WyndRiver Sinner Read online

  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.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then hunger got the best of her and she crept forward, coming in slowly, prepared to bolt if he made a grab for her.

  “If you wait much longer, the bird will be as dry as tumbleweed,” he said, watching her from the corner of his eye.

  She gave him a wide berth as she circled around to face him across the leaping flames. In the light cast from the fire, he could see she was gaunt, her face streaked with dirt and her torn gown hastily stitched up with a few sharp thorns thrust into the worn fabric. Barefoot, she made little sound as she crept closer.

  Cynyr stretched out his long legs and leaned back against his saddle. He folded his arms and studied the woman inching forward. She was licking her lips and in her eyes was rampant hunger as she squatted before the fire.

  “Go on,” he told her. “I’ve had all I want.”

  With greedy hands she reached out and grabbed the spit, tearing off a goodly size portion of the chicken. Despite the heat, she stuffed her mouth full of the succulent meat and groaned as the juices exploded along her taste buds. She was actually panting as she chewed rapidly, no doubt afraid he’d try to snatch the food back.

  “Easy, wench,” he said in a soft voice. “There’s no need to gobble it down. I’m not going to take it away from you.”

  She tensed with the chicken leg paused at her greasy lips. Her gray eyes meshed with his and she slowed down on her chewing, keeping her gaze on him just in case.

  He could see her fingernails were ragged, dirt packed beneath the jagged edges. Her feet were scratched and bleeding and filthy. Her pale brown hair was a long rat’s nest frizzed around her shoulders, and it looked as though it hadn’t seen a comb in days, if not weeks. The ripe scent of her unwashed body made him wrinkle his nose and narrow his eyes with distaste.

  Cynyr crossed his booted ankles and continued to watch the woman. He put her age at somewhere past thirty but she might even be younger. It was hard to tell beneath all the grime layered on her face and the dark bruise along her left cheekbone. Her hands were work-worn, her arms as thin as her face and the tattered gown covering her short frame was baggy on her.

  “What’s you name, wench?” he asked.

  Wiping the back of her hand across her lips, she swallowed the last of the chicken, her eyes darting of their own accord to the coffee pot.

  “Here,” he said, and reached over to take up his cup. He tossed it over the fire to her, a bit surprised at the speed with which she snagged it out of the air.

  Keeping a wary eye on him, she grabbed a handful of her worn skirt and took hold of the coffeepot’s handle.

  Beneath the frayed edge of the skirt, he caught a glimpse of bare thigh and realized she was naked beneath the oversized gown. He looked away, feeling heat creep up his neck.

  “Aingeal,” she said, and her voice sounded hoarse. She poured herself a cup of the strong brew and put the pot back over the fire.

  “You have a last name?”

  She shook her head. “Not any more,” she replied, cupping her hands around the blue enamel vessel. She blew across the liquid then took a cautious sip.

  “You do away with the last name?” he asked, realizing she was shivering even though she was as close to the fire as she could safely be.

  “I no longer have a need of it,” she answered.

  There was in her pattern of speech an elegance that surprised him. Her voice was soft and bore the unmistakable touch of breeding. The way she spoke was in direct contrast to her appearance. He had expected her to speak coarsely and not with the carefully modulated tone she was using.

  She reminded him of someone he’d met years before, but he couldn’t put his finger on where or who it had been. Her face didn’t look familiar to him but, then again, he hadn’t been around that many women in his lifetime. Reapers—especially those who became bounty hunters—kept to themselves and rarely took mates.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking another sip of the hot coffee. “That man would have killed me when he was done with me.”

  Cynyr nodded. “I figured as much. That’s why I relieved the world of his blight.”

  “You’re a Reaper,” she said, and relaxed enough to sit down on the sand.

  “Aye.”

  “A bounty hunter.”

  He nodded again.

  “You’re sworn to protect women,” she said.

  “To protect all human life,” he amended.

  “You came after Caspar Hul,” she stated. She was now sitting cross-legged on the ground. “He’s a bad man.”

  “Was a bad man.”

  She shuddered and tore her gaze from him. “He killed an entire family out by Coral Ridge,” she said. “Everybody left him alone.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Hul anymore.”

  She finished off the cup of coffee and wrapped her arms around herself. Her teeth were chattering as the wind blew over her thin gown. She flinched as he sat up, her eyes wide.

  “I don’t need this,” he said, twisting around to grab his bedroll. He stood up and started around the fire.

  Aingeal scrambled to her knees, one hand pressed against the sand, the other gripping her skirt, ready to run if he made any untoward movement.

  He untied his bedroll and shook out the thick canvas covering before coming close enough to her to bend down and drape the covering over her trembling shoulders.

  “You don’t need it?” she asked, dragging it closer around her chest.

  He shrugged. “Reapers are hot-blooded,” he told her. “I’m rarely cold and only then if I’m in deep snow country.” He went back to where he’d been sitting and dropped down again, turning to lie on his side, his head propped in his hand as he looked at her.

  “Where is your family, wench?” he inquired.

