Reaper's Justice Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Praise for Promises Reveal

  “Few writers can match the skill of Sarah McCarty when it comes to providing her audience with an intelligent, exhilarating Western romance starring two likable protagonists. The fast-paced story line hooks the audience.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Entertaining and kept this reader turning the pages. I’ve got a soft spot for Western historicals, with their hard times and smooth-talking cowboys. Ms. McCarty delivers on both of those fronts.”

  —Romance Reader at Heart

  “I absolutely adored the chemistry and witty banter between these two spicy characters, and the sex, as always, was titillating, sizzling, and realistic . . . I don’t know how she does it, but I want more and more and more. You will too once you read this fantastic tale.”

  —Night Owl Romance

  “A must read . . . Enticing and erotic . . . I am already craving more!”

  —Romance Junkies

  “Highly entertaining . . . Plenty steamy . . . and a great compliment to the series.”

  —A Romance Review

  “A delightful tale with lots of intense passion . . . Outstanding! Not to be missed by fans of historical Westerns who enjoy a strong dose of erotic fiction.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  Praise for Running Wild

  “[Sarah McCarty’s] captivating characters, scorching love scenes, and dramatic plot twists kept me on the edge. I could not put it down.”

  —Night Owl Romance

  “McCarty . . . skillfully brings out her characters’ deepest emotions. Three strong heroines and three mouthwatering heroes . . . will tug at your heartstrings, and the well-written sex scenes will not disappoint.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Sarah McCarty entices and enchants . . . and has taken paranormal romance to a whole new level.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “You are going to love this . . . Entertaining and passionate . . . Fast-paced story lines and super-hot sex scenes . . . Sarah McCarty definitely takes you on a wild ride and . . . weaves a fascinating paranormal.”

  —Lucrezia Magazine

  “This one is a scorcher. If you’re looking for a romance to raise the temperatures, then look no further than McCarty’s Running Wild !”

  —Romance Reader at Heart

  “Provide[s] werewolf romance fans with a strong, heated collection. Fans will be Running Wild.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  More praise for the novels of Sarah McCarty

  “[A] pulse-pounding paranormal.”

  —Road to Romance

  “Masterfully written.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Powerfully erotic, emotional, and thought provoking.”

  —Ecataromance

  “Has the WOW factor . . . Characters that jump off the pages!”

  —Just Erotic Romance Reviews

  “Toe-curling.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews (recommended read)

  “Ms. McCarty is a genius!”

  —Romance Junkies

  Berkley Sensation titles by Sarah McCarty

  PROMISES REVEAL

  The Shadow Wranglers

  CALEB

  JARED

  The Shadow Reapers

  REAPER’S JUSTICE

  Berkley Heat titles by Sarah McCarty

  RUNNING WILD

  WILD INSTINCT

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2011 by Sarah McCarty.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / February 2011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McCarty, Sarah.

  Reaper’s justice / Sarah McCarty.—Berkley Sensation trade paperback ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-44575-4

  1. Werewolves—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3613.C3568R43 2011

  813’.6—dc22 2010045392

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Linda, Isaiah’s Woman of Radiance:

  May the paths you travel be lined with all the love and

  happiness you deserve. The best is yet to come.

  1

  THEY’D STOLEN HIS SANITY.

  A hint of dawn watered the darkness to a pale gray, illuminating the doorway in a feeble wash of light. Isaiah Jones touched the piece of deep blue wool caught on the shattered wood of the door frame, a tiny, lingering fragment of the violence that had invaded the peace he’d found, tainted the haven she’d created. Touched her.

  He pulled the scrap free of the splinter. It came easily into his grip, as if sensing his need. It was cold, devoid of the heat of her body, empty of that subtle scent he associated only with her. They hadn’t taken her recently then.

  He tucked the piece of fabric into his pocket and shoved the hanging door out of the way. He didn’t go any farther into the kitchen than the first foot. This was her space, her world, not a place where a man like him belonged. Besides, he didn’t need to go into the room to know when they’d taken her. The pink-and-white teacup on the table told the story. She was a woman of habit, going through her day in an orderly manner. No matter what chaos stirred around her, she handled ev
erything with efficient competence, maintaining her balance through the rituals she cherished, sharing that balance with others who came into contact with her. She never looked deeper than a person’s need, meeting it as best she could. It was one of her more foolish habits and one of the reasons he’d taken to guarding her. That and the fact that he owed her.

