Beckett's Birthright. Bronwyn Williams

      “Dammit, Eli, this is your fault!”

      She was obviously not going to be reasonable.

      “My fault. What the devil are you talking about? You’re the one who insists on riding that hell-bred snorter!”

      “He is not a—a snorter! Whatever that means.”

      They were pratically shouting, kneeling no more than six inches apart on the red, sun-baked clay. “He’s sure as hell no mount for a lady.”

      “I’m no…”

      The rebuttal went unfinished. The glittery look of defeat in her eyes stole the fire right out of his next charge. “Lilah? Don’t say that. Don’t even think it, because it’s not true.”

      Face flaming anew, she opened her mouth, then closed it. Eli didn’t know what came over him—later he might ascribe it to sunstroke.

      He yanked her into his arms and helped himself to her succulent pink mouth before she could let fly with another barrage….

      Praise for author Bronwyn Williams

      Longshadow’s Woman

      “This is a perfect example of western romance writing at its very best…an exciting and satisfying read.”

      —Romance Reviews Today

      The Paper Marriage

      “From first page to last, this is the way romance should be.”

      —Old Book Barn Gazette

      “Creating multi-dimensional characters in a warm-hearted story, Ms. Williams draws you into the heart of her tale.”

      —Romantic Times

      #631 GIFTS OF THE SEASON

      Miranda Jarrett/Lyn Stone/Anne Gracie

      #632 RAFFERTY’S BRIDE

      Mary Burton

      #634 THE DUMONT BRIDE

      Terri Brisbin

      Beckett’s Birthright

      Bronwyn Williams

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Available from Harlequin Historicals and

       BRONWYN WILLIAMS

      White Witch #3

      Dandelion #23

      Stormwalker #47

      Gideon’s Fall #67

      The Mariner’s Bride #99

      *The Paper Marriage #524

      Longshadow’s Woman #553

      The Mail-Order Brides #589

      †Beckett’s Birthright #633

      To Gilbert Stevens Burrus, for all the love and laughter we shared too briefly.

      Contents

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter One

      Orange County, NC

      1899

      He was tired. Tired of moving on, tired of following false leads, tired of asking the same old questions in town after town, saloon after saloon, gambling den after gambling den. More often than not, he would lead up to it in a roundabout way. “Next round’s on me, fellows. Lady Luck was with me last night. Oh, and by the way—” Here he’d offer a conspiratorial smile. “If you happen to see a gentleman with a streak of white hair to the left of a center part, don’t be too quick to get into a game with him, he’ll be out for revenge.”

      As often as not, it did the trick. Someone would remember seeing a man who fit the description. A few even recalled a name—Chips. Deuce. John Smith. Nothing a man could put much stock in. After a few more casual questions, Chandler would be off again.

      Another town, another game, another lead.

      But God, it grew old. Sometimes to his shame, he was tempted to let go. To take root and start building himself a brand-new future, with no ties to the past.

      The Bar J wouldn’t be a bad place to settle. It was a long way from Crow Fly, out in the Oklahoma Territory, but maybe that was good. There was nothing back there for him—nothing but an old barn and a few thousand acres of barren land. By now, the squatters would have moved in.

      “Good luck,” he bade them under his breath. He stood and stretched, breathing deeply of the soft spring air. Removing his worn black Stetson, he rubbed his scalp vigorously, leaving his thick straw-colored hair standing on end. Replacing the hat, he stood at the office window and watched a couple of hired hands pitch horseshoes. They were supposed to be replacing the hinges on the paddock gate, but what the hell. It was spring.

      He had half a mind to join them. How long had it been since he’d taken time out for something as unproductive as a game of horseshoes? The last time he could recall taking a full day off for purely pleasurable reasons had been when he’d ridden three miles out of town to take Abbie on a picnic at a riverside park.

      Ironic, he mused, that after nearly two years of following the man who had kidnapped his fiancée, a woman he barely even knew, he’d ended up back in the East again, only a few hundred miles from where he’d left his best friend, his true love…and his fortune.

      The mental image of a small, dark-haired woman