Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8) Read online

  About Master of Solitude

  Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book: 8

  Opening the pages of each new book from the wonderfully talented pen of author Cherise Sinclair is like welcoming an old friend back into your life after a noted absence. You know you are going to laugh, cry and delight in the characters.

  ~ The Romance Studio

  Since childhood, Mallory McCabe has dreamed of falling in love with a hero. And then one saves her life. He’s honest…and blunt. Deadly, but filled with pain. Overpowering, yet ever so gentle with her. Oh yes, she’s found her hero. Taking him to her bed is simply…right. As is losing her heart.

  How could she have known he’d want nothing more to do with her?

  His indifference hurts. She vows to forget him…then he buys the land next to hers.

  Released early from prison, all Sawyer Ware wants is to move to the city and get his life back together. But when a violent gang targets his police detective brother, Sawyer puts his future on hold. After a decade as a Navy SEAL, he won’t—can’t—walk away when someone he loves is threatened.

  His task might well be deadly. He sure can’t afford to get involved with a woman—especially his captivating neighbor. Although he hungers to be near her, to enjoy her clear laugh, her easy friendship, and the peace she brings wherever she goes, a relationship is absolutely out of the question.

  Why won’t his heart obey orders?

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  Master of Solitude

  Mountain Masters & Dark Haven 8

  Cherise Sinclair

  VanScoy Publishing Group

  Master of Solitude

  Copyright © 2017 by Cherise Sinclair

  Kindle Edition

  ISBN: 978-0-9975529-8-0

  Published by VanScoy Publishing Group

  Cover Art: Hot Damn Designs

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, business establishments, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this eBook only. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase.

  Disclaimer: Please do not try any new sexual practice, without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither the publisher nor the author will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained in this book.

  Table of Contents

  About Master of Solitude

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  About Hour of the Lion

  Excerpt from Hour of the Lion

  Also from Cherise Sinclair

  About Cherise Sinclair

  Author’s Note

  To my readers,

  The books I write are fiction, not reality, and as in most romantic fiction, the romance is compressed into a very, very short time period.

  You, my darlings, live in the real world, and I want you to take a little more time in your relationships. Good Doms don’t grow on trees, and there are some strange people out there. So while you’re looking for that special Dom, please, be careful.

  When you find him, realize he can’t read your mind. Yes, frightening as it might be, you’re going to have to open up and talk to him. And you listen to him in return. Share your hopes and fears, what you want from him, what scares you spitless. Okay, he may try to push your boundaries a little—he’s a Dom, after all—but you will have your safe word. You will have a safe word, am I clear? Use protection. Have a backup person. Communicate.

  Remember: safe, sane, and consensual.

  Know that I’m hoping you find that special, loving person who will understand your needs and hold you close.

  And while you’re looking or even if you’ve already found your dearheart, come and hang out with the Mountain Masters.

  Love,

  Cherise

  Acknowledgments

  OMG, this is my twenty-fifth book! So, to you all, thank you so much for all your support, for the handholding and encouragement, for the ideas, for the scoldings , and the reviews. Y’all mean the world to me.

  Speaking of scoldings, this story is for the lifestylers who reminded me that not every submissive has had a rough past. You’re right. Although I love writing about heroines who’ve overcome adversity (and gone on to kick ass and take names), many submissives come to the lifestyle without a past trauma. So…here you go.

  A huge shout-out goes to my awesome critique partners, Bianca Sommerland, Fiona Archer, and Monette Michaels. I am so very blessed to have you guys in my life.

  Hugs and more hugs go to my magnificently sharp-eyed beta readers, Marian Shulman, Ruth Reid, and Barb Jack. You rock!

  Thanks go to Red Quill Editing for their wonderful work. I have to say, I love our discussions.

  Hugs to go Leagh and Lisa at Romance Novel Promotions for their valiant efforts in herding the Shadowkittens in the News & Discussion group. *muah!*

  And finally, to my dearheart who protects me from giant wasps, kills hurt chickens when I can’t face the task, and holds my hand during the scary parts of movies (and life), I love you!

  Chapter One

  ‡

  Sawyer Ware had been out of prison for a whole five weeks and was still acclimating to freedom. Wasn’t it interesting how a year in prison could give a man a whole new appreciation of life outside the walls?

  In the ClaimJumper Tavern, he looked around and appreciated the hell out of everything. Like how the ice-cold, draft Budweiser tasted better than any specialty beer ever.

  Like Johnny Cash on the jukebox. Women in tight jeans. Unlocked doors. Eating, drinking, and rolling out of bed anytime he felt like it.

  And hanging out with his brother with no overbearing corrections officer nearby.

