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strong constitution. He only hoped Randi Mae Galloway had no illnesses that might be passed along to Rose. She'd held his precious child in her arms, and who knew what else she'd done--or would have done--without his presence in the nursery?
    The gelding snorted, pulling against the reins. Jackson held him in check, not wanting a mad dash that could destroy the fragile young plants beneath the horse's powerful hooves. He wanted order in all things, but unlike his control over this animal, his life never seemed to achieve such a blessed state. That ridiculous young woman's appearance in his house was just another example of how little control he seemed to possess at times.
    Randi. What an absurd name--as strange as her clothing and shoes. The woman was a walking contradiction. Dressing like a male, sounding and acting like the most fragile of women, she possessed both a smart mouth and a vivid imagination. He didn't believe for a minute that she'd lost her trunk and the clothes she wore in some accident aboard a packet. Why she wanted to be at Black Willow Grove remained a mystery, but one he would solve. However, there was no reason to let her know he was suspicious of her story or her activities. Common wisdom said that if he gave her enough rope, she'd hang herself.
    Jackson slowed the gelding to a trot, then to a walk, as he neared his newest cotton field. His overseer strode between the last two furrows, near where a shallow levee separated the land from the Mississippi. Between the green plants, the field hands pulled weeds from the rich soil, tossing them aside to be trampled underfoot. Only the best, most sturdy vegetation for the plantations along this exclusive section of river. Nothing as lowly as a weed would be allowed to live in the select confines of the elite.
    Jackson narrowed his eyes, his hands tightening on the reins. He was one of the wealthy planters now. He'd sold his smaller plantation downriver for the opportunity to join these men. He was now one of those who'd pushed the river back from the fertile land, who commanded thousands of field hands, and produced millions of dollars from almighty cotton.
    He'd paid the price in blood and sweat. He was one of them.
    His overseer began to walk toward him, but Jackson waved the man away, content to sit in the shade of a cottonwood tree and watch the hands work the land.
    This section of land had been part of the marriage settlement between him and his neighbor, Thomas Crowder. Pansy Anne Crowder, the polished, accomplished daughter of one of the region's wealthiest planters, had been a prize in herself. Jackson still had trouble believing he'd been the man who'd won the hand of the fragile beauty. Their marriage had been so brief that at times he thought his vague memories of polite conversation and even more polite couplings were nothing more than a dream. They'd married, honeymooned in New Orleans, settled into Black Willow, and then Rose had been born.
    Within a week of the birth, Thomas Crowder's fragile, delicate flower had died of childbed fever, never recovering from the rigors of bearing their daughter. Her father blamed Jackson, of course, for planting his seed in such fertile but precarious soil.
    Jackson had not blamed himself; one of the reason's he'd married Pansy was for the purpose of producing children, not because he'd loved her to distraction. He left love to society's poets. Jackson was too busy building an empire. And empires were much easier to build with land from a wealthy and generous father-in-law.
    Thomas no longer had his daughter, but he did have a grandchild. If he wanted to see Rose in the future, Jackson had reminded him, he should uphold his end of the marriage bargain and sign over the land he'd promised.
    Personally, Jackson thought his daughter would be better off without the influence of her bourbon swilling, meddling grandfather, but in fairness to Rose, he would allow her to grow up knowing the man. Jackson thought that