Buckhorn Beginnings by Lori Foster

comfortably seat eight, as well as a short bar with three stools that divided the eating area from the cooking area. Pots hung on hooks, accessible, and along the outside wall there was a row of pegs that held everything from hats and jackets to car and truck keys. The entire house had black checked curtains at the windows, but the ones in the kitchen were never closed. With the kitchen on the same side of the house as his bedroom, there was always a view of the lake. His mother had planned it that way because, she claimed, looking at the lake made the chore of doing dishes more agreeable. After they’d gotten older and all had to take their turn, they’d agreed. Then they’d gotten a dishwasher, but stillthere were times when one or more of them would be caught there, drinking a glass of milk or snacking and staring at the placid surface of the lake.
    Honey shifted, peeking up through her lashes to find a lot of appreciative eyes gazing at her. She glanced back down with a blush. She was an enticing mix of bravado and shyness, making demands one minute, pink-cheeked the next.
    He liked seeing his shirt on her, this one a soft, worn flannel in shades of blue that did sexy things for her eyes. And he liked the way her heavy hair half tumbled down her nape, escaping the loose knot and braid, with silky strands draping her shoulders.
    She didn’t look as chilled, and he wondered if her nipples were still pebbled, if they pressed against his shirt.
    His hand shook and he dropped his fork, taking the attention away from Honey. To keep his brothers from embarrassing him with lurid comments on his state of preoccupation, he asked Honey, “How come your car was filled with stuff, but no clothes?”
    She swallowed a tiny bite of chicken and shrugged. She’d drunk nearly a full glass of tea but only picked at her food. “I left in a hurry. And that stuff was already in my car.”
    Sawyer glanced around and saw the same level of confusion on his brothers’ faces that he felt.
    Morgan pushed his empty plate away and folded his arms on the edge of the table. “ Why was the stuff already in your car?”
    She coughed, drank some tea, rubbed her forehead. Finally she looked at Morgan dead on. “Because I hadn’t unloaded it yet.” She aligned her fork carefully beside her plate and asked in her low, rough voice, “Why did you decide to become a sheriff?”
    He looked bemused for just a moment, the customary scowl gone from his face. “It suited me.” His eyes narrowed and he asked, “What do you mean you hadn’t unloaded it? Unloaded it from where?”
    â€œI’d just left my fiancé that very week. All I’d unloaded out of the car were my clothes and the things I needed right away. Before I could get the rest of the boxes out, I had to leave again. So the stuff was still in there. What do you mean, being a sheriff suits you? In what way?”
    Her question was momentarily ignored while a silence as loud as a thunderclap hovered over the table. No one moved. No one spoke. All the brothers were watching Sawyer.
    He drew a low breath. “She’s not engaged anymore.”
    Gabe looked surprised. “She’s not?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not?” Morgan demanded. “What happened?”
    Before Sawyer could form an answer, Honey turned very businesslike. “What do you mean, being a sheriff suits you?”
    A small, ruthless smile touched Morgan’s mouth as he caught on to her game. He leaned forward. “I get to call the shots since I’m the sheriff. People have to do what I say, and I like it. Why did you leave your fiancé?”
    â€œI found out he didn’t love me. And what makesyou think people have to obey you? Do you mean you lord your position over them? You take advantage?”
    â€œOn occasion. Did you love your fiancé?”
    â€œAs it turns out…no. What occasions?”
    Morgan