  “I like this place,” Sawyer told Atticus. Every breath was redolent with the aroma of beer and French fries. Antlers on the rough log wall served as coat hooks for jackets and hats. In front of the jukebox, two couples were c
ountry dancing.

  The end of July was the height of the tourist season. On this Saturday night, the small tavern in Bear Flat, California, was packed with loggers and ranchers, most in jeans and plain T-shirts. The tourists visiting nearby Yosemite Park added color with brightly patterned clothing and sunburned faces.

  As Sawyer looked around, many townspeople either avoided his gaze…or gave him the stink-eye. This was the downside of small towns—like cockleburs in a horse’s mane, a bad reputation clung to a man forever.

  Not that he particularly gave a fuck about the ugly stares. Unlike prison convicts, the law-abiding locals wouldn’t come after him with fists and shivs. “I see the locals aren’t setting out a welcome mat for ex-cons.”

  “’Fraid not. They’re pretty resentful about the prison.” Atticus took in the bitter glances toward Sawyer and rubbed his short beard thoughtfully. Although the two of them looked alike—over six feet, muscular, brown hair, blue eyes—Att wore his hair to shoulder-length whereas Sawyer’d never lost a military preference for short hair and being clean-shaven.

  Sawyer figured he looked more like a cop than Att did.

  “Why would they be resentful?” Sawyer asked. “Doesn’t a prison boost the economy?”

  “Bear Flat never wanted a prison located here…or the crime that accompanies one.” Atticus’s mouth curved into a grim smile. “The spotlight on the prison riot and breakout was very welcome.”

  “I bet.” The investigation had exposed a multiplicity of bribery and kickbacks, beginning with how the private prison company acquired the building permits to the maneuvering for a state prison contract when its federal contract fell through. The suppression of failed environmental studies had been the kicker. California was very into the environment, and when the state EPA had seen the studies, the prison had been shut down so fast the warden was still probably in shock.

  As of last Monday, Bear Flat no longer had a prison on the outskirts of town, and the citizens were damned happy. The locals also made it clear they wanted the prison riff-raff to leave just as fast as the prison staff had.

  The noise in the tavern increased as three members of the tattooed, pierced, and over-muscled Neo-Nazi Aryan Hammers sauntered through the room. When the townspeople’s disapproval switched to them, the gangbangers sneered back and took a table in the far corner. Looking around, they spotted Sawyer and Atticus.

  Atticus noticed the waves of hate coming from the corner. “Ah, hell. Looks like the morons finally figured out who stopped their buddies from escaping.”

  Sawyer snorted. “I didn’t stop them, bro, hard as I tried. I just got stabbed. You were the one who actually took them out.” In the process of rescuing two kidnapped social workers, his brother had killed the leader of the imprisoned Aryan Hammers.

  “You killed one and flattened another. They won’t forget it.” Atticus’s gaze turned serious. “It’s barely been…what…five weeks since you were nearly gutted? I know the big bad SEAL could normally flatten a platoon of nasties, but right now, one punch to your gut and you’ll be on the floor. Walk careful, frogman.”

  “Hooyah, jarhead. Same goes for you, in spades. You’re at the top of their shit list.” At least as a cop, Atticus was packing.

  “Oh, yeah. That’ll keep me up nights.” Att grinned and asked, “Want another beer?”

  “Nah.” Sawyer hadn’t had a night out since his hospital release or, come to think of it, since being imprisoned. He was tired, and all the animosity was getting to him. “I’m ready to call it a night.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll—”

  “Hey, Ware. Did you bring in the saddle you want me to repair?” The shout came from an older, leathery-faced man at a nearby table.

  Atticus turned. “I did. It’s in the pickup. Want me to toss it in your van?”

  “Yeah. Door’s not locked. Lock it when you’re done.” The man resumed his conversation with a short, round woman.

  “Leaving a vehicle unlocked is either trust or laziness,” Sawyer said.

  “Actually, he probably doesn’t want to leave his wife right now. It’s their fortieth anniversary, and I’d say he’s going to get lucky.” Att chuckled. “I hope Gin and I still look like that in forty years.”

  Sawyer studied the silver-haired couple. Bottle of wine on the table, mostly gone. The woman was flushed and smiling, and her hand was on her husband’s thigh, edging higher. The man laughed heartily before leaning forward to kiss her.

  Evidently, some relationships worked out. “I’d say you and Gin’ve got good odds for success.”

  “I’m going to do my best to ensure that.” Att rose. “Be back in a minute and we can head out. Gin’s gathering should be finished by now.”

