Beckett's Birthright

Now he was neither.

But he was still the hunter.

Realistically, Eli no longer held out much hope for Rosemary. God alone knew what she’d been forced to endure. But he was on the right track, he was sure of it. When he’d first set out nearly two years ago he’d known nothing more about the man who had burned his home and kidnapped the woman he’d promised to marry other than that he had a streak of white hair. Now he knew that the man was sometimes called Chips. He knew how he dressed, what he liked to eat and drink, and how he made his living. Most of the information had been picked up in saloons, some in jailhouses and one gem—the bit that had sent him to this particular region, he’d overheard in a whorehouse in Tennessee where the ladies of the evening had been discussing a cheapskate with a polecat stripe, who had professed to being on his way to claim his stepfather’s estate in the city of Durham in North Carolina. The creep had escaped through a window without paying for services rendered.

The man called Chips might enjoy tweaking the lion’s tail, but he was a liar and a scoundrel. Sooner or later his luck would run out, and when it did, Eli would be there.

There was only one thing that bothered him. The crime of kidnapping didn’t seem to fit the image of a professional gambler. Not even a lying, cheating gambler. That was the part that had always puzzled him as he’d studied over all the old cases during his stints as a lawman.

But then, one thing he had learned from experience was that people rarely fit into a neat pattern. Who would have thought that a man who owned the biggest, most prosperous cattle operation in the state of North Carolina would hide out in his house like a hermit and put up with a slovenly female who couldn’t cook any better than she could clean house?

And who would have expected that the same man’s daughter, who was as tall and as tough as any man, would have a mole at one corner of her mouth that tempted a man to lick it off?

The down-on-his-luck gambler stirred, drawing Eli’s attention back to the task at hand. “You don’t know farming. You don’t know cattle. Tell me, why did you apply for work here? What does a man like you have to offer?”

“As I said, my brain. I’m good with numbers, I have a retentive memory, and I don’t mind sitting for long hours.” He grinned again, revealing a self-deprecating sense of humor. “I applied for work at a bank just yesterday. My resume didn’t appear to impress them.”

Tilting his chair, Eli studied the man before him. A seven-fingered gambler wouldn’t be worth a dip of snuff working cattle, but Eli could use a hand with the books.

Glover said, “You seem interested in this fellow I mentioned.”

“Call it a study of human nature. I guess you’ve heard there’s a pretty large turnover here. Jackson pays the lowest wages he can get by with, which means I have to check out any man applying for work to see why he wants to work at the Bar J instead of a place that pays better.”

“Makes sense. Although there’s not a whole lot of hiring going on these days unless a man wants to move to a mill town and work in a factory.” His expression made clear his opinion of that option.

Eli let it simmer. No point in pushing too hard. Glover struck him as a man who played them close to his vest.

The mental sparring continued. Eli had already made up his mind to hire the man, but it suited him to prolong the interview.

Glover said, “If you’re considering hiring me to work on the books, don’t you need to know if I’m honest?”

“Are you?”

“Would I tell you if I weren’t?” An odd moment of understanding seemed to pass between the two men. “But yeah, I am. When I can afford to be,” the newcomer replied.

“That’s honest enough for me,” Eli said dryly. He brought the front legs of his chair down with a quiet thump. “The job’s yours if you want it. We’ll start in the office and see what develops. Like I said, the pay’s not great, but the bunkhouse is clean and the food’s exceptional. Lead your horse around to the feedlot and come back by the office once you’re settled in.”

For several minutes after Glover left, Eli allowed his mind to range freely. Impressions, instinct and random thoughts all merged together. And then a rare smile lightened his eyes without ever touching his lips.

He’d picked up the scent again. Sooner or later something would connect, and when it did, he would need to be ready to move. He might not have a man in place to take over the management, but if Ace worked out, then with the help of Streak and Shem, Jackson wouldn’t be left in the lurch.

Chapter Four

Man, that is one mean woman.” Pete, one of the new men, spoke almost admiringly as they watched the boss’s daughter march back across the clearing that was ringed by the main house, the big barn and the cook-shack, the other outbuildings scattered closer to the back lane.

Lilah had gone to the cookshack to deliver a message from her father. Hesitating in the doorway, she had scanned the noisy, comfortable room with its mingled aromas of pork barbecue, fried onions and tobacco. Locating her target, she took aim and fired. “My father wants to see you.” She pointed at Eli.

