Texas Trio Pt. 02 - Becky's Debt Ch. 13

Mrs. Connor introduced them, "Mr. Easton, this is my daughter Lily."

Brody pushed his chair back from the table and stood, bowing over the little girl's hand. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lily."

Lily smiled beatifically. "Fank you, Mister Eesssen."

Her mother beamed at Brody as he sat.

Brody avoided making eye contact with Kendall as he turned back to his place setting, since he'd seen the frown in his peripheral vision. Kendall's attention shifted as Yan carried his daughter around the table. He pushed away from the table and took her from the nanny's arms. "Hello, sweetheart."

"What book tonight, Daddy?"

Colt glanced up at Yan, who gave him a little head shake. "Your layabed brothers are sleepin' already, but tomorrow, you get to pick, okay?"

" 'Kay, Daddy."

Colt kissed her and passed her to his left.

Lily took up in the exact same position in Jem's lap, standing on his thighs so they were nearly eye to eye. Her intonation exactly the same, too, Lily asked, "What book tonight, Papa?"

Everyone laughed while Jem repeated Colt's explanation and kissed his daughter goodnight, then Yan collected Lily and turned toward Nanny.

"Just a minute, Yan," Jem stopped her. "You look lovely today. What is that color you're wearing?"

Yan smiled serenely down at the handsome husband of her benefactress, but turned away without answering, letting Nanny have her Lily‑kiss.

Jem's smile didn't dim, despite the seeming rebuff, and Catherine answered him in Yan's stead. "Teal, Jeremiah. Her frock is teal, as I'm sure you know."

Jem smiled sideways at the remonstrance implicit in her narrowed eyes.

After Yan left the room, Catherine picked up exactly where she'd left off. "You are both horrid, horrid men: Yan has been through enough for two lifetimes—why you persist in tormenting that poor girl--"

Colt snorted. "She's the one doing the tormenting, Cat, m'girl."

Jem winked at Catherine, who hid a smile in her china cup as Colt continued, "You know she understands every d‑‑. . . uh . . . dang word we say, but she refuses to say so much as 'hello' to any of us."

"Comprehending a language and speaking it are two different things; I seriously doubt she speaks English, Colt."

That was the first time Brody had seen either Kendall or Wilson up close with one of the children, and his mind drifted as the conversation went on around him. He was surprised by the identical looks of devotion the two men had worn as they looked at the little girl. Hearing that they both acted as father to all three children was different than seeing it for himself. Brody realized that in some corner of his mind he'd been sure there were unspoken biases at work, but he suspected he'd been wrong again.

When his attention returned to the conversation around him, Nanny, Mrs. Connor, and Cook—who'd deserted the kitchen a while ago—were discussing Lily.

"She doesn't even know her letters yet," Mrs. Connor complained.

Cook levered her bulky body out of a brocade chair near the sideboard. "Oh, hush, Miz Cat, I'm not so certain about that. She was sitting in here with a primer the other day, chattering away while Yan worked sums with the boys, and I swear Miss Lily was reading what was on that page."

"Well, I don't expect her to be reading yet, but if she doesn't know her letters by her next birthday, I don't know what we'll do."

Nanny seconded Cook. "Miz Cat, that's nearly a whole year off. Don't go borrowin' trouble where there ain't none yet."

The back door slammed, grabbing everyone's attention, and a tall, dark‑brown‑skinned man entered, squeezing past Cook's retreating form in the kitchen doorway. He went directly to stand behind Nanny's chair.

Brody gaped. The man was wearing trousers and boots like his own, but there the similarity ended. Abruptly.

He wasn't as tall as Brody or the other two men at the table, but the fringed buckskin shirt he wore made the wide, straight beam of his body appear even wider. A folded bandana rode low on his protruding brow, controlling only the top six inches of a cloud of hair like Brody had never seen before. The nappy coal‑black mound flowing halfway down his back could have concealed a small pack or a large papoose. Maybe both at once.

"Cochise," Jem said, by way of a greeting.

The hard‑eyed newcomer ignored everyone but Nanny. She leaned back and looked up at him with affection. He betrayed no emotion but muttered a few words under his breath, and Nanny rose. "Scuse me, Miz Cat, Miss Becky, I'll be back later on. I got to go help Caleb unpack his things."

Kendall and Wilson both peered intently into their coffee cups, elbows on the table. When they heard the back door close, they erupted into laughter.

"Stop it, you two," Cat scolded them, though she too was smiling and didn't sound angry in the least.

