concerned
because I care about you."
Brody lowered his head to kiss the places his thumbs had touched, his breath a feather of sensation on Becky's heated flesh. When his lips claimed hers, Brody was no less gentle. A taste was enough for him now, when she'd given in so sweetly.
Becky shivered again when his mouth lifted, and opened her eyes immediately. She hadn't looked away from him yet.
He pulled her against his chest, which also pulled the backs of Becky's hands from the wall where he'd placed them. Brody felt the small hesitation before she moved them further, to return his hug. When she wrapped her arms around his middle and put her cheek against his chest, Brody's anger vanished.
No amount of scut work could dim Brody's elation over the remainder of his day. He practically skipped to answer Clancy's bidding. His good mood had the added benefit of irritating the older man, especially when Brody began to add "sir" to the end of every answer.
Yes, sir! No, sir! Right away, sir!
like the solitary soldier in the KCW brigade. Once or twice, Brody even had the urge to salute, but figured the gesture would definitely get him hit with Clancy's ebony cane, so he suppressed that final glorious thumb to his nose.
He contented himself with humming, whistling, and thinking of Becky, though he was almost afraid to dwell on their encounter. He'd had no intention of trying to dominate Becky, probably not ever. He'd never even considered the possibility, but in the heat of the moment, the command had sprung from his mouth.
He'd been too inflamed to regret the words immediately, though in retrospect Brody was certain he would have apologized in just another moment, if Becky hadn't reacted the way she did. Her eyes had hit him like a hoof to the middle of his spine, though, and he'd barely restrained the shudder which threatened to engulf his body.
Her capitulation was beyond belief.
Brody could never have anticipated it, and still didn't trust the conclusion which had come so quickly to his mind, no matter what his ears and eyes and the fire in his belly were telling him. It didn't seem possible that the virginal Rebecca Connor could be aroused by submitting to his will. It didn't seem real. Brody was elated, but almost afraid to hope: if it were true, the stakes were much higher than he'd ever dared to dream.
–:–:–:–:–:–:– Chapter 20 –:–:–:–:–:–:–
Inside the shadowy interior of the northern bunkhouse, Becky stood with hands on her hips, surveying the beds which lined the walls. Every single one seemed to have a bag or box of some kind stashed beneath it. How was she supposed to know which bunk was Brody's?
She sighed and, bending, pulled the metal trunk out from beneath the first bed. She probably wouldn't find Brody's bunk today– she wanted to clear out at least a quarter of an hour before the men arrived, and she had one of the younger stable lads watching the trail to keep an eye out for their return. It wouldn't do to get caught rustling through the men's unmentionables, especially while she was wearing pants herself.
The brass latch of the first trunk opened easily, and she flipped the lid open. The long, low building didn't have many windows, but it wasn't too dim to see inside the trunk. She closed it just as quickly, her eyes wide. She squatted by the bed gathering her courage before opening it again. The small stack of papers she'd seen were just the kind of evidence she wanted to defend herself from Brody's advances. If she found something bad enough, her brothers might even banish Brody from the ranch, but at the very least, she hoped to silence his threats and worm her way out of their bargain.
–:–:–:–:–:–:–
Brody had been out mending fences all day and already had mischief on his mind when he returned to the bunkhouse that day. He'd been riding the eastern borders of the ranch alone this week, checking for breaches before they became a problem. It was a hopeless task, because a boy could hide in the bushes waiting for Brody to pass by before taking out another section of fence.
Brody thought the KCW would be better off sending one hand to watch each of the nearest ranches from a hilltop somewhere, waiting for the troublesome youth to strike off on his own. But it wasn't up to him to decide, and he wouldn't be offering advice to Becky's brothers, no matter how much time he spent sitting on their porch.
The only good thing about mending fences was taking off for the bunkhouse half an hour earlier than he expected the rest of the crew to arrive and getting the first shot at the sun-warmed water. It was hot enough that no one minded bathing in the creek or in water drawn from the creek, but it was a fact of life that shaving your face with warm water left more skin behind.
