On the top bunk, Brody lay reading a dime novel he held pried open hiding his face.
“Brody?”
He moved the book just enough to glance around its edge. Rachel didn’t wait for him to acknowledge her verbally. He rarely did these days, preferring sullen silence. Foster and Freedom both promised her he would grow out of it, but Rachel worried it was more than that. What if he pulled away from her and would not return? The thought saddened her. Her family was the most important thing and, right now, all she had.
“Brody,” she said, injecting a sense of false optimism into her voice. “This is Mr. Beckett—”
“We met,” her brother said, moving the book to block his face once again. His rudeness appalled her, but drawing attention to it would do no good. She’d tried that approach in the past with less than stellar results.
“Mr. Beckett is going to stay on for a bit to give us a hand.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she pushed on, determined to maintain the ruse until she came up with a better solution. “He’ll be bunking with you and Foster.”
This got his attention, but any hope that the news would be received in good spirit was dashed when her brother snapped the book shut and slapped it onto the bed next to him, sliding off the bunk in one swift motion. His booted feet hit the ground with an angry thud.
“What the hell do we need him for?”
Embarrassment welled up inside of her. Where had the sweet boy she remembered gone? “Watch your language, Brody, and show Mr. Beckett the courtesy he deserves.”
“He don’t deserve nothin’ from me. We don’t need an extra hand, and we sure as shootin’ don’t need some interloper taking up space in here.”
She couldn’t necessarily fault Brody on the space issue. The bunkhouse didn’t allow for much room outside the beds and stove, but she wouldn’t tolerate such behavior. The last thing she needed was for her brother’s moody temperament to cause Caleb to rethink his decision to allow them to stay here.
“That’s enough from you, young man. Apologize to Mr. Beckett this minute and—”
“That ain’t never going to happen,” her brother said, pushing past her and glaring at Caleb as he stalked through the door. Caleb shifted slightly to make way for him, having yet to step inside the small confines of the bunkhouse.
“I’m sorry.”
“Guess he’s not much interested in having a new roommate. Why isn’t he sleeping in the house?”
She turned at the sound of Caleb’s steps on the wood floor. He’d come up behind her, filling the bunkhouse with his presence. He stood close enough that she could feel the heat generated by his body and every last inch of her jumped to attention.
Her heart beat an unsteady rhythm.
“He and Robert didn’t get on well. Keeping the two of them under one roof became a less than pleasant situation. We had planned to expand the cabin, but...” Rachel shook her head. It was another job Robert had promised to do that never got done. “Last year Brody decided to move out here with Foster after one of our hands married and moved on.”
She pursed her lips. She didn’t know why she’d told him that. It was none of his affair why Brody slept where he did, and she wasn’t in the habit of discussing her personal business with others.
She cleared her throat and motioned behind her, her back brushing against the wood frame of the beds. “Anyway, you can take the bottom bunk.”
Caleb didn’t move, didn’t step away from her. Granted, there was little room to maneuver without backing out of the bunkhouse entirely or stepping up onto Foster’s bed. He glanced down at her with an unreadable expression and shrugged one shoulder. The saddlebags slipped down his arm to be caught in his hand. He reached past her to toss them onto the bed. His arm brushed hers as he leaned in, his chest almost touching her. Her breasts ached for the contact. An unexpected need raged through her without warning and without mercy.
She couldn’t breathe. Heat flushed her face.
She needed to get herself under control. She couldn’t let her physical reaction to him rage on like this. It was ridiculous. He was a stranger. A drifter. There was no telling what his character was or what his habits were. Maybe that was it. It was just fear and...and...exhaustion. Yes, of course. She was exhausted and her mind was not working properly. After a good night’s sleep she would be fine and—
“You alright?”
Lord help her, even his low masculine whisper turned her nerves to liquid and raced through her veins like an out-of-control brushfire.
She nodded. She needed to get out of this bunkhouse. To breathe in fresh air untainted by the musky scent of leather and outdoors that clung to his skin and clothes. The small confines of the bunkhouse closed in on her.