Her Reaper's Arms Charlotte Boyett-Compo (rainbow fish read aloud TXT) 📖

awaiting him, his shoulders slumped. The

Shadowlords had not trusted him to come on his own and he wasn’t sure he could

have.

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Epilogue

Bevyn took the bandana from around his head and dipped it into the bucket of

water, wrung it out then retied it around his hair, pulling the ends behind his head and

tucking them up. He was stripped to the waist and sweating, his face burning from the

furnace blast of the sun’s heat.

“You reckon it could get any hotter?” Burt Gilbert, one of the men helping the

Reaper paint, asked.

“Only in the Abyss, my friend,” Bevyn agreed. His chest was streaking with white

paint and he had a smudge of it on his cheek.

“We didn’t pick the best day to be slinging paint,” Buford Gilchrist mumbled. The

sheriff had been complaining all morning.

“He don’t look none the worse for wear,” Cornelia observed as she rocked in her

chair and plied a battered wicker fan.

“He says it wasn’t bad, but he would say that anyway,” Lea said as she sewed a

button on one of his shirts.

“Suppose so,” Cornelia agreed.

“There was this look in his eyes when he came back,” Lea said, pausing with the

needle in the air. She studied her man. “It was bad. I could tell, but he didn’t want me to

know.”

“Don’t dwell on it, girl,” Cornelia told her. “It’s over and done with.”

“It hurts me that I was the cause of him suffering,” Lea said.

Bevyn turned and gave his lady a comical look, crossing his eyes to make her laugh.

Lea giggled and looked down at the shirt.

“He reads minds, don’t he?” Cornelia asked.

“Aye, he does,” Lea said with a sigh.

“Not a good thing in a husband,” Cornelia said.

Lea shook her head. Although they had made no formal vows, were not legally

Joined, she thought of him as her husband and when he introduced her to people who

did not know them, he introduced her as Lea Coure, a name she was very proud to

bear.

“What about that Amazing woman?” Cornelia inquired.

“The Amazeen?” Lea corrected. “She stayed behind at the Citadel. The last I heard

of her—the last I ever hope to hear of her—was that she would be helping train the

marshals and sheriffs, the lawmen who help the Reapers in the territories. Lord Kheelan

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made her a captain in the security section and she is also in charge of punishments for

the lawmen. She seemed content enough with her lot.”

“She looks the sort to enjoy punishing a man,” Cornelia stated. “Reckon her people

will ever come after her?”

“If they do, they won’t get her,” Lea said. “Not out of the Citadel. The Shadowlords

have some kind of defense thing that doesn’t allow entry by outsiders.” She looked up

from the shirt to watch Bevyn as he swept his arm up and down over the boards, the

muscles in his broad back flexing with each circuit. “Not unless the goddess allows it, I

suppose.”

Bevyn stooped over to put his paintbrush in the can then lifted his arm to wipe his

forehead.

“Your man looks hot,” Cornelia told her. “Best go take him some lemonade, I

reckon.”

Lea laid the shirt down on the table between the two rockers and got up. She went

to the frosty pitcher of lemonade and stepped off Cornelia’s porch to the garden shed

her Reaper and his friends had built for the black woman and were now painting.

“The gods bless you, milady!” Burt said as he saw her coming.

Bevyn turned around and smiled. “I’ve got her well trained, men.”

“Humpf,” Lea snorted as she poured first Burt then Buford a glass, leaving her

sweaty, grinning lover the last to receive the cold lemonade.

“Remind me not to volunteer to build anything else,” Bevyn told her as he took the

glass and rubbed it over his forehead.

“Does your head hurt?” she asked, frowning. “Are you having one of your

migraines?”

“Nope,” he said. “Just hot.” He took a big swig of the lemonade, a bit of it trickling

down his chin, and he tipped his head back to drink.

“You sure?” she queried. He was prone to vicious headaches that sometimes

resulted in her having to give him an extra dose of tenerse.

“The only aching head I’ve got, wench, is between my legs,” he said with a feisty

grin.

“Way too much information,” Burt grumbled. “Didn’t need that image in my mind,

Reaper.”

Bevyn cracked ice between his strong white teeth, grinning like a little boy at Burt

and the sheriff, wagging his brows at them.

“Behave,” Lea told him as she turned to go back up to the porch and relative cool,

but she gasped as her man snaked an arm around her waist and drew her to him,

slamming her against his sweaty chest. “Bevyn!” she shrieked.

The Reaper lowered his head and nuzzled her neck, whispered something in her

ear before she slapped at his naked chest and pushed him away, him laughing

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uproariously at her red face. She took off as though the hounds of hell were nipping at

her heels, looking over her shoulder at him as she hurried away.

“What did you say to make her run off like that, Bev?” Buford asked.

“And what’s she running over to your house for in such an all-fired hurry,

Reaper?” Burt inquired.

“I just reminded her how much sugar was in that pitcher of lemonade,” Bevyn said,

pulling off his bandana and striding purposefully after his lady, a wide, wicked grin on

his handsome face.

143

About the Author

Charlee is the author of over thirty books. Married 40 years to her high school

sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud

grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing house slave

to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing

her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew

up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest.

Charlee welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email

address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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