My Reaper's Daughter

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

My Reaper’s Daughter

ISBN 9781419913044

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

My Reaper’s Daughter Copyright © 2007 Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Edited by Mary Moran.

Cover art by Syneca.

Electronic book Publication November 2007

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written

permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 443103502.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales

is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

WESTERNWIND:

MY REAPER’S DAUGHTER

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter One

Armistenky Territory of Terra

July 10, 3479

Whirls of red dust spiraled in the distance beyond the rise and the ground beneath

his booted feet shook from the thunder of pounding hooves eating up the miles. If he

listened closely, he could hear with his acute ability the jingle of harness and the creak

of leather as reins were snapped, the huff of the horses, the cursing of the drivers.

Getting to his feet from the boulder upon which he’d been perched, he grunted wearily,

hefting his burden and swinging it up with his left hand. Standing with one hip cocked,

his saddle draped over one shoulder and his saddlebags over the other, he was hot and

tired and thirsty and had the headache from hell clawing inside his skull. When he ran

a dusty black sleeve across his forehead to wipe away the sweat, that headache

throbbed wretchedly just over his right eye, the brightness of the day adding misery of

its own despite the dark spectacles he wore to cut down on the glare. Tugging his black

felt hat lower over his face did little to keep the light from piercing his sensitive eyes.

Though it shaded his face, concealed most of his sweaty, dirt-streak features, it couldn’t

hide who and what he was. The black silk shirt and black leather pants, black boots and

the ebony-handled six-gun slung low on his right hip screamed his identity louder than

any town crier.

“
Reaper
,” the wind whispered.

Because the midsummer day was blisteringly hot and so humid he felt as though he

were drinking the air instead of breathing it, Reaper First Class Glyn Kullen wore the

stamp of a man straddling the edge of decent behavior. He was in a pissy mood, that

mood growing meaner with each passing minute he stood waiting for the tardy stage.

His morning had gone from bad to worse to fucking shitty and if he could have found

something to kill, to maim or destroy or completely annihilate, he would have been

right on it like white on rice. As it was, he was forced to stand there with a taut muscle

grinding away in his lean jaw, his amber eyes narrowed, sweating like a racehorse,

cursing every living thing within a fifty-mile radius. Putting up a hand to swipe at a

horsefly dive-bombing him, he caught the pest in his gloved hand, thought about

squishing it, thought better of the notion and opened his fist to let the lucky creature fly

away.

“Now stay the fuck away from me,” he snarled at the insect. “Next time, you’re

toast, bug.”

By the time the stage rolled over the rise and the driver and man riding shotgun

saw him, Glyn Kullen was ready to tear the two apart with his bare hands. His growl

started low in his throat and ended with a snort of disgust as the stage began to slow.

4

My Reaper’s Daughter

Sawing back on the reins, yelling a shaky “Whoa” to the team pulling his vehicle,

the driver’s darkly tanned face seemed to be bleeding of color as the stage creaked to a

stop before Kullen. The man riding shotgun was gawking with a mouth open to catch

either the blowflies circling the horses’ rumps or the heavy cascade of choking dust

settling around the wheels.

“You need a lift, milord?” the driver asked, his voice breaking with fear.

“Now what gave you that notion?” Glyn snapped. “I thought I’d stand out here in

the middle of nowhere in one-hundred-and-two-degree heat with a forty-five-pound

saddle hitched over my shoulder a little while longer and just take in the view.” He

growled again, turned his head and spat, leaving no doubt in the other men’s minds

that the stupid question had pushed all the wrong buttons.

“My apologies, m-milord,” the driver babbled. “I didn’t mean no dis—”

“Just hush,” Glyn ordered with a sigh.

Striding angrily to the stage, he hefted the saddle effortlessly over the brass rail on

the top of the stage then shrugged off his saddlebags and handed them to the man

riding shotgun.

“Be careful with those. There are glass bottles in there,” he admonished.

The man riding shotgun bobbed his head like a marionette then twisted around and

scrambled up to secure the expensive black tack, placing the saddlebags carefully

beside it.

“We’ve three passengers with us, milord,” the driver called out in warning.

“Fucking great,” Glyn mumbled under his breath, and reached for the door handle,

cursing a blue streak as he snatched the portal open and swung up into the interior of

the sweltering conveyance. Slamming the door behind him, he slumped in the frontfacing seat and cursed brutally again.

“That’s not nice,” a small voice told him.

