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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.
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Heart in her throat, Becky raised her hands, not even noticing when the gun was withdrawn.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-"
Again he didn't wait for her to finish. "You're going to get yourself killed, Miss Connor, sneaking around like this." Brody re-holstered the Colt without releasing her. "I thought you were a burglar."
She swallowed, trying to sound calm and reasonable. "Well, obviously I'm not, so you can let me go now."
Brody didn't move, at least not the way she wanted. Instead, he shifted his weight, one hand landing on the wall next to hers. "As a matter of fact, how do I know you aren't a burglar?"
Becky didn't know exactly where he was headed, but she didn't need specifics to feel the danger. Sparks of alarm skittered up her spine. "Let me go, Brody, before I scream."
Brody noticed the slip before she did- it was the first time she'd used his Christian name. His low, rough chuckle sent a chill chasing the sparks, while the warmth pooling between her legs proved her body was as conflicted as her brain.
"If anyone was close enough to hear you, Miss Connor, the first thing they'd discover is that you're riding around the ranch in trousers again and that you arrived here by your own steam. So, you go right ahead and holler."
Brody's lips brushed against her hair, and Becky inhaled sharply. Neither moved for a moment. Her head was swimming, the warm, male smell of his skin assailing her senses. "Brody-"
The tempo of her breathing told him what he needed to know.