Honey and the Hired Hand. Joan Johnston

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СКАЧАТЬ broke when he least expected it. She was already in the kitchen by the time she realized they weren’t talking to each other.

      The drifter was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee before him. Honey clutched the robe to her throat, her mouth agape.

      “Catch a lot of flies that way,” the drifter said with a lazy grin.

      Her jaws snapped closed.

      “Good morning,” he said, touching a finger to the brim of his Stetson.

      “Is it?” she retorted.

      His skin looked golden in the sunlight. There were fine lines around his eyes and deep brackets around his mouth that had been washed out by the artificial light the previous evening. He was older than she’d thought, maybe middle thirties. But his dark eyes were as piercing as she remembered, and he pinned her with his stare. Honey felt naked.

      She gripped the front of the masculine robe tighter, conscious of how she was dressed—or rather, not dressed. She thrust a hand into her shoulder-length hair, which tumbled in riotous natural curls around her face. She wondered how her mascara had survived the night. Usually it ended up clumped on the ends of her eyelashes or smudged underneath them. She reached up to wipe at her eyes, then stuck her hand in the pocket of the robe. It wasn’t her fault he’d found her looking like something the cat dragged in.

      Honey didn’t want to admit that the real reason she resented this unsettling man’s presence in her kitchen so early in the morning was that she hadn’t wanted him to see her looking so…so mussed.

      “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

      He raised a brow as though the answer was obvious. And it was.

      “I let him in,” Jack said, his hazel eyes anxious. “You said the hired hand was coming this morning. I thought it would be okay.”

      Honey took several steps into the room and laid a hand on her older son’s shoulder. “You did fine. I’m just a little surprised at how early Mr. Whitelaw got here.”

      “He said we can call him Jesse,” Jonathan volunteered.

      Honey bristled. The man had certainly made himself at home.

      “Jesse helped me make my sandwich,” Jonathan added, holding up a brown paper bag.

      Honey’s left hand curled into a fist in the pocket of the robe. “That was nice.” Her voice belied the words.

      “Jesse thinks I’m old enough to make my own lunch,” Jonathan continued, his chest pumped out with pride.

      Honey had known for some time that Jonathan could make his own sandwich, but she had kept doing it for him because the routine morning chore kept her from missing Cale so much. She was annoyed by the drifter’s interference but couldn’t say so without taking away from Jonathan’s accomplishment.

      “Jesse rides bulls and rodeo broncs,” Jack said. “He worked last at a ranch in northwest Texas called Hawk’s Way. He’s gonna teach me some steer roping tricks. He’s never been married but he’s had a lot of girlfriends. Oh, and he graduated from Texas Tech with a degree in animal husbandry and ranch management.”

      It was hard for Honey not to laugh aloud at the chagrined look on Jesse’s face as Jack recited all the information he’d garnered. The drifter had been, if not grilled, certainly a little singed around the edges.

      The shoe was on the other foot as Jack continued, “I told him how you haven’t been coping too well since Dad—well, this past year. Not that you don’t try,” he backtracked when he spied the horrified look on his mother’s face, “but after all, Mom, the work is pretty hard for you.”

      Honey was abashed by her son’s forthrightness. “I’ve managed fine,” she said. She didn’t want Jesse Whitelaw thinking she needed him more than she did. After all, a drifter like him wasn’t going to be around long. Soon enough she’d be managing on her own again.

      She stiffened her back and lifted her chin. Staring Jesse Whitelaw right in the eye she announced, “And I expect I’ll still be managing fine long after you’ve drifted on.”

      “The fact remains, you need me now, Mrs. Farrell,” the drifter said in that rusty gate voice. “So long as I’m here, you’ll be getting a fair day’s work from me.”

      The silence that followed was uncomfortable for everyone except the younger boy.

      In the breach Jonathan piped up, “Jesse thinks I should have a real horse to ride, not just a pony.”

      “I’m sure Jesse does,” Honey said in as calm a voice as she could manage. “But I’m your mother, and until I decide differently, you’ll stick with what you have.”

      “Aww, Mom.”

      This was an old argument, and Honey cut it off at the pass. “The school bus will be here in a few minutes,” she said. “You boys had better get out to the main road.”

      Honey gave Jonathan a hug and a quick kiss before he headed out the kitchen door. “Have a nice day, sweetheart.”

      Jack was old enough to pick up the tension that arced between his mother and the drifter. His narrowed glance leapt from her to Jesse and back again. “Uh, maybe I ought to stay home today. Kind of show Jesse around.”

      Honey forced herself to smile reassuringly. “Nonsense. You have reviews for finals starting this week. You can’t afford to miss them. Jesse and I will manage fine. Won’t we?”

      She turned to Jesse, asking him with her eyes to add his reassurance to hers.

      Jesse rose and shoved his chair under the table. “Appreciate the offer,” he said to Jack. “But like your mom said, we’ll be just fine.”

      “Then I better run, or I’ll miss the bus.” Jack hesitated another instant before he sprinted for the door. Honey would have liked to hug Jack, too, but at thirteen, he resisted her efforts to cosset him.

      A moment later they were alone. Jesse was watching her again, and Honey’s body was reacting to the appreciation in his dark eyes. She rearranged the robe and pulled the belt tighter, grateful for the thick terry cloth covering. She felt the roses bloom on her cheeks and hurried over to the stove to pour herself a cup of coffee.

      Too late she realized she should have excused herself to go upstairs to dress. If she left now without getting her coffee, he would know she was running scared. There was absolutely no reason for her to feel threatened. Dallas wouldn’t have recommended Jesse Whitelaw if she had anything to fear from him. But she couldn’t help the anxiety she felt.

      “Would you like another cup of coffee?” she asked, holding up the pot.

      “Don’t mind if I do, Mrs. Farrell,” Jesse said.

      “Please, you might as well call me Honey.”

      “All right…Honey.”

      Her name sounded far more intimate in that rusty gate voice of his than she was comfortable with. She stared, mesmerized for a moment by the warmth in his dark eyes, then realized what she was doing and repeated her offer.

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