Maggie's Beau
And he’d missed that particular scene, Beau thought. Maggie’s hair had been braided and stuffed into a hat when he’d caught sight of her in the barn.
“Anybody looks better when they’re cleaned up,” he said harshly. “You make sure she’s not pestered, understand?”
Pony nodded, wisely silent. He turned away, hot-footing it toward the barn, and Beau called after him. “Tell Maggie when she gets done with the stalls to come on up to the house. I want to talk to her.”
“You didn’t eat any breakfast,” he said accusingly, his gaze piercing the slender female standing before him. “Looks to me like you could use some solid food in your belly.” He waved at the cookstove. “I’m not much of a hand with putting together a meal, but there’s biscuits made and bacon fried.”
Maggie skirted him, silent as she surveyed the offerings he’d left for her. “Who made the biscuits?”
Beau bristled. “They’re better than nothing. I didn’t think you could afford to be fussy,” he said curtly.
She picked up a biscuit and shrugged. “I’m not. I’ve eaten worse, that’s for sure. Just wondered, that’s all. My pa never lent a hand in the house. I didn’t know men could do much in the way of cookin’.” She bit into the flat specimen she held and hesitated, then turned to him. “Thank you kindly, mister. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”
“They’re not real tender,” he admitted gruffly as she made the effort to chew. “I don’t know for sure how Sophie makes them. But the bacon’s pretty good.”
“They’ll do,” Maggie said, reaching for the pan he’d shoved to the back of the stove. She snatched up a strip of bacon, and Beau nodded at the table.
“I left a plate for you. And there’s coffee in the pot. From now on, you’ll eat before you go out to the barn and work. Once Sophie gets back, we’ll have decent meals.”
Maggie took the plate to the stove, scooping the bacon from the pan, then adding another biscuit to the pile. “I can cook some,” she offered. “My ma did most of it at home, but when she was laid up sometimes, I learned how to put a meal together.”
Beau’s ears pricked up at her words. “She’s sickly?” he asked.
Maggie’s gaze refused to meet his and she shook her head abruptly. “No, just once in a while, she didn’t feel well.”
“There’s plenty of butter,” he told her. “And cream ready to churn for more.”
“Thank you,” she said, almost formally, reaching for her knife. “I know how to do that—do the churnin’—I mean, if you want me to.”
“Might be a good idea,” Beau told her. “I just heard from Pony that Sophie won’t be back for at least a week.”
“Show me where things are and I’ll get your kitchen set to rights,” Maggie said, spreading butter across the surface of the biscuit in her hand. She cut him a glance and he caught a glimpse of humor there. “I’ll even make the biscuits tomorrow morning, if that’s all right. I can fry eggs without breaking the yolks, too.”
“That’ll work,” Beau agreed. “Do you know how to cook a piece of beef? I’ll cut off a hunk, if you know what to do with it.”
Maggie shrugged her shoulders. “Just put it in a kettle with a couple of onions and some salt and pepper, I guess. If it’s simmered long enough, it’ll tender up pretty good.”
She ate the last piece of bacon and licked her fingers. “I’ll even dig your potatoes,” she told him. “You’ll want some in with the meat.”
Beau watched in fascination as her tongue attended to a trace of bacon grease on her lips. Her fingers were slender, her hands graceful, and he was struck by the visible calluses on their palms. No woman should have to work at tasks that would leave their marks on such tender flesh.
But then, no woman should ever bear marks of cruelty such as Maggie wore. “Who hit you, Maggie?” he asked quietly.
She bent her head, as if hiding the evidence from view would daunt his curiosity. “My pa likes to use his fists sometimes,” she said finally. “He says I’m sassy and don’t know my place.”
Beau felt his teeth clench at her words. “What did you do that made him so angry?”
She laughed, a short, bitter sound. “It didn’t take much. This time was because I’d set up some pens in the woods with animals in them that I was tending, and he got mad.”
“What happened to the animals?” Beau asked, even as he dreaded hearing the expected answer.
Maggie lifted her gaze to his. “He shot them. I was lucky Cat wasn’t out there, or he’d have got her, too.” She glanced at the stove. “I’ll get myself some coffee, if you don’t mind.”
Beau nodded. “Go on ahead.” Watching her, he felt the helpless anger build within his chest. Likely, her faint limp was evidence of her father’s cruelty, he’d warrant. Maggie poured from the coffeepot and returned to the table. “Use all the cream you want,” Beau told her, then watched as she poured from the pitcher.
