My Reaper's Daughter (5 page)

Rolling to a stop, the stage rocked on its twin thorough-braces then settled.

“Barbara Springs, folks!” the driver called out.

The rain was lashing down on the stage so heavily it was hard to hear anything

save the thunder rumbles and the ear-splitting hiss of lightning. When the door opened

and cool air blew through, it was a welcome relief to the heat filling the interior.

“Barbara Springs,” the driver repeated. Rain ran off his hat as he tugged at the

brim. “You’ll be spending the night here.”

Valda sat up, her little fists digging at her eyes. “Mama, where are we?”

“The stage station,” her mother answered. She kissed the top of Valda’s head,

striving for a normalcy she certainly did not feel.

“Want me to carry her in for you?” Glyn asked. He was settling his own hat upon

his thick black hair.

Valda didn’t give her mother a chance to reply. She slid off the seat and into Glyn’s

arms, putting hers around his neck and laying her head on his shoulder. “I’m hungry,

Glynnie,” she told him then lowered her voice. “And I gotta make water.”

21

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Glyn couldn’t look at the woman across from him. A long-forgotten part of him had

awoken the moment the child had pressed against him. His arms clenched around the

small body and something twisted insisted his chest.

“Are you sure you want to carry her, milord?” he heard Valda’s mother ask.

“Aye, wench, I’m gods-be-damned sure,” he said gruffly. It would have taken an

army of Ceannus ’bots to pull the little girl out of his arms.

“You’re gonna get your mouth washed out for sure, Glynnie,” Valda warned, her

breath warm against his neck.

He smiled and ducked out through the open door, skirting the driver who was

reaching up to offer his hand to the young woman. His long legs sprinted across the

muddy ground, his boots splashing in the puddles as he held Valda close to his chest.

Thumping heavily onto the wooden porch of the station, he realized his heart was

hammering painfully. Consciously he might have been unaware of the mud over which

he crossed, the sucking sound his boots made as he ran, but his subconscious had

registered the sight and sound and was replaying it. He sure as hell was aware of the

zinging lightning cracking above him. For one brief moment his body shook as though

with the ague and a strangled sound of grief escaped his lips.

“Glynnie?” Valda asked, lifting her head to look up at him. “Are you all right?”

His stricken gaze fell to the child in his arms and the image of Gentry’s face was

momentarily superimposed upon hers then the image faded as quickly as it had come.

He hugged her to him, plastering his cheek to hers.

“Aye,
babban
. I’m okay,” he managed to say.

“What does
babban
mean, Glynnie?”

“Baby doll,” he replied absently.

“I like that.”

The door to the station opened and a large woman with a girth nearly as wide as

she was tall stepped back to allow him to enter. She curtsied clumsily, her small eyes

wide in a doughy face as she clutched at the door edge as though her life depended

upon the contact.

“Welcome, your lordship,” she said, and curtsied again, her knee bumping against

the edge of the door.

Glyn nodded his greeting and carried Valda over to a long trestle table where he

placed her upon the bench. “The child needs the use of your facilities,” he told the

woman.

Looking confused, the woman started forward, nearly colliding with the young

woman who came hurrying in out of the rain. “Oh, excuse me,” she said then got a

good look at the female traveler. The fat woman’s mouth snapped shut and her piggish

eyes narrowed, almost disappearing into the folds of her pale face. She turned her

oversized head to a man standing behind a counter. “Judd?” she barked.

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My Reaper’s Daughter

The man—as thin and spindly as his wife was round and squat—shrugged

helplessly then came from behind the counter, an ingratiating smile on his narrow face.

“It’s a pleasure to have you with us again, Lord Glyn,” he said as his hands ran

over and over one another.

“The child?” Glyn repeated.

“Oh yes, of course!” the stage station manager responded. He turned his attention

to the young woman. “We have an outhouse…”

“You have a bathroom,” Glyn cut in sharply, and the look he sent to the man was

filled with reproach.

“Aye, we do,” the man quickly agreed, his head bobbing up and down.

“Through there, ma’am,” Glyn said, nudging his chin toward a door through which

he passed a time or two when forced to stop at the station.

Mystery Butler made no comment as she went to her daughter and held out her

hand to Valda. The child took her mother’s hand and slid off the bench, following

behind her as she was led to the bathroom.

Once the two were out of sight, Glyn turned on the station man and his wife like an

avenging angel.

“Don’t you
ever
do that again,” he warned.

“No, milord,” the man responded, backing away from the fury he saw etched on

the Reaper’s lean face.

“And don’t even think you’ll be denying that woman and her child a cot here

tonight. Do you understand?”

“No, milord,” the husband and wife said at the same time, though the woman’s

words seemed to have been reluctantly drawn from her throat.

“They are under my personal protection,” Glyn said, and his eyes swung to the

man who had been riding with them in the stage. “Anyone who insults them insults

me. Is that clear?”

“Aye, milord!” the station manager concurred.

The Reaper’s angry glare swept past the stage driver and his partner as they came

into the common room and swung to the man’s wife. “Did you hear me, wench?”

“Aye, milord,” she mumbled, and curtsied still again.

“And the child is hungry so set her plate beside mine and be about it double-time,

wench,” Glyn snapped.

“Alice will be happy to get it, milord,” the station man said.

Glyn was about to turn away but the fat woman’s thoughts were so powerful, so

enraged, that he caught them like a solar blast. Sheer rage shot through every fiber of

his being and his shout was loud enough to turn every other person in the room to

stone.

23

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“You do that and I swear before the gods it will be the
last
fucking thing you ever

do, bitch!” came the thunderous threat.

