death warrant in his hand was becoming

saturated from the sour sweat glistening in his palms. He watched until the stranger and his beast were

swallowed up by the shadows on the far edge of town then headed for his office and the bottle of

bourbon hidden in a drawer of his desk.

* * * * *

Cynyr Cree was bone-tired and hungry. He’d been riding since dawn and had a vicious headache that

was throbbing brutally over his right eye. All he wanted was a rambling, soothing stream by which to

camp and a jackrabbit to roast over a spit. The last thing he wanted was to hear a muted scream.

Pulling up on his horse’s reins, he turned his head toward the dark alley that led between the last two

buildings in Dyersville. The muffled sound of a struggle, a man’s vicious curse and the sound of flesh

hitting flesh came clearly to his acute hearing and he grunted with annoyance.

Sworn by the High Council not only to hunt down rogues, he carried with him papers that gave him carte

blanche to deal with any evil that came his way. Such evil included rape, robbery, aggravated assault and

murder. He knew at least two such crimes were in progress at that moment with a third possibly

following close behind.

He walked his horse to a nearby hitching post, dismounted and secured the beast. Quietly, he entered

the alleyway, keeping his back to the mercantile store as he made his way stealthily towards the sound of

scuffling. With the darkness as his cover, he used his sharp night vision to pinpoint the assailant and his

victim in the deeper shadows. What he saw fanned scarlet flames in his amber eyes.

The woman’s bodice was torn, revealing one creamy breast as she struggled with her attacker. A giant

paw of a hand was grabbing at that lush mound as the woman tried in vain to break free of the man

assaulting her. Her left arm was in the man’s grip and his head was lowered toward her as he tried to

press a kiss to her mouth. Her face was averted as she attempted to bring her knee up into her unwanted

suitor’s groin but he swung her out of the way, laughing cruelly at her inability to pull out of his clutches.

Much smaller and weaker than the goon trying to foist himself on her, the woman let out one last

reverberating scream in the hope someone would come to her aid.

“Ain’t nobody listening, slut!” the man guffawed, and used his free hand to slap the woman once more.

“Ain’t nobody gonna help you!”

“Why don’t you try that with me?”

Jacob Ventilett spun around, dragging his victim with him when he heard the deadly calm voice speak.

He squinted, trying to make out the face of the man who had dared interfere with his fun. Furious at being

interrupted, he shoved the woman away from him and drew the big knife that he’d thrust into the

waistband of his baggy gabardine britches.

Landing in the mud, the woman scrambled away as fast as she could, grateful for the disruption to

Ventilett’s savage plans.

“Mister, you just bought yourself a handful of whoop-ass,” Ventilett growled as he crouched down, the

wicked knife clutched in his meaty fist.

One minute the would-be rapist had hold of the pig sticker, intending to gut his opponent, and the next

something dropped from between his legs and hit the muddy ground with a pulpy squish.

Ventilett looked down slowly—not yet feeling the burning pain between his legs. His eyes went wide as

saucers as he saw the front of his britches gaping open. Realizing what was lying at his feet, he

commenced to howling until the moon slid out from beneath its sheet of clouds and illuminated the face of

the man standing in the alley with him. The crimson flares glowing back at him from the man’s still face

made the beefy lumberjack shit his britches.

“Oh, lord, a Reaper!” Ventilett gasped and fell to his knees, shuddering so hard his teeth were clicking

together. He fumbled for his severed manhood, picking it up and cradling it to him as the stranger kept

coming.

Once more the crack of the laser whip rang out in the night and Jacob Ventilett’s head flew away from

his body to hit the wall of the mercantile.

From the corner of the building, the woman Ventilett had been so intent on raping stood with her palms

pressed tightly to her mouth. She was quivering from head to toe and afraid to move. The stench of

burning flesh made her turn away and gag, though there was nothing in her stomach to come up. When

she dared a glance back there was nothing left of the brute who had attacked her and the stranger was

nowhere in sight.

* * * * *

A crackling fire churned between a ring of stones and over it sizzled the remains of a prairie hen, the only

thing the Reaper had come across before hunkering down for the night beside a bubbling stream. The

smell of roasting bird and brewed coffee filled the night air.

Cynyr Cree sat with his knees drawn up, staring intently into the fire. The chiseled planes of his face

were lit by the blaze, his amber eyes steady on the flames. It was a chill night but the Reaper barely felt

the kiss of the night wind.

In the distance a coyote crooned his lonesome song to the full moon overhead. The fire popped.

Nocturnal creatures padded as quietly as they could through the underbrush, staying well away from the

campfire and the deadly man keeping vigil over it. In Dyersville, clocks were chiming the midnight hour.

He knew she was somewhere beyond the stand of scrub oaks off to his right. She was squatting down,

watching him and being as still as she could. On her mind was but one thought—food—and he could

almost hear her mouth watering.

“You’d best come to the fire, wench,” he said in a soft voice. “I don’t do delivery.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then hunger got the best of her and she crept forward, coming in

slowly, prepared to bolt if he made a grab for her.

