Beckett's Birthright. Bronwyn Williams

But until he knew what his next move was going to be, his best bet was to stand pat. No point in haring off on a dead-end trail. Besides, he liked the place. The land was rich, water was plentiful and the buildings sufficient. The stock was damned fine, too—as good as any he’d been privileged to work with, and he’d worked with some of the best.

      He figured he could give it another month. Meanwhile, he’d keep his eyes open for a man he could begin training to take his place. Streak wasn’t interested. Reading wasn’t his strong suit, and in these modern times, especially in the East, reading was a requirement.

      He’d about made up his mind that if by midsummer he still hadn’t picked up any new leads, he would move on anyway. Try some other venue. Might even ride down Charleston way, to see how his namesake was getting on. Who was to say he wouldn’t find what he was looking for down in that neck of the woods? Charleston had its share of gamblers.

      Funny thing, now that he thought about it—the description of the man who had kidnapped Rosemary and another man, one who had come to his rescue in a knife fight nearly five years ago, weren’t all that far apart. Both men were slim, about five foot eight with a liking for fancy clothes. Lance didn’t have a streak of white hair—at least, he hadn’t the last time Eli had seen him, but that could have changed.

      Tilting back his chair, Eli stared out the dusty window and considered the first time he had met Lance Beckett. Eli had been two months shy of his twenty-fourth birthday and had just inherited roughly five thousand acres of barren land, a big, two-story house and all the money his grandfather had accumulated selling land to the railroads.

      Knowing, or at least suspecting, that there was more to life than could be found in Crow Fly, Oklahoma Territory, he’d headed east to do some sight-seeing before settling down.

      He’d gotten as far as Fort Smith, Arkansas—with a few educational stops along the way, such as a whorehouse boasting a cement bathtub that held half a dozen people—when he stopped at a saloon to wash the trail dust from his throat. He’d barely taken a sip of his watered-down whiskey when the fight broke out. Before he knew what was happening, he and a city dude dressed like an undertaker were backed up against a wall, taking on a mob of angry hog farmers.

      At six foot three, Eli weighed right around two hundred pounds, depending on whether or not he’d been eating regularly. The undertaker was considerably smaller. Eli remembered seeing him at one point standing on the bar hurling pickled eggs and kicking at the ham-size hands that tried to grab his fancy high-top shoes.

      Even as tough as he was, Eli hadn’t thought too much of their chances—two men against more than a dozen—especially after some little weasel jumped up onto his back with a knife in his fist, trying to slice off his nose. He’d managed to knock the knife aside, but the little weasel had got him in the side, just above the belt and below the bottom of his leather vest. Before he could react, he’d been hit over the head with what felt like a crosstie, but had probably been only a chair.

      When he regained his senses, he was in a small unfamiliar room that smelled of carbolic acid. Turned out to be a doctor’s office. Seems he’d been left there by a stranger who hadn’t bothered to leave his name.

      A week later, once he’d recovered enough to ride, Eli had set out to track down the dandy and thank him. He’d had nothing better to do at the time. The Chandler men might not be able to hang on to their women—both Eli’s mother and grandmother had walked out on their husbands—but no one had ever accused a Chandler of welching on a debt.

      The trail had come to an end in Charleston, South Carolina. War-scarred and dirt-poor, the city had struck him as exotic and beautiful. To this day he could still remember his reaction to the first palm tree he’d ever seen.

      But even the handsome, colorful houses and the lush vegetation paled in comparison to the Charleston women with their delicate complexions and their elegant gowns.

      And he’d thought all those whores in that big cement bathtub were something. It just went to show how ignorant a big old country boy could be and still stay alive.

      Once he’d located a boardinghouse, bathed the trail dust off and eaten his fill of fried fish, fried okra and corn bread, it had taken him less than a day to locate the man who had dragged his bleeding body out of that Arkansas saloon and delivered him to the sawbones. Having worked off and on as a lawman, Eli was skilled at tracking and the Becketts were a prominent banking family around those parts.

      Leastwise, they had been before the war that had ended some thirty years earlier. Here in the south, he learned, the effects still lingered like the scar of a near-mortal wound.

      He’d already learned that while Lance Beckett might look the part of a dandy, he was a damned good brawler. Now he learned that the Beckett family had lost a fortune during the war years and that Lance, the last of the Becketts, his father having died in a Yankee prison, was still struggling to recoup.

      Eli would willingly have paid him any amount for hauling his carcass out of that saloon and saving him from bleeding to death, but it didn’t take long to discover that Southern gentlemen were big on pride.

      Well, hell—who wasn’t?

      Once the greetings were over and the two men had shared a few drinks, Lance had invited Eli to move into what had once been an overseer’s house on the Beckett plantation before everything else had been burned to the ground. In the days that followed, while Lance had shown him the sights, the two men, as different as night and day, had become fast friends. That friendship was cemented by respect.

      Eli had to respect a man who would go to such lengths to save a stranger’s life against great odds, and Lance respected a man who would take the time and trouble to track him down and thank him.

      It hadn’t taken long to learn that even though the Becketts, once well-known in financial circles, had lost their fortune, the Beckett name was still well-known. Lance had already reestablished contact with a few men who were influential in investment circles. What he lacked to get back on his feet was seed money.

      While Eli was hardly uneducated—his grandfather had seen to that—he was a man of action rather than intellect. In his years of traveling since leaving Oklahoma Territory, he had earned his way, leaving the fortune he’d inherited from his grandfather intact while he tried to figure out what to do with it. He could shoot, break horses, even stay on a bull long enough to earn a prize. He knew cattle. Having been a lawman, he could do a right fair job of keeping the peace. It had once been said about him that he could track smoke on a windy day to bring to justice any man who broke the law, a talent that had helped in tracking the man who had saved his life.

      Only when it came to women was he out of his depth. One of his earliest memories was hearing his grandmother accuse his grandfather of being mean as a snake. A young Eli had silently agreed. What’s more, she’d added, she wasn’t going to stay there and take it any longer. She had left that very day.

      Theirs had not been a happy household.

      But all that had paled beside what had happened to the Becketts, and so Eli hadn’t mentioned it. He had, however, told Lance about the money he had inherited, and together they had made arrangements to invest it.

      “We should be able to triple it and then build from there, but it won’t happen overnight,” he remembered being warned. “This company 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