Hawk's Way

Jack said, glaring at Jesse.

How could Jesse explain what he felt for Honey in words the boy would understand? What did one say to a thirteen-year-old to describe the relationship between a man and a woman? It would be easier if he could tell Jack he was committed in some way to Honey. But Jesse had never spoken of “forever” with Honey, and he couldn't.

“Will it help if I say I'll try my damnedest never to do anything that would hurt your mom?” Jesse asked him.

Abruptly Jack stopped brushing the bull. “She's never gonna love you like she loved Dad. There's no sense in you hanging around. Now that school's out, I can handle things around the ranch. Why don't you just leave?” Jack yelled.

“I can't,” Jesse said. “Your mother needs my help.” More than you realize, he added silently.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

T
he hairs prickled on the back of Honey Farrell's neck. She was being watched. Again. Surreptitiously she scanned the room looking for someone—anyone—she could blame for the disturbing sensation that had plagued her all evening. But everyone in the room was a friend or acquaintance. There was no one present who could account for the eerie feeling that troubled her.

Her glance caught on the couple across the room from her. How she envied them! Dallas
Masterson was standing behind his wife, his hands tenderly circling Angel's once-again-tiny waist. Their three-month-old son was asleep upstairs. Honey felt her throat close with emotion as Dallas leaned down to whisper into his wife's ear. Angel laughed softly and a pink flush rose on her cheeks.

Honey saw before her a couple very much in love. In fact, she had come to the Mastersons' home this evening to help them celebrate their first wedding anniversary. Honey found it a bittersweet event. For, one year and one month ago, Honey's husband, Cale, had been killed saving Dallas Masterson's life.

Honey felt her smile crumbling. A watery sheen blurred her vision of the Texas Rangers and their wives chattering happily around her. Mumbling something incoherent, she shoved her wineglass into the hands of a startled friend.

“Honey, are you all right?”

“I just need some air.” Honey bit down on her lower lip to still its quiver as she hastened from the living room.

The overhead light in the kitchen was blind
ing, and Honey felt exposed. Shying from the worried look of another Ranger's wife, who was putting a tray of canapés into the oven, Honey shoved her way out the back screen door.

“Honey?” the woman called after her. “Is something wrong?”

Honey forced herself to pause on the back porch. She turned back with a brittle smile and said, “I just need some air. I'll be fine.”

The woman grinned. “I suppose it's all the speculation about you and Adam Philips. Has he proposed yet? We're expecting an announcement any day.”

Honey gritted her teeth to hold the smile in place, hoping it didn't look as much like a grimace as it felt. “I—could we talk about this later? I really do need some air.”

She waited until the other woman nodded before pulling the wooden door closed behind her, abruptly shutting out the noise and the painful, though well-intentioned, nosiness of her friends and neighbors.

The early summer evening was blessedly cool with a slight breeze that made the live oaks rus
tle overhead. Honey sank onto the back porch steps. She leaned forward and lifted the hair off her nape, shivering when the breeze caught a curl and teased it across her skin as gently as a man's hand.

She quickly dropped her hair and clutched her hands together between her knees. She felt bereft. And angry.
How could you have left me alone like this, Cale? I'm trying to forget what it was like to be held in your arms. I'm trying to forget the feel of your mouth on mine.
But seeing Angel in Dallas's arms tonight had been a vivid reminder of what she had lost. And it hurt. It was hard to accept Cale's untimely death and go on with her life. But she was trying.

At least she had learned from her mistake. She would never again love a man who sought out danger the way Cale had. She would never again put herself in the position of knowing that her husband welcomed the risks of a job that might mean his death. Next time she would choose a man who would be there when she needed him. Inevitably Cale had been gone on some assignment for the Texas Rangers when
ever a crisis arose. Honey had become adept over the years at handling things on her own.

If her friends and neighbors got their wish, she wouldn't be on her own much longer. Only this time she had chosen more wisely. The man who had brought her to the party tonight, Adam Philips, was a country doctor. Adam would never die from an outlaw's bullet, the way Cale had. And Adam was reliable. Punctual almost to a fault. She would be able to count on him through thick and thin.

That was a definite plus in weighing the decision she had to make. For the good-natured gossip at the party about her and the young doctor was founded in fact. Adam Philips had proposed to her, and Honey was seriously considering his offer. Adam was a handsome, dependable man in a safe occupation. He liked her sons, and they liked—perhaps
tolerated
was a better word to describe how they felt about him. There was only one problem.

Honey didn't love Adam.

Maybe she would never love another man the way she had loved Cale. Maybe she was hoping
for too much. Maybe it would be better to marry a man she didn't love. That way her heart could never be broken again if—

The kitchen door rattled behind her. Afraid that someone would find her sitting alone in the dark and start asking more awkward questions, Honey rose and headed toward the corner of the house where the spill of light from the kitchen windows didn't reach. She almost ran into the man before she realized he was there.

He was leaning against Dallas's Victorian house, his booted foot braced against the painted wooden wall, his Stetson tipped forward over his brow so his face was in deep shadow. His thumbs were stuck into the front of his low-slung, beltless jeans. He was wearing a faded western shirt with white piping and pearl snaps that reflected the faint light of a misted moon.

Honey felt breathless. She wasn't exactly frightened, but she was anxious because she didn't recognize the man. He might have been a party guest, but he wasn't dressed for a party. He looked more like a down-on-his-luck cowboy, a drifter. It was better not to take a chance. Honey slowly backed away.

With no wasted movement, the cowboy reached out a hand and caught her wrist. He didn't hold her tightly, but he held her, all the same.

Honey stood transfixed by the feel of his callused fingers on her flesh. “I'll scream if you don't let go,” she said in a miraculously calm voice.

The cowboy grinned, his teeth a white slash in the darkness. “No you won't.”

