“It is!” Gerard replied. “I am truly blessed.” He lifted the apron he wore and cleaned his hands—a nervous habit Phelan remembered the man possessed.
“What may I get for you, milord?”
“It depends. Anything I need to see to while I’m here?”
Color spread over Gerard’s face. “Well, there is a might of trouble up to Haxton Cove,” he said. “I don’t know that it would be worth your time riding up there, though.”
Phelan leaned a hip against the counter. “What kind of trouble are we walking about?”
The storekeeper’s blush deepened. “Ah, whores, milord. A whole pisspot full of ‘em, if you’ll pardon my language.”
Phelan’s brows drew together. “Why would there be a brothel way up there?”
“Because they’ve reopened the mines, milord,” Gerard replied. “Came across a big vein of rubies and sapphires up that way at a place they’ve taken to calling Gemrow. The miners need to blow off a bit of steam now and then and that’s where Miss Lucy’s girls come in.” He lowered his voice. “You know the usual stuff.”
“I get the drift, aye,” Phelan said with a twitch of his lips.
“Anyways, Miss Lucy named her place The Ruby Load and brought in about twelve right pretty gals who know their profession. She has a man who sees to the security of the bawds and a gang of ruffians who keep the miners in line. They say her bar is the best this side of the Big Muddy and the food ain’t half bad. She’s got roulette wheels, cards, the usual gambling enterprises. Prices for rooms—which include the girls, of course—are steep but nothing exorbitant I guess. It’s like the old saying—nothing the economy won’t bear.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Phelan asked. “If she isn’t price-gouging her customers and gives quality service, why should I go up there? Whore-running isn’t illegal.”
“It’s the man she hired to oversee her gambling den,” the storekeeper answered. “They say he’s a cheater and he’s killed a couple of men who’ve called him on it.” He lowered his voice even more. “They say Miss Lucy is scared to death of him and is afraid to send him on his way. Rumor has it he might even be a rogue, milord.”
Phelan’s interest perked up at that bit of information. If there was a renegade Reaper—more accurately called a balgair—who had managed to evade the net Phelan and his squad had thrown to collect them, the bastard needed to be neutralized.
“Haxton Cove, eh?” Phelan questioned.
“Aye, milord. Just follow the Tail of the Dragon. When you come to the Strattan take the trail right on up to the Cove. You can’t miss it.”
“Much obliged,” Phelan said. “I guess I’ll be needing a few things before I trek up there.”
“Just name it, milord,” the storekeeper said, finally beginning to relax around the deadly lawman.
Phelan’s eyes drifted hungrily to the large jars of candy on the counter. “How ‘bout a pound of lemon drops to begin with?”
“Still got that sweet tooth I see,” Gerard quipped with a smile.
The Reaper cocked a black-clad shoulder. It was a fairly harmless vice his kind shared and care had to be used when indulging the craving for sweets for sugar did strange things to the Reaper psyche.
Seductive things that sometimes were best left alone.
Still feeling on edge after leaving the general store a little while later Phelan paused on the sidewalk with the paper bag of candy in hand. He leaned against the porch support and watched the townspeople walking past. The men tipped their hats to him, the ladies bobbed their heads and the children stared openly at him until their mothers leaned down to chastise them for their rudeness. He nodded his own greetings to those who acknowledged him and studied those who were pretending they didn’t see him or were too afraid to look his way. One man in particular caught his attention and he stared hard at the tall, dark haired stranger with the double crossdraw rig slung low on his hips.
The cowboy was leaning against the saloon wall with one leg crooked, the sole of his boot flat against the wall. His arms were crossed and his hat tipped low over his forehead—shielding his face—but Phelan could feel the man’s eyes locked on him.
Tossing two lemon drops into his mouth, he folded the top of the bag down, went over to his horse and stuffed the candy into his saddlebag. The storekeeper was readying his provisions for him so he had half an hour or so to kill before heading out. The enigma of the stranger across the dusty street intrigued him and he started toward him, stopping as a buckboard rolled in front of him. When the buckboard rattled past, Phelan scowled.
