Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

WyndRiver Sinner

ISBN # 1-4199-0340-3

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

WyndRiver Sinner Copyright© 2006 Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Edited by Mary Moran.

Cover art by Syneca.

Electronic book Publication: February 2006

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written

permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH

44310-3502.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or

locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used

fictitiously.

Warning:

The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers.This story has been

rated S-ensuousby a minimum of three independent reviewers.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E

(E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

S-
ensuous
love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

E-
rotic
love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall

word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find

objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth.

E-ratedtitles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words

such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

X-
treme
titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storylineexecution. Unlike E-rated titles,

stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

WyndRiver Sinner

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Tinny music beckoned from the brightly lit interior of a saloon near the end of the dirt street. Somewhere

close by a gunshot echoed loudly, accompanied by the shrill cry of a woman. Drunken men stumbled

along—singing a bawdy song off-key—with bottles of cheap whiskey clutched in their grimy hands, the

booze dribbling from rubbery lips when tipped to a whiskered face. A lone dog shambled along with his

tail between his legs, seeking shelter, looking for scraps. Sitting on the boardwalk with his head in his

hands, a young cowpoke was retching. Farther up, a body lay sprawled in the middle of the

street—unnoticed and as dead as the expressionless look of the lone Jakotai Indian buck leaning against

the jailhouse wall.

“Welcome to Dyersville”, the crooked sign over the livery stable read. Hanging by one nail as it swung

slowly back and forth, creaking in the nighttime breeze, the sign gave the population as sixty-four brave

souls. Few buildings bore even a trace of paint on the lapboard siding. The main street was nothing more

than mud-filled ruts. The town was well on its way to a slow, inevitable death.

To the man who rode into Dyersville that June evening the town bore upon it the unmistakable stench of

evil. Wickedness hung in the air like a thick, wet blanket and it seemed to settle on his shoulders as he

dismounted, oozing unease down his back. Shifting uncomfortably beneath the sickening onslaught, the

stranger tied his mount to the hitching post then climbed the few rickety steps to the boardwalk. Thick

mud clung to his boots and stuck between the spokes on the rowels of his spurs. The boot scraper sitting

to one side of the saloon’s batwing doors was caked with dried dirt and would be no use in helping him

rid his boots of the muck. He walked to the edge of the boardwalk and scraped what detritus he could

from the soles of his boots then turned around to push through the swinging doors into the saloon.

The air was filled with cloying smoke that hung from the ceiling in shifting clouds. Unwashed bodies,

urine and vomit, cheap perfume and even cheaper liquor vied with the musky reek of tobacco and the

tart odor wafting up from the overflowing spittoons. Shrill music from a banged-up piano that was badly

in need of tuning barely masked the cursing and catcalls bombarding the stuffy room. A roulette wheel

was spinning at one table while two men were shoving one another in the corner, adding mayhem to the

clamor.

Polishing the heavily scarred bar, the barkeep glanced up at the black-clad stranger who came to stand

before him. “What’ll it be, mister?” he asked, trying to get a look at the man’s face beneath the wide brim

of his black hat.

“Whiskey,” the stranger ordered, propping his foot on the tarnished brass rail that ran the length of the

bar.

Only a few customers took note of the newcomer and then only in passing. Most were either playing

their cards close to the vest at the poker tables or lounging drunkenly about the room. In Dyersville, a

man tended to mind his own business. Strangers were to be avoided—most definitely not studied—and

allowed to go on their way.

There were two saloon girls milling about the tables, hawking drinks. The older of the two was dressed

in a bright red satin gown that hideously clashed with the tinted copper of her dry, wispy hair. Younger

and barely clad in a white chemise and black fishnet stockings, the other girl was prettier but in a coarse,

jaded way that said she’d known more than her share of rough men in her young life. Neither paid any

attention to the stranger at the bar, for there was something about the set of his shoulders that warned off

socializing.

“You just passing through?” the barkeep asked, bending his knees in an effort to get a look at his

customer. He poured a shot of whiskey and set it before the stranger.

The stranger didn’t answer. He picked up the whiskey, lifted it to his lips and knocked it back. As he

did, his stare fastened on the bartender’s inquisitive face.

Rheumy gray eyes widening with surprise, the barkeep took a step back, crashing into the back bar

before sliding sideways away from the stranger’s steely stare.

It had been the dark blue tribal tattoo that spiraled upward from the corner of the stranger’s right eye

that caused the bartender to move away with more speed than he’d exhibited all day. Ducking his head,

he went to the far end of the bar and began vigorously polishing the scratched top.