Brody caught Becky's eye and raised one brow inquisitively, asking to be included in the joke. Instead of answering, Becky blushed, and Brody suddenly understood the byplay. His mild curiosity regarding the relationship between the wiry, maternal woman and the wild, brown‑skinned man having been satisfied in a most surprising manner, Brody covered his own amusement well, he thought, complimenting Mrs. Connor on the furnishings in her home.

"Thank you, Mr. Easton."

"It can't have been easy getting such beautiful things transported here without damage, since the railroad has yet to pass through town."

Cat smiled at her husbands. "My husbands are quite resourceful men."

They smiled back at her, and once again, Brody had the feeling he'd intruded on a private moment.

She motioned to the maid who was clearing dishes, saving Brody from further embarrassment. "Can you ask Cook for more coffee, Estrella, and bring some of those little white cakes out to the parlor; we're going to listen to Mr. Easton tell us all about his trip around the world."

And that's what they did. Mrs. Connor quizzed him, with frequent commentary from her husbands, but only a rare interjection from her sister.

Brody kept his stories general, telling about sights he'd seen rather than his own experiences during the trip.

When Mrs. Connor asked where he'd stayed, Brody avoided outright lying by saying he'd traveled mostly by ship and stayed on board, which was true, except when it wasn't. He'd traveled by boat until he reached Cairo, then he'd gone cross‑country by camel. In Spain and France he'd traveled by rail, staying in a private car loaned to him by a California business associate who had interests in cities around the world. The man kept a famous European opera singer as his mistress and that train car had been embroidered, brocaded, and beaded within an inch of its life.

When Brody wasn't in motion, he'd stayed in hotels or clubs or at the homes of other wealthy men. He and his partner, Graham Almsted, had business contacts world‑wide, too, who'd often stayed in their San Francisco homes, and whose wives were more than happy to entertain a charming, eligible bachelor in return.

He managed to say none of that, and the remainder of the evening would have been unremarkable were it not for the presence of Rebecca Connor. With her in the room, Brody found it difficult to concentrate on the conversation and more difficult yet to keep his eyes away. He constantly glanced in her direction. She sat erect, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her skin and hair glowing in the lamplight. Subtle reflections flashed from the jet beadwork around the neckline of her low‑cut gown, making it nearly impossible for Brody not to stare at the satiny mounds spilling out above the fabric of her bodice.

By the time he bid his hosts good‑night, his palms were so sweaty that he was forced to squeeze them dry on a dessert napkin before bowing over the ladies' hands. Kendall and Wilson didn't offer to shake, for which he was grateful.

Brody collected Bear from the stable, but walked him home instead of mounting for the ride, wishing to replay the evening in peaceful silence before joining his compatriots in the noisy, low‑roofed bunkhouse.

From a darkened window on the second floor, Becky watched him disappear into the pine‑speckled plains.

—:—

In Jem's room, diagonally across the stairs, Colt and Catherine lay whispering while Jem checked on the children.

"I don't like him."

"Yes, dear, I did notice that, but what did you think tonight? Pretend you weren't nursing this pre‑conceived hatred."

Colt thought about it. "He likes your sister, all right."

Cat nodded slightly. "He seemed fond of his foster mother. You said she died?"

"Mnnh," Colt grunted in affirmation. "He was 'bout fifteen, I think he said. Went west for gold after that."

"And married."

"Mnnh. Didn't mention that to me'n'Jem."

Catherine played with the ends of her hair, braiding and re‑braiding the long strands draped forward across her chest. "You can't blame him for that."

"Mnnh."

Jem entered silently, stripping down and draping his discarded clothing over a chair. He slid into bed on Cat's left and she rolled automatically as he turned toward her, snuggling back into the curve of his body. Colt adjusted his position, too, wanting to be within kissing distance should the opportunity arise.

Cat whispered over her shoulder to Jem, telling him what they'd been discussing.

"Mnnh," he murmured, making his wife giggle.

"What?" he asked.

Colt smiled and dropped a soft kiss on her hand. "What did you think?"

Cat pursed her lips. "I think he's lonely, but he didn't know it until he met Becky. Now she's the only person who can fill that hole in his life."

Four masculine eyebrows rose in unison.

"You think he's in love with her already? Not just paying calls?" Jem asked.

"Mmm," Catherine answered, drawing a wide smile from Colt.

He didn't care much for Brody Easton, and at the moment, he didn't much care about Brody Easton. Easton was in the bunkhouse half a mile away, Becky was tucked in safely down the hall, and his wife was only about eight inches away. Eight inches he was more than eager to bridge, 'specially since Cat had been yearning for another babe.