  One of her nightly rituals—one he approved of—was to sit at the kitchen table every evening at nine o’clock with a book and a cup a tea. She read for half an hour then rinsed out her cup and put it back on the drying towel on the counter before going to bed. He knew because he came by her house whenever he was in town, drawn against his will to check on her, the ghost of his existence haunting hers. Except for tonight, the one night she’d needed him.

  He forced himself into the room, toward the table where her teacup still rested, guilt driving his feet forward. The scent of sweet dough settled around him, drowning out the other smells, pushing against the inner walls that contained the beast.

  One step, two steps. He made it one more before the walls closed in around him. Shit. He hated enclosed spaces. He blinked as reality wavered and the cheery, blue arbor rose wallpaper disappeared into the memory of damp, crevice-laden dirt walls, crawling with cockroaches. He breathed steadily as the slip between past and present persisted, gliding silently forward, roses and roaches shimmering one over the other. He stopped just short of the table, instinct carrying him through the confusion, and reached out to touch the cup. Her cup.

  The room snapped back into focus. He traced the rim of the cup, experiencing the delicate fragility of the china against his rough fingertip. Beside the cup sat a smooth piece of gleaming amber. Her worry stone. It was hard to touch the small, flat sphere so loaded with her scent and the remnants of her energy. His connection to her was already too strong.

  He forced his finger to the smooth surface. He pictured her as he saw her so often, head bent over a book, the stone in her slender hand, her fingers rubbing back and forth in an easy rhythm as lamp-light shone on her hair, highlighting the blond streaks that glowed like lingering rays of sunshine. He picked up the amber and carefully put it in his pocket. She’d need her worry stone.

  He turned to go and made it halfway to the door before he stopped. He glanced beyond the door, the anonymity of the night calling him. Behind him the cup and saucer sat, a ritual incomplete. The amber burned in his pocket. Rituals mattered, kept a body sane. He, more than anyone, understood that. He hesitated a moment, and then returned to the table. The sense of connection increased as he picked up the delicate china. Tea sloshed in the cup. A growl rumbled in his throat. She hadn’t even gotten to finish her tea.

  He rinsed out the cup and saucer and placed them on the drying towel, completing her ritual. He paused an instant, his fingers resting on the fine material of the lace-edged white towel. Even her mundane items were delicate and fancy, little tells of the vulnerable femininity she tried to hide because she saw it as weak. His dark fingers lay in stark contrast against the fragile needlework, the network of scars on the backs the opposite of beauty. The opposite of peaceful. And tonight that was good.

  The sound of wind roared in his ears, but outside the window the branches of the willow tree didn’t sway. The scent of blood blended with the scent of sweet dough. He blinked slowly.

  Not real. It’s not real.

  Real or not, it didn’t matter. He felt the icy lash of rain against his cheeks as if it were yesterday. Felt the pain as the scars split into gaping wounds that never healed, spilling blood until it stained the field of his vision. He blinked again and pulled his hand away. The towel slid off the counter, but it was white, unmarked by blood. Just another trick of his mind, heralding the split building inside as all the rituals he’d devised over the last three years to protect the world from himself tore off, layer by layer. He put the towel back to rights, but inside the destruction continued, and the beast howled to be so near its freedom. And this time he didn’t fight it back.

  He would have stayed invisible forever, blending with the shadows, enduring the cacophony of his life until something brought it to an end if they hadn’t touched her. But they had. They’d slipped into his private sanctuary and threatened the only thing that mattered. The only good he knew. He turned on his heel, melting comfortably into the shadows of the room, heading out the door, no longer human. No longer anything but the deadly specter he’d been taught to be.

  The early morning air took him into its cold embrace. The smooth leather of his knife grip settled into his palm with the familiarity of a trusted friend. He hadn’t asked for this. The choice had been theirs. Foolishly and arrogantly, they’d ignored the laws of nature that called for balance, the laws that kept evil circling good, and with their actions had released the evil circling her. Him.

