Reaper's Vow (10 page)

Miranda licked her lips. She looked scared to death but determined. “Clark's not . . . right. He won't take well with you interfering in his plans.”

Cole shrugged. “Won't be the first time someone's taken exception to my decisions.”

“He won't fight fair.”

“He's sneaky,” Wendy piped up.

“I'll keep that in mind.” But he was still sleeping elsewhere. Tipping his hat to both, he ordered, “Drop the bar on this door when I leave.”

He had barely cleared the stoop when he heard the board thunk. At least the woman knew how to take an order. He remembered the way the rain plastered her dress to her chest and the full breasts it revealed. And those beautiful steal-your-soul eyes. And that courage that came out of nowhere, backed by the same fire so much more visible in Wendy. It was an intriguing combination. Adjusting his position he smiled. And the lady wasn't married, which meant there wasn't any reason she couldn't take any order he cared to give. He pulled his hat down over his brow, letting the rain run off the brim. She just might be his type. And his time here might not be as tedious as he'd thought.

A pulse of energy came out of the storm. The hairs on the back of Cole's neck stood on end. His smile slipped. Clark. Cole could only think of a few reasons the Reaper would be out in the storm. None of them good.
Shit.

Continuing on his path, Cole tracked Clark's energy, which paced him. Cole loosened the tie down on his revolvers. Entering the barn, he took his saddlebags and put them down in a pile of clean hay in the corner. Clark's energy held steady. Cole untied his slicker from the bags, a little late but better late than never. Drawing it on, he buttoned it closed.

As he felt Clark slip away, he followed, tamping down his own energy, not wanting to project the way the Reaper was. A bit shortsighted of the man to think he was undetected, but Cole was used to men overestimating their abilities and underestimating his. In a fight it didn't matter as much who was bigger as it did who was meaner and more skilled, and he had a lot of skills.

Cole followed Clark until he went back to his house. Miranda seemed to think her association with Isaiah was protection. He wasn't so sure. A man like Clark didn't take “no” well, and the appearance of another man in his woman's vicinity had to put his temper on edge. Clark didn't seem like he had ahold of much—his sanity or his temper.

Cole took up a position at Miranda's door, bracing his rifle against the side so it'd be protected from the rain by the overhang. He sat down on the rock stoop and pulled his hat down over his brow. Whatever the ass had in mind for Miranda, it wasn't gonna happen tonight.

Cole sat there with the rain falling around him, the chill nipping at his skin, and focused most of his energy on the women. When not terrified, Miranda's energy was soft and sweet, sliding over his with a velvet kiss. He loved the way she felt. So seductively feminine, so hotly sexual. He knew he should pull back, but that velvet touch was stronger than steel and he needed . . . more. Much more.

The soft strains of a lullaby crept through the door. Cole closed his eyes and listened. Miranda had a high, sweet voice, pure on some notes, raspy on others. Sex wrapped up in sound. And she was only singing a lullaby. What would that voice do to him if she sang a love song?

Cole shook his head, flexed his fingers, and forced himself to pull back, feeling as if he peeled layers off his insides as he did. Miranda made him feel exposed and vulnerable with a need that had nothing to do with sex. For the first time since he'd set out after Addy, he felt truly threatened.

Fuck.

6

He was out there. Miranda could feel Cole in the vibration of the thunder, within the flashes of lightning. Her pulse skittered, and her nipples hardened. He felt like a threat. Like a promise. Reaching under the mattress, she touched the handle of her husband Michael's sword. It didn't give her the peace she expected. Cole Cameron was a potent force. And he drew her. That was so dangerous.

She looked to where Wendy slept, a frown pleating her brow. Miranda wanted to reach over and smooth that frown away. Six was too young to have worries that haunted your sleep. She hadn't wanted this life for herself, definitely not for her daughter, but life wasn't big on choices. It certainly hadn't offered her any.

Memories pushed at her mind. Snarls leaping out of the darkness, tearing her from her husband's arms, tearing at her skin, tearing her from her hopes and dreams. And now they were trying to tear at her daughter. Leaning over, she pulled the covers up over Wendy's shoulders and kissed her hair.

“I won't let them have you, baby. I promise you.” She just wouldn't. And as hard as it was to accept, keeping that promise was going to require a strong man to keep the predators away from her daughter. But it was also going to take a man Miranda could control. Because when she came of age, Wendy was going to have options. No one was going to force her into a life she didn't want.

