Maggie's Beau

Chapter Two

“I don’t want any one of you touching that girl. And I sure don’t want any of you looking her over,” Beau added for good measure. “She’s young and on her own, and I’ve told her she can stay here for a while.” He paused to cross his arms across his chest as he scanned the four men before him.

Joe Armstrong, a strapping youth who lived up to his name, grinned and nodded readily. “That’s all right with me. She’s not much to look at, from what I saw, boss. Reckon I’ll stick to Betty.”

“You just better hope Betty sticks to you,” Radley Bennett scoffed. “She’s lookin’ for a man with some money.” He caught Beau’s eye and sobered. “I hear you, boss. The girl looks like she’s already had too much attention from someone.”

“She’s on the run,” Beau said bluntly. “She needs a place to stay, and I don’t want her feeling threatened by anyone on my ranch. She’s to be left alone.”

Shay agreed silently, nodding his head, dark eyes flashing, his mouth tight. Beau expected no more from the man. His face was scarred, a puckered slash marring the skin beneath his right eye, drawing his mouth up a bit when he spoke. Something he did rarely, keeping to himself, remaining silent, for the most part. But the man put in a full day’s work and Beau had found no fault with him. His name was Shay, but beyond that, he was an enigma. There would be no hassle coming from Shay. Beau would bet his life on it.

He turned his gaze on Pony Taylor, short, stocky and sturdy as the Shetland horses that gave him his nickname. He’d come to Beau from a traveling circus, where he’d been a trainer of those small creatures. His talents overcame his stature, and Beau trusted him with his prized mares, knowing they were in good hands.

“I’ll keep an eye out for the girl,” Pony said quietly. “She’ll come to no harm here.”

“No one else is to know she’s on the place,” Beau stated, his gaze encompassing the group. “If I hear otherwise, there’ll be hell to pay.”

The four men nodded in unison, and Beau relaxed his stance. They were to be trusted, he was dead certain of that. He wouldn’t have allowed them room in his bunkhouse if he weren’t. Wearing a blue uniform for two years had taught him that the men surrounding him were his first defense. If he couldn’t trust the troops he fought with, he might as well lay down his gun and call it quits. He’d chosen his ranch hands with the same thought in mind.

“She’s going to clean stalls this morning,” Beau stated, aware of the harsh glance shot in his direction by Pony. “Her choice,” he emphasized. “I figure it’ll take the best part of the morning to round up the yearlings and get them into the near pasture. Rad and Joe, you’ll follow Pony’s lead in sorting them out.” He turned to his trainer. “You know what I’m looking for. Pick the best. I’ll look over the rest for the sale.”

Beau turned his gaze to Shay. “Keep an eye on things in the barn and check that pasture gate. We can’t take a chance on losing any of those yearlings.”

With nods of agreement, the men left the corral and Beau glanced over his shoulder toward the main barn. He’d be willing to bet that Maggie had been listening to his words. It had been his intent that she feel secure, and unless he missed his guess she was just beyond the double doors this very minute. He’d left her with pitchfork in hand at the far end of the line of stalls. With any luck, she’d be done with the chore in an hour or so.

It would give him time to sort out the back room, just off his kitchen, a place where she could sleep undisturbed.

She’d only caught one name—Pony. And wasn’t that appropriate for a man working with horses, Maggie thought. She wondered which one of the four he was. He’d be in charge this morning. Her thoughts turned to the yearlings, those frolicking creatures who raced the wind with no thought of restraint or fear of danger. She’d come upon a herd of mares and their offspring, yearlings and weanlings alike, late the evening before, watching them as they bunched together beneath the shelter of overspreading tree limbs.

Now they were to be separated from the mares. And she wondered which of those carefree beauties Beau Jackson would keep, and which would be sold. The muscles in her arms flexed as she pitched a fork loaded with manure into the wheelbarrow. Maybe he’d let her help with the yearlings, she thought wistfully. Her mouth pulled down. Probably not. He’d think her too stupid, fit only for scut work, just like Pa had said.

She inhaled deeply. It was up to her to prove him wrong—that is, if she decided to stay on here for a few days. He’d offered her refuge, and she was mightily tempted. Too far away from the farm for Pa to find her right off the bat. And if those four ranch hands were true to their word, she’d be safe…for a while.