“No one will ever hurt you here, Maggie.”
She lifted defiant eyes to meet his. “I’ll never let a man lay hands on me again, mister. I made up my mind when I crawled out my bedroom window that I’d got my last beating. Anyone tries to hit me ever again, and I swear I’ll kill him.”
“I’ll do it for you, Maggie.” The words were a promise he intended to keep. Some way, somehow, he’d make certain this girl was not abused.
She drank from her cup, silent at his avowal, her eyes wary. “I’ll feed my animals now, if it’s just the same to you. Thought I’d give them the heel from the loaf of bread and put some bacon grease on it.”
“Check with Pony. There might be some leftovers out at the bunkhouse. I think the men ate steak last night.”
“You’d have done better to eat with them,” she said. “I could have got along.”
“I’m sure you could have,” he said agreeably, “but I asked you to be my guest, and I wasn’t about to leave you on your own for supper.” He rose and went to the kitchen cupboard where a drawer held cutlery. A large butcher knife was there and he grasped it firmly. “I’ll go on out to the barn. There’s the better part of a steer hanging. I’ll cut off a piece for you to cook up.”
The thought of meat available and at hand was amazing to Maggie. Her mama had made do with an occasional chicken, or a rabbit when Pa was lucky with his traps. He’d swapped out butter and eggs for meat on occasion with one of the neighbors, but Maggie couldn’t remember a time when meat was easy to come by. Imagine having a steer butchered and curing in the barn.
She watched as Beau left the house, then rose hastily and tended to her animals. They’d make do with bread and grease for now. She’d save scraps from the beef for later on. She cleaned the kitchen in minutes and she set off for the garden, where withered potato plants guaranteed a crop beneath the earth.
“You’d do better with a pitchfork, missy.” The voice behind her was rusty, almost harsh, and Maggie looked over her shoulder at the man who watched her. Shay held the four-tined fork in his hand, offering it to her.
She rose from the ground and stepped closer to the gate. “Thank you, sir. I thought I could just dig them out by hand, but the pitchfork will make it easier.” She backed away from him and turned again to her task, aware that he watched her. The ground was soft and she lifted a mass of potatoes on the fork, then bent to shake them from the roots of the plant. Reaching into the hole she’d left, she sorted through the dirt, finding three more that had broken loose.
“You’ve done that before,” Shay said quietly.
Maggie nodded, head bent to her task.
“You’ll be safe here.” Again she heard the promise of protection, and she glanced up quickly. His face was stern, the wide scar forming a forbidding barrier to an unwary glance. His eyes rested on her, and she met his gaze. No trace of male appraisal glittered there, only a calm acceptance of her presence.
“Thank you,” she said formally, turning again to her chore, aware that he left as silently as he had approached. That made two men who’d promised her their protection, she thought, digging beneath another plant.
The potatoes piled up beside her as she worked, and there was a certain amount of satisfaction in the homey task. The late summer sun beat down on her head and she was grateful for the hat she’d found in the barn. In the trees surrounding the farmhouse birds sang, fluttering to the garden as she worked, pecking nearby through the overturned earth. She watched as a robin found a fat worm and leaned back, tugging it from the lump of dirt it inhabited. Her chuckle did little to daunt the red-breasted bird as he held his prize and flapped his wings, flying to the nearest tree.
The sound of her own amusement stilled her movements and Maggie closed her eyes. She’d not found anything to smile about in longer than she wanted to consider. But this place…it put her in mind of a small piece of heaven, this sun-drenched bit of earth where she knelt. Beside her, the pile of potatoes grew ever larger as she worked, and around her a small flock of birds fluttered, reckless now in her presence. She rose, grasping the pitchfork, and they fluttered away, chirping, only to return in moments. She dug beneath a withered plant, then grasped it in one hand, shaking the harvest from its roots. There was something to be said for garden work, she decided, her movements mechanical as she moved to the next row. It gave a body time to think, made her soul feel at peace.
Sweat dripped from Maggie’s eyebrow, and she rubbed her forehead with the back of one hand, looking toward the barn. Beau Jackson stood in the wide doorway, and his gaze touched hers with warmth. He nudged the brim of his hat and turned away, leading a tall mare toward the corral, but the memory of his dark eyes did not fade. He was a handsome man. Maybe if someone like him had paid her some mind she’d have taken the same route Roberta and Emily had trod, getting married and moving to town.
