Free BlackMoon Reaper by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Page A

in a dejected voice.
    “I may have already found her,” Phelan said.
    Fontabeau blinked. “Don’t tell me you mean Lucy?” he gasped.
    “Maybe,” Phelan said. “Maybe not. I don’t know for sure yet. All I know is I feel
    things with her I’ve never felt before. I’d like to have the time to see if she’s the one.”
    “Well, ain’t that a kick in the balls,” Fontabeau said on a long sigh. “Never thought
    I’d lose out to a female in anything. I suppose you just want to be friends?”
    Phelan held out his hand. “I’d consider it an honor if you’d accept my friendship.”
    The gunman snorted then slapped his hand to Phelan’s. “If that’s all you’re willing
    to offer, I can accept it. Don’t like it worth a gods-be-damned shit, but I can accept.” He
    jerked his hand back and whipped around. “Always a fucking usher and never the
    groom,” he said under his breath.
    Phelan watched the gunman stomp over to his horse and swing himself into the
    saddle.
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    “You gonna stand there all day? We’ve a job to do, Kiel,” Fontabeau snapped. “Best
    we get to it!” He drummed his heels into the flanks of his mount and shot forward
    before Phelan could reply.
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    BlackMoon Reaper

Chapter Four
    When Phelan caught up with the gunman, Fontabeau’s lips were set in a grim line.
    “I’m sorry, Beau,” he said as they forded a small stream, feeling the need to
    apologize but not understanding why. Something inside him wanted to make up to
    Beau for having turned him down.
    “Hey, can’t win ’em all,” the gunman snapped.
    “It’s just that—”
    “Let it go, Phelan,” Fontabeau said. “There’s no need to discuss it further. You’ve
    made your decision. No sense in beating a dead horse.”
    They rode for another twenty minutes before the mine could be seen through the
    trees. There was little noise as men walked in and out of the adit leading into the mine.
    The buildings surrounding the operation—the headframe, the hoist house, the office—
    were devoid of activity and equally devoid of noise.
    “Tell me that isn’t strange,” Fontabeau commented as they rode up to the hitching
    post in front of the mine captain’s office. He pointed to the barracks where the miners
    lived. “If you go in there, the bunks are as unruffled as an old maid’s cunt. No clothes
    lying around, no smokes littering ashtrays, no rank odor of unwashed male. No man—
    and especially not a miner—lives the way these men do. I’ve yet to see any of them
    sitting around playing poker, chewing ’baccy or throwing dice.”
    “Aye, well, chances are they aren’t men but ’bots,” Phelan muttered.
    “Sure is starting to look that way to me,” Fontabeau allowed.
    Dismounting, the Reapers tied their mounts and went into the captain’s office, not
    surprised to find it empty at that time of day. A half-consumed cup of coffee sat on the
    desk alongside the remains of breakfast, dried egg yolk hardening on the plate.
    “That doesn’t look fresh to me,” Fontabeau said.
    “Where’s Brell’s office?”
    “Back in town,” Fontabeau replied. “He’s been under the weather the last few days
    so I’m looking after things up here for him.”
    Phelan shot Fontabeau a tight look. “Under the weather how?”
    “He has headaches like we Reapers do, and this one has been particularly bad. He
    refuses to take tenerse for it so he just shuts the drapes and lies in bed ’til it passes.
    Could be a day or it could be a week. I once knew him to suffer with it for nearly two
    weeks before the gods-be-damned thing passed.” He took out his kerchief and swabbed
    at the sweat on his face. “Cluster megrims, I think the healer calls ’em.”
    “Aye, my aunt had them,” Phelan said. “That’s a tough row to hoe.”
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    “I hear that,” Fontabeau agreed. “I hate getting the headaches.”
    “So what do you think?” Phelan asked. “Should we go looking