Mercenary's Woman

MERCENARY'S

WOMAN

SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE

DIANA
PALMER

MERCENARY'S

WOMAN

SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE

ROMANCE™

Published by
Silhouette Books
America's Publisher of Contemporary Romance

Chapter One

Ebenezer Scott stood beside his double-wheeled black
pickup truck and stared openly at the young woman
across
the street while she fiddled
under the hood of a dented, rusted hulk of a vehicle. Sally Johnson's long
blond hair
was in a ponytail. She was
wearing jeans and boots and no hat. He smiled to himself, remembering how many
times
in the old days he'd chided her about sunstroke. It
had been six years since they'd even spoken. She'd been living in
Houston until July, when she and her blind aunt
and small cousin had moved back, into the decaying old Johnson
homestead. He'd seen her several times since her
return, but she'd made a point of not speaking to him. He couldn't
really blame her. He'd left her with some painful
emotional scars.

She was slender, but
her trim figure still made his heart
beat jump. He knew how she looked under that
loose
blouse.
His eyes narrowed with heat as he recalled the
shocked pleasure in her pale gray eyes
when he'd touched
her, kissed
her, in those forbidden places. He'd meant to

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MERCENARY'S WOMAN

frighten her so that she'd stop teasing him,
but his impulsive attempt to discourage her had succeeded all too well. She'd
run from him then, and she'd kept running. She was
twenty-three now, a woman; probably an
experienced woman. He mourned for what might have been if she'd
been older and he hadn't just come back from
leading a
company of men into the
worst bloodbath of his career. A
professional
soldier of fortune was no match for a young and very innocent girl. But, then,
she hadn't known about
his real
life—the one behind the facade of cattle ranching.
Not many people in
this small town did.

It was six years
later. She was all grown-up, a school
teacher here in Jacobsville, Texas. He
was...retired, they
called it. Actually he was still on the firing line from
time
to
time, but mostly he taught other men in the specialized
tactics of covert
operations on his ranch. Not that he shared
that information. He still had enemies from
the old days,
and one of them had just been sprung from prison on a
technicality—a man
out for revenge and with more than
enough money to obtain it.

Sally had been
almost eighteen the spring day he'd sent
her running from him. In a life liberally
strewn with re
grets, she was his biggest one. The whole situation had
been impossible, of
course. But he'd never meant to hurt
her, and the thought of her sat heavily on his conscience.

He wondered if she
knew why he kept to himself and never got involved with the locals. His ranch
was a model
of sophistication, from its state-of-the-art gym to the small herd of
purebred Santa Gertrudis breeding cattle he raised.
His men were not only
loyal, but tight-lipped. Like another
Jacobsville, Texas, resident—Cy
Parks—Ebenezer was a recluse. The two men shared more than a taste for privacy.
But that was something they
kept to themselves.

Meanwhile,
Sally Johnson was rapidly losing patience

DIANA
PALMER
                                        
9

with her vehicle. He watched her push
at a strand of hair
that had escaped from the long pony tail. She kept a beef
steer or two herself. It must be a frugal existence for her,
supporting not only
herself, but her recently blinded aunt,
and her six-year-old cousin as well.

He admired her sense
of responsibility, even as he felt
concern for her situation. She had no idea
why her aunt
had been blinded in the first place, or that the whole family
was in a great deal of danger. It was why
Jessica had
persuaded Sally to give up her
first teaching job in Houston
in
June and come home with her and Stevie to Jacobsville.
It was because they'd be near Ebenezer, and
Jessica knew
he'd protect them. Sally
had never been told what Jessica's profession actually was, any more than she
knew what
Jessica's late husband,
Hank Myers, had once done for a living. But even if she had known, wild horses
wouldn't
have dragged Sally back here
if Jessica hadn't pleaded
with her,
he mused bitterly. Sally had every reason in the
world to hate him. But he was her best hope of survival.
And she didn't even know it.

In the five months
she'd been back in Jacobsville, Sally
had managed to avoid Ebenezer. In a town
this size, that
had been an accomplishment. Inevitably they met from time to time. But
Sally avoided eye contact with him. It
was the only indication of the painful
memory they both
shared.

He watched her lean helplessly over the
dented fender
of the old truck and decided
that now was as good a time
as any to approach her.

Sally lifted her
head just in time to see the tall, lean man in the shepherd's coat and tan
Stetson make his way across
the street to her. He hadn't changed, she thought
bitterly. He still walked with elegance and a slow, arrogance of
carriage that seemed
somehow foreign. Jeans didn't dis-

10

MERCENARY'S WOMAN

DIANA PALMER

11

guise the muscles in those long, powerful legs
as he
moved.
She hated the ripple of sensation that lifted her
heart at his approach. Surely she was over
hero worship
and infatuation, at her age,
especially after what he'd done to her that long-ago spring day. She blushed
just remem
bering it!

He paused at the
truck, about an arm's length away from her, pushed his Stetson back over his
thick blond-streaked
brown
hair and impaled her with green eyes.

She was immediately
hostile and it showed in the taut
ening of her features as she looked up, way
up, at him.

He raised an eyebrow
and studied her flushed face. "Don't give me the evil eye," he said.
"I'd have thought
you had sense enough not to buy a truck from Turkey
Sanders."

"He's my cousin," she reminded him.

"He's the Black Plague with car
keys," he countered. "The Hart boys wiped the floor with him not too
many
years back. He sold Corrigan Hart's
future wife a car that fell apart when she drove it off the lot. She was lucky
at
that," he added with a wicked
grin. "He sold old lady
Bates a
car and told her the engine was optional equip
ment."

She laughed in spite
of herself. "It's not a bad old truck," she countered. "It just
needs a few things..."

He glanced at the
rear tire and nodded. "Yes. An over
hauled engine, a paint job, reupholstered seats, a tailgate
that works. And a rear tire that isn't bald."
He pointed
toward it. "Get that
replaced," he said shortly. "You can
afford a tire even on what you make teaching."

She gaped at him.
"Listen here, Mr. Scott..." she began
haughtily.

"You know my
name, Sally," he said bluntly, and his
eyes were steady, intimidating. "As for
the tire, it isn't a

request," he replied flatly,
staring her down. "You've got
some new neighbors out your way that I don't
like the look of. You can't afford a breakdown in the middle of
the night on that lonely
stretch of road."

She drew herself up
to her full height, so that the top
of her head came to his chin. He really was
ridiculously
tall...

"This is the
twenty-first century, and women are capa
ble of looking after themselves...." she
said heatedly.

"I can do
without a current events lecture," he cut her
off again, moving to
peer under the hood. He propped one
enormous booted foot on the fender and
studied the engine,
frowned,
pulled out a pocketknife and went to work.

"It's
my
truck!" she
fumed, throwing up her hands in
exasperation.

"It's
half a ton of metal without an engine that works."

She grimaced. She
hated not being able to fix it herself, to have to depend on this man, of all
people, for help. She
wouldn't let herself think about the cost of having a me
chanic make a road
service call to get the stupid thing
started. Looking at his lean, capable hands
brought back
painful memories as well. She knew the tenderness of them
on concealed skin,
and her whole body erupted with sen
sation.

Less than two minutes later, he repocketed
his knife.
"Try it now," he said.

She got in behind
the wheel. The engine turned noisily,
pouring black smoke out of the tailpipe.

He paused beside the
open window of the truck, his pale
green eyes piercing her face. "Bad rings
and valves," he pointed out. "Maybe an oil leak. Either way, you're
in for
some
major repairs. Next time, don't buy from Turkey
Sanders, and I don't give a damn if he
is a relative."

"Don't you give me orders," she said haughtily.