Beckett's Birthright. Bronwyn Williams
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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 of the personnel doorway was definitely no haystack. With sunlight behind her, glinting off a mop of wild red hair, he couldn’t see her face, but he felt as if he’d been poleaxed.
Today she was wearing trousers. Not just trousers, but tight ones. Her hips and thighs looked as if they’d been poured into them like butter into a mold. She was a big woman, all right. Some might have said a magnificent woman, but Eli wasn’t among them. Weren’t women supposed to be small and helpless, so that a man could take care of them?
This woman looked more than capable of taking care of herself, and anyone who tried to interfere.
Clearing his throat, he stepped forward. “Ma’am—Miss? Is there something I can do for you?”
She came all the way inside the barn and turned toward the sound of his voice. “Who are you?”
He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He swallowed and cleared his throat. What the devil ailed him? He felt as if he’d grabbed on to the business end of a hot branding iron.
Deep breath. “Name’s Elias Chandler, ma’am. I’m the new manager. Or foreman,” he added as an afterthought. Jackson had spelled out his duties, but nothing had been mentioned about a title.
“Shem’s the manager,” the woman said flatly. Or as flat as a voice could be when it resonated in regions of his body where voices weren’t supposed to resonate.
“Then I’m his, uh—assistant. If you’re looking for Shem, he and Willy went to town on an errand for your father. If there’s something I can do for you…”
“You may bring my horse around,” she replied, as if conferring a great privilege.
Imperious witch, he thought, more amused than irritated. One of the new men headed for the tack room. Eli leaned against a stall and watched as the lady—if a woman in men’s trousers could be called that—examined everything in the spacious interior. He took momentary pride in the fact that nothing was out of place. Nothing, that was, except the two pitchforks and the post-hole digger. The dirt floor had been raked clean, the air redolent with the clean smell of hay, leather and animals.
She was something, all right. Arrogant didn’t begin to describe it. The cowboy came up behind her leading one of the big draft horses used to pull the ten-gang disc harrow through the dense red clay. “This the one you wanted, ma’am?” He snickered and glanced at his mates for approval.
Waiting for all hell to break loose, Eli considered the man’s serious lack of judgment. Eyes narrowed against the light slanting in through the wide barn doors, he tried to gauge the Jackson woman’s reaction. In a fair fight, she could easily take the young fool.
No one spoke for a moment. The big gray gelding stood patiently, as if waiting to be hitched up. Then, cool as anything, the lady lifted an eyebrow and said, “Get on with your plowing, boy. I’ll fetch my own horse.” Turning to Eli, she said, “I’ll be riding Demon this morning. I’ll be riding Demon every morning.”
Chapter Two
Eli dismissed the men with orders to hitch up a cart and haul a load of locust fence posts out to the south pasture. Only then did he turn back to