Man...Mercenary...Monarch

Call It Love #213

To Have It All #237

Picture of Love #261

Pennies in the Fountain #275

Dawn’s Gift #303

Brooke’s Chance #323

Betting Man #344

Silver Sands #362

Lost and Found #384

Out of the Cold #440

Sophie’s Attic #725

Not Just Another Perfect Wife #818

Haven’s Call #859

JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART

is the author of over seventy novels. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys watching football, knitting, reading, gardening and attending craft shows on the town square. Joan has three all-grown-up daughters and a fantastic little grandson. In September of 1995, Joan traveled to China to adopt her fourth daughter, Autumn. Joan and Autumn have settled into their cozy cottage in a charming small town in the high pine country of Arizona.

Contents

Chapter One (#u0b216258-589b-5d4c-ab4d-7ee9a6e901f5)

Chapter Two (#ud5af76c2-6ab0-51d1-b97e-4cbb9f2f83fe)

Chapter Three (#u5609397b-be4c-5eda-be94-b63e34f3ac92)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

Jake’s Saloon looked like a set from a low-budget Western movie.

John Colton stood just inside the door of the noisy, smoke-filled building and swept his gaze over the milling crowd.

Strange, he thought. Nothing had changed during the years since he’d been in this place. It was Friday night in Hope, Arizona, and the randy cowboys from the ranches in the area were out in force. They had payday money in their pockets, and women on their minds.

It even smelled the same, a mixture of smoke, beer, cheap aftershave and the pungent aroma of male sweat, cattle and horses.

He’d catch a whiff now and then of too much perfume worn by the multitude of women in tight jeans, or short skirts, or whatever they hoped might entice the cowboys on the prowl.

It was all very tacky, but it was real earthy and honest, exactly what it appeared to be, and it suited his needs at the moment just fine.

John unbuttoned his suede, fleece-lined jacket, revealing a dark blue Western shirt with pearly snaps, then tugged his black Stetson low on his forehead.

He made his way forward, inching past the tangle of bodies at the bar to reach the area with cracked-leather booths and scarred wooden tables that edged a worn dance floor.

Garth Brooks was wailing from a brightly colored jukebox about having friends in low places, and a raised platform against a far wall stood ready for the band that would play loud, country-western music later that night.

John slid into a booth that was closer to the congested bar area than he would have preferred, but it was the last available free space he could find.

He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it across the table to land on the other seat, a clear indication, he hoped, that he wasn’t open to having company. Like the majority of men in the nightclub, he left his Stetson firmly settled on his head.

He leaned back against the stiff leather and sighed deeply.

This was a crazy place to be, he supposed, considering he had some very serious thinking to do. But the walls of his room in the shabby-but-clean motel had been closing in on him, resulting in him pacing like a caged animal.

His jet lag, combined with the shocking, nearly unbelievable news he’d received, had sent his brain into overload, his thoughts chasing in an endless circle in his mind.

Man, oh, man, what was he going to do?

That question was hammering at him unmercifully. He had to have a plan, an answer, by tomorrow, for Pete’s sake.

“Ah, hell,” he said aloud, dragging both hands down his face.

“Rough goin’, cowboy?” a female voice said.