There was a coiled tension in the way he held his body that she recognized. Cale had been like that. Ready to react instantly to any threat. Suddenly her curiosity was greater than her fear. She stopped straining against his hold. Instantly his grasp loosened, but he didn't let go.

“I've been standing out on the front porch watching you through the window, waiting for a chance to talk to you,” the drifter said.

So, she wasn't crazy. Someone
had
been watching her all evening. His eyes weren't visible beneath the brim of his hat, but she felt the hairs rise on her nape. He was watching her right now. She ignored the gooseflesh that rose
on her arms as he caressed her wrist with his thumb.

“I'm listening,” she said. Regrettably the calm was gone from her voice.

“I know you're having some trouble handling things all by yourself at the ranch and—”

“How could you possibly know what's going on at the Flying Diamond?”

“Dallas told me how things are with you.”

She exhaled with a loud sigh. “I see.” He was no stranger then, although just who he was remained a mystery.

“It wouldn't have been hard to tell you've got problems just by looking at you.”

“Oh? Are you some kind of mind reader?”

“No. But I can read people.”

She remained silent, so he continued, “That frown never left your brow all evening.”

Honey consciously relaxed the furrows of worry on her brow.

“Judging from the purple shadows I saw under your eyes, you aren't sleeping too well. You aren't eating much, either. That dress doesn't fit worth beans.”

Honey tugged at the black knit dress she was wearing. Undeniably she had lost weight since Cale's death.

“Not that I don't like what I see,” the cowboy drawled.

Honey felt a faint irritation—laced with pleasure—when his grin reappeared.

“You're long legged as a newborn filly and curved in all the right places. That curly hair of yours looks fine as corn silk, and your eyes, why I'd swear they're blue as a Texas sky, ma'am.”

Honey was mortified by her body's traitorous reaction as his eyes made a lazy perusal of her face and form. She felt the heat, the anticipation—and the fear. She recognized her attraction to the man even as she fought against it. This tall, dark-eyed drifter would never be reliable. And he had
danger
written all over him.

“Who are you?” Her voice was raspy and didn't sound at all like her own.

“Jesse Whitelaw, ma'am.” The drifter reached up with his free hand and tugged the brim of his Stetson.

The name meant nothing to her; his courtesy did nothing to ease her concern. She stared, waiting for him to say why he had sought her out, why he knew so much about her when she knew nothing about him.

He stared back. She felt the tension grow between them, the invisible electrical pulse of desire that streaked from his flesh to hers. Unconsciously she stepped back. His hold on her wrist tightened, keeping her captive.

His voice was low and grated like a rusty gate. “Dallas told me about your husband's death. I came here tonight hoping to meet you.”

“Why?”

“I need a job.”

The tension eased in Honey's shoulders. She released a gust of air she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Despite what he'd said, the way he'd looked at her, he hadn't sought her out to pursue a physical relationship. She couldn't help the stab of disappointment, when what she ought to feel was relief. At least now she knew how to deal with him.

“I can't afford to hire anyone right now,”
she said. “Especially not some down-on-his-luck drifter.”

The smile was back. “If I wasn't down on my luck, I wouldn't need the job.”

She couldn't hire him, but she was curious enough about him to ask, “Where did you work last?”

His shoulders rolled in a negligent shrug. “I've been…around.”

“Doing what?” she persisted.

“A little cowboying, some rodeo bull riding, and…some drifting.”

Bull riding.
She should have known. Even Cale had never ridden bulls because he had thought it was too dangerous.
Drifting.
He was a man who couldn't be tied to any one place or, she suspected, any one woman. The last thing she needed at the Flying Diamond was a drifting cowboy who rode bulls for fun. Not that she could afford to hire him, anyway.

Just today she had discovered over fifty head of cattle missing—apparently rustled—from the Flying Diamond. That loss would cut deep into the profits she had hoped to make this year. “I can't hire anyone right now,” she said. “I—”

The back door opened, revealing the silhouette of a large man in the stream of light. “Honey? Are you out here?”

She recognized Dallas, who was joined at the door by Angel.

“Are you coming in?” Dallas asked Honey.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” She took advantage of Dallas's interruption to slip from the drifter's grasp. But he followed her. She could feel him right behind her as she stepped onto the porch.

Honey turned to the stranger to excuse herself and gasped. The harsh light from the kitchen doorway revealed the man's features. She was suddenly aware of his bronzed skin, of the high, broad cheekbones, the blade of nose and thin lips that proclaimed his heritage.

“You're Indian!” she exclaimed.

“The best part of me, yes, ma'am.”

Honey didn't know what to say. She found him more appealing than she cared to admit, yet the savage look in his eyes frightened her. To her dismay, the drifter put the worst possible face on her silence.

His lips twisted bitterly, his grating voice be
came cynical as he said, “I suppose I should have mentioned that my great-grandfather married a Comanche bride. If it makes a difference—”

Honey flushed. “Not at all. I was just a little surprised when I saw…I mean, I didn't realize…”

“I'm used to it,” he said. From the harsh sound of his voice it was clear he didn't like it.

Honey wished she had handled the situation better. She didn't think any less of him because he was part Indian, even though she knew there were some who would. She turned back to Angel and saw that the young woman had retreated into the safety of Dallas's arms.

“I came outside for some air,” Honey explained to Dallas. “And I met someone who says he's a friend of yours.”

Dallas propelled Angel ahead of him onto the back porch and pulled the kitchen door closed behind him. “Hello, Jesse. I wasn't expecting you tonight.”

Jesse shrugged again. “I got free sooner than I thought I would. Anyway, I could have saved
myself the trip. Mrs. Farrell says she can't afford to hire anyone right now.”

Dallas pursed his lips in disapproval. “I don't think you can afford not to hire someone, Honey.”