  Atticus’s woman was the sociable sort and had some girl-thing planned tonight, which was why the Ware brothers were in the ClaimJumper. “Sounds good. I’ll handle our bar tab.”

  Atticus had found himself a fine woman. Sawyer should know since Gin had been his counselor in the prison for a while and had helped him forgive himself for his massive screw-up.

  Now he was out and needed to figure out what he wanted out of life.

  Sawyer frowned at his empty beer glass. At one time, he’d planned a military career, but being wounded and a nice case of PTSD had put the skids to those hopes. For too long after his discharge from the service, he’d been buried in hallucinations and nightmares.

  Although he’d worked through the PTSD while in prison, he’d also been forced to acknowledge—and mourn—that the path to his future had taken a sharp detour.

  He needed to find new goals.

  As soon as the stab wound in his gut healed, he’d give San Francisco a try and see what kind of a life he could make. The Navy SEAL teams had given him a home. Someday, maybe, he could find that sense of belonging again.

  And he’d look for a woman he could love for forty years.

  Last night, when Gin had teased his brother about his “oh-so-macho” movie choice, Att had pulled her onto his lap and kissed her to silence. Then they’d shared the chair, so immersed in each other they’d forgotten the movie. Yeah, Att had a good woman.

  Sawyer was damned pleased for him…and a tad bit envious.

  Up at the bar, he paid the tab and exchanged a few words with the grizzled Swede who owned the place.

  As Sawyer turned to leave, a drunken logger the size of Godzilla stumbled into him.

  Pain exploded in his side, and fuck, it felt as if every stitch had busted loose. He knew the incision would be all right, but God. Damn.

  “Sorry, buddy.” The logger slapped Sawyer’s shoulder and lumbered on across the room.

  As Sawyer held his side and tried to regain his breath, two more guys pushed past. One man, beefy with a receding hairline, said loudly, “Damn convicts need to get out of our town.”

  Sawyer straightened, his good mood soured.

  Obviously having overheard the irate local, a slender blonde moved up to the bar and gave Sawyer a slow, predatory perusal. “You were in jail? A convict?” Her nipples made tiny points under her thin shirt.

  He nodded without answering.

  “I’m Candy.” The slowness with which she said her name added a potent suggestion. “Want to buy me a beer…or join me for something else?” When she moved closer, the way she ran her hand down his chest indicated what something she had in mind.

  “No.” To hell with being polite. As he took a step away, disgust was a foul taste in his mouth. She wasn’t the first woman he’d run into—in prison and out—who was aroused by the idea of fucking a convict. How freaking warped was that?

  One hand on his aching side, he walked away. The stabbing pain was receding, and hey, he was standing upright, not hunched over like a ninety-year-old. Right after the surgery, he’d wondered if he’d end up with permanent curvature of the spine. Fortunately, he was getting better. And he was alive. Getting shanked trying to save women from escaping prisoners hadn’t been fun…but had caused the politic
ally shrewd governor to grant Sawyer an early release.

  He was free.

  As he made his way toward the door, he looked for his brother. Shouldn’t Att have returned by now? Unless, of course, he’d gotten caught up in a conversation outside. The sociable bastard knew almost everyone in town—probably a side effect of being a police detective.

  Nonetheless…

  As Sawyer’s instincts tap-danced a warning across his nape, he sped up. Gut tightening, he glanced around, trying to ID what’d set off his lizard brain. Nobody new had entered. The crowd hadn’t changed except…

  The Aryan Hammers’ table was unoccupied. Fuck.

  Sawyer shoved through a cluster of people to get out the door.

  Darkness shrouded Main Street. The air was dry and cold as he sucked in a breath and looked up and down the street. The silence after the noisy bar throbbed in his ears—and then he heard a broken-off shout. Hand on his side, he dashed around the corner to the parking lot behind the tavern.

  It was too fucking dark. As his eyes adjusted, he saw movement between two pickups. One man fighting three. Fear stabbed into his chest. Atticus.

  A tire iron rose up, glinting in the dregs of light.

  “Hey! What’s going on!” Sawyer bellowed. “Call the cops, Harry!” He sprinted across the lot. The fight was too far, too fucking far away.

  The tire iron swung down, fast and hard—and was blocked, thank fuck.

  As the other two men punched the lone man, the first swung the tire iron like a baseball bat. The metal connected.

  The grunt of pain was familiar. Atticus, dammit.

  Att fell to his knees, and his attackers fled the parking lot.

  Sawyer skidded to a stop beside the pickup.

  His brother was already trying to get up.

  Alive. The wave of relief was so intense, Sawyer’s head spun.

  One knee still on the ground, Att glanced around before squinting up at Sawyer. “Who the hell is Harry?”