Reaper's Vow (14 page)

“Who the hell are you to tell me anything?” the kid snarled, getting to his feet.

“The one that can put you back down there again if you don't keep your mouth shut.”

Isaiah came up. “I see you're being as charming as ever, Cole.”

“This is one of my good days.”

“Uh-huh.”

There was a cut on the other man's cheekbone and a bruise on his chin.

“What brings you to this edge of town?”

“You're training. Thought I'd join in.”

Isaiah's eyes narrowed. “These are Reapers. You're human.”

“Everybody keeps telling me that.”

“You'll get hurt.”

“Seems to me if Reapers are going to be my enemy, it stands to reason that I ought to learn their strengths and weaknesses.”

“Everyone's different.”

“But I'm sure there are certain consistencies.”

“Yes.” Isaiah looked at him. “Are you ready for what you'll see?”

Cole remembered Addy's comment about the gargoyles in the closet.

“It's been mentioned.”

“That's not an answer.”

“Do you think anything you can tell me is going to prepare me for the reality of what you're afraid to show me?”

“No. I also can't promise you they'll”—he pointed to the field—“remember that you don't regrow parts.”

“Then I guess I'd better keep my guard up.”

Isaiah shook his head and sighed. “You should probably do that regardless.”

“You gonna let me train?”

Isaiah didn't look happy about it. “Addy's going to have my head for this.”

If Isaiah didn't know Addy had sent him down here, Cole wasn't going to enlighten him. “I know.”

“You don't seem upset.”

“I owe you, Isaiah. A lot of sleepless nights, a lot of stress, and one punch in the jaw.”

“And this is going to make up for it?”

“Well, watching Addy take a strip off of you if I get hurt, knowing you might not find your bed so warm tonight, would ease a bit of the sting.”

“You're a hard man, Cole Cameron.”

“It's a hard country.”

Isaiah looked up to the mountaintop. “It's gonna get harder.”

“Then all of us have to be in the best shape that we can be.”

Isaiah didn't deny it. Some things didn't need repeating.

* * *

The training wasn't just rough; it was brutal. For the first fifteen minutes Cole went hand to hand with some of the younger Reapers. What they lacked in skill they made up for in speed and agility. By the time he'd been out there twenty minutes, Cole was sweating and getting a real appreciation for the battle potential of a Reaper. They not only had lightning reflexes, but hitting them was like hitting a brick wall, and damage that normally would have dropped a human merely made them grunt. Cole had to change his whole style. He had to fight the way he'd once told Addy to fight—with cunning rather than muscle.

It was, he decided as he went down for the tenth time, his ears ringing and his vision blurring, a humbling experience.

This time when he went to get up, Dirk put his hand out, those green eyes of his showing a grudging respect.

“You don't have to keep doing this. You can just stay down.”

“And miss the fun? I don't think so.”

“You don't have anything to prove.”

“But I've got a hell of a lot to learn.”

At that Dirk tugged, pulling Cole to his feet, and the flatness of his gaze was replaced with a touch of approval.

“There's a lot of Addy in you.”

“I'm older than her. There's a lot of me in her.”

“I prefer to think of it the other way around.”

“Why?”

“I like Addy.”

Cole smiled and then winced as the cut on his lip split again. Isaiah called a break. Everybody headed for the water barrels. The day was warming up.

“That's one advantage you'll have,” Dirk said.

“What?”

“Reapers are susceptible to dehydration.”

“More so than people?”

“Our bodies work much faster, which burns more liquid. It's not the heat that gets us; it's the exertion.”

Looking around, Cole did notice that while he was thirsty and taking a drink, the Reapers were guzzling water.

“So there is a vulnerability.”

“There's a couple. There are other things you've gotta watch out for.” Dirk took the dipper passed immediately to him when he reached the barrel. Apparently, even in Reaper society, skills were admired and deference was shown to those of higher rank.

Dirk dipped the dipper in the bucket and passed it to Cole; a couple of the young men frowned, and others made note. How anyone felt about the big Reaper showing friendship to Cole was kept under control.

“The Reapers you'll likely be fighting?”

Cole said, “Yeah?”

“They're excitable. Get their goat, and they get sloppy.”

Cole nodded. “Anything else I should know?” he asked as he handed the dipper to the next in line.

“Yeah. Clark's not real happy with you.”

“Clark can kiss my ass.”

“He's more likely to rip out your throat.”

Cole fondled his knife. “He's welcome to try.”

“He has mating rights over Miranda.”

“Well, I'm claiming squatter's rights.”

Dirk smiled. “You like the widow?”

“More than that, I don't like to see any woman backed into a corner.”

“Well, neither do I.”

“Then why aren't you doing something about it?”

Dirk shrugged. “My hands are tied.”

“Reaper law?”

“Reaper law.”

“It's Clark's bad luck then that I'm not Reaper.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” Dirk's grin faded as he watched the men regather on the field. “Providing you survive practice.”

