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by it.”
    Jesse released the man’s shirt. He straightened it with both hands, carefully reining his temper. “Back up slow and easy and keep that rifle out of the sunlight. No sense me having to make explanations to Mrs. Farrell about what you’re doing here.”
    Mort wasn’t stupid. What Jesse said made sense. Besides, the Boss would skin him alive if he got caught anywhere near Mrs. Farrell. “I’m skedaddlin’,” he said.
    Without another word, Mort backed his horse into the copse of pecans and out of sight. Jesse whirled the stud and galloped toward Honey to keep her from coming any closer before Mort made good his escape.
    Why hadn’t she waited for him at the ranch, as he’d asked? Damned woman was going to be more trouble than he’d thought. But she was sure a sight for sore eyes.
    Her hair hung in frothy golden curls that whipped around her head and shoulders as she cantered her bay gelding toward him. She ought to be wearing a hat, he thought. As light-skinned as she was, the sun would burn her in no time at all. He remembered how her pale hand had looked in his bronzed one, how soft it had felt between his callused fingers and thumb. Never had he been more conscious of who and what he was.
    Jesse hadn’t known at first what it meant tobe part Indian. He had learned. Breed. Half-breed. Dirty Injun. He had heard them all. What made it so ironic was the fact that neither of his two older brothers, Garth and Faron, nor his younger sister, Tate, looked Indian at all. He was the only one who had taken after their Comanche ancestors.
    His brothers hadn’t understood his bitterness at being different. They hadn’t understood the cause for his bloody knuckles and blackened eyes. Surprisingly, it was his half-English, half-Irish father who had made him proud he was descended from a warrior people, the savage Comanche.
    That knowledge had shaped his whole life.
    Jesse had often wondered what would have happened if he had been born a hundred years earlier; he often felt as barbaric as any Comanche. He had not been able to settle in one place, but needed to wander as his forebears had. While it was still a ruthless world he lived in, the conventions of society had glossed over the ugliness so it was not as apparent. Except, he had chosen a life that brought him into dailycontact with what was cruel and sordid in the modern world. And forced him daily to confront his own feral nature.
    Jesse no longer apologized for who and what he was. He had not tied himself to any one place, or any one person. He had never minded being alone or even considered the loneliness and isolation caused by his way of life. Until he had met the woman riding toward him now.
    His eyes narrowed on Honey Farrell. He wished he could tell her about himself. Wished he could explain how she made him feel, but he couldn’t even tell her who he really was. Nevertheless, he had no intention of letting the circumstances keep them apart. It wasn’t honorable to keep the truth from her, but he consoled himself with the thought that when this was all over, he would more than make it up to her.
    It was unfortunate she didn’t—couldn’t—know the truth about him, but he convinced himself that it wouldn’t matter to her. He would make her understand that they belonged together. And who—and what—he was would make no difference.
    â€œHello, there!” Honey called as she rode up to Jesse. “There was a phone call for you after you left.”
    Jesse took off his hat, thrust his hand through his too-long black hair and resettled the Stetson. “Can’t imagine who’d call me,” he said. His family had no idea where he was—and hadn’t known for years.
    â€œIt was Dallas.”
    Jesse frowned. “Any particular reason for the call?”
    â€œHe invited you to dinner tonight.” Honey didn’t mention that Dallas had invited her to