Hawk's Way by Joan Johnston Page A

shivered, but not from the cold. It was the first time he’d heard Honey laugh, and the sound skittered down his spine. His lips curled ruefully. At least now he knew she had a sense of humor.
    He soaped a rag and washed himself vigorously, as though that could obliterate his thoughts of her. But Honey Farrell had gotten under his skin. Every breath he took filled his lungs with the honeysuckle scent she had bathed in. Everywhere he looked there were reminders that he had invaded her feminine domain.
    The pedestal sink was cluttered on top with all sorts of female paraphernalia—powder and lipstick and deodorant and suchlike—except where she had cleared a tiny space for his things.
    Jesse cursed a blue streak as he rinsed himselfwith the icy water, then grabbed a towel and stepped out onto the deepest pile rug he had ever felt beneath his feet. It was decorated with whimsical daisies—as was the towel he had wrapped around his hips. If his brothers could see him now, they would rib him up one side and down the other.
    He quickly pulled on clean briefs and jeans, then slung the towel around his neck while he shaved. He debated whether to leave his straight edge razor and strop in the bathroom, then decided that as long as she had left the space for him, he might as well use it. When he saw his things beside hers, he pursed his lips thoughtfully. It was as though an unfinished picture had been completed.
    He spread the damp towel over the rack and put on the shirt he had brought into the bathroom with him. He had hoped the steam from a hot shower would ease some of the wrinkles out of it. Since he’d ended up taking a cold bath, he had no choice except to shrug into the wrinkled shirt.
    Jesse started to borrow Honey’s hairbrush butchanged his mind and finger-combed his hair instead. It would hang straight once it dried no matter what he did with it now.
    Jesse came down the stairs quietly and stood at the kitchen door undetected by the trio at the table. Honey was serving up her younger son’s dinner. Her face was rosy, probably from all that hot water she’d bathed in, he thought with a silent chuckle. He was glad to see she wasn’t wearing black again, but he thought the pale green was wrong for her.
    She ought to be wearing vivid colors—reds and royal blues—that were as full of life as she was. He liked the way the dress clung to her figure, outlining her breasts and defining her slim waist and hips. She looked very much like a woman, and he felt the blood surge in his loins at the sight of her.
    He watched unnoticed as Honey brushed a lock of hair off Jonathan’s forehead. She put a hand on Jack’s shoulder as she set the salt and pepper before him. Then she found another reason to touch Jonathan. Jesse wondered if Honey had any idea what she was doing. He felt hisbody tauten with the thought of her touching him like that.
    Jesse’s family members were fiercely loyal to each other, but they weren’t much for touching. He could count on one hand the number of times his mother had caressed him in any way. He hadn’t realized until now just how needful he was of Honey’s touch and the feel of her hands on his body.
    â€œOh, there you are!” Honey froze with her hand outstretched for the butter dish. She wondered how long Jesse had been standing there. He had a way of watching her that she found totally unnerving. His dark, hooded gaze revealed a hunger that took her breath away, but there was a yearning, almost wistful expression in his eyes as well.
    â€œAre you ready to go?” he asked.
    Honey took a good look at what the hired hand was wearing and frowned. She wondered what kind of life Jesse Whitelaw had led when this was all he had to wear to dinner. His jeans were clean but worn white at the stress points and seams. The faded western shirt was frayedat collar and cuffs and badly creased. His leather belt was dark with age and had a shiny