8

By the time training was over, Cole felt as if he'd been trampled in a stampede. Every bone in his body ached, his muscles were bruised, he was bleeding from a half dozen scrapes and sporting a split lip, and one of the young pups had come damn close to breaking his nose. The only thing he wanted was a long, hot soak in a bath, a bottle of whiskey, and a bed.

And for all that he was really no closer to understanding the origins of the Reapers than he had been that morning. But there was one thing he did understand about them. They were damn dedicated fighters. And disciplined. Even the youngest ones had control, and that he attributed to Isaiah's leadership. For a man rumored to be crazy, he ran a tight outfit.

Cole adjusted his hat to block the sun and winced again. Damn, he was going to hurt when he got up tomorrow. As soon as the thought passed, he realized that he didn't have a place to sleep. He'd given Miranda and Wendy back their house, which left him homeless. Ah well. It wouldn't be the first time he'd slept with the livestock. But first, he'd have to swing by Miranda's to get his things. Pain in his lip alerted him to the fact he was smiling. For no other reason than he was going to see her.

You need to find a woman that makes your heart beat faster
 . . .

Fuck. That was the last thing he needed. Jamming his hat on his head, he walked faster. Determination kept his resolve steady right up until two houses from hers when he felt the first touch of her energy. Sweet, hot, and seductive, it slid over his with no intent, just an instinctive reach that sank deep. His heart beat faster. His breath quickened, and his cock throbbed.

Dammit. He didn't need this, but need it or not, as soon as he saw Miranda through the open door, he knew his protests were too late. Even standing at the table, a tan apron tied over her dress, with her hair pulled back in a braid and flour smeared on her cheek, she was the most compelling woman he'd ever seen. His steps slowed as he took in the view and the sensation. Her moves were smooth and efficient as she rolled out the dough, then grabbed a metal cup. For sure she was making biscuits. He took off his hat. Did the woman have to be that perfect?

He knocked on the door. She didn't jump. Had she sensed him as he had her?

“Afternoon.”

She nodded and looked him over from head to toe. If he'd gone by her expression, he wouldn't have thought she gave a shit. But as connected as he was to her energy, there was no mistaking the stress of well-concealed worry.

“You survived training.”

Her tone matched her expression.

“You didn't really think Isaiah was going to let anybody kill his wife's cousin, did you?”

She shrugged. “I didn't think so, but I also wasn't sure how aggravating you intended to be.”

“No one
intends
to be aggravating.”

“You do.”

He motioned with his hat. “You've got flour on your face.”

She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder, spreading the flour farther.

He shook his head and walked over. “You're just making it worse.”

She took a step back. Catching her arm, he put a halt to her flight, and with the sleeve of his shirt, he gently wiped the flour from her cheek, replacing it with a streak of blood.

“Damn.”

“What?”

He caught her hand before she could touch the spot.

It bothered him more than he cared to admit to see her bloody from his touch.

“You can't get it off?”

He chose a clean section of his sleeve and wiped. “I got it off.”

His response was harsher than he intended.

She shifted uncomfortably and put her other hand over her scarred cheek.

“Don't.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “Then stop staring.”

“Stop telling me what to do.”

“Why?”

He caught that hand, too, and pulled it away, revealing her insecurity and the perfection of her imperfections.

“Because I told you to.”

“And who are you?”

“The man who thinks you're beautiful.”

She blinked. Just blinked.

“Don't fucking cry.”

“I'm not.”

The hell she wasn't. “Ah, hell.”

He pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. She stood stiffly. He didn't care. She felt damn good in his arms. Tiny. Soft. Right.

There was a sniff and then, “You swear too much.”

“I know.” She rubbed her cheek against him.

“In case you missed it, I'm sweaty and covered in grime.” His conscience demanded he tell her that.

“I know.”

She didn't move, and he didn't mention it again. He just held her, and she . . . well, she just held on. It was peaceful with her energy smoothing along his, but then that peace started to stir restlessly and a subtle heat built and spread. His cock twitched. Before she could notice, he broke the silence.

“Lunch smells good.”

“Thank you. Isaiah dropped off a rabbit.”

His stomach rumbled loudly. “Rabbit stew is my favorite.”

He felt her smile against his chest. “Are you angling for an invitation?”

“Are you offering?”

“I wasn't planning on company.”

“I just came by for my things.”

“I put them over there.” She stepped back and pointed to the side of the door. His arms immediately felt empty. But at least the grime on him hadn't dirtied her. “It didn't take much packing.”

He couldn't tell if her tone was censoring or approving. “I travel light.”

He grabbed up his saddlebags and opened the flap.

“It's all there,” she said, pouring water into the washbowl to clean her hands.

He supposed it was, but the checking seemed to irritate her, and since he was irritated she hadn't invited him to lunch, he continued his inspection.

Wiping her hands on a towel, she frowned at him as she went back to the table. “I wouldn't steal.”

“Never thought you would, but you might have missed something.”