They’d sure grabbed at the first chance they had to clear out of the house and away from Pa’s heavy hand. Ma had helped them gather their things and leave, much as she’d turned the other way when Maggie had called it quits and climbed out the bedroom window the other night.
And now Mama was left alone to bear the brunt of Pa’s miserable self. Maggie bent her head, almost tempted to return, to bear some of her mother’s burden. She shuddered at the very thought of going back to that hateful place. Pa would be fuming mad at having to do the field work alone as it was. She’d not give him the chance to whip her into shape again.
Never.
Chapter Three
What the food lacked in flavor it made up for in quantity, Beau decided. Pieces of beef swimming in broth with bits of potatoes made up the bulk of his meal, small pieces of carrots adding color. The onions lent seasoning, but she’d been pretty scant with salt and pepper. He shook the salt shaker over his dish with a heavy hand, aware of Maggie watching from across the table.
“Not very good, is it?” she asked quietly. “I’m not the best cook in the world.”
He glanced up. “It’s better than I could have done, Maggie.” Another bite found its way into his mouth. “Maybe next time you just need to quit cooking it before the vegetables get…” He paused, unwilling to add to her gloom.
“Mushy,” she supplied. “I probably won’t be here long enough for there to be a next time, though,” she said after a moment. “I don’t want you to get in Dutch over me stayin’ here.”
“No one will know where you are, as far as I’m concerned,” he told her grimly. “And if your father comes hunting you, he’ll find more than his match.”
She glanced up at him, and Beau caught a glimpse of beauty in the line of cheek and brow, a promise of charm in the lifting of long lashes as one eye met his gaze. Her swollen eye was still purpled, but as he watched, a tear fell from its lower lid. She blinked and her mouth trembled. “You’re a nice man, Beau Jackson. I reckon you mean that.”
Beau reached across the table, capturing her hand, holding it loosely within his palm. “You can stay here as long as you want to, Maggie.”
She rose from the table, drawing her hand from his, and picked up her plate. “I’ll wash out the wheelbarrow in the morning and load up the potatoes I dug. You got a place to store them?”
Beau nodded. “There’s an old root cellar on the west side of the house. You’ll want to watch for mice when you open the door. Last year we piled the potatoes against the far wall. Had pretty near enough to last past spring. They’ll get soft by then and you have to cut off the sprouts, but they’re fit to eat. There’s a tub for carrots and a place to hang onions and such.”
“There’s more to dig, yet. Ma always liked to have the old plants pulled and the ground turned in the fall. I can do that tomorrow.”
“Then don’t plan on mucking out stalls,” Beau told her firmly. “The men can tend to that. I’d rather have you at the house.”
She stood at the sink, her shoulders hunched, her hands busy with the dishes. “Do you think I could help with the horses, maybe the yearlings? I’ve got a good touch with animals.”
“We’ll see,” Beau said. “You might want to take a look at my milk cow in the morning. Maybe you can do something for her. She’s been touchy the last couple of days at milking time.”
Maggie turned to face him. “Might be she’s a little milk bound. You ever use camphorated oil on her?”
Beau shook his head. “She’s never had any problems before.”
“You got any oil? I’ll warm some up and see if it helps. You just don’t want to get it in the milk. You have to wash off her bag before you commence to milkin’ her.”
Maybe the girl was right. It was worth a try. Beau pushed back from the table and rose. “There’s a boxful of stuff in the pantry,” he said. “Salves and such. Take a look. I’m pretty sure there’s camphorated oil there.”
Maggie wiped her hands on a towel, nodding her understanding. “I’ll see what I can find. Have you milked her tonight, yet?”
“No, I’m ready to do the last of the chores now.”
“Can I come with you?” she asked.
Beau nodded. “I’ll wait for you.”
The cow’s tail twitched as Maggie sat on the milking stool. “It’s only me,” she murmured, her hand moving slowly over the animal’s flank. She glanced up at Beau. “She got a name?”
“Not that I know of,” he told her with a grin. “I just call her the cow.”
“Animals do better with a name.” Her hands moved together now, over the curve of the cow’s belly, then to the front udder. A visible shiver passed over the creature and she shifted her near leg.