So Brody wasn't expecting to find anyone else at the bunkhouse when he arrived. The flash of movement, though it was dun-colored and disappeared with haste, drew his attention immediately. The dun color was trail dust, and it was decorating the boots and trouser bottoms of a slim young man slipping through the bunkhouse's solitary door– very possibly the self-same lad everyone had been scrambling to catch practically since his arrival.
Brody reached for his rifle, but switched direction and came up with the Colt instead. If he'd been serious about killing the kid, he would've grabbed the rifle for this distance, but Brody just wanted to scare hell out of him, and the pistol would do that. It wasn't one of the pretty pair of nickel, pearl-handled gentleman's guns he'd been carrying when he arrived in Texas– those had been stolen from him, too– but he was just as happy to have the second-hand, single-action Cattleman by his side. The whole herd could trample a Colt and it still wouldn't jam up on you.
He stayed to one side of the track, walking the twitchy mare through the alfalfa. He dismounted fifty feet from the bunkhouse, leaving Rolly to graze and hoping like hell he didn't have to track her down later. He didn't see another horse but assumed the boy had one somewhere, though Brody wasn't planning on letting him get to it. Depending on the kid's attitude, he might even hogtie him and sling him over Rolly's broad hind-quarters for the ride up to the ranch-house. Even if he let the kid sit astride, a visit with Kendall and Wilson would scare the hell out've almost anybody. A dangerous smile graced Brody's face as he strode silently toward the door.
–:–:–:–:–:–:–
Becky's nose and forehead wrinkled as she stared at the drawing on top of the pile. She blew a breath out through pursed lips and told herself to stop being such a ninny. She knew what happened in the bedroom– Nanny had made sure of that, and looking at a few dirty pictures wouldn't hurt her. She lifted the pile and scanned them one by one. Most were printed on the same kind of stiff paper as postcards, but a few seemed to have been cut from books. More than half were drawings or etchings, even one original pencil drawing on regular stationery, but partway through the pile, Becky found a few photographs. The one on top was of a naked woman reclining on a chaise, one knee bent so the photographer had an unobstructed view of the hair between her legs. That was mild compared to some of the sketches she'd already seen. Three photographs down, though, Rebecca found a photograph so disturbing that she tossed the pile as though her fingers had been scorched. After a minute, she pinched the top one carefully between two fingertips and flipped it over to read the back.
Tom Perkins.
Her eyebrows rose. She neatened the stack, closed the trunk, shoved it back under the bed, and stood staring along the row of beds.
Tom Perkins was such a
nice
man. He stopped by with bones for Topper whenever he came up to the barn and gave candy to the children at Christmas. Now she could never look him in the eye again. And if Tom Perkins . . .
Tom Perkins
! had pictures like those, what was she going to find in the rest of them? Becky grimaced, lowering her eyes to the trunk at her feet. How could she face twenty more?
She squared her shoulders and squatted, grabbing the leather straps of the bag beneath the next bunk. She could darn well face just about anything to get rid of Brody Easton.
The satchel was nearly empty, but the stiff canvas exterior stuck on something when she tried to push it back under the bed, and she had to mess about for a minute to get it in there. When she stood this time, the steel in her ear said she wasn't getting a glimpse under the third bed.
"Hands up," a voice sliced through the darkness behind her.
Before both words left his lips, Brody had recognized the slim shoulders and the curve of her thighs. He tipped his hand to point the barrel away from Becky, easing his thumb off the hammer as he gritted his teeth.
The woman was trying get herself killed, one way or another. If it wasn't a flood or quicksand, it would be her sister's husbands or Catherine herself.
Heart in her throat, Becky raised her hands, not even noticing when the gun was withdrawn. "I'm–"
In an instant, she was pinned to the rough board wall, the heavy male body pressed to her back holding her in place.
"What the hell are you doing in here?" Brody's breath brushed her cheek as he growled roughly in her ear.
Becky's heart quickened, the knowledge of who was behind her more intimidating than the gun had been. "I–"
