My Reaper's Daughter (6 page)

cots and the little girl’s mother finally crawling beneath the thin blanket provided,

DePalmer blew out the lanterns—with Glyn’s permission—and hurried to his own bed.

The Reaper’s face was lit by the light from the dancing flames, his amber eyes

sparking with each leap of the fire. He was strung as tightly as a new bow, unable to

relax, so tired he was beyond weariness and his headache was back with a vengeance.

He was sick at heart about the loss of his stallion, feeling guilt for having to put the

creature down. He was worried about Owen Tohre, his best friend on the Reaper team

who was still in a containment cell and would be for another month to come. He was

worried about Owen’s pregnant wife and a dozen other things that were preying on his

mind.

“You need rest, my Reaper.”

The voice came at him from far away but it drifted through his mind as intimate

and clear as though the speaker were right there beside him.

“I need peace, Mo Regina,”
he sent back to Her.

“Sleep,”
She ordered.

His exhaustion seemed to overwhelm him and he yawned. He knew it would be

impossible to fight it for She would see Her will done. Reluctantly, he walked to his cot

and sat down, bent over to remove his boots. He stood, padded over to the chair where

his gun belt was slung across the ladder-back and eased the gun from the holster. He

went back to the cot, thrust the six-shooter under the thin pillow then stretched out atop

the blanket, lacing his hands behind his head. With one knee crooked, he stared up at

the exposed beams of the ceiling while the pulses of light flared at the windows.

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My Reaper’s Daughter

At last the pain between his temples eased and his aching eyes closed. He turned to

his side—one hand tucked beneath his pillow, his index finger sliding into the trigger

ring of his gun, the other hand clutching the pillow to him. A slight rush of sound

caught his attention and he tuned in to it.

“Mama?” Valda was whispering to her mother.

“What, sweetie?”

“Glynnie put his gun under his pillow.”

“That’s so he can protect us,” Mystery told her child.

There came the sound of the little girl lifting her head. “You’re not afraid of him like

that drummer man is, are you, Mama?”

“Valda, lie down,” her mother ordered.

“But you aren’t, are you, Mama?” Valda persisted, and the cot squeaked again.

“There is nothing
to
fear. Only those with something to hide or who have a guilty

conscience fear the Reaper lords.” She looked over at Glyn. “No, I’m not afraid of him.

He’s a good man. I admire and respect him. Now get to sleep, young lady. You’re not

going to want to get up in the morning and we’ve a long day of traveling ahead of us.”

“I like Glynnie, Mama.”

“I like him too, now hush!”

Across the room, Glyn wedged an eye open. His chest felt tight and there was a

prickle behind his eyes that both surprised and annoyed him. He was a man

accustomed to being shunned, feared, hated and rarely treated with anything even close

to admiration or respect. Men stepped out of his way when approached. Women

trembled and lowered their eyes. Children ran and hid. Even most animals sensed the

dangerous beast within him and shied away. Only a handful liked him and they were

either those like himself or humans he had come to know as reluctant friends. Certainly

very few would ever call him a good man.

He stared at Mystery. She was turned toward him and thanks to his keen night

vision, the faint glow from the dying fire in the hearth lit her face clearly.

She was a beautiful woman with skin the color of the caramel candies Phelan Kiel

was never without. He had been surreptitiously watching her when she’d removed her

hat in preparation for bed then taken the pins from the chignon that had held her waistlength hair atop her head. The ebony braid had been thick and glossy and he had

wanted to lift it in his hand to test the weight and texture. She smelled of columbine and

he wondered if her hair held that fragrance as well.

He smiled for her slightly upturned nose twitched as she settled down into sleep

once more. Her lips parted and his gaze fell to the bottom one—a pouty curve of dusky

fullness from which he had trouble prying his attention.

He let his gaze wander over her high cheekbones and smooth forehead, her delicate

eyebrows that arched sensuously over eyes the color of rich, dark chocolate. Her ears

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

were perfect little shells that framed a face that—even in repose—seemed so alive and

animated, so kind and innocent.

She was a little over average height for a woman. He figured she must be fiveseven, five-eight. If she weighed a hundred and ten, he’d eat his hat, but her lithe frame

was curved in all the right places, her breasts filling out the bodice of her gown

perfectly to his way of thinking. They would surely be a weighty handful, the nipples

dark and plump from nursing her child. He wondered what they would taste like.

He forcefully tore his rude imaginings from such things as he realized his gaze had

strayed to the rise and fall of her chest beneath the lightweight blanket. His face flamed

and he swallowed the groan that threatened to escape for it had been a long, long time

since he’d had his needs serviced. He kept his attention on her closed eyes and the long

lashes that fanned the creamy curve of her cheekbones.

There was no mystery about Mystery Butler. He had delved into her mind as she’d

sat telling tales to her child after supper and she was an open book. What was seen was

exactly what she was. There was no duplicity in her, no greed or sense of selfimportance, no need for self-entitlement. There was only honesty and a driving desire

to leave the world a better place when she left it. She loved her child more than life itself

and struggled moment by moment to make Valda’s life as happy and carefree as she

could.

He sighed and felt a pain stab through his heart. He wondered if the mother he had

barely known had been the same kind of woman. He doubted it. Any woman who

would leave her children and run off with a stranger certainly couldn’t care less about

the children’s happiness. Memories of her—and that memory was beginning to fade for

he had been no older than Valda when she’d left them—his father and brother, his older

twin sisters and the woman he had intended to make his bride were often all that kept

him totally sane.

