Beckett's Birthright. Bronwyn Williams
I’m planning to invest in is going to grow like wildfire now that things are finally opening up.” According to Lance, even after the war had ended, recovery had been delayed by eleven years of devastating “reconstruction.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Eli had replied. He’d been in no hurry because he’d just met the most beautiful woman God had ever created. His nebulous plans to build and stock a ranch could wait.
Abigail Pindacross. Eyes the color of those blue flowers that bloomed out on the prairie, a mop of hair the color of yellow feed corn, and a waist he could have spanned with his hands if he’d dared to touch her.
Hell, he’d even learned how to dance after a fashion, he remembered now with a twist of longing.
His fingers were doing a two-step on the ledger when Streak poked his head through the doorway. “You coming to supper?”
Eli’s feet hit the floor with a solid thud. He’d been so lost in the past he hadn’t even noticed when the lowering sun had turned the dust on the window glass opaque. “Yeah, sure—be there in a few minutes.”
The talk over the long rough table was all about Miss Jackson. Eli hadn’t forgotten his own reaction to her. It was a little like being out on the prairie alone and seeing a big, colorful sunset all streaked with gold and red and purple reflected across a sea of wild grasses. Logic said it was just one more in an endless succession of sunsets that had been happening ever since the world began, and with luck, would go right on happening long after he was six feet under. Still, a man couldn’t help but be impressed.
All the same, Lilah Jackson was just another woman. The world was full of women, women of all shapes and sizes, all dispositions. Always had been; always would be. He had to admit, though, that like sunsets, some made more of an impression than others, if for entirely different reasons.
After hearing a particularly irreverent remark, Shem glared around the table and muttered a few threats. The men ignored him.
“Wouldn’t mind seeing all that spread out on my bunk, nosiree, that I wouldn’t.” That from scrawny little Mickey Lane, who would have been fired on the spot except that he was the best brush roper Eli had ever seen, east or west.
“Cover the whole damn mattress, I reckon,” piped up one of the men he’d hired only a few days ago.
His voice dangerously soft, Eli said, “You’re expendable, Pete. Might want to think about that before you do too much speculating.”
Shem nodded in approval, and Eli applied himself to his roast pork and sweet potatoes, determined not to get into a brangle over the boss’s daughter. He had trouble enough getting decent workers and keeping them on the job without that.
Trouble was, it was May. Windows remained open, allowing the warm air to circulate, and in the still of an evening, with the humid air laden with the scent of manure and wildflowers, voices carried too easily.
They were carrying now. When Lilah’s voice rang out clear as a bell, every man looked toward the main house. Not another sound was heard.
“I damn well will not go back to school! I don’t need any damn diploma to run this farm, I can do a better job of it than that—”
The next sound they heard was a string of curses that ended up in a fit of hacking. Then, “Oh, dammit, Papa, that’s not fair! Pearly May, bring Papa his medicine!”
Every man in the cookshack was still turned toward the house, forks suspended between plate and mouth. Pete was smirking. Shem closed his eyes and assumed a prayerful attitude.
“She telling it straight?” Eli asked quietly. “She’s actually planning on taking over?”
“Over Burke’s dead body,” the old man replied.
“I ain’t working for no woman,” one of the other men declared, stuffing his mouth with potatoes.
Streak told him quietly to shut up. “They been having this, uh—discussion ever since I come to work here,” he said to Eli. “Reckon they’ll go on till one or the other of them gives in.”
Cookie brought in the dessert, a pie heaped high with meringue that was as good as anything Eli had tasted in all his months in Charleston. Talk turned to the condition of the experimental alfalfa fields, with Shem declaring alfalfa wouldn’t thrive. “We’d do better to stick with corn, soybeans and hay, but you can’t tell Jackson nothing.”
“Don’t hurt to try,” said Streak, who tended to be a peacemaker.
“What, to grow alfalfa or to talk sense to Burke Jackson?”
There was general laughter, and then the talk turned to the condition of the herd. Depending on the time of year, the Bar J ran roughly a thousand head, mostly Herefords, the bulk of which would be headed for market by the end of the season.
After tucking away two slices of lemon pie, Eli excused himself and headed for the cramped manager’s quarters he shared with Shem. Passing under the cook-shack windows, he heard one of the men say, “She ain’t really going to run this place, is she?”
He waited for Shem’s reply. “Yep, I reckon she is. You want to argue it out with her?”
“No, sir, not me, that I don’t. Woman like that, she could hurt a man real bad.”
“And don’t you forget it,” Eli muttered a few minutes later as he kicked the mud off his boots and went inside. Might be interesting to see how she’d fight, though. Of course, a man would have to grab hold of her and hang on tight. No hitting—he didn’t hold with striking a woman, no matter how aggravating she was.
On the other hand, he wouldn’t mind holding her while she squawked and wiggled. He always had enjoyed a challenge.
The men ate breakfast early so as to make the most of daylight. All but Shem and Eli had headed out on the day’s assignment by the time Delilah strode across the clearing toward the barn the next morning.
It occurred to Eli, watching her from the big opening in the hayloft where he’d been working on a balky block and tackle, that she neither minced nor strolled. What she did was move like a woman who knew precisely where she was going. Not since that first day had she asked anyone to fetch her horse. She had led Demon out and saddled him herself. Eli tried and failed to picture either Abigail or Rosemary slinging a heavy saddle up onto the back of a horse that stood sixteen hands high.
“Need some help?” he’d offered the second morning, more out of devilry than any chivalrous impulse.
If looks could kill, he’d have been halfway to hell by now.
“Just thought I’d ask,” he’d said, hiding a smile. Damn, she was something, all right—that fetching little mole and all. Bold as brass and twice as tough. If any woman could manage a spread this size, she just might be the one to do it, as long as she handled things the way Burke did, from a distance. Working through a manager, which would definitely not be Elias M. Chandler. By the time she took over—if she ever did—he’d have long since moved on.
For that matter, Jackson could sell out and leave her the money. With that much money behind her, she might even find herself a husband, he mused as he tested the double pulley.
About that time she came into his line of sight, headed down the back lane. Pausing in the task of clearing the gear, Eli watched her, noticing the straightness of her back, the proud angle of her head under all that red hair, and the surprising narrowness of her waist above the lush spread of her behind.
He felt a stirring in his loins he hadn’t felt in a long time.
You need to ride into town more often, man, he told himself. Might not find a cement bathtub full of naked ladies, but there was bound to be an accommodating widow looking for a way to pick up a few extra dollars.
He watched until she moved out of sight when the lane curved around a grove of field pines, then turned back to his work. Shem needed to remind her to wear a hat. Skin like