“She feels kinda hot, inflamed maybe,” Maggie said quietly. “Let’s try the warm oil and see if it helps by morning.” One hand moved to her pocket and she withdrew a small bottle she’d warmed atop the cookstove only minutes before. She uncapped it and poured a puddle of it into her palm, then spread the pungent liquid over the bulging udder.
The cow stood still, only lowing softly as Maggie intoned words of comfort. Her voice was soft as she glanced at Beau. “You’re not gonna want to use her milk tonight. I’m gonna use some of this on her teats, too.”
Beau murmured agreement, crouching beside her, taking the oil from between her knees where she’d lodged it as she worked. She glanced up quickly at his touch, but he ignored her, his fingers deft as he tightened the cap and waited, silent as he listened to the soft syllables she uttered.
“I’ll milk her for you,” Maggie offered. “I don’t think I’d ought to strip her out, though, just take milk enough to keep her comfortable.”
“I’ll get the pail,” Beau offered, rising and moving at an easy pace. He returned in moments and put the bucket in place.
His attention was too intense, his presence too near, and Maggie shifted uncomfortably on the stool. “Haven’t you got chores to do?” she asked, glancing up at him. “I can handle her just fine by myself.”
He nodded and stepped back. “Leave the pail by the door when you’ve finished. I’ll dump it.”
The cow suffered Maggie’s hands on her, only shifting a bit in protest. “I’m about done, cow. You’ll be fine tomorrow. Just a little fever, nothing we can’t take care of.” The words flowed in a quiet stream, and within minutes the task was done. Putting the stool against the wall, she looked toward the back of the barn to where deep shadows held the gloom of nightfall. There was no sign of Beau.
“Must have gone out back,” she murmured to herself, and then knelt down to look beneath the manger. “Come on out, Cat. I see you there.” With a low chirp deep in her throat, the three-legged creature stepped cautiously past the cow and into the aisle.
“Guess I shoulda followed my own advice, Cat,” Maggie murmured, bending to run her fingers through the rough fur. “Never did give you a name, did I?” She squatted next to the animal, speaking softly. “I wasn’t real sure you were gonna live, you know. I didn’t want to bury a critter I was attached to, and I thought if I didn’t name you, it wouldn’t matter so much if you died. That was pretty dumb, wasn’t it?”
She stood, and the cat eyed her from her three-legged stance. “Come on, then,” Maggie told her. “You can walk with me up to the house. I don’t think the mister would want you inside, though.”
Lifting the milk pail, she stepped to the double doors, the cat at her heels. Overhead, the stars were like silver buckshot against the sky and she tipped her head back in amazement at the sheer number of them. Perhaps she hadn’t looked up lately, she decided. For more years than she could remember, she’d hung her head lest she be accused of being uppity, it seemed. But tonight she felt free, and the thrill of that discovery brought a sunburst of joy to her heart. With a light step, she set off for the house. The pail bumped against her leg, reminding her of Beau’s words, and she deposited it next to the doorway, then made her way across the yard.
“She’s got a good hand, don’t she?” Pony stood in the shadows just inside the last stall, watching as the girl vanished in the darkness. “Do you suppose she knows what she’s doin’? With the stuff she smeared on your cow, I mean?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we.” She’d disappeared, swallowed up in the night, and then he heard the distinct sound of his screened door closing. “There’s something about her that I can’t put my finger on. I saw it the other day, with her cat and dog, and again, just now, the way she talked to that poor crippled animal.” He shot a glance at Pony. “You’re going to think this is far-fetched, but it’s like she understands them—and they know it.”
“Nah,” Pony said, denying Beau’s concern. “I’ve seen folks like that in the circus. Either you got it, or you don’t. Most of us don’t. I kinda got the touch, with horses anyway, but there’s those who have a gift.” His voice trailed off and he snorted. “Now you’ll think I’m the one goin’ out on a limb.”
The two men walked the length of the barn, a lone lantern providing light overhead. “What you gonna do with her, boss?” Pony asked diffidently.
“Nothing,” Beau answered.
“She’s a pretty good-lookin’ woman, ain’t she?”
He shot Pony a dark look and his words were grudging. “Yeah, I suppose so.” Better than pretty good, he thought glumly, remembering the gleam of dark hair in lantern light as she soothed the milk cow.