  He knelt at the foot of the steps, his night vision illuminating the pattern in the dirt. The prints told the story. Three men. All wearing boots. The one with a tendency to roll his right foot to the inside held her. She’d fought. The scuff marks told that story. He followed the tracks back to the narrow alley behind the building. Dark splotches in the dirt drew his touch.

  Blood. He brought it to his nose. Hers. The beast snarled and bared its canines. Inside, the hunger surged. Inhuman. Dangerous. The end to her struggles hadn’t been painless. For that they would also pay. He scanned both sides of the alley. No bodies. They’d probably made it to their horses without notice. Which probably meant she was still alive. He grunted, pressing the sand between his fingers, holding on to the essence of her as if through sheer force of will he could keep her alive. She just needed to stay alive and he would find her. No matter where they took her, no matter how they tried to cover their tracks, he would find her. And he would bring her home.

  His gaze was drawn to the remaining splotch of blood—growing, spreading until it swallowed the ground. Rivers really could run red because the ground wasn’t always thirsty enough to soak up men’s violence, and when that happened, there was no stopping the carnage. He took a breath and then another, fighting the urge to tumble into the growing vision, to accept the stain that was so much a part of him, to accept that there was no rebuilding a past that had been stolen so long ago.

  The old anger rose, feeding the emptiness he’d lived with since before he could remember, before they’d taken away what little he’d had. With a snap of his teeth, he won the battle to stay in the here and now. At the end of the alley, between the rough wood sides of the buildings, the horizon flushed with the first hint of morning. A new day. One more night survived without succumbing.

  Isaiah rested his forearm on his knee and formed a mental picture of the terrain beyond the town. The men who’d stolen Adelaide would likely be relying on their lead to get them through so it’d make sense for them to take the easier southwest route. If he cut through Ambush Canyon, he could make up a lot of ground. Assuming they continued southwest.

  He stood. That was a pretty safe assumption. In his experience, men kidnapped a woman for only three reasons—money, lust, or revenge. This had the feel of all three, seeing as the woman was beautiful, salable, and of good family, with strong protectors.

  Only someone mad as hell would risk setting the Camerons on his tail. There wasn’t a more relentless or deadly force in the Territory, if he discounted himself, than the Cameron men. The fact that the kidnappers had targeted a member of their tight-knit clan made this personal. He’d figure out why after he brought Adelaide back. He didn’t leave dangling threads from a threat any more than he left witnesses.

  The kidnappers would likely ride through the night before they felt comfortable enough to stop. And when they stopped, the lust and revenge angle would come into play. His mouth set into a grim line. The thought of what that would mean for Adelaide hardened his resolve. They weren’t going to touch her.

  IF he touched her again, Adelaide was going kick to him between the legs, and to hell with the consequences. She tossed her hair out of her eyes. It f
ell back into her face immediately, blocking her field of vision. The even cadence of her breathing snagged on a moment of panic. The leader glanced over at her from where he knelt by the fire. His mustache twitched with his grin. She pulled her hands apart, using the pain of her bonds cutting into her skin to bury the emotions battling for dominance. Oh God, she wanted to scream, cry, throw herself on the ground and rage, do anything but stand here and pretend she wasn’t terrified. But giving in to emotion wouldn’t gain her freedom. She needed her wits about her to get out of this mess. A mess that had just gotten worse by the addition of the ten other men who’d joined her three kidnappers as soon as they’d forded the river.

  The leader stood and approached, the cruel-looking spurs on his boots clinking with every step.

  “You are a proud woman,” he said as he drew even, reaching out.

  She jerked her head out of reach. He studied her defiance for an instant, his hand open, level with her cheek, the fingers drawn back in a threat. The split in her lip burned from where he’d struck her before. Fear rose, but she wouldn’t cower. She didn’t blink or look away, just stared at him as impassively as she could manage, giving herself a focus for calm through memorizing the details of his face. Her cousins would want to know what he looked like so they could hunt him down and kill him. When they asked for a description, she would like to have something to give them beyond “filthy and stank of horse and old sweat.”