Coming in from the glaring light, the inside of the stage was darkened by the rolldown leather curtains that kept out the dust. His night vision was excellent however,

and those hawklike orbs settled on the speaker, the anger smoothing out his dark face

immediately to settle into a frown of guilt. He removed his spectacles, folded them and

slid them into the pocket of his shirt.

“Sorry,” he muttered, tipping his hat to the little girl who sat across from him

beside a primly dressed young woman he assumed was her mother. He glanced at the

third passenger—a dandified gentleman in dark brown linen who was pressed as close

to the other side of the stage as he could get. The man was a drummer, a traveling

salesman, and there was no doubt in the Reaper’s mind. Deciding no threat lay in that

direction, Kullen crossed his booted feet, tugged his hat lower still and laced his arms

over his chest, attempting to give the impression he did not want to be bothered.

“You shouldn’t talk like that,” the child—no more than five or six years of age—

chastised him.

5

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Valda!” the woman beside her whispered urgently. She slipped her arm around

the girl and gave Glyn an apologetic look. “I’m terribly sorry, milord. She meant no

disrespect.”

“But he said bad words, Mama,” the child protested. “That’s naughty.”

The woman started to reprimand her charge but Glyn held up a gloved hand,

raising his head to look at the woman. “She’s right, ma’am, and I apologize for my

language.”

“You need your mouth washed out with soap,” the little girl pronounced.

“That is enough, young lady!” her mother snapped. “You apologize to his lordship

this instant!”

“It’s not necessary, ma’am,” Glyn injected.

“I’m sorry, milord, but it is. She has been raised better than this,” the young woman

stated. She gave her daughter an arched look. “Valda? What do you say to his

lordship?”

The child’s bottom lip thrust out and she folded her little arms over her chest, chin

tucked down, slumping down in her seat. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“His lordship didn’t hear you.”

“Aye, he did,” Glyn corrected. “Apology accepted, Valda.”

Valda didn’t seem mollified. Her mouth twisted to one side. “Didn’t your mama

ever wash your mouth out when you said a naughty word?”

Glyn’s mood was lightening for he was finding himself amused by the

precociousness of the little girl. “Well, Valda, I didn’t have a mother.”

“That’s silly,” Valda told him firmly. “Everybody has a mother. Even chickens and

ducks and frogs have mothers but…” She put a little finger to her lip in contemplation.

“Chicky and ducky babies are hatched from eggs.” She shot him a curious look. “Are

Reapers hatched from eggs?”

“Oh my Lord!” her mother groaned.

Glyn chuckled, wincing as pain shot through his temples. He put a hand to the

agony residing there. “We’re all hatched from eggs, dearling,” he informed her.

Valda looked up at her mother. “Is that true, Mama? Are we all hatched from

eggs?”

“Reaper lords don’t tell falsehoods, sweetie. Yes, it’s true, but not like you picture in

your mind,” her mother answered. She patted her child’s knee. “We’ll save that

discussion for a few years down the road.”

As mercurial as lightning, Valda changed the subject. “What happened to your

horsy, Mr. Reaper?”

A bit surprised the child was so persistent, Glyn answered, “I had to put him

down.”

“Down where?” the child asked.

6

My Reaper’s Daughter

“He stepped in a gopher hole and broke his leg. He was suffering so I had to shoot

him.”

“Oh, that’s sad,” the child whispered, eyes brightening with tears.

“Aye, it is,” Glyn agreed, and tugged his hat down again. Losing Seabhac had hurt

him deeper than he would have imagined. He’d had the beast for a long time, and next

to his best friend Reaper Owen Tohre, the horse was the closest thing to family he had

beyond his homeworld of Breathnóir.

“Are you going to get a new horsy?”

“Aye, that I will,” he replied. Nausea was encroaching deep in his throat and the

sour bile fumes invaded his mouth. He swallowed it down, wincing as the pain

gathered behind his right eye.

Looking up through long black eyelashes, the girl tilted her head to one side.

“What’s that on your face?”

“Oh, for the love of Pete, Valda!” her mother said with a groan. “Stop annoying his

lordship.”

“It’s all right, ma’am. She’s not bothering me. It’s a tattoo, Valda,” Glyn said. He

looked pointedly at the mother, silently commanding her to stop correcting the child for

he was enjoying the banter.

“What’d you paint it on your face for?”

Deciding her child was beyond help, the young woman hid her face behind a hand,

shaking her head in frustration.

“I didn’t,” Glyn answered. “Someone else did.” He glanced out the window.

“Rather some
thing
else did.”

“What is it?” Valda wanted to know.