Only one other customer was perched at the bar—mumbling incoherently to himself—but he didn’t

glance around as the stranger turned toward the crowd, his narrowed gaze passing over the rowdy

patrons. A few people looked his way, but most went on about their business without acknowledging the

danger that was now among them.

Sitting alone at a table, one man tensed as soon as the stranger began surveying the room. Trying to be

inconspicuous, he knew he’d failed when the stony stare passed over him then swept back and held. The

hand holding his beer trembled and he set the mug down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The tinny sound of the piano suddenly died away and the man who had been pounding the keys got up

and stumbled off, taking his nearly empty tip jar with him. Without the deafening plink of the instrument,

the room quieted down a bit and more people became aware of the man standing at the bar.

It wasn’t the dusty black shirt and hat or the black leather britches that drew the uneasy looks. Nor was

it the black gloves covering very capable-looking hands that started anxious hearts to begin pounding. A

pearl-handled revolver lay strapped low to the stranger’s right thigh like a gunfighter would wear it, but

every man there had a gun hanging at his hip. What made the men in the bar nervous was the dragon’s

claw whip handle that lay nestled in a silver sheath on the stranger’s left hip.

“Bounty hunter,” someone said, and immediately the room went as still as the grave. Eyes swiveled to a

tall man sitting at a table by himself then men began scrambling for the door, none daring to look back.

The bartender edged back into the shadows, frantically motioning his tawdry saloon girls to him. He had

seen where the stranger’s glower had gone and wanted no part of what he knew was about to happen.

Enfolding the women in his shaking arms as they scrambled around fallen chairs to reach his side, he led

them toward the storeroom, slamming the door shut behind him, the snick of the lock loud in the

now-silent room.

Caspar Hul sat where he was, hands wrapped around his beer mug, tears filling his frightened eyes. He

knew he didn’t stand a chance with the stranger and that he had seen his last sunrise. The gun hanging

from his hip would be useless against the man at the bar. Even if he could get in a headshot, the inevitable

outcome was going to be the same. As he saw it, he had two choices—take a wild chance and make a

play against the powerful bounty hunter at the bar or sit where he was and await the sizzling death that

stood twenty feet away.

“Which is it going to be, Hul?” the stranger asked quietly.

Grumbling, the only other man left in the bar banged his empty mug on the bar, demanding service. He

looked neither to his right nor left and was drunkenly unaware of the lethal scenario playing itself out

behind him. He didn’t even notice the stranger moving away from the bar, his left hand hovering just

above his thigh.

“I didn’t ask to be turned,” Caspar Hul whimpered. “Didn’t want to be turned.”

The stranger moved farther out into the room, the clank of his spurs plincking against the rough-hewn

floor.

“No one made you go rogue,” the stranger responded to the pitiful admission. “That you did on your

own.”

“Didn’t want to be turned,” Hul repeated, shaking his head. He eyed his crumpled hat, which lay on the

table, wondering if he should put it on.

Sheriff Ben Watts stood on the outside of the partially open batwing doors, his hands curved over the

top rails, but he didn’t venture into the saloon. He’d come running when a jittery bar customer had stuck

a head in his office to tell him trouble was brewing in the Double B Saloon. Watching the drama unfolding

before him, he knew he was safe where he stood and had no desire to get between a bounty hunter and

his target.

Hul drew in a long, shaky breath then lifted his mug to take his last swallow of warm beer. He carefully

set the mug aside then folded his hands together on the tabletop. “Go ahead and do what you gotta do,”

he said, closing his eyes.

The sheriff would later tell anyone inclined to listen that the stranger’s hand had been nothing more than a

blur as he slapped at the handle on his hip. There was a loud hissing sound that exploded from the

stranger’s weapon as the energy thong flashed behind the stranger then lashed forward in a sidearm

crack that took Caspar Hul’s head off with one clean pass of the whip, the laser cauterizing flesh so

quickly there wasn’t even a single drop of spent blood to pool on the saloon floor. Hul’s head left his

body and hit the floor where it rolled a few feet before coming to rest against a leg of the piano bench.

“First he pointed the handle at Hul’s body and it went up in a flash of flame just like that!” Sheriff Watts

would later tell his audience, snapping his fingers. “Weren’t nothing left of old Hul but a handful of ashes

and his poor, old pitiful head staring back at me! Then even that was gone in the blink of eye so there

didn’t remain nothing at all of Hul.”

Re-sheathing his laser whip, his job done, the stranger adjusted his hat and headed toward the saloon