Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River by Sinner (Ellora's Cave) Page B

got your number, Guthrie!” a man mumbled.
    Cynyr slipped his arm around his lady. “Is there anything we can do to help while we’re here?”
    Shocked glances were exchanged. To hear a Reaper offer assistance was unheard of. Men of his kind
    usually rode into town, dispatched whomever they’d been sent to find then rode out again without so
    much as a howdy-do. But then again, no Reaper had ever ridden into town with a woman at his side.
    Eyes slid to Aingeal and held.
    “That’s very kind of you, sir,” the sheriff said, trying to smile but unable to. “Most folks have been
    accounted for. Only one family ain’t here but I heard tell they were all right.”
    “Wiped out, but all right,” the hotelman put in.
    “That must have been the couple we passed on the way here,” Aingeal told her lover then sneezed.
    Cynyr glanced down at her and frowned. He looked at the faces watching them. “If we can be of any
    assistance, just let me know.”
    “We appreciate the offer, sir,” the sheriff said softly. “Thank you for caring.”
    Cynyr nodded. “Is the liveryman here?”
    A man stepped forward, his hat in his hand. “That would be me, sir. Brett Samuels at your service.”
    “Would you see to my horses? He’s the big black and she’s the sorrel hitched a few doors down.” He
    fished in his pocket and pulled out a silver coin, which he flipped to the liveryman.
    “Yes, sir!” the man replied. He jammed his hat on his head and started out of the room.
    “If you would, bring me my saddlebag when you return.”
    Those gathered mumbled amongst themselves. The Reaper had made no demand but a request, and
    he’d been polite about it.
    “I’ll do that, sir!”
    Cynyr turned to the hotelman. “If there isn’t anything we can do, would you show us to our room? My
    lady is coming down with a cold and I’d like to get her warm.”
    The eyes staring at Aingeal flared at the possessive tone in the Reaper’s voice.
    “Right this way, sir,” the hotelman said. He held his arm out to indicate the stairs. “We’ll bring up some
    hot soup if she’s of a mind to partake of it.”
    “I’m sure she’d appreciate that,” Cynyr agreed, and allowed Aingeal to precede him up the stairs.
    As she climbed the stairs, Aingeal was aware of the weight of the stares settling on her. She wasn’t sure
    she liked the attention she was getting.
    “You might as well get used to it, wench,” Cynyr told her. He was so close to her she could feel the heat
    of his body as they climbed. “You’re a Reaper’s mate and that’s just one rung below the devil himself.”
    Aingeal sniffed. There wasn’t anything demonic about her lover—at least where she was concerned. She
    had no doubt he could be hell on wheels when it was necessary but she refused to think of him in any
    other way than the gentle, considerate man she was fast growing to love.
    Aingeal stopped on the stair, making Cynyr run into her. Where had that thought come from? she
    wondered.
    “Who wouldn’t love me?” he asked, prodding her into motion once more. “I’m such a lovable cur.”
    It unnerved her that he could read her mind. She knew she was going to have to be very careful around
    him if she wanted to keep anything private and to herself. The Reaper’s snort as that thought drifted
    through her mind made her groan. Keeping her privacy wasn’t going to be an easy thing to accomplish.
    The room to which the hotelman led them held only a bed, a nightstand, a small dresser with a pitcher
    and ewer sitting atop it and a single ladder-back chair, but it was clean and warm.
    “It’s the best in the house,” the man said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Only the best for you, sir.”
    Cynyr reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of paper bills. He peeled one off and handed it to
    the man. “This should cover our stay,” he said.
    Peeking down at the money in his hand, the hotelman’s eyes lit up. “More than enough, sir!” he