  She glanced up at him as she slipped her legs into the canvas pocket. “They’re all dead,” she said.

  “Your accent is not from this region,” he observed. “What are you doing out here?”

  Hiding a yawn, she told him she’d come out with her husband.

  Cynyr arched a dark brow. “Your husband?”

  Aingeal lowered her head. “He thought we could make a fresh start on the plains. He had it in his mind that he could start a horse ranch, so he bought some acreage over near Farmington. The purchase wiped out what savings we had.”

  “He’s dead?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, he’s still in Farmington.” She looked up. “With his new wife and family.”

  “You’re divorced?” he asked, knowing it took a great deal for such a thing to happen. The High Council often granted divorces but, when they did, it was an extremely costly venture.

  “He had the marriage annulled,” she replied. Her eyes were steady on the Reaper. “After he sold me to a Jakotai chieftain for a brace of stallions and five mares to start his ranch.”

  Anger turned Cynyr’s eyes a deep scarlet red. “He sold you,” he said, a thin white line forming around his lips.

  “It happens,” she reminded him.

  In the times in which they were living such a thing was not unheard of, though it was rare, for the Hi
gh Council frowned on such an arrangement. To some men, women were considered chattel and could be sold into slavery to either work off the man’s debts or to acquire for him something he wanted more.

  “And you ran away from the Jakotai,” the Reaper assumed.

  “I was given to Chief Akecheta and he in turn gave me to his son Otaktay. It was Otaktay’s horses Donal got in exchange.” She wiped a dirty hand across her tired face. “Otaktay is a very cruel man. I took it for as long as I could then I ran away.” She shrugged. “The first time I nearly made it across the border to Owacha.”

  “How many times did you run away?”

  “This is the third,” she answered. “The first time he beat me badly, but the second time I couldn’t walk for nearly a week.” She grimaced. “He said if I did it again, he’d kill me.” Her lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. “I believed him so I’ve been particularly careful this time.”

  “You think he’s still tracking you?”

  “Oh, I know he is,” she said, looking him in the eye. “But I’ll die before I’ll ever return to the encampment. He’ll make sure of it. He’s lost face enough as it is.” She touched her rumpled hair. “He’ll take my scalp back with him to display on his lodge pole.”

  Something dark moved through the Reaper’s fiery eyes and his jaw tightened. He knew what it was like to be sold into slavery and the thought of a man doing something so evil to a woman he’d vowed to protect sent spasms of fury down his rigid spine.

  “You won’t have to worry about going back,” he said, “or the brave taking your scalp, wench. I’ll see to that.”

  Aingeal blinked. “You want me for your woman?” she asked, her heart trip-hammering in her chest at such a thought.

  “I’ve no need of a woman,” he told her. “But I’ll not let you go back to such a vile existence. If you want, I’ll take you wherever it was you planned to go and see you’re safe there.”

  Having no place to go, Aingeal had not thought of anything beyond getting away from Otaktay. She had hoped to reach a big enough city where she could hide amongst the inhabitants and find a job to sustain her. She had grown accustomed to hard work and figured she could get a position as a servant. That she would actually make good her escape had not seemed real to her. She was simply living day by day on hope and prayers to Alel, along with whatever she could steal to keep herself from starving.

  “I know a few families who would take you in,” he said, reading her thoughts. “I assume you can read and write?”

  She lifted her chin. “Of course, I can.”

  “I’ve got two more rogues on my list to dispatch,” he said, interrupting her. “One is in the Exasla Territory and the other in Oklaks Territory. Once those jobs are done, I’m due for a month of R&R. I’ll take you back east then.”

  Tears filled Aingeal’s eyes. “You mean it?” she asked. “You’d really do that?”

  “Didn’t I say I would?”

  “You’ll protect me from Otaktay?”

  “I’ve no love for any man who would hit a woman,” he said. “If we meet, I’ll make sure he never lays a hand to another.”

  Despite the happiness stealing over her heart, Aingeal yawned, hiding her mouth. Her eyes were bloodshot and her shoulders slumping beneath her fatigue.

  “Lay down,” Cynyr told her. “This is one night you won’t have to worry about being attacked.”

  She looked at the sand beside her for a long moment then making up her mind he meant her no harm, leaned over, curling her legs up in a fetal position within the comfort of the heavy canvas. Her arms were wrapped within the protection of the material, all but her eyes and nose hidden.

  “Good night,” she said, her voice muffled beneath the material.

  “Sleep good, wench,” he told her, and turned to his back, his head cradled in the palms of his hands as he looked up at the bright stars overhead.

  For over an hour he lay there gazing at the stars. It had been years since he had flown among their brilliance. He knew the chances of him ever sailing the skies again was a dead issue. He was where the High Council had placed him and there were more rogues hiding on Terra, their lives at the mercy of the other bounty hunter like himself.

  “What’s your name?”

  Cynyr turned his head and looked at Aingeal. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “I’m getting there but I just wanted to know your name.”

  “Cree,” he replied. “Cynyr Cree.”

