The Final Mission

The Final Mission
Rachel Lee

The Final Mission

Rachel Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#uf560a3ee-e875-59ff-a4f4-92fdefa481ac)

Title Page (#u28fd0648-d2fa-5735-a27c-a92f8ea71653)

About the Author (#ub436c165-fb7b-5cec-8bb7-714d7c7ebcaf)

Dedication (#udd0207ff-89f2-5edb-9e32-cb578f9048a0)

Chapter One (#uf8deae66-9af4-5d01-ab37-491376984521)

Chapter Two (#u23d75a8c-002a-5e85-b1e6-1d532e23fe5a)

Chapter Three (#u1a483a48-e480-5c00-a0ac-3ab3b92c4bc2)

Chapter Four (#u321f441f-7468-57d8-8884-93d6711b3536)

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)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author

RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve, and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

Her bestselling CONARD COUNTY series (see www.conardcounty.com) has won the hearts of readers worldwide, and it’s no wonder, given her own approach to life and love. As she says, “Life is the biggest romantic adventure of all—and if you’re open and aware, the most marvellous things are just waiting to be discovered.” Readers can e-mail Rachel at RachelLee@ConardCounty.com.

For FarWestGirl, a dear friend who helped with all

her horse experience to bring this story to life. The

mistakes are mine, but I made a lot fewer of them

because of you, dear FarWestGirl. This one is for you.

Chapter 1

Dominic Mason stood behind his house, staring out over expansive pastures. The night held an autumn nip that warned of coming frost even though it shouldn’t happen for another month or so. Regardless, he was nearly ready for the change in seasons.

He’d already brought most of his horses in from summer pasture. Only a few still needed to be gathered up. The hay had been mown and moved into the drying sheds that would protect it from most of the winter snows and make it easy to feed his herd over the long approaching winter.

Next month he’d sell a lot of his stock to ranchers, rodeos and breeders. His announcement of his annual sale had drawn a larger than usual amount of interest. Apparently his reputation for quality was growing.

He could see the dark shapes of his horses scattered around, quiet in the moonlight, not moving much. There was still plenty of ground forage for them, as he’d mowed early enough to allow for some regrowth, but at the moment they seemed more intent on resting. Even the dogs were invisible right now, probably quietly lying among the herd they watched over.

Just as his two young sons slept in the house behind him. Seven-year-old twin boys, the light of his life, and his agony, too, since their mother had been killed.

Annoyed with the direction of his thoughts, he gave his head an angry shake, then reached up to resettle his battered Stetson.

Another winter coming. Another winter alone. At least the rest of the year he could keep himself busy enough for three men, keep so busy he couldn’t do much thinking. But once the snow flew, life would narrow. The outdoor activities that kept him so busy, the kids being off school, all that would give way to intensive training in the enclosed, battered arena off behind the barn.

But not yet. A chilly autumn night was a far cry from the blows of winter. And he had the sale next month to get ready for, the horses to choose to show.

He thought he heard a car coming up his drive, but sounds were deceptive at night, especially this close to the mountains. He couldn’t imagine a single reason why anyone would be coming out here so late. All the reasons for such a visit were safely indoors or already dead. Well, except for Mary’s parents, and they were about as hale and hardy as any sixty-somethings he’d ever known.

He turned anyway, because the boys were sleeping in their beds and he didn’t like them to be alone long. Not anymore. Not since the illusion of security had been stripped from him two years ago.

The dirt and gravel crunched beneath his feet. Moonlight reminded him he still needed to till the summer’s garden, now mostly a mess of weeds and stalks of dead plants, their bounty gone for the year.

With Mary, he’d enjoyed the winters. More time for them to spend together, fewer other demands. He’d been like one happy bear, burrowing into his den, venturing out only to look after his stock, work on training or to make an occasional supply trip to town.

Those trips lingered brightly in his memory. They’d always made a good time of the shopping, treated themselves to a meal at the diner, sometimes even sprang for a movie. But the long winter nights also remained bright in his mind—nights of playing games, laughing, reading, loving, just being together.

Now only desolation remained, and two little boys that he loved more than life. Two little boys he couldn’t see without experiencing a pang for all they had lost, for all he had lost.

“Boss?”

He looked around to see his foreman, Ted Walking Bear, coming his way from the bunkhouse behind the barn.

“Yeah?”

“A car just drove up.”

“I thought I heard one. I’ll take care of it. Probably somebody’s lost. Good night.”