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pharmaceuticals—settled down in one corner
    with a quiet, expressionless game of five-card stud to pass the time. Mystery took her
    daughter to the settee at the other end of the room and sat down to tell the little girl a
    few fairy tales. Glyn unbuckled his gun belt and draped it on a chair close at hand. He
    went to the fireplace where a fire had been lit to dispel the dampness and stood there
    staring down into the hearth, his forearm braced on the thick oak mantle. The storm
    continued unabated all evening, and by the time the cots were brought out and placed
    about the room and the lanterns turned low, nerves had been chaffed raw by the
    constant noise. The travelers and the employees of the stage line were more than ready
    for sleep.
    All except Glyn.
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    Charlotte Boyett-Compo
    He had not moved from the fireplace but was staring intently into the flames. He
    had barely acknowledged DePalmer telling him that his cot had been prepared, asking
    if he needed anything from the stage.
    “Your saddle and saddlebags are in the stable,” the station man assured the Reaper,
    who only nodded at the information.
    With each shriek of lightning, the man in black seemed to grow more edgy. His hair
    was tousled from the countless times he had plowed a trembling hand through it.
    Uneasy eyes shifted his way until the anxiety finally pierced his shell and he looked up.
    “I’m a week or so away from Transition,” he informed them, and the collective sigh
    of relief was audible even above the roaring storm.
    “What’s Tran…Tran…”
    “Transition,” Mystery said. “It’s just something Reapers do, sweetie. It’s nothing for
    you to worry about.”
    “I think he’s afraid of the lightning, Mama,” Valda told her mother.
    Mystery was preparing her daughter for bed, brushing out the little girl’s hair.
    Their cots were side by side with the men’s resting places at the other end of the room.
    “I don’t think Reapers are afraid of anything, sweetie,” her mother assured her.
    When the child was tucked in, all the men save the lawman stretched out on their
    cots and the little girl’s mother finally crawling beneath the thin blanket provided,
    DePalmer blew out the lanterns—with Glyn’s permission—and hurried to his own bed.
    The Reaper’s face was lit by the light from the dancing flames, his amber eyes
    sparking with each leap of the fire. He was strung as tightly as a new bow, unable to
    relax, so tired he was beyond weariness and his headache was back with a vengeance.
    He was sick at heart about the loss of his stallion, feeling guilt for having to put the
    creature down. He was worried about Owen Tohre, his best friend on the Reaper team
    who was still in a containment cell and would be for another month to come. He was
    worried about Owen’s pregnant wife and a dozen other things that were preying on his
    mind.
    “You need rest, my Reaper.”
    The voice came at him from far away but it drifted through his mind as intimate
    and clear as though the speaker were right there beside him.
    “I need peace, Mo Regina,” he sent back to Her.
    “Sleep,” She ordered.
    His exhaustion seemed to overwhelm him and he yawned. He knew it would be
    impossible to fight it for She would see Her will done. Reluctantly, he walked to his cot
    and sat down, bent over to remove his boots. He stood, padded over to the chair where
    his gun belt was slung across the ladder-back and eased the gun from the holster. He
    went back to the cot, thrust the six-shooter under the thin pillow then stretched out atop
    the blanket, lacing his hands behind his head. With one knee crooked, he stared up at
    the exposed beams of the ceiling while the pulses of light flared at the windows.
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    My Reaper’s Daughter
    At last the pain between his temples eased and his aching eyes closed. He turned to
    his side—one hand tucked beneath his pillow, his index finger sliding into the trigger
    ring of his gun, the other hand clutching the