Rain lashed the windows. Lightning crackled in an earsplitting cacophony. Miranda jumped. The energy she felt from Cole stayed steady. She clung to it. Just because it felt good—even for a second—to have something to anchor her panic.

Wendy stirred. “Shhh, baby. Everything is fine. You're fine.”

With a murmur Wendy settled. So sweet and innocent to believe Miranda saying something made it so. Miranda remembered Clark drawing back his fist. The helpless moment when she'd known she couldn't get to her daughter in time. And the overwhelming relief when Cole had stepped in. Another burst of wind and rain pounded the roof. Her conscience slammed her with equal force. Whoever he was, Cole had saved her baby, and she'd repaid him by letting him sit out in a storm getting soaked.

She might be Reaper now, but she'd been raised better. Grabbing her shawl to wrap around her nightgown, she stood and headed for the door.

Being raised right didn't make it any easier to open that door. There was something about Cole Cameron that both drew her and scared her. As if there was more to him than met the eye. She didn't like secrets. She lifted the bar. It felt so much heavier than it was. As if lifting that bar changed everything.

She opened the door slowly so it wouldn't squeak. Light from the interior spread out over the wet ground, highlighting the ripples of raindrops in the puddles. Cole looked at her from the stoop. Water dripped off his hat. Shadows caught on his whiskers and haunted his eyes. He looked like anything but a safe place. She clutched the doorjamb. It took two tries to find her voice.

“You'll catch your death sitting there.”

“I'll be fine.”

Men always said that, human or Reaper. It didn't make it true. “You're not Reaper.”

He looked at her. A cold, steady stare from beneath the brim of his hat. It heated her from the inside out.

“No, I'm not.”

“You'll catch cold.”

“This isn't the first time I've sat in the rain.”

She glanced over her shoulder. Wendy still slept.

“Close the door. You're letting the heat out.”

And be on what side of it? She wasn't dressed for the rain. And she still owed him.

“You don't know what you're doing here.”

“I know exactly what I'm doing.”

She tried again “There are things you don't understand happening here.”

He cut her off. “Maybe. But I recognize a bully when I see one. And that man you're stuck on is one miserable son of a bitch.”

What could she say? Clark
was
a bully. “I'm not stuck on him.”

“Set on him, then. Same difference.”

No, it wasn't. But that wasn't the point. She tightened her grip on the doorknob. “If you tell Isaiah what just happened, things will get worse.”

“Are you saying Isaiah would sanction Clark hitting a little kid?”

“No. It's just—”

Again he cut her off. This time she didn't mind, because she had no idea how she was going to finish that sentence.

“I have my share of problems with Isaiah,” Cole growled, “but there's no way he'd countenance anyone beating on a child.”

Pain in her fingers warned Miranda that she was clutching the door latch too tightly. She forced herself to relax. First her fingers, then her arms, and lastly her voice.

“It's not as simple as that.”

“It's not?” Wind blew the rain, splattering the front of her nightgown, the little droplets hitting it here and there, creating specks of transparency. One landed just to the right of her nipple. His gaze dropped. His mouth thinned, and the air between them thickened with tension as her gaze followed his to where her shawl had slid down. That wet clinging spot was almost,
almost
big enough to show the color of her nipple.

Miranda crossed her arms over her chest and jerked the shawl back up. Heat crept up her cheeks. She wanted to slam the door shut. She didn't. His gaze met hers. She never knew hazel eyes could burn so.

“You need to go inside.”

Prudence agreed. Pride kept her feet planted as she asked, “You're determined to do this?”

“I'm not leaving you unprotected.”

That's what she'd figured. Sighing, she stepped back and opened the door wide. “Then come inside.”

He didn't move. “That's not going to do your reputation any good.”

“No worse than having you stand guard in front of my house.”

“If I'm sitting in front of your door, people will know I'm not sleeping with you.”

He wasn't Reaper. He wouldn't understand the drive for a mate. She shook her head. “A claim is a claim is a claim.”

He got to his feet, shaking the water off his shoulders. “Interesting way of putting things.”

“As I said, there's a lot here you don't understand.

“Uh-huh.”

More raindrops hit her nightgown. At this rate she'd be all but naked in a few minutes. She stepped back. “For the love of Pete, come in.”

“I'll get your floor wet.”

She rolled her eyes. “As if that's the problem I'm going to be worrying about right now.”

She motioned him in. This time he went. A few steps past the door, he stopped.

“You made coffee?” He kept his voice as low as hers as he took off his hat.