He laid down his fork, “May I finish my supper?”

“Now.”

Eli had learned self-control in a far tougher school than the Bar J, having grown up with a domineering grandfather and a drunkard for a father. Lacking, for the most part, a woman’s softening influence, it had been a matter of survival. He took his time rising. Placing his utensils across his plate, he watched Lilah’s retreating figure while the other men waited to see his reaction.

What the hell was Jackson thinking of, using his daughter as a messenger? He could have sent the old woman. He could have come himself, for that matter. Appearances to the contrary, Jackson had not yet lost the use of his short, bowed legs.

“Save my dessert for me, will you?” he said quietly, reaching for his hat.

“Better you than me,” Mickey said feelingly.

“They say she’s got a worser temper then her old man,” said one of the more recent hires.

“Something don’t set right with her, she’ll sure enough let you know about it. I like the ladies, but damned if I’d want to tangle with that one, even if she was giving it away.” Arnold, the carpenter-blacksmith shook his head.

Mickey Lane leaned forward, his animated face alight. “You ever hear her cuss? Man, she can evermore set fire to the bushes.”

Eli was on the point of reprimanding the young brush roper when Streak took matters in hand. Looking at first one man and then another until he had surveyed the entire gathering, he said quietly, “Y’all don’t got no call to talk about a lady thataway. Don’t do it n’more, y’hear?”

On his way out the door, Eli glanced back at the man he had quickly come to respect. An exceedingly homely man, Streak, christened Thomas O’Neal some twenty-nine years ago and called Streak o’ Lean for as long as anyone could remember, had been here longer than any other member of the crew except for Shem.

The day was Wednesday, unless Eli had missed a few days on his calendar. He always reported on Fridays. Searching his mind, he tried to think of anything he’d done lately that might have warranted the peremptory summons.

The corn was finally in the ground. Late, but that was hardly his fault. The haying was well underway and the tally-branding was scheduled to start early next week, probably on Monday if they got the chute repaired by then.

Eli took his time crossing the yard. The housekeeper, Pearly May, yanked open the door and glared at him. Without thinking, he wiped his feet off on the filthy scrap of rug on the front porch. Not that it would have made much difference if he’d tracked in half the mud in Orange County. He didn’t know what the woman did to earn her keep, but it sure as hell wasn’t floor scrubbing. As for her cooking, the less said, the better. He’d had the dubious privilege of taking supper at the Jackson’s table. They’d been served underboiled chicken, over-boiled cabbage and biscuits that might’ve won the war for the South if they’d been used as ammunition.

“In there,” the housekeeper snapped, jerking her head in the general direction of the big walnut-paneled front room.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She snorted. Eli grinned and entered the lion’s den. “You don’t want nothing to drink, do you?” she growled.

He was tempted to say yes, just to see how she would react. “Thank you kindly, Miss Pearly May, I just finished supper.”

Without another word she stalked off down the wide hall, smelling of sweat, onions and vanilla extract. God knows why Jackson kept her around. She was probably the only woman who could put up with his cantankerousness. He might be a smart man, but when it came to charm, Burke Jackson couldn’t charm his way out of a gopher hole.

Of Lilah Jackson, there was no sign. Evidently, her duty was finished once she’d delivered the message. Eli entered the room and nodded to his employer, aware once again of the overpowering smell composed of liniment and something that smelled a lot like tobacco. Jackson had been told to throw away his cigars. Whether or not he had remained to be seen.

If the quick grimace could be interpreted as a smile, Jackson was in an unusually genial mood. “Heard you put a new man onto the books.” The smile disappeared as he leveled the charge at point-blank range. “What you got to say about that?”

Since he hadn’t been invited to sit, Eli leaned against a dusty credenza. “You heard right.”

“That’s what I hired you for. You ain’t up to the job, say so.”

“Ace is better with numbers than I am. I’m starting him on the monthly accounts, under my supervision. If things work well enough I’ll extend his responsibilities. We’re shorthanded, Jackson. I can’t be in the office and out checking up on the new hands at the same time. Maybe if we increased the pay a few dollars, we’d get some competent men and I wouldn’t have to spend so much time keeping behind them.”

“I pay ’em what they’re worth.”

“And get what you pay for.”