The stranger was no longer in sight nor did the Reaper see him walking along the boardwalk. The batwing doors to the saloon were still but that seemed the only logical place the man could have disappeared to so quickly. Settling his hat more comfortably on his head, Phelan made a beeline for the watering hole, his spurs jangling on the hard packed street.
Pushing open the doors, Phelan let his eyesight adjust to the low light in the saloon. Though it was high noon and the day was sunny and warm, the interior of the building was cool though it stank of smoke, tobacco juice, and other even less savory smells Phelan tried to block out. He entered the saloon, swept the room with a practiced glance both way but did not spy the stranger. Walking up to the bar, he gave the barkeep a single nod.
“Did a man just come in here?” he asked.
The barkeep was polishing a glass. “No, milord. Ain’t been no one in for nigh on two hours.”
“You seen a tall man with a brown hat with star conchos, dark blue shirt, fancy double rig worn low?”
The bartender squinted. “Aye, milord. That sounds like a fellow named Fontabeau,” he replied. “Didn’t get no first name. Hails from over Exasla way.”
“What’s his story?”
A shrug lifted the barkeep’s shoulder. “Don’t know much about him ‘cept he’s been here going on a day or two. Keeps to himself when he comes in. Has a few whiskeys, plays a hand now and then. He’s got a room at the Delaware House.”
Heading back to the general store, he once again felt eyes on him and looked across the street and up this time to the windows above the entrance to the Delaware House. Standing framed in the window with the curtain pulled to one side was Fontabeau, the lower part of his face hidden in shadow.
Their eyes met and Phelan felt something shift within him. It was a feeling not unlike a twisting, slithering serpent undulating through his gut. The hairs stood up on his arms, bringing him to a complete stop on the sidewalk.
Then Fontabeau smiled.
It was a savage, knowing grin, a nasty smirk that lasted only a flicker of a moment then vanished, the curtain closing to shut out the image of the gunman.
Phelan stared up at the window—knowing full well he was being watched from behind the lacy pattern of fabric. Being watched irritated the Reaper. His hands clenched into fists, his eyes narrowed and a muscle jumped in his tattooed cheek. He snarled and stepped off the boardwalk and into the street, his heavy footfalls taking him straight to the entrance of the boarding house. Those he past stepped promptly aside for the look on the Reaper’s face boded ill for whomever had caused it.
The desk clerk had seen Lord Phelan coming across the street and figured the lawman was headed to the Delaware House to book a room. She had the guest book turned to face the door and stood with pen in hand to await his arrival. Her belly did a funny little clench when he opened the door and strode in, his dark, saturnine face handsome despite the anger shooting from his eyes.
“Fontabeau,” was all he said.
“Room nine,” the desk clerk whispered, the pen trembling in her hand. She watched the Reaper take the stairs to the upper rooms two at a time.
He had his fist up, preparing to knock—no, to pound—upon the door when it suddenly opened.
Standing framed in the doorway was his target. Black hair, amber eyes, features looking as though they had been sculpted by the hands of the gods, broad shoulders, slender waist, he was of the same height and muscular build as Phelan but looked a year or so older. There was no doubt whatsoever in Phelan’s mind the man was a balgair. He had sensed it and now that confirmation had been made the moment he caught a whiff of Fontabeau.
“It’s not what you think,” Fontabeau said. “I’m not a rogue.”
Phelan’s hand went to the laser whip at his waist. “The hell you’re not. I know what a blooded Reaper smells like.”
“Come in and shut the door, Kiel. No one else needs to hear this,” Fontabeau insisted, moving back, keeping his hands away from his hips though his gun belt was looped over the footboard of the bed.
Phelan kicked the door shut. “You’re not a gods-be-damned Reaper so you have to be a balgair! You have no clan tat!”
“Aye, but I do.” Fontabeau tore open his shirt and there on his left pectoral was a dark blue tattoo but Phelan only glanced at it. “Mo Regina made me, Kiel, just as She made you,” Fontabeau said.
“Who the hell are you?” Phelan bellowed.
“They call me Fontabeau,” he replied. “The clan name is Sorn. Unless you have forgotten Reaper history my clan is one of the Dháréag, the Twelve Clans.”
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Copyright CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2008.