The Fifth Season Read Online Free

behind the cries of pain and the only family he’d acknowledge. Dead. All of them. Killed in a massacre the world would never know about.
    They’d asked him to retire...said it was for the best. Said he should have a life filled with happiness and not war. What did they know?
    Stone walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He flipped the silver knob to the shower and waited for steam to fill the room. Glancing around, his mind fantasized imagining Emma O’Malley languishing in the marble jacuzzi or standing beneath the wide spray of water from the showerhead. He could almost see her sheer, silken nightgown, white as a lily with no other adornments but the glow of her flawless skin. Shaking his head, he realized he did see her nightgown. It was hanging on a hook on the back of the door.
    He guessed that confirmed her answer. She must occupy these rooms when the place was empty.
    Stepping beneath the stream of hot water, Stone concentrated on what he faced.
    Disregarding the faint stirrings of a physical attraction, he figured he didn’t particularly care for the prickly Miss O’Malley. But if she was willing to run the day-to-day operation of the resort, then he supposed he’d better get used to her.
    What other choice did he have? Allow his father to inherit? He wouldn’t give that man one thing that belonged to him, not even if it meant living with a million different people over the next twelve months.
    Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed a towel and spent a quick second in appreciation of the thick Egyptian cloth.
    He’d never been one for luxury, but he had to admit it had its perks.
    Staring in the mirror, he toyed with the idea of shaving. He wouldn’t do that, fighting a quick pang of fear at having to face his clean-shaven image. That man was a killer. He didn’t want to see that person again.
    Stone pulled on his jeans and an army-issued t-shirt and walked out the French doors. He looked around, ignoring the breathtaking vista that lay before him. There’d been a time when the mountainous range of the Grand Tetons embraced him in their beauty, grabbing his breath, and making him thankful to be alive.
    But time passed. He was no longer thankful to be alive and didn’t want to acknowledge the wonders that surrounded him.
    A radio blared from above, and he climbed the wooden stairs that led to the back deck. Sliding silently between the open double doors, Stone stole a few moments to absorb the woman before him.
    Emma O’Malley, chief cook and bottle washer, moved gracefully around the kitchen. Her back was to Stone. He admired her quick, precise motions. The way her faded jeans hugged her entirely too enticing derriere as she pulled vegetables from the refrigerator, rinsing, then chopping. He frowned when she wiped the back of her hand across her face.
    Why was she crying?
    He hated tears. Backing away, Stone stumbled over a needlepoint-covered footstool and knocked a stack of books off the coffee table. He closed his eyes at the outburst sure to follow.
    “Are you spying on me?” Emma demanded.
    “I wasn’t spying,” he grunted, picking up the books and replacing them on the table.
    “Yes, you were,” she said.
    “Why are you crying?” He stood up and looked straight at her tear-stained face. Green eyes flashed back through wet lashes and a blush that would make a strawberry patch proud spread across her face.
    “I’m not crying.”
    “And I’m not spying.” He threw her what he prayed was a dangerous glare and retreated back through the French doors. Enough of that . Tears and sadness were nothing he could help with. Glancing up at the roof, he frowned. It needed a bunch more shingles and the entire estate could use a fresh coat of paint. If he wanted a quick sale, he’d have to spruce it up.
    “I was not crying,” a loud voice called behind him. Sighing, he turned and faced the angry woman.
    “I guess I was wrong then, but it seems to me that tearstains and wet lashes