Alice DePalmer’s face went parchment white and she staggered beneath the force of

that enraged bellow. She put both hands up as though to ward off the lethal intent

being aimed her way and shook her head so hard the pins came from her mop of mousy

brown hair. The thin jumble fell to her shoulders in messy strands.

“No, milord! No!” she said, backing away, her numerous chins trembling. “I would

not. I would not!”

“You’d best not!” Glyn snarled. His lips were drawn back over his teeth. “Now do

what I told you to!”

Every eye in the room was locked on the Reaper as he stood there with his hands

clenching and unclenching at his side. No one else save the overweight woman dared

move. They barely took a breath for the eyes of the man in black had turned crimson

red and were glowing.

“Sweet Merciful Alel,” the stage driver whispered, and made the Sign of the Slain

One across his chest.

Mystery and her daughter came out of the bathroom slowly, having heard the

infuriated shout. The child was clinging to her mother.

“What’s wrong?” Mystery asked. She looked from Glyn to the woman who was

scurrying into what must be the kitchen as fast as her pudgy legs would carry her.

Glyn had to force the rage down within himself and it took him a moment to

answer. He shook his head to clear it, making certain mother and child did not see the

blood-red pulsing of his gaze. “Nothing,” he answered.

Judd DePalmer took a step forward. His hands were trembling as he pointed to the

trestle table. “T-Take a seat, m-ma’am,” he offered Mystery. “S-Supper will be up sshortly.”

Glyn was trying desperately to get his anger under control. It had not been a good

day for him and it was ending almost as hatefully as it had begun. A part of him wished

he were still locked in the containment cell at the Citadel where he had spent three

months of living hell the winter past. Anything would be better than this violent urge to

pulverize the station manager’s hateful wife. Such feelings toward a female were so

beyond his normal behavior it scared the hell out of him.

The little girl had stuck her thumb in her mouth but now she pulled it out with a

loud popping sound. “Glynnie, why are you shaking?” Valda asked as she and her

mother moved toward the table.

“I’m okay,
babban
,” Glyn said, and managed to finally swallow his fury. He swept

the hat from his head and tossed it on a chair. “I’m okay.”

“Swear?” Valda said.

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My Reaper’s Daughter

“Aye,” the Reaper replied. He came to the table and swung a long leg over the

bench. “Sit down now. Everything’s all right.” He looked over at the men, his

expression stern. “Sit.”

The three men rushed to do as the lawman ordered, nearly toppling one another as

they slammed down onto the bench. The station manager stood where he was,

seemingly unable to do anything else. From the kitchen, Alice DePalmer came

waddling in with three plates of food on a large tray.

Glyn stared unblinkingly at the obese woman, watching every move she made as

she set a plate before him then hurried to place the other two before backing away, the

tray held before her like a shield. When he silently cocked his head toward the kitchen,

she spun around and hurried away.

“What did the poor woman do?” Mystery asked him quietly.

“Nothing you have to worry about, milady,” Glyn replied. He took up his knife and

fork and grimly began scoring the ham steak that had been set in front of him.

Mystery frowned before picking up her own knife and fork and then leaning over

to cut her daughter’s food. As she did, she kept glancing up at the silent Reaper as he

ruthlessly shoveled food into his mouth, watching him chew methodically, his amber

eyes hard and glinting. She knew he could not possibly be savoring what he ate.

“He’s mad, Mama,” Valda whispered. “Really mad.”

“Eat your supper, sweetie,” her mother told her.

The meal continued beneath a heavy pall of silence while outside the rain slammed

brutally against the wooden building. The wind howled like a banshee and blasted

against the wooden building. Constantly the lightning would crack overhead and each

time it did, the Reaper would flinch. Those seated at the table with him and the two

who stood close by should they be needed noticed the haunted look in the tall man’s

eyes as the storm raged. They saw the way his hand shook each time the shriek of

lightning came.

After the table had been cleared, Alice DePalmer was quick to disappear from sight.

Her husband, the driver, his partner and the man from the stage—who had identified

himself as Buford Rourke, a salesman of pharmaceuticals—settled down in one corner

with a quiet, expressionless game of five-card stud to pass the time. Mystery took her

daughter to the settee at the other end of the room and sat down to tell the little girl a

few fairy tales. Glyn unbuckled his gun belt and draped it on a chair close at hand. He

went to the fireplace where a fire had been lit to dispel the dampness and stood there

staring down into the hearth, his forearm braced on the thick oak mantle. The storm

continued unabated all evening, and by the time the cots were brought out and placed

about the room and the lanterns turned low, nerves had been chaffed raw by the

constant noise. The travelers and the employees of the stage line were more than ready

for sleep.

All except Glyn.

25

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

He had not moved from the fireplace but was staring intently into the flames. He

had barely acknowledged DePalmer telling him that his cot had been prepared, asking

if he needed anything from the stage.

“Your saddle and saddlebags are in the stable,” the station man assured the Reaper,

who only nodded at the information.

With each shriek of lightning, the man in black seemed to grow more edgy. His hair

was tousled from the countless times he had plowed a trembling hand through it.

Uneasy eyes shifted his way until the anxiety finally pierced his shell and he looked up.

“I’m a week or so away from Transition,” he informed them, and the collective sigh

of relief was audible even above the roaring storm.

“What’s Tran…Tran…”

“Transition,” Mystery said. “It’s just something Reapers do, sweetie. It’s nothing for

you to worry about.”

“I think he’s afraid of the lightning, Mama,” Valda told her mother.

Mystery was preparing her daughter for bed, brushing out the little girl’s hair.

Their cots were side by side with the men’s resting places at the other end of the room.

“I don’t think Reapers are afraid of anything, sweetie,” her mother assured her.

When the child was tucked in, all the men save the lawman stretched out on their