It was the last of her small stash, but he didn't need to know that. She shrugged and held out her hand. “You'll be needing something warm in your stomach.”

He handed the Stetson to her before cocking an eyebrow at her. “I hear an accent. Irish?”

She shook her head. “Scottish.”

“Nice.”

The way he said “nice” sent a totally unexpected shiver down her spine. It'd been so long since she'd felt such emotion it took her a second to recognize it for what it was. Desire.

“I'm not going to jump you, ma'am.”

Thank goodness he thought she was just nervous. “Thank you.”

He cocked that eyebrow at her again. She took his coat, holding it away from her. “A man who was planning on assaulting me wouldn't be sitting out in the cold on a miserable night, guarding me from another one who feels it's his right to do just that.”

What was it about his look that made her feel like a bug in the open?

“Which brings us back to my question: why does he feel it's his right?”

She draped the coat over the chair by the fire. Water dripped onto the rough wood floor, slipping between the cracks and disappearing like she wanted to. How was it possible to be jealous of water? “According to some, we're to be mated.”

He didn't look shocked. He just grabbed the towel hanging on the hearth and took the plain enameled pot off the fire. “How about according to you?”

She shrugged. “It's complicated.”

He poured a cup of coffee. “I've got nothing but time.”

She supposed he did. She rubbed her hands down her nightgown. “There are not many women who are suitable. The law says when there is a match, it has to be honored, no matter what.”

“Even if the hombre's already on the hook?”

“That hasn't happened before.”

“So they're experimenting with you.”

“Yes.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And you're fine with this?”

“I have been discussing it with him.”

“Discussing, huh? He doesn't seem the talkative type.”

“I have to think of my daughter.”

“How does Wendy play into this?”

She tugged her shawl around her, vividly aware of how worn it was, how worn out she was, as those too-knowing eyes of his traveled from her head to her stockinged feet.

“Clark is a bully and a brute.”

How dare he sit there in front of her fire, drink her coffee, and pick apart her life? She glared at him. “But strong enough to hold what's his.”

He stared at her for the longest time before responding. “You're afraid of him.”

“I am not.”

It was a lie. Clark scared her witless. The whole Reaper community scared her. Especially her position within it.

He took another measured sip of the hot coffee. “He was going to hit Wendy tonight.”

She would have killed him if he had. “She provokes him.”

“Even I don't believe that's justification, and I'm human.”

Was that a touch of amusement in his tone? It caught on her frustration and pulled it to the front of her control. Her fingers tightened on the voluminous folds of her nightgown. Memories she wanted buried chased the frustration.

“You have no idea what you're up against. You don't know what they can do to you with just a lift of a finger, how it can change everything. Ruin everything.”

“I've had a taste. But”—he stood—“Camerons don't go down easy.”

She couldn't even remember feeling that invulnerable. Certainly not after that awful night her life had divided into two parts. Pre-Reaper and post-Reaper. “Camerons will go down just like everyone else. And when you do, there won't be anything left of you but the blood soaking the earth, and they'll laugh, and they'll go on as if nothing happened. But you won't.” She felt again the claws ripping her face, the teeth tearing at her throat. She'd prayed so hard in those moments to live, which only proved panic made people foolish.

He took a step forward. The table was behind her. She couldn't take a step back. He reached out. She braced herself. She felt the beast rage as the memories howled. Her talons bit into the wooden surface. And all he did was run the back of his fingers down her scarred cheek. She wanted to duck and hide.

“Is that what they did to you?”

She shook her head. “I'm not going to talk about that.”

“Why?”

She took a step back. “Because it doesn't matter.”

His eyes narrowed. She felt his concern like a touch, wrapping around her in a firm, invisible hug, pressing her, demanding . . . something. She didn't have anything to give anyone, let alone someone like him who would demand everything.

His gaze cut to her daughter. “Wendy's human, isn't she?”

How had he known that? “Yes.”

“Reapers hate humans.” He didn't make it a question.

“Not all of them.”

“How about the ones here?”

She licked her lips again. “They, for the most part, like her.”

The look he gave her let her know he heard the evasion and didn't appreciate it. “For the most part. A human among Reapers. What's going to happen when she grows up?”

That was the big question. One she didn't want to answer. Taking a deep breath, she forced her beast back. Stepping past him, she took the cloth and grabbed the pot. He caught her arm. She wanted to lash out but held herself together. One glance and he let her go. Slowly. The sensation of his touch lingered.