“She know how to cook? I’m gettin’ plumb sick of eatin’ my own fixin’.” Pony’s query held a wistful note. “Seems like I get stuck with most of the meals. Course, Joe don’t know the first thing about food, ’cept for eatin’ it, and Radley does his share just haulin’ in wood and keepin’ the ashes dumped.”
Beau noted the lack of Shay’s name in Pony’s litany, then grinned as the man continued his sad tale. “I was thinkin’ maybe she’d fill in a meal once in a while for us, when she gets the knack real good.”
“Once she learns how to shake on a little more salt and pepper, she won’t be too bad,” Beau told him. “I doubt her mother had much inspiration in the kitchen. From what she’s said, there wasn’t much to be grateful for around their table.”
Pony stepped into the aisle, then bent to peer between two barrels. “I thought as much,” he exclaimed softly. “I heard a noise a while ago. Looks like we got something goin’ on. That mangy hound’s made herself a nest.”
“I saw her by the porch earlier,” Beau said softly, crouching beside the other man. A soft growl issued from the darkness, and he caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows. “I wonder that Maggie didn’t notice,” he whispered.
“You better tell her,” Pony advised. “She’ll be madder’n a wet hen if you don’t and she finds out.” His chuckle was short. “Damned if we’re not both a couple of softies, boss. Dogs been havin’ litters on their own since year one. This’n will do just fine by herself.”
He rose stiffly, and Beau followed suit. “You’re probably right.” They walked to the front of the barn, and Beau lifted the lantern from its perch. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, moving from the barn to the yard. Behind him, Pony swung the doors into place and latched them firmly.
The storeroom door was closed, and he stood indecisively, his knuckles poised to rap against the solid wood. Without warning, it swung open and Beau remained where he stood, one hand uplifted. Framed in the glow of candlelight, she resembled a nymph, her eyes startled, her body beneath the simple shift a shadowy outline. Without thinking, he clenched his hand, and she hunched her shoulders, ducking her head.
His arm dropped, the fist he’d unwittingly formed jamming against his hip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, Maggie.”
Her chin lifted and she backed into her room, one hand pushing against the open door, as if she would close him out. “I was going to get a drink. I thought you were still in the barn.”
He shook his head. “Wait a minute, honey. I need to tell you about your dog.”
She froze in place. “What’s wrong with Maisie?” Turning from him, she snatched at the shirt she’d placed on the bed. “Turn away, mister. I’m gonna get dressed.”
Beau obligingly turned his back on her, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. If she only knew that he’d already taken a good gander at her slender frame, outlined by the glow of the candle behind her, she’d probably have a fit. Not that there was a whole lot to see. She was a little bit of a thing, built more like a child, but for the curves of her breasts. Probably some good food on a regular basis would fill her out nicely.
Behind him, she shoved her way past. “Where’s my dog? Is she all right?”
“Put your boots on, girl,” Beau reminded her. “The dog’s all right, just holed up behind a couple of barrels. I think she’s ready to drop her litter. I thought you’d want to know.”
Her feet slid readily into the pair of boots he’d talked Pony out of the day before, and she left the kitchen, the spring of the screened door slamming it in place.
“Might’s well join the party,” Beau muttered to himself. “There’ll be no sleeping till she comes back in anyway.” Snatching the lantern from the table, he followed her out the door, heard the murmur of voices from in front of the barn, and then the sound of the doors opening.
“That you, Pony?” he called.
Shay appeared before him. “No, boss. I was just about to look for the lantern. The girl says her dog’s cooped up havin’ pups. Thought I’d get her some light.”
“I’ve got this one,” Beau told him.
“You want me to stick around, keep an eye on things?” Shay asked quietly.
Beau considered only a moment. “No. Go on back to the bunkhouse. I’ll be here.” Shay nodded and turned away. Beau watched him go. The man had either taken a shine to Maggie, or he’d appointed himself her guardian angel. And it had better be the latter.
The animals stirred, a low whinny from one of the stalls signaling a mare’s unease. Beau strode the length of the aisle, and several heads turned in his direction as he passed the open stalls. Maggie crouched by the barrels, speaking softly to the creature she’d rescued.
“Want me to move those barrels?” Beau asked, hanging the lantern from a peg on the wall.
“Just the one,” she responded. “It’s too heavy for me to shift it alone. I already tried.”