WyndRiver Sinner: 1 (WesternWind) Read online

  WyndRiver Sinner

  Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  WesternWind, Book One series.

  In the year 3478, Reaper Cynyr Cree has been sent to the western territories by the High Council as their executioner in taking out rogues. He's hot, tired, dusty and not in the best of moods when he happens upon a young woman being attacked. Dispatching the assailant with a careless flick of his laser whip, Cynyr doesn't give the woman a second thought until she follows him to his camp in search of food and protection.

  Sold by her ex-husband for a brace of horses, Aingeal has known the hardships of being the property of a Jakotai brave intent on keeping her at all costs and she has run away. Being rescued by an infamous Reaper seems the only way she can escape her captivity and she's willing to do what it takes to stay with Cree.

  Taking lives comes easy to Cynyr. Living one is another matter. Always keeping his distance from others, he is stunned to realize he doesn't want to let Aingeal leave him.

  When a man named Cynyr decides to make a woman named Aingeal his own, no man will ever take her from him.

  WyndRiver Sinner

  Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Chapter One

  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 entrance.

  Sheriff Watts moved back so quickly he nearly tumbled from the boardwalk. He slammed up against the overhang railing and stood there quivering like a leaf in a breeze as the Reaper came toward him.

  “Caspar John Hul,” the stranger said, pulling a wanted poster from his shirt pocket and unfolding it. “Here’s his death warrant.” He extended the paper toward the sheriff.

  “Yes, sir,” Sheriff Watts agreed, taking the paper in trembling hands. He didn’t bother to look at it, for when a bounty hunter was sent after a man, he had the High Council backing him up. He didn’t even want to know the stranger’s name for the records. As far as he and the town were concerned, the less they knew of the Reaper, the better. He couldn’t even meet the bounty hunter’s eyes.

  Without another word, the stranger moved down the steps and over to his horse. The beast neighed softly as his master approached and the bounty hunter patted his neck, speaking softly in a language the sheriff didn’t understand.

  “Ah, the Lady Belle has clean rooms if you’re of a mind to spend the night, mister,” the sheriff felt compelled to say. He was watching the stranger untying his mount.

  “Much obliged, but I don’t take to town life,” the stranger said, vaulting into the saddle.

  Sheriff Watts breathed a sigh of relief, for the longer one of the stranger’s kind was in town, the more uneasy the inhabitants. As it was, the streets were deserted and every curtain drawn tightly closed. Even the dead man who’d been lying in the street since late afternoon was out of sight lest the stranger have reason to complain.

  Tipping his hat to the sheriff, the stranger pulled gently on his mount’s reins and headed back the way he’d come.

  “Sweet merciful Alel,” Sheriff Watts said, and took off his hat to arm away the sweat that had formed on his forehead. His mouth was dry and his gut was roiling. The death warrant in his hand was becoming saturated from the sour sweat glistening in his palms. He watched until the stranger and his beast were swallowed up by the shadows on the far edge of town then headed for his office and the bottle of bourbon hidden in a drawer of his desk.

  * * * * *

  Cynyr Cree was bone-tired and hungry. He’d been riding since dawn and had a vicious headache that was throbbing brutally over his right eye. All he wanted was a rambling, soothing stream by which to camp and a jackrabbit to roast over a spit. The last thing he wanted was to hear a muted scream.

  Pulling up on his horse’s reins, he turned his head toward the dark alley that led between the last two buildings in Dyersville. The muffled sound of a struggle, a man’s vicious curse and the sound of flesh hitting flesh came clearly to his acute hearing and he grunted with annoyance.

  Sworn by the High Council not only to hunt down rogues, he carried with him papers that gave him carte blanche to deal with any evil that came his way. Such evil included rape, robbery, aggravated assault and murder. He knew at least two such crimes were in progress at that moment with a third possibly following close behind.

  He walked his horse to a nearby hitching post, dismounted and secured the beast. Quietly, he entered the alleyway, keeping his back to the mercantile store as he made his way stealthily towards the sound of scuffling. With the darkness as his cover, he used his sharp night vision to pinpoint the assailant and his victim in the deeper shadows. What he saw fanned scarlet flames in his amber eyes.

  The woman’s bodice was torn, revealing one creamy breast as she struggled with her attacker. A giant paw of a hand was grabbing at that lush mound as the woman tried in vain to break free of the man assaulting her. Her left arm was in the man’s grip and his head was lowered toward her as he tried to press a kiss to her mouth. Her face was averted as she attempted to bring her knee up into her unwanted suitor’s groin but he swung her out of the way, laughing cruelly at her inability to pull out of his clutches. Much smaller and weaker than the goon trying to foist himself on her, the woman let out one last reverberating scream in the hope someone would come to her aid.

  “Ain’t nobody listening, slut!” the man guffawed, and used his free hand to slap the woman once more. “Ain’t nobody gonna help you!”

  “Why don’t you try that with me?”

  Jacob Ventilett spun around, dragging his victim with him when he heard the deadly calm voice speak. He squinted, trying to make out the face of the man who had dared interfere with his fun. Furious at being interrupted, he shoved the woman away from him and drew the big knife that he’d thrust into the waistband of his baggy gabardine britches.

  Landing in the mud, the woman scrambled away as fast as she could, grateful for the disruption to Ventilett’s savage plans.

  “Mister, you just bought yourself a handful of whoop-ass,” Ventilett growled as he crouched down, the wicked knife clutched in his meaty fist.

  One minute the would-be rapist had hold of the pig sticker, intending to gut his opponent, and the next something dropped from between his legs and hit the muddy ground with a pulpy squish.

  Ventilett looked down slowly—not yet feeling the burning pain between his legs. His eyes went wide as saucers as he saw the front of his britches gaping open. Realizing what was lying at his feet, he commenced to howling until the moon slid out from beneath its sheet of clouds and illuminated the face of the man standing in the alley with him. The crimson flares glowing back a
t him from the man’s still face made the beefy lumberjack shit his britches.

  “Oh, lord, a Reaper!” Ventilett gasped and fell to his knees, shuddering so hard his teeth were clicking together. He fumbled for his severed manhood, picking it up and cradling it to him as the stranger kept coming.

  Once more the crack of the laser whip rang out in the night and Jacob Ventilett’s head flew away from his body to hit the wall of the mercantile.

  From the corner of the building, the woman Ventilett had been so intent on raping stood with her palms pressed tightly to her mouth. She was quivering from head to toe and afraid to move. The stench of burning flesh made her turn away and gag, though there was nothing in her stomach to come up. When she dared a glance back there was nothing left of the brute who had attacked her and the stranger was nowhere in sight.

  * * * * *

  A crackling fire churned between a ring of stones and over it sizzled the remains of a prairie hen, the only thing the Reaper had come across before hunkering down for the night beside a bubbling stream. The smell of roasting bird and brewed coffee filled the night air.

  Cynyr Cree sat with his knees drawn up, staring intently into the fire. The chiseled planes of his face were lit by the blaze, his amber eyes steady on the flames. It was a chill night but the Reaper barely felt the kiss of the night wind.

  In the distance a coyote crooned his lonesome song to the full moon overhead. The fire popped. Nocturnal creatures padded as quietly as they could through the underbrush, staying well away from the campfire and the deadly man keeping vigil over it. In Dyersville, clocks were chiming the midnight hour.

  He knew she was somewhere beyond the stand of scrub oaks off to his right. She was squatting down, watching him and being as still as she could. On her mind was but one thought—food—and he could almost hear her mouth watering.

  “You’d best come to the fire, wench,” he said in a soft voice. “I don’t do delivery.”