Free Mercenary's Woman by Diana Palmer Page A

think assault was the sole object of the exercise. I think I'll go over and have a talk with Cy Parks first thing in the morning. He may
know something about that new
construction behind his place."
    Cy Parks was grumpy.
He hadn't been able to sleep the night before, and he was groggy. Even after
four years, he still had nightmares about the loss of his wife and five- year-old son in a
fire back home in Wyoming. He'd moved here to Jacobsville, where Ebenezer Scott
lived, more for someone to talk to than any other reason. Eb was not only a former comrade at arms, but he was also
the only man he knew who could listen to the
unabridged horror of the fire without
losing his supper. It kept him sane, just having someone to talk to. And not only could he talk about the death of his family at Lopez's henchmen's hands
but also he had someone to help him
exorcise the nightmares of the past that he and Ebenezer shared.
    The knock on the door
came just as he was pouring his second cup of coffee. It was probably his
foreman. Harley Fowler was an adventurer wanna-be who fancied himself a mercenary. He was
forever reading a magazine for arm chair adventurers and once he'd actually
answered one of the ads for volunteers and, supposedly, had taken a job during his summer
vacation. He'd come back from his vacation two weeks later grinning and
bragging about his
    exploits overseas with a group of
world-beaters and lording it over the other ranch hands who worked for Cy. Har ley had become the
overnight hero of the men. Cy watched him with amused cynicism. None of the men
he'd served with had ever returned home strutting and bragging about their
exploits. Nor had any of them come home smiling. There was a look about a man who'd
seen combat It was unmistakable to anyone who'd been through it. Harley didn't have the
look.
    None of the ranch
hands knew that Cy Parks hadn't always been a rancher. They knew about the
fire that had cost him his
family—most people locally did. But they didn't
know that he was a former professional mercenary and that Lopez was responsible for the fire. Cy wanted to keep it that way. He was through with the old
life.
    He opened the front
door with a scowl on his lean, tanned face, but it wasn't Harley who was standing on his porch.
It was Ebenezer Scott.
    Cy's eyes, two shades
darker green than Eb's, narrowed. "Lost your way?" he taunted,
running a hand through his thick unruly black hair.
    Eb chuckled. "Years ago. Got another cup?"
    "Sure." He opened the door and
let Eb in. The living room, old-fashioned and
sparsely furnished, was neat as a pin.
So were the formal dining room—never used—and the big, airy kitchen with not a spot of dirt or grime any where.
    "Tell me you hired a housekeeper," Eb murmured.
    Cy got down an extra
cup and poured black coffee into it, handing it across the table before he sat
down. "I don't need a housekeeper," he replied. "Why are you
here?" he added with characteristic bluntness.
    "Did you keep
in touch with any of your old contacts when you got out of the business?" Eb
asked at once.

76
    MERCENARY'S WOMAN
    DIANA PALMER
    77

Cy shook his head.
"No need. I gave it up, remember?" He lifted the cup to his wide, chiseled
mouth.
    Eb sipped coffee,
nodded at the strength of it, and put the mug down on the Formica tabletop with a
soft thud. "Manuel Lopez is loose," he said without preamble.
"We think he's in the vicinity. Certainly some of his henchmen are."
    Cy's face hardened. "Are you certain?"
    "Yes."
    "Why is he here?"
    "Because Jessica
Myers is here," Eb replied, "She's living with her young son and her
niece, Sally Johnson, out at the old Johnson place. She got one of Lopez's ac complices to rat on
Lopez without giving himself away. She had access to documents and bank accounts
and witnesses willing to testify. Now Lopez is out and he's after Jess. He
wants the name of the henchman who sold him out."
    Cy made an impatient gesture.
"Fighting out in the open isn't Lopez's
style. He's