Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (7 page)

“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 tree, 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 get 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.

“Yes, sir,” the man said, and pushed the maid from the room, shutting the door behind them.

“That man isn’t to be trusted,” Aingeal said.

“My thoughts too, wench,” the Reaper agreed. “He was thinking if he could get his hand on my whip, he

could sell it for a goodly price.”

Aingeal frowned. “The chances of that happening are slim to none, I’d think.”

“Even if he acquired a whip, no man but the one it was created for can operate it,” he said. “He’d just

have a handle and that’s all.”

Comfortable beneath the covers and loving every touch of the Reaper’s hands upon her feet, Aingeal

was looking at him through half-lowered lids. He was an incredibly handsome man with finely chiseled

features that caused a soft heat in her loins. His dark hair was damp and curling slightly around his ears.

Hanging free of his britches, his silk shirt was opened to reveal the crisp hair peppered thickly on his

brawny chest. As he worked, his right pectoral flexed in such a way she wanted to run her palm over it.

“Keep thinking thoughts like that and I’ll be under those covers with you,” he said, standing up and

replacing the coverlet over her feet.

“Umm,” she said, her gaze shifting to the tray of food.

“Is that the only other thing you have on your feeble mind, wench?” he asked, and was amazed to hear

himself laugh.

“I’m starving,” she said, licking her lips.

“After that breakfast?” he asked, one thick brow arched.

“That was four hours ago,” she reminded him, pushing herself up in the bed.

Shaking his head, he retrieved the tray from the dresser and brought it over to the bed. He set it on the

nightstand and handed her a bowl of the soup. “Smells like beef barley.”

“Smells wonderful,” she said.

While she dug into the hearty soup, he put a slice of ham between two thinly sliced pieces of bread and