The wheelbarrow was heavy, and she took a fresh grip on the handles, a grunt escaping her lungs as she hefted the weight. The manure pile was fifty feet or so beyond the barn and she trudged there, her arms aching from the punches they’d received the day before yesterday. Three more trips, she figured, would do the trick, and then she’d spread fresh straw and take a gander at the rest of the barn.

The room was small, but adequate, Beau decided. The cot against the inside wall held a thin mattress, and he winced as he thought of the feather tick topping his own bed, in a room directly over this one. If she left the door open, she’d get a breeze through the kitchen. Otherwise, the air would be stifling. He eyed the outside wall. Maybe if he cut a hole, put in a window….

A shadow fell across the floor and he turned. Maggie stood in the doorway, peering past him into the storage room. A sense of relief washed through him. He’d wondered, just for a while this afternoon, if she’d cut and run. The yearlings were contained in the pasture, and their antics had kept his ranch hands hopping. One foot propped on the fence, he’d watched them sort through the herd, his mind only half aware of the melee before him. He’d walked through the barn, searched the tack room, even checked the loft, without any sign of Maggie.

A stifled sound from behind him had caused him to turn his head, looking upward at the open loft window. She’d been there, only half visible in the shadows, watching the yearlings evade the men who sorted through their numbers, following Pony’s shouted instructions. One hand covered her mouth as she smothered another laugh. And he’d relaxed, chagrined at his relief.

Now, she faced him from the doorway. “Is this where you’re gonna put me?” she asked bluntly.

“It’s not much,” he hedged, tucking his hands into his pockets. And wasn’t that an understatement. “There’s a cot and a table.” He slid one hand from his pocket to wave at the shelves against one wall. “You can put your gear there. I’ll get you a lamp.”

She nodded. “I’ll need one if I expect to see anything.”

Almost, he caught a glimmer of humor in her eyes as he met her gaze. She stepped back and he walked past her, careful to maintain his distance. She was like a flighty young colt, all arms and legs, poised to shift and turn should he step too closely. Her forehead glistened with sweat, and she smelled of the barn, a mixture of fresh manure and animal scent. Yet, beneath that pungent aroma was a hint of woman, snagging his attention, drawing him unwillingly.

“I’ll find you something else to wear. I doubt you brought much with you,” Beau surmised. He allowed his eyes to measure her briefly. “You’re smaller than my housekeeper, but I think something of hers might do.”

“I wear pants, mostly.” Her chin rose defiantly. “I’ve only got a dress on now, ’cause that’s what I was sleepin’ in when I left home.”

She slept in a dress? “You always sleep in your clothes?”

“Whatever’s handy,” she retorted. “My pa don’t hold with buyin’ any more stuff than he has to.” One sleeve had fallen to cover her hand and she bent her head as she rolled the cuff, hiding the ragged edge from his view.

“Then I’ll ask Pony if he has anything he’d like to give you. He’s not much taller than you are.”

“I don’t need any handouts, mister. I’m doin’ fine, just like I am.”

He shifted, thinking of the boiler full of water he’d put to heat on the kitchen range. “I thought you might like to have a bath and some clean clothes, what with hiding out and not…”

“I’ll wash up in a bucket.” Her words left no room for argument, and yet he plunged ahead, unwilling for any female to be so bereft of simple comforts.

“How about after supper? I’ll fill the tub right here in your room. There’s a lock on the inside of the door.” He waved his hand for emphasis, pointing to where a brass hasp hung from the wooden door.

She stepped closer, peering at the shiny apparatus, then at the doorjamb, where he’d installed the rest of the lock. “You can jam a spike through there,” he pointed out. “It’ll hold firm.” His jaw clenched at her wary look. “You’ll be safe. I promise.”

“You got a towel I can borrow?”

He caught a fleeting look of yearning in her eyes as she looked past him toward the range, where steam rose from the wash boiler. “Clean towels and a bar of soap.” Her eyes narrowed as she shifted her gaze back to his face.

“I’ll do extra, maybe clean up the garden for you, to pay my way. I swept up the barn and cleaned your tack room this afternoon.” She inhaled deeply and then her shoulders rose and fell in a gesture of nonchalance. “Guess I wouldn’t mind havin’ a bath. You needn’t bother about the clothes, though. I got a shift in my bundle. I’ll wear it while I wash out my things in the bath water. You can toss them over the porch rail for me overnight, and they’ll be near dry in the morning.”

He’d won. And won fairly, appealing only to her need for cleanliness. Beau nodded agreeably. “I fried some ham from the smokehouse, and there’s vegetables from the pantry. We’ll eat in a few minutes, then I’ll drag in the tub for you.”

