Man...Mercenary...Monarch. Joan Elliott Pickart

in a bold, sprawling handwriting.

      Laura—

      I hope you find your rainbow. You deserve it.

      John

      Laura sank back against the pillows and reread the note three more times.

      John, her mind whispered. He’d remembered what she’d said about wishing to find the rainbow that would bring her the true happiness she was seeking. She had spoken and he had listened, really heard what she had said.

      John, her man of the magical night. He was so magnificent, strong yet gentle, so sensitive and caring.

      John, who was facing the tremendous challenge of raising a son he hadn’t even known he had. He’d trusted her enough to share his fears with her, his feelings of inadequacy regarding his new, daunting and awe-evoking role.

      John. Their lovemaking had been so exquisitely beautiful, it was beyond description. Magic. In the world they’d created together, every touch and kiss had been ecstasy. They had moved as one, a single entity, their dance of love so synchronized and perfect, it was as though they’d been lovers for years, knew every nuance of the other.

      “John,” Laura whispered, then sighed.

      She had no regrets about her rash actions of last night. None. The only shadow hovering over her was the realization that she would never see John again. She’d known that at the outset, but still…

      No, no, she had to be sophisticated and mature about this. Facts were facts. And memories were memories, hers to keep.

      “Goodbye, John,” Laura said softly, as she clutched the note. “Thank you.”

      She showered and dressed, then after one last look at the shabby little room, she closed the door behind her with a quiet click. She turned away from this magical place, blinked away sudden and unwelcome tears, lifted her chin and prepared to drive back to the ranch.

      Alone.

      During the fifteen miles she had to cover to reach The Rocking C Ranch, Laura gave herself a continuous, stern lecture.

      Before she even entered the house, she decreed, she would have pushed the memories of John to a safe corner of her mind, would not allow him to step through the front door with her, to haunt her with his sensuous presence.

      The long hours she spent in that house waiting to fulfill her assignment were difficult enough without aching for the sight, the sound, the taste and touch of a man she would never see again.

      “Go away, John,” she said, flapping one hand in the air as the house came into view. “Oh, please, just go away right now.”

      The house was a large, one-story traditional ranch style, with five bedrooms and a huge, modern kitchen. The living room that Laura entered boasted an enormous flagstone fireplace on one wall, gleaming hardwood floors with a scattering of Native American area rugs, and oversize dark wood furniture done in varying shades of tweed.

      Laura hurried to the bedroom she was using during her stay, not wishing to see Betty, the housekeeper. Betty was a no-nonsense woman in her mid-fifties, who would not hesitate to ask where she had spent the night.

      Answering that question, Laura decided as she changed into fresh clothes, could hopefully be avoided if Betty didn’t have a clue that Laura hadn’t been tucked in her own bed.

      Laura left her bedroom and peered into the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw it was empty, then headed for the pot of prepared coffee. She settled at the big oak table with a mug of the steaming brew.

      And thought about John.

      “Would you stop that?” she said, smacking the top of the table with the palm of one hand. “Just cut it out. Get a grip. Right now.”

      “Who are you talking to?”

      Laura jerked in her chair as Betty entered the kitchen from the mudroom beyond. She was carrying a basket of eggs and wearing her usual jeans, boots and Western shirt. She was tall, slender and her short gray hair curled around her attractive face.

      “Me,” Laura said with a sigh.

      Betty laughed. “You’re certainly giving yourself what-for this morning.” She went to the sink and began to rinse off the eggs. “Sleep well?”

      “Oh, I…you bet,” Laura said, feeling a warm flush creep onto her cheeks.

      “Then why the grumpy mood?” Betty said, glancing over at her, then resuming her chore.

      “I’m just dreading facing another long day, I guess,” Laura said. “I’ve only been here alone a short time, but it seems like a year. The thing is, I have no idea how many more days I’ll need to remain. Heaven only knows when John Colton will decide to make a trip home for a visit. I have to sit here and wait until he shows up.”

      “Well, there’s worse places to be than on the Colton ranch.” Betty paused and shook her head. “I still find it hard to believe that our John might actually be Prince James Wyndham of Wynborough.

      “When the Coltons adopted him as a baby, there wasn’t a clue about his identity. He was just left on the doorstep of The Sunshine Home for Children. John is in for a mighty big shock when he does come home.”

      “I should have asked you this before, Betty, but how do you think John will feel about this news?”

      “No telling,” Betty said, shutting off the water in the sink. “John is impossible to predict. He’s a Colton, but he never has thought and acted like one.”

      “Well, he really isn’t a Colton. He’s a Wyndham.”

      “As far as his parents and his brother, Mitch, are concerned, he’s a Colton,” Betty said decisively. “They love him as their own. That will never change, no matter what new fancy name and title John has. A prince. Good gracious, wonders never cease.”

      “A prince who was kidnapped as an infant and believed to be dead all these years,” Laura said. “And I’m the one who has been assigned the nifty task of explaining his true identity to him. I hope he doesn’t get into a kill-the-messenger mode.”

      “Now there’s a thought,” Betty said with a burst of laughter.

      “Thanks a bunch,” Laura said, smiling.

      “Well, I’m off to The Triple Bar,” Betty said, placing the eggs in the refrigerator. She removed a covered dish and bumped the refrigerator door closed with her hip. “Jolene is laid up with a broken ankle, and I’m taking a casserole over for their supper. I’ll be gone the better part of the day, I imagine, because Jolene loves to chatter.”

      “It’s nice of you to keep her company, and I’m sure her family will appreciate having one of your delicious casseroles for their supper.”

      “Well, I’ll see you later. Oh, and, Laura? The next time you stay out all night, turn off your bedroom light before you leave, would you? No sense in running up the electric bill for no reason.”

      “Oh, good grief.” Laura plunked one elbow on the table and rested her forehead in her hand. “How embarrassing. How mortifying. How…”

      “Normal,” Betty finished for her. “There’s no shame in being a healthy young woman with wants and needs. I just couldn’t resist taking a poke at you, but I’m certainly not passing judgment. In fact, I’m more inclined to say good for you. I’ll see you when I get back.”

      “’Bye,” Laura mumbled.

      A heavy silence fell over the room and Laura drained her coffee mug quickly, wishing to escape from the sudden chill of loneliness that dropped over her like a dark cloud.

      She spent the next hour writing breezy letters to her parents, her sister, Linda, and her best friend since childhood, Olivia, who was now a busy mother of four back in Michigan.

      In none of the letters was there one word about Laura’s