Texas Trio Pt. 02 - Becky's Debt Ch. 17-18

The days were longer now, so when Brody asked her to walk with him, with a dare in his eyes, Becky had no easy reason to demur. She'd been hoping no one was available to escort them, but Caleb had ridden in at just the wrong moment, and Nanny had waylaid him.

Caleb didn't talk much, and he never took orders, but he loved Nanny like crazy and had no issue with chaperoning two young lovers on a walk by the stream.

Becky had made an effort to be personable for once, but Mr. Easton wasn't in the mood for talking, apparently, and just murmured noncommittal answers to all her questions. Even her attempt to engage his fury regarding recent labor strikes engendered little response.

So they'd walked in silence for a while, wandering among the citrus trees between the house and creek.

Then he'd taken her hand.

They'd kissed before, and he'd already held her in his arms, but Becky was truly shocked by the feel of Brody's hand on hers. She'd tried to tug her hand away, but he was too strong. It wasn't even uncomfortable: he moved his thumb up just a little and she was caught. She couldn't get away without an obvious struggle, and Caleb was behind them. He was some distance back, pretending discretion, but he'd notice. He might not talk much, but he'd tell Nanny if Becky jerked her hand away. Then Nanny would wonder, and she'd tell Cat, and Cat would wonder enough to mention it to Colt or Jem. Then she and Brody would both be getting fitted for coffins.

So Becky stopped struggling and let him hold her hand. It was surprisingly nice, once she'd given in to the necessity. They'd walked in silence for a ways more, his large, warm fingers cradling her much smaller hand. She looked down once or twice in the evening light, trying not to get caught peeking. Brody's hands were bronze with a dusting of dark hair near the wrist. They were slightly rough, echoing the nature of the work he did, but he held her fingers gently, carefully, like one did when lifting a fragile chick from the nest.

Becky always noticed men's hands: they were so different from female hands, as though the sexes were separated by species instead of gender. Women's hands were smaller, but they were also narrower and more graceful, the fingers round and tapering toward the nails, the soft skin plainly covering equally soft flesh. Men had big, square hands, no matter their occupation. Even her Uncle Harrison, who'd probably never done any honest labor, had lean, hard hands, punctuated by the blocky knuckles she remembered so well.

Becky shuddered, an involuntary jerk away from the memory of that night and the huge fist hurtling at her face.

Brody looked over. "What is it?"

She shook her head forcefully, not wanting to remember.

He hesitated before turning to face the path again, as though trying to decide whether he'd allow her to stay silent.

Becky frowned. As though he had any say in the matter! The nerve--

Her train of thought screeched to a sudden, startling halt. Without her noticing, Brody had shifted his grip on her hand from one of capture to one of consolation, and was stroking the back of her fingers gently as they walked, comforting her even though she'd refused to tell him what she was thinking.

With a few slow strokes, he melted her anger, and they walked in silence to the creek.

She tried not to enjoy it, but Becky liked holding Brody's hand. There was something intimate about the gesture, something which made her feel safe, though it was only holding hands.

Brody switched from stroking her knuckles with his thumb to stroking her palm with his pinkie, and suddenly everything about the evening changed. The peaceful grove became charged with electricity.

She didn't feel safe anymore. Sadly, she forgot to jerk her hand away. She didn't even try. Her mouth dried instantly, her neck began to tingle, and a flush rose from her chest.

Brody's pinkie was softer than his thumb, and he stroked her palm more lightly, loosening his grip so he could twist and reach the pulses at the inside of her wrist.

"It's just holding hands!" Becky's brain wailed, but it wasn't just anything: Brody's pinkie was tracing the most erotic path, lighting a fire that swam through the veins in her wrist to enflame her breasts and melt her loins into liquidity. She shuddered again, but it was nothing like the first time.

They'd reached the swimming hole and stopped to look at the first hints of purple sunset reflected in the water. Becky didn't look back, but she imagined Caleb stopped, too, some distance away, to keep an eye on them.

Even if he'd been able to see their fingers entwined in the gathering darkness, Becky doubted Caleb would have objected: they were only holding hands!

They stood silently for what seemed like an hour while she struggled to control her breathing, and then Brody turned back toward the house. For a millisecond, Becky was relieved, then he lifted her hand to his mouth to kiss where he'd been stroking. Becky had no doubt Brody placed his feet deliberately so his face was hidden from Caleb's sight. Caleb would be able to see the distance between them, so he wouldn't think twice about the way they were standing. He'd think they were chatting.

Becky tried frantically to pull her hand away, but with her palm facing upward, she had no leverage. Her hand was entirely at Brody's disposal. He kissed several times, slow, gentle sips across the pale hollow of her palm, until he reached her wrist. His eyes held her in place as surely as his fingers. He placed one last kiss on the delicate white flesh of her inner wrist, his lips hot, his gaze hotter, and then, oh-so-gently, he licked her.

For a second she thought she'd either come or faint, right where she was standing, but she did neither. Her cheeks paled—she could feel the blood falling away from her face—and she swayed a little, but a deep breath remedied the dizziness. Brody gently lowered her hand and released it, a small smile gracing his handsome face.

How Becky yearned to smack him for that smug, knowing expression!

Instead she gritted her teeth and smiled back, brightly, earning a flicker of confusion that she could savor later on. Then she turned and strolled back toward the house. At the steps, she'd bidden him good-night, thanked Caleb as he veered away, and gone inside.

Becky controlled her temper long enough to call goodnight to her sister in the kitchen before ascending the stairs, also at a carefully controlled pace, then she'd broken, nearly negating all that effort with the barely-aborted door-slam.

If Brody thought he could play with her emotions this way . . . .

Again she faltered.

What? What could she do?

She didn't want to hurt Catherine. Surely she could control her temper for another five months to avoid hurting her sister's feelings, after all her Cat had done for her. If it weren't for her, Becky would still be back in Galveston, living under Uncle Harrison's rule, if not his roof. God knows what he would have done to Becky after Catherine's departure, but it wouldn't have been pleasant—or seemly. She stared upward.

Four months . . . and . . . thirteen days. Becky punched her pillow again, screaming silently at fate.

—:—:—:—:—:—:— :

Writing TIDBIT: While researching the history of oil exploration for TT2, I got sucked into a 1908 book about the early petroleum industry in Russia, which was largely driven by a pair of Swedish siblings, Ludwig and Robert Nobel. Their younger brother Emil died in a nitroglycerin explosion at the family's weapon-manufacturing plant in Stockholm, after which another sibling, Alfred, created a much more stable version of the widely-used industrial chemical. He named it "dynamite." Needless to say, dynamite was a big money-maker, and Alfred got very, very wealthy. In 1888, Ludwig died, but a French journalist erroneously reported ALFRED's death. Although he came from a family of arms dealers, Alfred considered himself an idealist, and he'd contributed extensively to a variety of art/science/social causes during his lifetime, but the headline of the botched obituary called him "the merchant of death." Learning that he'd be remembered chiefly for his invention's destructive power didn't sit well with Alfred, so eight years later, when he really died, he left the vast majority of his fortune to endow prizes celebrating the advancement of literature, chemistry, physics, medicine... and peace. Over a century later, the Nobel Prize is still a worldwide symbol of accomplishment and integrity in those fields. Way to go, Mr. Nobel!

Thank you for reading and commenting now and then! — Stefanie