Beckett's Birthright. Bronwyn Williams

      “Thank you, Streak. This time I’m home to stay.”

      Streak left to saddle her horse, and Eli shrugged. If she got into trouble, it wouldn’t be his responsibility.

      The lady was large, but obviously not too bright. About half a foot under his own six foot three and hatless, she wore her rust-red hair swept up in a mound on top of her head. Her features, he had to admit, were in perfect proportion to her body, from the proud nose to the wide mouth and the big whiskey-colored eyes.

      His exploration lingered momentarily on a small dark mole just above the right corner of her lips, then moved on to the generous bosom fighting to break through the small covered buttons on her pin-tucked white blouse.

      “Would you care to examine my teeth, too?” Her voice was as lush as her body, but dry.

      “Sorry. Nothing personal.” The hell it wasn’t personal. He couldn’t recall ever having been so acutely aware of a woman before.

      Well…maybe once, but that was different.

      What the devil was Jackson thinking of, letting his daughter parade around in front of the men wearing pants? Did he have any idea of the way they talked about her? Didn’t the damn fool even care? Whatever else she was, she was his daughter—his own flesh and blood, for God’s sake!

      Streak brought the saddled stallion around, and the lady turned to smile at him. “Oh, Streak, thank you. You didn’t have to do that, I could have saddled him.”

      Then why hadn’t she, Eli wondered. Because it might spoil her imperial princess act?

      The big bay snorted and tried to bite the hand that led him. The Jackson woman calmly reached for the reins, murmuring softly to the fractious animal. She swung up with no effort at all, and both men stood in the open doorway, watching as she set off down the back lane.

      Lilah, barely managing to cool her seething anger, rode farther and faster then she’d planned. It had been months since she’d been on a horse. No suitable mounts were available at school. Or rather, no suitable saddles. The first time she’d tried to position herself properly on a sidesaddle she had slid off, landing on her hands and knees in front of a group of smirking classmates. That had also been the last time she’d tried to sit on one of the miserable things. She’d been riding astride all her life. Her father knew it. He didn’t approve, but then, Burke Jackson had never approved of a single thing she had ever done.

      Lilah had tried for years to understand why he couldn’t love her. True, her mother had died giving birth to her, and everyone said he’d worshipped the ground Achsah Jackson had walked on. People said he’d cried for five days after she died, then he’d cursed for five more days. Since then he’d been a changed man.

      Lilah wouldn’t know about that. For as long as she could remember her father had ignored her, leaving Shem and Pearly May to look after her. It had been Shem who had arranged for her to go to the school in the nearby town of Hillsborough once she was old enough. Her father had never showed any interest in whether or not she could read or write.

      Shem had even given her a name. He’d asked if Burke Jackson wanted her named after her mother, and Burke had fired him on the spot. Naturally, Shem hadn’t left. By then he was used to being fired. Neither man ever took it seriously. Even Lilah had come to realize that her father didn’t always mean what he said.

      So Shem had picked out her name and registered it with the same deliberation he would have given the offspring of one of their prize bulls, although with a different set of authorities.

      Delilah Burke Jackson. She’d been named for her father, even though he’d shown no more interest in her than he did the least of his seasonal hires. By the time she’d cut her first permanent tooth, she had accepted the fact that if a father couldn’t love his only child, there was no point in hoping anyone else could. Since the day she’d first reached that conclusion, she had made her own rules.

      “And to hell with everyone else,” she muttered now as she jumped Demon over a low fence. “To hell with you, too, Elias Chandler,” she added for good measure.

      She had known who he was before she’d gone out to the barn. Shem had already told her about the man who’d been hired as his replacement now that he was so crippled up with rheumatism. Chandler was from Oklahoma Territory, for heaven’s sake. What the devil was he doing here in the East, hiding out from the law?

      He looked dangerous enough. All tawny, like one of the big cats she’d seen once in a traveling zoo, with the same watchfulness. Same color hair from what she could see under that battered black hat. She didn’t know about his eyes, but she did know his hips were about half the size of her own.

      Not his shoulders, though. Those were massive. She always sized up a man’s strength, as men were always the ones in positions of authority. Some of those men from the western territories were said to be barely civilized. She’d read all about the Wild West in the books she’d made a policy of reading once she’d learned that they were frowned upon for young ladies.

      At least he didn’t carry a gun. Not where anyone could see it. It was easy, though, to picture him riding the range, a pair of six-shooters strapped on his sides.

      Most of the men who worked on the Bar J wore straw hats in the summer, hunting caps in the winter. Chandler wore a broad-brimmed hat that looked as if he’d been using it as a feedbag, or at least to polish his boots. It was black. Everyone knew which men wore the black hats and which ones wore white.

      Leaning forward, she stroked the big bay stallion and murmured soft endearments. “We don’t like him, do we, love? We don’t like his looks, don’t like his ways, don’t like…”

      Listen to you, woman! You don’t like the man’s looks? Why? Because he’s bigger than you are? Because he’s so blasted good-looking?

      Or because he hadn’t tried to hide the fact that he disapproved of her? Even worse, that he found her amusing?

      By the time she returned to the paddock, Elias Chandler was nowhere around. She was both relieved and disappointed. She knew from experience that men found both her size and her attitude unattractive—which only served to make her attitude worse.

      Well, that was just too damned bad, because she fully intended to take over the running of the Bar J now that her father’s health was failing. Sooner or later she was going to have to deal with all of her father’s employees. They would either work with her or she would pay them off and send them on their way.

      Shem, no matter that she loved him dearly and owed him more than she could ever repay, was no longer up to the job. If he approved of Chandler, then she would just have to try and get along with the man until she was ready to take over.

      Eli, watching from the window of the office when she rode in a few hours later, couldn’t help but notice the easy way Jackson’s daughter handled the high-strung stallion. Both the lady and her mount looked as if they’d been ridden hard. The horse was lathered, the lady flushed, her hair flying loose behind her.

      She slid down and walked him into the yard. When one of the older hands offered to rub him down, she shook her head. Good for her, he thought. It was a mark in her favor that she took care of her own horse.

      He turned back to the books spread across the scarred oak desk. They were going to need a few more temporary hands once the fields dried out enough to plow. The Bar J was considerably smaller than some of the ranches he’d worked on out west, but here in the east, the land was so rich it didn’t take thousands of acres to feed a decent-size herd. They could grow all they needed to winter the stock and still have plenty of land left for summer pasture.

      If Jackson would pay decent wages, he might get better quality help. Trouble was, you couldn’t argue with him without setting him to coughing and wheezing. Eli didn’t like the man, but he didn’t want to be responsible for his death.

      By the time he finished the payroll, lined up the week’s work and tracked down the receipt for the repeat bill, his hand was cramped, his