Beckett's Birthright. Bronwyn Williams

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      “Rain comin’.”

      “Yep. Noticed the clouds.”

      “Miss Lilah, she’ll be coming home pretty soon for the summer.”

      “Lord he’p us,” Streak said.

      There was general laughter, and even Eli had to grin. Might be entertaining to watch the new hires—single men, all three of them—react to the ball-busting Miss Delilah Jackson. He wondered if any of them had signed on after hearing that Jackson had a marriageable daughter. Anticipating some pampered, petite female, they’d soon be splashing off at the horse trough, slapping on cologne and lining up to go courting.

      Catching Shem’s eye, he could tell the old man was thinking the same thing he was. “How ’bout you, Eli, you bein’ the manager, you got first dibs. She’s a real sweet woman. I’ve knowed her since the day she was born. It was me that named her, did I ever tell you ’bout that?”

      He had. Several times. Shem liked to talk, and Eli was in the habit of listening.

      “You already told him,” Streak growled, to no effect.

      “Well, the way it happened, see—Burke, he was so broke up over her ma’s dyin’, he didn’t pay no mind a’tall to the babe. It was me that found her a wet nurse and finally give her a name so she could be sprinkled in the church. It was me that set her on top of her first horse and taught her to ride. She growed up to be a fine woman, too, so don’t you listen to what nobody says. You could do a whole lot worse.”

      Eli’s grin broadened. Considering his weakness for delicate ladies, he’d be safe enough from Jackson’s paragon. He liked women as much as the next man—liked their frailties, their femininity—truth was, he liked everything about them, even when their tears leaked all over the front of his shirt the way Rosemary’s had the first day she’d come tumbling out of the stagecoach, landing practically at his feet.

      Oh, yeah, he was a sucker when it came to helpless females. Never had been able to resist them. But even if he’d been free, Miss Jackson wasn’t the kind of woman he would ever be drawn to.

      Burke Jackson in skirts? No, sir, he sure as hell wouldn’t be tempted by that.

      “I’m going home, I don’t care what Papa says,” Delilah Jackson declared as she slammed another layer of clothing into her trunk. She was barefooted, wearing only a petticoat and camisole, her wild red hair tied back with a stocking. “Shem wrote that Papa was sick. At least I think that’s what the letter said. With Shem’s writing, you can never be sure. Hand me those shoes, will you?”

      Isobel handed over a pair of elegant high-tops. They would have been, perhaps, a bit more elegant several sizes smaller, but then, if Lilah had been smaller, the two women might never have become best friends. They were opposites in all ways but one: Lilah was beautiful, while Isobel had been compared unfavorably to a mud fence. Lilah was wealthy, whereas Isobel was the daughter of a preacher whose congregation, at his death, had done the only thing they could think of to do with his penniless daughter in light of the fact that she had no living relatives. They’d given her a scholarship, unable to bring themselves to simply turn her out to fend for herself. Last of all, whereas Lilah was as tall as most men, Isobel had not grown an inch since she was a scrawny twelve-year-old.

      The two young women had one thing in common, however. Both were shunned by their classmates—Isobel for being plain, shy and poor; Lilah for being unfashionably large and far too outspoken.

      “Another month and you could graduate,” Isobel reminded her. “Then you could teach school.”

      Lilah heaved a sigh. Looking down at her friend, who was bouncing on the trunk, trying to force the lid shut, she said, “Do I look like a schoolteacher to you?”

      The freckle-faced young woman with the serious overbite shook her head. “I guess you wouldn’t have to teach, but you could do something else.”

      “I intend to do something else. Something that doesn’t require a scrap of paper with a silly gold seal on it.”

      They both knew what Lilah intended to do with her life. Isobel could only admire her for her ambition, but she would miss her sorely. They had been fast friends ever since the day Isobel had been delivered by mule cart with her single suitcase to the pillared entrance of the prestigious girls’ boarding school. The friendship had only grown stronger through nearly four years of college.

      “Here, fasten this latch while I hold it down,” Isobel said.

      Lilah, who could easily have held the trunk shut with one hand and fastened it with the other, fastened the latch and then reached for the leather strap. “The very day you finish here, you’re going to catch a train to Hillsborough. I’ll meet you at the siding and we’ll have a grand time. The first thing I’m going to do is teach you to ride.”

      “No, you’re not.”

      “Izzy, not all horses bite, and I’ll see that you don’t fall off.”

      “Can you keep me from sneezing?”

      “Oh.” Lilah scratched her elbow. “I forgot. Well, anyway, you’re coming to spend the summer with me.”

      “Maybe I should start looking for work before all the good jobs are taken.” Other than music, Isobel had no particular talent, so far as they’d been able to determine. Unfortunately, the curriculum prescribed by the terms of her scholarship hadn’t prepared her to earn her living. She had spent summers and holidays working for the Dean’s wife to augment her scholarship.

      As for Lilah, she knew very well what she intended to do with the rest of her life. She was going to manage her father’s farm. At least then he might pay some attention to her. Dammit, she couldn’t help it if she hadn’t been born a boy.

      “Now remember my instructions. Just keep thinking about how much fun it’s going to be, a whole summer without having to open a single book.” Isobel was bookish; Lilah was not. “But if Papa’s really sick, he’s going to need me, which means I’m going to need you, so don’t you dare think of not coming.”

      Lilah knew too well what it was like not to be needed, much less wanted.

      Two days later Eli strode into the barn, looking for the lackwit that had left a gate open, allowing the bred heifers to trample a newly planted field. He was tempted to tell the man to collect his pay and move on. Then he saw the fellow’s eyes shift toward the door and widen. At the same time another of the new men dropped the bridle he was supposed to be mending, tripped on the trailing end and caught himself by grabbing the wall, noisily toppling two pitchforks and a post-hole digger.

      “Jesus,” Eli muttered, distracted. He turned to see what the men were staring at and then said it again. “Jesus.”

      He’d barely caught a glimpse of her the day before when the livery wagon brought her up to the front gate. A big woman wearing a full skirt and a rain cape, she’d looked to be the size and general shape of a haystack. She had snatched a bag in each hand and hurried into the house, leaving the poor driver to struggle with her trunk.

      In the midst of trying to track down a bill he knew damned well he’d paid, but which had been sent again, Eli hadn’t given her a second thought.

      Until now. The woman who filled a good portion СКАЧАТЬ