His headache flared brutally and nausea rushed up his throat. His hand tensed on

the pillow. Squeezing his eyes shut, striving to push away the aching loneliness that

rode him hard, willing the headache to leave him in peace, he flinched as an echo of

thunder rolled beyond the window. He flinched again as another sounded then felt eyes

on him and his snapped open.

Valda put a finger to her lips and glanced back to make sure her mother was still

asleep. “Hey, Glynnie.”

“Hey back at you,” he replied, and reached up to rub at his temple. “What are you

doing up,
babban
?”

“You still got that bad ache in your head?” she asked.

“’Fraid so, little one.”

She surprised him by putting her little hand on his head and smoothing his hair

back. “When I get a headache,” she said, “this is what Mama does and it always makes

me feel all better.” She smiled at him as she continued to stroke his hair. “Are you

feeling better, Glyn?”

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My Reaper’s Daughter

“Aye, I am,” he agreed, though his head was splitting. He liked the feel of her hand

stroking his brow.

Outside thunder rumbled in the distance and he tensed. The storm was returning.

“My daddy died during a storm,” she said, gaining his full attention, but before he

could say anything else, she continued. “Bad men killed him at the store but a Reaper

lord went after them and punished them for being bad. He brought them to jus…to

jus…”

“Justice,” he supplied.

“Aye,” she said, nodding emphatically. “Justice.”

“Do you know which Reaper that was?” he asked, curious to know which of his

team members had made things right for the Butler family. He wanted to thank that

man.

She shook her head. “Mama knows. You can ask her.”

Thunder cracked savagely and he jumped, just managing not to cry out.

“It’s all right, Glynnie,” Valda said. “It’s just lightning. It can’t hurt a Reaper.”

He flinched again as another shriek pierced the sky and Valda stunned him by

crawling onto the cot with him, making him move over to give her room.

“That’s okay,” she said, putting her little arm around him. “I’ll protect you.”

Glyn’s heart twisted in his chest and tears filled his eyes.

“Do you want me to sing you a song?” Valda asked. “That’s what Mama does when

I’m scared.”

All he could do was nod for his throat was clogged, tears beginning to fall down his

cheeks.

“The itsy, bitsy spider…” Valda began singing off-key. Her little fingers danced as

she mimicked a spider crawling up a waterspout.

In the semidarkness, Glyn ached to put his arms around the child and hold her to

him. He wanted to bury his face against her and stay there like that forever. Staying as

still as he could, he listened to one silly song after another until the little voice grew

tired then slowly faded away, Valda’s body snuggling down beside his, her head on his

shoulder, her arm draped over his waist. When she began to snore softly, he no longer

heard the thunderous clamor of the storm, the skirl of the lightning. All he heard was

the sweet heart nestled in her chest beating slowly, trustingly.

With that reassuring, calming beat-beat-beat echoing in his ears, he fell asleep, his

finger slipping off the trigger of his gun.

Mystery woke just after three in the morning and her heart nearly stopped beating

as she saw the Reaper bending over Valda’s cot. She opened her mouth to ask him what

it was he thought he was doing but then she realized he was easing her child onto the

cot, covering her then bending down to place a kiss on Valda’s head.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“You’ve a very tender-hearted baby here,” he whispered. “She wanted to make my

headache better.”

Without another word he straightened and moved away, heading toward the door.

She watched him until he exited the common room then flung her blanket aside. She

checked on Valda, adjusted the child’s covers, reached for a shawl she had taken from

the portmanteau Mr. DePalmer had retrieved from the stage boot for her and then

made her way to the door as well. She opened it and slipped quietly outside, finding

Glyn standing at the edge of the porch, leaning against a support.

“She is growing very fond of you,” she told him, pulling the shawl close around her

for the early morning air was chilled now that the rain had slackened to a steady

sprinkle.

“I think I may be falling in love with her,” he replied. “I just hope she’ll wait for

me.”

Mystery smiled and came to stand beside him, looking out at the silvery fall of rain.

“You might be just a tad old for her by then.”

He snorted. “I’m more than a tad old now.”

She looked up at him. She was genuinely interested in the men who protected her

world and curious to know more about them. “How old are you?”

He shrugged. “If you count the years before I became a Reaper, thirty. If you tack

on the years since then and add in the time differential between this world and mine, a

smidgen over three hundred.”

The young woman blinked. “Three hundred? Truly?” At his nod, she laughed

softly. “Well, it’s a wonder you can sit up and take nourishment, milord.”

He grinned. “So what you’re saying is I’m a decrepit old coot?”

“Aye, but you’re well preserved for your age,” she countered, amusement rife in

her velvety voice.

He turned so his back was to the post and he was facing her. Bracing one bare foot

on the wooden upright, he crossed his arms and studied her. “Who was the Reaper who

took out your husband’s killer?”

She too put her back to the post beside her and pulled her shawl even closer. “Lord

Owen Tohre,” she replied.

“He’s a good man.”

“You all are,” she said.

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far, but we have our moments.”

“How is Lord Owen?”

Glyn drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. “As far as I know he’s doing okay.

The last time I saw him, he was sleeping peacefully enough.” A muscle flexed in his

jaw. “He is awaiting the birth of his son.”

Mystery’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know he was married.”

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My Reaper’s Daughter

“It happened last winter,” Glyn told her. “Her name is Rachel.”

“Well, I’m happy for him,” she said.

“Aye. Me too.”

They were quiet for a moment as the rain fell softly, steadily. Finally she asked what

she had been aching to.

“Are you married, Lord Glyn?”

Glyn tore his gaze from the floor at which he’d been staring. “Me? By the gods, no!”

She cocked her head to one side. “Don’t you like women?”

“They’re the only game in town for me,” he responded, and winced at his

flippancy. “I mean, aye, I like women.”