Her Reaper's Arms by Charlotte Boyett-Compo (ebook pdf reader for pc TXT) 📕

leading into the saloon, he was keenly aware that all noise inside the

establishment had ceased and knew those inside had either scrambled out the back

door or were waiting for him with trembling knees. Out of habit, he swept the interior

of the building with his psychic powers and detected no threat to him. He pushed the

doors open and went inside the smoke-filled, stale-smelling, darkened interior.

Lea Walsh stood beside a sticky table she’d been cleaning when Luke Desmond had

come rushing in to tell them a Reaper was headed their way. She’d glanced at Mable,

the saloon owner, who had hastened to tell the working girls to stop what they were

doing and stay put. She winced at the noise of chairs scraping across the floor as the

patrons of the saloon had run for the back entrance, not wanting to be there when the

Reaper came in.

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Her Reaper’s Arms

Mable was behind the bar and Lea could see her trembling, her red lips quivering.

She had snatched up an unopened whiskey bottle and a shot glass and put them on the

bar. The white feathers adorning her silk gown were fluttering at the neckline as the

older woman swallowed convulsively.

The other saloon girls—Merrilee, Keesha and Su Lin—stood flanking the roulette

wheel, their faces drawn, their bosoms rising and falling rapidly. Their eyes were

locked on the saloon entrance.

“He ain’t a bad sort if you leave him to what he wants,” Mable said quietly. “Most

likely he won’t ask for one of you but if he does, don’t look him in the eye, don’t speak

to him lest he asks you a question and do whatever he tells you. Do it quickly and you’ll

be all right. I ain’t never heard tell of him hurting a woman but with his kind, you never

know what might set him off.”

Lea had not been at the White Horse Saloon the last time the Reaper assigned to the

Armistenky Territory had come through town. In her twenty-three years, she’d never

seen one of the infamous lawmen, and she had hoped she never would. When she

heard the clink of his spurs on the boardwalk, she began twisting the bar rag between

her hands, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest.

The saloon doors opened and the black-clad warrior came striding in as though he

owned the place. His six-shooter was strapped low on his right hip and the handle of

the fabled lightning whip lay strapped to the other. His black felt cowboy hat was

pulled low over his forehead, the silver concho band on the crown catching the light.

He walked with a swagger that was unmistakable as he bellied up to the bar.

Bevyn’s gaze flicked to the woman standing off to one side, swept over the three

huddled together and then settled on the blowsy tramp behind the long, rough bar. He

strode purposefully toward her, ignoring the tremulous smile of greeting on her

painted face. He glanced down at the bottle then back into her frightened face, waiting

for her to pour the rotgut. She was quick to oblige him and he picked up the shot glass,

knocked back the potent liquid and then set the glass down for another round.

“Be about your business, ladies,” he said quietly to the other women, not liking that

they were behind his back. He could see them in the long sweep of mirror behind the

bar but he was never comfortable with anyone lurking at his back.

Merrilee, Keesha and Su Lin made themselves scarce, taking the stairs to their living

quarters without a backward glance at him. Mable stayed where she was like a deer

caught in a spotlight.

Bevyn propped a foot on the tarnished brass rung that ran along the bottom of the

bar and hunched over with his elbows on the nicked top, pushing his once again empty

glass toward Mable to refill. “Anything I need to see to while I’m here?” he asked the

saloonkeeper.

“I think there might be, milord,” Mable said as she poured his third whiskey. “I can

send for the sheriff.”

11

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

He nodded, swept his glance past her to the mirror to watch the girl behind him as

she moved to another table with her bucket and rag. “I don’t remember her being here

last time,” he said.

“She wasn’t, milord,” Mable said. “If you want me to send her upstairs…”

“Leave her be,” he said, and continued to watch the girl as she worked. It surprised

him that she’d stayed and it intrigued him that she didn’t cop furtive looks at him as

she went about her job. His curiosity was further piqued that she was dressed for what

she was doing and not decked out in whore finery as the other women.

Lea could feel his eyes on her from the mirror. His steady stare was unnerving. She

knew if she left the room, Mable would dock her for the day’s work and she desperately

needed the pitiful wages she got for cooking and cleaning at the White Horse.

Thankfully the men in town left her alone and she wasn’t expected to turn tricks like

Merrilee, Keesha and Su Lin, although she’d had more than her share of men groping

her since she’d been working for Mable.

“I’ll need a room,” she heard the Reaper say.

“Of course, milord,” Mable readily agreed. “Lea, get upstairs and make sure our

best room is made ready for Lord Bevyn.”

He had not taken his eyes from the girl as he spoke. Despite the faded blue calico

she was wearing—the cuffs and hem and neckline frayed—she was the prettiest thing

he’d seen in a long, long time. Her breasts pressed against the tight bodice but he

figured that was because she had outgrown the dress rather than making an attempt to

emphasize the lushness of her chest. As she hurried for the stairs, he turned his head

and lowered his gaze to her boots. They were badly scuffed, the soles coming away

from the uppers, and when she lifted her skirt to climb the stairs, he could see her

stockings had holes in them.

He continued to drink steadily—his shot glass never empty for long—until the girl

came back down the stairs. He went back to observing her in the mirror as she took up a

broom and began sweeping.

“She