“If you wait much longer, the bird will be as dry as tumbleweed,” he said, watching her from the corner

of his eye.

She gave him a wide berth as she circled around to face him across the leaping flames. In the light cast

from the fire, he could see she was gaunt, her face streaked with dirt and her torn gown hastily stitched

up with a few sharp thorns thrust into the worn fabric. Barefoot, she made little sound as she crept closer.

Cynyr stretched out his long legs and leaned back against his saddle. He folded his arms and studied the

woman inching forward. She was licking her lips and in her eyes was rampant hunger as she squatted

before the fire.

“Go on,” he told her. “I’ve had all I want.”

With greedy hands she reached out and grabbed the spit, tearing off a goodly size portion of the

chicken. Despite the heat, she stuffed her mouth full of the succulent meat and groaned as the juices

exploded along her taste buds. She was actually panting as she chewed rapidly, no doubt afraid he’d try

to snatch the food back.

“Easy, wench,” he said in a soft voice. “There’s no need to gobble it down. I’m not going to take it

away from you.”

She tensed with the chicken leg paused at her greasy lips. Her gray eyes meshed with his and she

slowed down on her chewing, keeping her gaze on him just in case.

He could see her fingernails were ragged, dirt packed beneath the jagged edges. Her feet were

scratched and bleeding and filthy. Her pale brown hair was a long rat’s nest frizzed around her shoulders,

and it looked as though it hadn’t seen a comb in days, if not weeks. The ripe scent of her unwashed body

made him wrinkle his nose and narrow his eyes with distaste.

Cynyr crossed his booted ankles and continued to watch the woman. He put her age at somewhere past

thirty but she might even be younger. It was hard to tell beneath all the grime layered on her face and the

dark bruise along her left cheekbone. Her hands were work-worn, her arms as thin as her face and the

tattered gown covering her short frame was baggy on her.

“What’s you name, wench?” he asked.

Wiping the back of her hand across her lips, she swallowed the last of the chicken, her eyes darting of

their own accord to the coffee pot.

“Here,” he said, and reached over to take up his cup. He tossed it over the fire to her, a bit surprised at

the speed with which she snagged it out of the air.

Keeping a wary eye on him, she grabbed a handful of her worn skirt and took hold of the coffeepot’s

handle.

Beneath the frayed edge of the skirt, he caught a glimpse of bare thigh and realized she was naked

beneath the oversized gown. He looked away, feeling heat creep up his neck.

“Aingeal,” she said, and her voice sounded hoarse. She poured herself a cup of the strong brew and put

the pot back over the fire.

“You have a last name?”

She shook her head. “Not any more,” she replied, cupping her hands around the blue enamel vessel.

She blew across the liquid then took a cautious sip.

“You do away with the last name?” he asked, realizing she was shivering even though she was as close

to the fire as she could safely be.

“I no longer have a need of it,” she answered.

There was in her pattern of speech an elegance that surprised him. Her voice was soft and bore the

unmistakable touch of breeding. The way she spoke was in direct contrast to her appearance. He had

expected her to speak coarsely and not with the carefully modulated tone she was using.

She reminded him of someone he’d met years before, but he couldn’t put his finger on where or who it

had been. Her face didn’t look familiar to him but, then again, he hadn’t been around that many women in

his lifetime. Reapers—especially those who became bounty hunters—kept to themselves and rarely took

mates.

“Thank you,” she said, taking another sip of the hot coffee. “That man would have killed me when he

was done with me.”

Cynyr nodded. “I figured as much. That’s why I relieved the world of his blight.”

“You’re a Reaper,” she said, and relaxed enough to sit down on the sand.

“Aye.”

“A bounty hunter.”

He nodded again.

“You’re sworn to protect women,” she said.

“To protect all human life,” he amended.

“You came after Caspar Hul,” she stated. She was now sitting cross-legged on the ground. “He’s a bad

man.”

“Was a bad man.”

She shuddered and tore her gaze from him. “He killed an entire family out by Coral Ridge,” she said.

“Everybody left him alone.”

“You don’t have to worry about Hul anymore.”

She finished off the cup of coffee and wrapped her arms around herself. Her teeth were chattering as the

wind blew over her thin gown. She flinched as he sat up, her eyes wide.

“I don’t need this,” he said, twisting around to grab his bedroll. He stood up and started around the fire.

Aingeal scrambled to her knees, one hand pressed against the sand, the other gripping her skirt, ready to

run if he made any untoward movement.

He untied his bedroll and shook out the thick canvas covering before coming close enough to her to

bend down and drape the covering over her trembling shoulders.

“You don’t need it?” she asked, dragging it closer around her chest.

He shrugged. “Reapers are hot-blooded,” he told her. “I’m rarely cold and only then if I’m in deep snow

country.” He went back to where he’d been sitting and dropped down again, turning to lie on his side, his

head propped in his hand as he looked at her.

“Where is your family, wench?” he inquired.

She glanced up at him as she slipped her legs into the canvas pocket. “They’re all dead,” she said.