  She laughed, and the sound went through him like a sharp knife through butter. “That’s fate, wouldn’t you say?” she asked. “Cynyr and Aingeal?”

  He half-smiled. “Go to sleep, wench.”

  “Good night, Cynyr.”

  No one dared call him by his first name. It had been years since anyone had. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but the sound of his name on Aingeal’s tongue caused warmth to spread through his chest. He watched her settle down but could see she was shivering.

  He sighed.

  “Wench,” he said, his face crinkled. “Why don’t you come over and lie with me? It’ll keep you warm.”

  He half-expected her to turn down his offer, but she hopped up and gathered the bedroll in her arms to hurry over to him. She stretched out close beside him, fanning the canvas over them. Her ripe body odor made his eyes water and he turned his back to her to help alleviate the stench. He stiffened when she slipped her arm over his waist and pressed up tightly against him.

  “Reapers don’t mate, do they?” she asked, her voice muffled against his back.

  “No,” he said.

  “So you won’t be doing anything nasty to me.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh at that. “No, wench. I’ll try to restrain myself.”

  “Good,” she said, snuggling even closer to him.

  Cynyr could feel the length of her body pressed to his. She had lush breasts—he’d gotten a glimpse of one of them back in the alley—and the peaks of them seemed to be stabbing hotly into his flesh. He shifted, but she appeared to take that as an invitation to tighten her hold on his waist.

  He sighed again, thinking it was going to be a long, long night.

  Chapter Two

  The dream came again—as it did nightly—and he woke sweating profusely, his heart racing, blood pounding in his ears. He sat bolt upright, kicking away the bedroll, dragging a trembling hand through his thick brown hair. The sun was nearly up and he stared into it for a moment as he willed the traces of his nightmare to dissipate.

  Then the pain struck so hard he shamed himself by groaning.

  He twisted around and grabbed his saddlebags. There was only one thing that would help to keep the monster at bay for already the pain in his back was spreading, sending agony through the rest of his body.

  He found the vac-syringe and laid it on his thigh, quickly fishing in the saddlebag for the ampoule of tenerse. Filling the syringe, he stuck it between his teeth and rolled up the sleeve of his black shirt until his forearm was bare. Holding his breath, he took the syringe and stuck its payload into the heavy vein that ran the length of his forearm. Instantly the fiery path of the drug spread up to his shoulder and he shuddered, but the clawing, biting pain in his back began to lessen.

  “Feed me.”

  The demand came from within him. It was a fierce order that turned the Reaper’s eyes to the forest. Closing them, he willed the nearest creature to come to him. As he waited, the pain remained—scratching across his back with unsheathed claws.

  Timidly, a rabbit hopped out of the underbrush. Its eyes were glazed as it made a beeline for Cynyr. The little animal made a strange mewling sound as the Reaper picked it up and gently bit into its neck, but it did not struggle. It lay in the man’s hands without moving and when at last it was released, hopped away with only a small amount of clumsiness.

  Breathing as slowly as he could as the pain subsided, Cynyr lay back down for a moment, his eyes closed and his jaw clenched. There was something nagging at him as he lay th
ere but he couldn’t remember what. It wasn’t until he sat up again—staring at the blanket and wondering why he’d covered himself with it—that the memory of the woman came back to him.

  Cynyr got to his feet, scanning the clearing where he’d camped. The woman was nowhere to be seen and his heart did a painful thud. His horse was still tied to the tree where he’d left him picketed the night before but there was no sign of the woman.

  Grabbing up his gun, he slung the heavy leather belt around his hips, buckling it as he went. He was tying the thong to his thigh when he heard the splash of water behind him and spun around. Hurrying toward the creek by which he’d camped, he darted silently through the scrub oaks, careful not to make a sound. If there was an enemy about, he didn’t want the bastard to hear him until it was too late.

  The Reaper came up short when he saw Aingeal bathing in the creek. She was standing with the water up to her breasts, her right arm lifted above her head as she dragged a piece of material down her flesh with her left hand. Vigorously scrubbing at her dirty flesh, she had apparently already washed her hair, for the matted mess lay in sleek dark strands down her shapely back. He glanced at the gown she’d already scrubbed and left to dry on a rock by the creek bank and recognized what he knew was his comb laying atop the worn garment.

  Amazed that she had gotten up without waking him and managed to rummage through his saddlebag to find a comb and what he knew was his bar of soap—again without disturbing him—stunned Cynyr and he heard himself growl low in his throat.

  “Did you sleep well, Cyn?” she asked, turning around to look at him. She didn’t seem in the least concerned with her nakedness or the fact that his eyes were locked on her breasts.

  “Get out of that water!” he snarled, coming toward her. “Now!”

  “I’m not finished,” she said, dipping her rag beneath the surface. “I haven’t washed my legs.”

  “Get the hell out of the water!” he shouted, fear clouding his vision as he reached the edge of the creek.

  Aingeal could see the terror stamped on his handsome features and she remembered hearing that Reapers were afraid of water. She held up her hand. “All right, I’m coming.”