A bent spike passed from his hand to hers and she nodded, agreeing. “This’ll work.” Beau crossed the kitchen to the back door and Maggie watched as the galvanized tub appeared a moment later, Shay carrying one end, Beau the other.

Shay, the quiet one, withheld his glance, intent on fitting the tub through the doorway, and then with a quiet word to Beau, he left. Maggie stepped aside, allowing him room. He nodded in her direction and she watched him pass through the kitchen door to the porch. The screen slammed behind him.

“He’s a strange one,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“Shay won’t bother you,” Beau said from the doorway, where one hand leaned against the jamb. “None of my men will give you cause to complain.”

She believed him, and wondered at her acceptance of his word. He’d offered her the use of his home, at least this small portion of it. Even now, water boiled on his cookstove for her benefit. Maggie snatched up a bucket by the sink and turned sharply as Beau approached, taking the handle from her fingers.

“I’ll dip the water. You’re too short to lift a full bucket,” he told her.

She watched as he deftly tilted the pail and filled it, then carried it across the floor. Water dripped in his wake and she noticed the small, spreading pools as they turned dark against the wooden floor.

“Sophie’s going to scalp me for making a mess on her floor,” Beau said, returning quickly, empty pail in hand. He filled it a second time and traced his path across the room. “I’ll wipe it up when you’re done.”

Maggie watched him, taken by the thought of someone waiting on her in such a fashion. She’d done the toting ever since she could remember, from lugging washtubs to the yard for Ma, to carrying heavy feed sacks from the wagon to the barn. Now she stood here, perfectly healthy and able to do for herself, and a strange man was fixing her bathwater. Hot water, at that. And wasn’t that a switch from scrubbing up in the creek in summer or sitting in a lukewarm second- or third-hand tub of bathwater in the cold weather.

“Maggie?” He stood before her, and she jolted, lost in the vision of lounging in a tub all for herself, without two sisters having left their scum floating atop the cooling water. “I left the soap and a couple of towels and a washrag on the table in your room. The soap is a bar I already used from, but there’s plenty left. Oh,” he added, his tone casual, “Pony sent an old pair of pants and a shirt for you. They’re on the cot.”

He took a small kerosene lamp from the kitchen cabinet. “You want me to light this for you?”

It was almost too much, that a man would be so kind—and without hope of recompense. And yet, the lure he offered was almost beyond her ability to resist. She seized upon his final suggestion as a place to draw the line. “I can use a candle.”

“There’s some on the shelf,” he told her, and she nodded. She’d seen them there earlier when she’d unloaded her meager assortment on the bottom shelf, next to her bed.

The room was small, but with the candle lit and the door closed, it felt cozy. Maggie looked around at the shadowed corners, where Beau had swept and cleaned for her benefit. The man was a strange one, taking her in the way he had, not asking questions. Her fingers slowed as she unbuttoned her dress. He smelled good, like somebody she’d seen once in town. A fellow who’d stood next to the wagon and talked to Pa, and even nodded in her direction.

Maybe it was the soap he used, she thought, reaching for the yellow bar he’d left for her. Her head bent as she sniffed at the stuff, and she grinned. That was a part of it, at least. That, and maybe his clothes, all clean and smelling of fresh air.

Her dress dropped to the floor and she slipped from her old shift, shivering as cool air touched her skin. One foot dipped in the water and she felt gooseflesh form on her arms. It was hot, probably too hot for comfort, even with the well water he’d added, but he’d left an extra pail of cold to temper it. She poured half of it into the tub, then eased herself into the water. Her eyes closed and she hunkered down, leaning forward so that her arms could be covered, her breasts enveloped with the warmth.

Bliss. Pure bliss, she decided. Bending lower, she sloshed her hair beneath the surface, then worked up a lather with the yellow soap.

Why he waited here was beyond him. She’d been behind the closed door for nearly an hour. The sun was below the horizon, his coffee was gone cold, and the lights in the bunkhouse were beckoning with the promise of a game of poker, if the muffled laughter from that direction was any indication. Yet, he waited.

The sound of metal against metal caught his attention and Beau turned his head, watching as the door creaked open. She peered around the edge, and her expression was defensive as she met his gaze.

“These clothes look close to new,” she said accusingly, stepping into the kitchen.

