Beckett's Birthright. Bronwyn Williams

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      “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 hers, pale as cream and twice as smooth, couldn’t take too much sun without blistering.

      For the rest of the day Eli made a conscious effort not to think about Delilah Jackson. It worked…after a fashion.

      The next morning when Lilah came down to the barn, Eli made a point of stepping out of the office to meet her. The men had already been given their orders for the day and had ridden out, some singly, some in pairs, depending on the task. “Good morning, Miss Jackson.”

      “Where’s Jenny? Is she available?”

      “The sorrel mare? Yeah, she’s around.” Curious, he asked, “Why, is Demon lame? I didn’t notice any problem yesterday.”

      “Demon’s fine, I just feel like riding a different horse today.”

      Ignoring the impatient tapping of her booted foot, Eli reached for a lead rope and nodded toward the paddock at the far end of the barn. “Want me to get her for you?”

      She glared and snatched the lead from his hand. “Get on with whatever you’re doing, I can manage just fine.”

      It was only as she strode toward the side door that he noticed the way she was dressed. He’d been so caught up in wondering how the devil she managed to keep all that hair anchored on top of her head with only a handful of tortoiseshell pins that he hadn’t realized she was wearing a dress.

      Or rather, a divided skirt. Black twill, with a wide belt and another cotton shirtwaist. Blue, this time. No frills and ruffles for Miss Jackson, he thought, amused. Good thing she knew her style. Some women could carry off fancy frills and lacy ruffles—others were better off not even trying.

      The truth was that he’d never thought much about women’s clothes before. Admired them, oh, hell, yes. The shorter the skirt and the lower the bodice, the better he liked it.

      But not on real ladies. Ladies like Rosemary and Abigail were in a different category. He could admire them, and he surely did, without wanting to plow through acres of satin and lace to find out what was underneath. Which made it hard to understand why just looking at Lilah Jackson in her divided skirt and her cotton shirtwaist could give rise to the kind of stirrings no man had any business feeling around a lady.

      Without taking time to reason it out, he saddled up a big gray gelding and ambled off down СКАЧАТЬ