Colt shifted his hips restlessly.

Cat tried not to notice him prodding her thigh, though warmth began pooling in her belly. "Will you let him ask Becky?"

Neither man was foolish enough to believe the implication of Catherine's question—that she herself had no say in the matter. She hadn't said so straight out, but it was plain to see she favored Easton's suit, whether or not it succeeded. Colt met Jem's eyes and raised one brow. Might as well, it said. They were both thinking about the letter of inquiry they'd sent to an old friend of Jeremiah's family back in New Haven.

The attorney had powerful friends across the new country and many contacts in government, and would discretely make inquiries about Brody Easton's background using the few hard facts Jeremiah and Colt had been able to furnish.

"I'm more interested in what happened to that uncle he won't talk about than him working his way around the world on a sailing ship, " Colt had said when they composed the letter. Jem agreed with him and stressed the uncle in their letter, as well as the topic which chiefly concerned him: Brody's years in the Dakota Territory. Tonight reinforced his opinion: a mysterious dead wife in a mining town known for lawlessness and depravity definitely needed more explanation, to his way of thinking. Colt's, too. The postal service being what it was, their questions might not be answered for a while. In the meantime, they'd be keeping a close eye on their newest cowhand.

"I'll tell him tomorrow morning," Jem answered.

Catherine smiled at Colt, then twisted to smile over her shoulder at Jem, too. Sinking into his embrace, she discovered that Colt wasn't the only aroused male in bed with her, and wondered what Mr. Knowlton's book would say about her chances of conceiving now. She'd been drinking iron filings in cider every day as he'd advised, but The Book never mentioned having more than one husband.

Catherine reached back, drawing Jem's head down to hers, and felt Colt's fingers brushing her nipples through the nightdress she wore.

A minute later, defeated by the row of tiny buttons, Colt tore her sheer cotton gown right down the center. Cat's squeal turned to a hiss of delight as his mouth clamped down on her nipple, his hand parting her thighs while Jem kissed her neck, surging against her back.

—:—

Down the hall, Becky lay sleepless, listening to her sister's pleasure, punctuated by deep rumbles from her men.

Long ago, Cicely Fredericks had told Becky and her school‑mates of the woman who lived with two of Cicely's brothers. She'd supposedly been a cook/housekeeper, but Cicely said she'd seen all three of them kissing in the garden once. The man in front was biting the woman's lips and neck between kisses, the man behind unbuttoning her dress to bare and caress her breasts while the first reached beneath her voluminous skirt. The circle of flustered schoolgirls had stilled as one, picturing the scene. Cicely didn't know what her brother had been doing beneath the woman's skirt, but the woman had clearly been enjoying it, Cicely said, moaning like Mother did when digging into a perfect chocolate custard.

Eight schoolgirls had snuck back to their own beds in various states of shock and arousal.

Becky had been one of the ones whose curiosity had defeated her fear as she'd shivered beneath the fine lawn sheets covering her narrow bed. Who had time to worry about damnation when finding out what that woman had been feeling was so much more interesting?

She'd been very young then, and her wandering fingers were able to achieve only the vaguest echo of a woman's response, but she'd learned a lot in the years which intervened. She'd met both of Cicely's brothers several times on holiday or at school events, and developed a crush on the younger of the two. As she grew, Cicely's story stayed with her, and in Becky's bed at night, the man with his hands beneath her skirts wore Clarence Fredericks' face.

In a way, Becky, Catherine, and Cicely had formed a mutually beneficial triad. Cicely got the girlish fame and fun of shocking her friends, and was at least partially, unknowingly, responsible for Catherine's unconventional marriage.

Years after Cicely first told the story, Becky had gone home on break to find her older sister in turmoil, in love with two men and unable to envision herself sacrificing either relationship. When Cat confessed, Becky's solution had been simple—keep them both. Eventually, Catherine had done just that.

Five years later, here they were . . . Catherine surely in some variation of the position Becky had fantasized about all those years ago, while Becky lay alone, yearning for more than the simple pleasure of her own touch. But Clarence Fredericks' face had been forgotten. In Becky's dreams now, the man with his hands beneath her skirts was always Brody Easton. In daylight, she could swear off marriage with no hesitation, but in the dark, she weakened, and her sister's active nights weren't helping her resolve.

She rolled onto her side, pulled the pillow over her head, and pressed her hands against her ears. It didn't help.

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