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They stared in silence at each other for a long moment. Finally, he broke it. He cleared his throat and lifted his glass and raised one, single, masculine eyebrow. "How about some more water, Becky-girl?" His deep voice rumbled into her. She was close enough to feel the vibrations slide through her. He had the deepest voice she had ever heard; it had the power to physically weaken her every time he spoke.
Becky let out a deep breath as she turned away from his acute inspection to retrieve the pitcher of cold water. She held it with both hands as she made her way back to the table. As she began to pour, her hands started shaking so much the water began to slosh over the top. When the drops threatened to soak the whole table, his strong hands wrapped around the top of her trembling fingers where they clutched the pitcher.
The shaking only got worse. Her eyes met his dark, intense ones. She bit her bottom lip, and his eyes travelled down to her mouth. She felt his grip tighten on her hands and a harsh expression spread over his face. He lifted the water pitcher from her and set it on the table.
She lowered her eyes to the floor and took a deep, steadying breath, trying to control her trembling fingers. He lifted his hand between them, hesitated in mid-air, and then balled his fingers into a fist and dropped it to his side.
He pushed his chair back from the table. The loud grating sound pinched at Becky's already turbulent nerves. He grabbed his hat and shoved it on his head.
Becky tried to make sense of his movements. She couldn't believe he was leaving again in this weather. She herself was hoping for it to let up before she had to walk back to the boardinghouse. "Where--where are you going?" Her soft voice was shaky and hesitant, just like the rest of her.
He turned away from the door and gave her one last, all-encompassing look. "Out." His voice was harsh, his mood grim.
The door slammed shut behind him and Becky closed her eyes in both relief and despair.
****
That evening, after her bath, Becky wandered down to the kitchen of the boardinghouse for a cup of tea. When she walked in, her Aunt Beth had the ledgers and financial papers strewn out on the table top. A worried frown marred her brow as she added up a column of numbers.
Becky saw with a pang in her heart the large negative sign glaring up from the bottom of the page. "Is everything okay, Aunt Beth?"
Her aunt looked up, but it was clear that her attention wasn't on Becky. "Hmmm, what dear? Oh yes, everything's just fine. Right as rain."
Becky filled the kettle. "You seem worried. Is everything okay with the boardinghouse? Do we have enough money?"
"Everything is fine, sweetie. We've always made it before, and we'll make it now, don't you worry, you'll see," her aunt answered her swiftly.
"I have some money saved if you need it," Becky offered.
Her aunt was already engrossed in the columns again. "What? Oh, no. No, Becky, honey. You keep your money. Everything will be fine."
Becky stirred her tea. "Are you sure?"
"Just so. Will you make your tired old aunt a cup of that tea?"
Becky saw the indomitable spirit in the twinkle of her aunt's eye. It didn't make her feel any better about their finances, but it did reassure her about her aunt's unwavering love for her. "Yes, Aunt Beth. Hot tea is just the thing."
****
The next evening, Becky finished preparing supper and was just setting the table when the sheriff came in through the front door. She paused in what she was doing, while he stopped just inside the threshold and his eyes slowly moved over her.
Things were changing between them. Enticing images came to her mind. The last few months she could feel his eyes riveted on her as she cleaned up in the evenings. Just as he was watching her now, setting the table. The effect those dark eyes had on her, following her around as she tidied up.
Jake watched the girl in front of him. For the last year, the transformation from girl to woman had disturbed him. Small of stature, and delicate in appearance, the metamorphosis she had undergone was subtle. Always pretty, with silky blonde hair, her features had refined, her cheekbones becoming more prominent. Her face had an added maturity, and the white material of her apron couldn't hide the soft curves of her hips and breasts from him.
Three years before, when Beth Calloway had told him about her niece's plight, he had been empathetic. He'd always admired Mrs. Calloway, a childless, middle-aged widow trying to carve out a life in this harsh Texas town. When her niece was orphaned in Boston, she had opened her home to the fourteen-year-old girl, even though she couldn't afford to. Having had advanced schooling back East, the girl was already well educated, and her aunt couldn't afford any more schooling for her. But at fourteen, she was too young for a conventional job. By letting her do his cooking and cleaning, he had helped them all he could.
For the first two years, he mostly ignored her. She was always quiet, and left soon after he got home. There were a few times, even when she was only fourteen, he had gotten a whiff of her feminine scent. He would harden, immediately feel lower than a snake, and know he needed to visit the girls at the saloon.
But the last year had been hell. Unmitigated hell. He couldn't ignore her anymore. He knew every curve of her by sight. Her scent was ingrained in his brain and her face was a memory he could conjure at any time, day or night.
The situation was different now that she was almost grown-up. His body was rebelling against his brain. Having her in his house, day after day, without any physical relief was beginning to take a toll on him. He couldn't trust himself around her. She was too beautiful, too innocent. Too goddamn sweet.
It was becoming worse than bad. Always before when he would see her and become aroused, the girls at the saloon could relieve the stress. Not so anymore. Two seconds after crawling off one of them, he wanted Becky again. It was a need that wasn't going away, and wouldn't until he didn't have to see her every day. Didn't have to breathe in her scent, didn't have to see her soft curves moving around his house.
Becky clutched the plate to her mid-section, standing as still as a rabbit caught in a predators sight, when she saw the way he stood at the door, watching her.
Her hands began the all too familiar shaking, and she heard a roaring sound in her ears and a crashing, splintering noise at her feet. She looked down at the broken plate and in her confusion quickly bent down to retrieve it. A sharp pain in her hand jerked her upright again.