“In a place this small?”

“Things happen.”

Just then his stomach chose to rumble again. She sighed and cut out another biscuit before flipping it onto the pan.

Brushing a tendril of hair off her cheek with her shoulder, she asked, “Would you like to stay for lunch?”

“Yes.”

“That was quick.”

“I'm hungry.”

“So I noticed.”

“And you're a soft touch.”

Another sigh. “I'm working on it.”

“Don't work too hard on my account.”

This time a half-amused roll of the eyes accompanied her sigh.

“Where's Wendy?”

“Addy's teaching her how to sew at her place.”

“That ought to be interesting considering Addy doesn't know one end of the needle from the other.”

“We're all learning new things here, and right now the big challenge is threading the needle.”

“I see.” He put the saddlebags down and winced.

She sighed and looked at his face and made a bow out of the last of the biscuit dough before putting it in the pan with the others. “Sit down before you fall down.”

She turned and dusted off her hands. Heading back to the basin, she rinsed them off before carrying the basin to the door and tossing the dirty water outside. Setting the basin on the table, she motioned him over.

“Sit down here. Let me tend to your cuts.”

“Giving orders now, are you?”

Getting the pitcher, she poured fresh water into the basin. “You're going to bleed all over my house.”

“I'm not dripping anymore, am I?” He checked his lip and winced again.

She shook her head and pulled out a chair. “Sit down, will you?”

“It's all right.”

She snapped the towel at the chair. “Sit. And don't be worrying I'm going to think you're weak. You just spent four hours battling with Reapers, and you're still alive. I think weak is a moot point.”

He sat in the chair, feeling awkward and strange. Taking his hat from him, she set it on the spindle of the adjacent chair.

“Just sit still and let me take care of this.”

He eyed her warily. He was pretty sure the cut on his lip needed a stitch. “You have a lot of experience patching up men?”

“Fair to middlin'.”

“Your husband was the brawling kind?”

She shook her head. “No, but on the wagon train out, there were several boys, and they were always getting into one scrape or another.”

She dipped the rag in the water and dabbed at his cheek. He winced, just for show. Her touch got gentler, smoother, so when she dabbed at the other cheek, he winced again. She stopped and looked at him. He looked up at her, keeping his expression blank.

She dipped the cloth in the water; red ran outward from the cloth. This time she held it against his lip tenderly. She had to stand in front of him to do it. Her breasts were inches from his face. All he had to do was lean in, and he could take the point of one in his mouth, nibble it through the cloth of her dress, roll it across his tongue. Fuck. His breath caught. Her energy twitched, became more sensual. She was aware of him, too.

“Hold that against your lip,” she said.

“You're going to soak the scab off.”

“I want to. It needs some salve. Maybe a stitch.”

“I'm not putting salve on my lip, that stuff tastes like”—he caught himself before he could say “shit”—“crap.”

“It'll scar.”

“What's one more scar, honey? I've got tons of them already.”

That got a frown out of her. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

He lifted his right arm, checked the scrape. It wasn't too deep. “No, I'm good.”

She grabbed his wrist, lifted his arm, and checked the same scrape. “No, you're not.”

She lathered some soap on the sponge and worked at his arm, soaking the dirt out of the scrape. It stung like hell. His breath hissed in.

“Hey!”

“Don't be such a baby,” she told him. “That blow to your lip hurt much more than this.”

“Yeah, but that I wasn't doing to myself.”

“Well, you're not doing this to yourself, either. I'm doing it to you.”

“Why?”

“So you won't get an infection.”

“Do Reapers get infections?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know.”

“Seems you all don't know much about anything.”

“That's the truth.”

“And yet somebody's out there making laws.”

She nodded.

“You realize that doesn't make any sense.”

“I realize that, but I'm not the one making any decisions.”

“Isaiah is?”

She shook her head again, “No. The council has the decision-making skills, and it makes the laws that pertain to us within the framework of the original laws.”

He wasn't fond of anything that set itself up as a council. “They changing them as they find more facts?”

“We hope so. Isaiah is sending a petition through Blade.”

“Who's Blade?”

“Addy knows him.”

Blade was clearly a man he had to meet. “I know but I haven't had the pleasure. Who is he? To the people here.”

“Enforcer. Rule breaker.” She shrugged. “Nobody knows for sure, but he's a very powerful Reaper.”

“More so than Isaiah?”

“Isaiah is, I guess . . . what you'd considered an outlaw among the Reapers.”

“Because he took Addy as his wife?”

“That's part of it, but mainly because”—she shrugged again—“he's a good man. He doesn't believe having power gives a body the right to exploit it.”

“‘Exploit.' That's a big word.”

She dabbed harder. “Not so big you didn't understand it.”

“My ma was big on book learning.”

“So was mine.”

“You like to read?”

She nodded. He looked around. There weren't any books, which wasn't a surprise. Books were heavy and fragile. Both aspects made them a luxury ill afforded by many.