Charlotte Boyett-Compo - WyndRiver Sinner

An Elloras Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

WyndRiver Sinner

ISBN # 1-4199-0340-3

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

WyndRiver Sinner Copyright 2006 Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Edited by Mary Moran.

Cover art by Syneca.

Electronic book Publication: February 2006

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Elloras Cave Publishing, Inc. 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

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.

Warning:

The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

Elloras Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as fucking, cock, pussy, and such within their work of literature.

X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

WyndRiver Sinner

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter One

Tinny music beckoned from the brightly lit interior of a saloon near the end of the dirt street. Somewhere close by a gunshot echoed loudly, accompanied by the shrill cry of a woman. Drunken men stumbled alongsinging a bawdy song off-keywith bottles of cheap whiskey clutched in their grimy hands, the booze dribbling from rubbery lips when tipped to a whiskered face. A lone dog shambled along with his tail between his legs, seeking shelter, looking for scraps. Sitting on the boardwalk with his head in his hands, a young cowpoke was retching. Farther up, a body lay sprawled in the middle of the streetunnoticed and as dead as the expressionless look of the lone Jakotai Indian buck leaning against the jailhouse wall.

Welcome to Dyersville, the crooked sign over the livery stable read. Hanging by one nail as it swung slowly back and forth, creaking in the nighttime breeze, the sign gave the population as sixty-four brave souls. Few buildings bore even a trace of paint on the lapboard siding. The main street was nothing more than mud-filled ruts. The town was well on its way to a slow, inevitable death.

To the man who rode into Dyersville that June evening the town bore upon it the unmistakable stench of evil. Wickedness hung in the air like a thick, wet blanket and it seemed to settle on his shoulders as he dismounted, oozing unease down his back. Shifting uncomfortably beneath the sickening onslaught, the stranger tied his mount to the hitching post then climbed the few rickety steps to the boardwalk. Thick mud clung to his boots and stuck between the spokes on the rowels of his spurs. The boot scraper sitting to one side of the saloons batwing doors was caked with dried dirt and would be no use in helping him rid his boots of the muck. He walked to the edge of the boardwalk and scraped what detritus he could from the soles of his boots then turned around to push through the swinging doors into the saloon.

The air was filled with cloying smoke that hung from the ceiling in shifting clouds. Unwashed bodies, urine and vomit, cheap perfume and even cheaper liquor vied with the musky reek of tobacco and the tart odor wafting up from the overflowing spittoons. Shrill music from a banged-up piano that was badly in need of tuning barely masked the cursing and catcalls bombarding the stuffy room. A roulette wheel was spinning at one table while two men were shoving one another in the corner, adding mayhem to the clamor.

Polishing the heavily scarred bar, the barkeep glanced up at the black-clad stranger who came to stand before him. Whatll it be, mister? he asked, trying to get a look at the mans face beneath the wide brim of his black hat.

Whiskey, the stranger ordered, propping his foot on the tarnished brass rail that ran the length of the bar.

Only a few customers took note of the newcomer and then only in passing. Most were either playing their cards close to the vest at the poker tables or lounging drunkenly about the room. In Dyersville, a man tended to mind his own business. Strangers were to be avoidedmost definitely not studiedand allowed to go on their way.

There were two saloon girls milling about the tables, hawking drinks. The older of the two was dressed in a bright red satin gown that hideously clashed with the tinted copper of her dry, wispy hair. Younger and barely clad in a white chemise and black fishnet stockings, the other girl was prettier but in a coarse, jaded way that said shed known more than her share of rough men in her young life. Neither paid any attention to the stranger at the bar, for there was something about the set of his shoulders that warned off socializing.

You just passing through? the barkeep asked, bending his knees in an effort to get a look at his customer. He poured a shot of whiskey and set it before the stranger.

The stranger didnt answer. He picked up the whiskey, lifted it to his lips and knocked it back. As he did, his stare fastened on the bartenders inquisitive face.

Rheumy gray eyes widening with surprise, the barkeep took a step back, crashing into the back bar before sliding sideways away from the strangers steely stare.

It had been the dark blue tribal tattoo that spiraled upward from the corner of the strangers right eye that caused the bartender to move away with more speed than hed exhibited all day. Ducking his head, he went to the far end of the bar and began vigorously polishing the scratched top.

Only one other customer was perched at the barmumbling incoherently to himselfbut he didnt glance around as the stranger turned toward the crowd, his narrowed gaze passing over the rowdy patrons. A few people looked his way, but most went on about their business without acknowledging the danger that was now among them.

Sitting alone at a table, one man tensed as soon as the stranger began surveying the room. Trying to be inconspicuous, he knew hed failed when the stony stare passed over him then swept back and held. The hand holding his beer trembled and he set the mug down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The tinny sound of the piano suddenly died away and the man who had been pounding the keys got up and stumbled off, taking his nearly empty tip jar with him. Without the deafening plink of the instrument, the room quieted down a bit and more people became aware of the man standing at the bar.

It wasnt the dusty black shirt and hat or the black leather britches that drew the uneasy looks. Nor was it the black gloves covering very capable-looking hands that started anxious hearts to begin pounding. A pearl-handled revolver lay strapped low to the strangers right thigh like a gunfighter would wear it, but every man there had a gun hanging at his hip. What made the men in the bar nervous was the dragons claw whip handle that lay nestled in a silver sheath on the strangers left hip.

Bounty hunter, someone said, and immediately the room went as still as the grave. Eyes swiveled to a tall man sitting at a table by himself then men began scrambling for the door, none daring to look back.