And they’d never looked that good on Pony, he thought glumly. She’d tucked in the shirt and it clung to the curves it covered. A length of rope looped her waist, holding the loose pants in place, and she’d rolled them above her ankles.

“He told me the shirt shrank when Sophie washed it, and the pants…” Beau shrugged. He’d paid Pony two bits for the pants, but there wasn’t any way Maggie could know that. She’d be volunteering to scrub the chicken coop if she thought he’d put out hard cash for her benefit.

“I’ll thank him tomorrow,” Maggie said quietly. “I’ll hang my clothes on the porch rail myself, and then dump my bathwater.” She moved past the table to the back door and he followed her progress with interest.

There was a slight hitch in her gait, as though she favored one leg, and he frowned, wondering if the clothing he’d provided covered more bruising. Her face in the lamp light gave mute evidence of painful injury, and Beau’s fist clenched as he considered the beating she’d endured.

The screened door opened again and Maggie shot him a glance of inquiry. “Where’d you put the bucket? I thought it’d be on the porch.”

He rose quickly, setting his coffee cup aside. “I’ll empty the tub, then you can help me carry it outside.”

Her mouth tightened, even as her chin tilted a bit. “I take care of myself, mister. There’s no need for you to wait on me.”

He hesitated, unwilling to give her cause to fear his presence. “Can we do it together?” he asked finally. “I’ve got a couple of pails we can fill.”

Her eyes flitted over him and she nodded hesitantly. “All right. I guess so.”

Beau scooped up the galvanized pail from beside the stove and entered the storeroom. A scent arose from the cooled bath water, and he inhaled it greedily. It’d been too damn long since he’d been with a female, he decided, when soap and water smelled this appealing.

He bent to his task and filled the pail, then carried it into the kitchen. “Here you go. Just dump it over the side of the porch. There’s some bushes there that can use some watering.”

Maggie took it from him and headed for the door, walking carefully, lest she allow the pail to slosh its contents on the floor. Beau went to the pantry door and searched for a moment before he caught sight of the second pail. Things would go quicker with the two of them at it, and he’d be better off if he stayed away from the girl. It was a sad day when a bedraggled fugitive began looking good.

In ten minutes’ time the tub was sitting upside-down on the porch, and Maggie was on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, wiping up the damp spots with a rag. She mopped at the dust of footprints with the tattered remains of a shirt Beau had provided, and, after looking around, she’d settled back on her heels.

“Guess it’s as clean as it’s gonna be,” she said, rising to her feet.

“Thanks,” Beau said from the doorway. He’d known better than to stop her from the wiping up. She’d made it clear that she wouldn’t be beholden to him, and a grudging sense of respect for the girl was added to his unwilling attraction.

He cleared his throat and caught her attention. “I’m about ready to hit the sack,” he said quietly, watching as her eyes widened at his words. “If you’re not going out anymore tonight, I’ll head on upstairs.”

A flush touched her cheeks, warring with the purple blemishes below her eye. “No, I’m ready for bed.”

If she’d been heading for the outhouse, he’d have watched till she came back in, and the girl was smart enough to recognize his meaning. “If you want the outside door locked, there’s a bolt you can use. That way you can leave the door of your room open for a breeze if you want to.”

She shook her head. “Thanks just the same. I reckon I’ll sleep better with the door shut.”

Beau nodded. He’d cut a window in the outside wall tomorrow, with a shutter she could pull closed for privacy. Maybe he’d even take a trip to town and get some window glass. He turned away toward the hallway where a wide staircase swept upward. A grin curled his lip as he thought of the changes he was willing to put in place for this one small female.

“Sophie’s not comin’ back for a week or so.”

Beau stared at Pony, his frown registering his disbelief. “Why the hell not?” he asked harshly.

“Sophie’s girl took a bad turn after she birthed her baby, and Sophie sent word that she’s gonna stay till the girl’s back on her feet.” Pony grinned, a cocky expression crossing his wizened face. “Guess your little refugee’s gonna be doin’ the cookin’ for a while.”

“She’s not my little anything,” Beau snapped. “She’s a girl who’s had a bad time, and we’re giving her a bolt-hole till she decides what to do.”

“She cleans up pretty good, boss,” Pony said softly, his eyes sharp as they met Beau’s gaze. “I watched her combin’ her hair on the porch this morning.” His gaze grew wistful. “Haven’t seen such pretty long hair in a month of Sundays. Kinda reminded me of one of the gals who used to work on the flying trapeze. She sure was a looker.”