Maggie's Beau

He leaned the barrel a bit and rolled it easily, giving better access to the dog’s chosen spot. Maggie reached a hand toward the mongrel and Beau held his breath. It wouldn’t be unheard of for a dog to bite while in the throes of labor, and the thought of Maggie’s small hand left torn and bloody made him cringe inwardly. But the dog only whined, and Beau watched as a long tongue wrapped itself around slender fingers.

“I’m here, Maisie,” Maggie crooned. “I’ll tend to you if you need me.” She settled herself cross-legged and her hands moved knowingly over the creature’s swollen belly. “You got a whole mess of ’em, haven’t you, girl?”

As Maggie spoke, the dog stiffened and thrust her head back, a guttural sound passing through her clenched teeth. Maggie’s hands pressed and massaged, her words soft, almost indecipherable, as she comforted the straining mother-to-be. “You don’t need to stay around, mister,” she said after a moment, as the dog panted and closed her eyes.

“When you going to start calling me Beau?” he asked her quietly, crouching beside her.

She glanced up, and her small smile coaxed an answering grin from his mouth. “I guess now’s as good a time as any,” she allowed. “I’ll be here a while…Beau. Why don’t you go on to bed?”

“Nah, I get a kick out of watching new life come into the world,” he told her. “Why don’t I get us a cup of coffee, and we’ll both stick around.”

“Can she feed six pups? She’s kinda scrawny, don’t you think?” Beau leaned back in his chair, watching as Maggie stirred scrambled eggs in his large skillet. The sun was high in the sky, and they’d been in the barn until after midnight.

“She’ll do fine,” Maggie answered, turning to the table. “I’ll feed her extra, if you don’t mind. They ought to be good pups. I think the daddy’s a big shepherd from the next farm to my pa’s.” She reached for a spoon. “You don’t have a dog, do you?”

Beau shook his head. “There was one hanging around when I bought the place, but he died.” He watched as scrambled eggs were turned out onto his plate. “Does Maisie belong to your pa?”

She frowned, spoon held midair. “What are you thinkin’? That I stole her?” She exhaled noisily, and stomped back to the stove. “My pa wouldn’t give the time of day to an animal, let alone food to fill its belly.” The skillet settled on the stove with a clatter, and Maggie went to stand before the door.

“I’m sorry,” Beau said quietly. “I just need to know where the land lays, Maggie. If someone comes to my door looking for a stolen dog, I need to be sure you don’t have anything to do with it.” She was silent, and he darted a look at her.

“Maggie, come on and eat something,” he said. “I didn’t mean to doubt your honesty, thinking you’d take a dog that wasn’t yours. I had to be sure. Though to tell the truth, the poor thing doesn’t look like she’s worth much anyway.”

Maggie spun to face him. “She’s worth a lot to me. When I leave here, she’ll be my protection.” Her eyes glittered, and Beau motioned to the chair across the table from himself.

“Sit down. We need to talk a little bit.”

She moved across the floor and slid into the chair. “Go ahead. Eat your eggs,” she said. “I’m not goin’ anywhere for a while. And that’s another thing I need to mention.”

Beau ate steadily, willing her to continue. She was a far cry from the female he’d coaxed into his house only three days past, and the difference was most gratifying. “Go ahead,” he said. “Talk away.”

“Well, I thought I’d find enough to do for you to earn my keep till Maisie gets her pups weaned. I was worried about having to keep us safe and dry in the woods till she had them. Now, with being here and all, I thought I could work for you for the next five or six weeks.” She broke off, her eyes seeking his, her hands clenched tightly against the tabletop.

Beau nodded, as if he considered her plan. She’d made it easy for him, given him six weeks to figure out some sort of future, and it was all he could do not to beam his approval. “That oughta work,” he said slowly. “I’ll need an extra hand here while a couple of my men take horses to Dodge City this month. You can…”

“You didn’t answer me before.” Her words were eager and her hands lay flat now, as she leaned forward, sitting on the edge of her chair. “Do you think I could help work with the yearlings you keep?”

“I don’t want you too far from the house, Maggie. If your pa comes hunting you down, I’d just as soon he didn’t see you.”

She nodded, considering his words. “Maybe I could work in the corral. You know I can do barn work.” Her head turned to the door as a man’s voice rising in protest caught her attention from outside.

“Damn dog!”

Beau was on his feet. “I’ll bet somebody set Maisie off. Probably got too close.”

From the porch, Pony called his name, and Beau headed for the door. “The girl’s dog won’t let Joe in the barn,” Pony said through the screen. “You better come on out, boss.”

“I’ll come,” Maggie said, pushing away from the table and hurrying past Beau. She brushed against him and retreated, her glance quick. “Sorry, didn’t mean to shove at you that way.”

She’d flinched from him, and again Beau felt a moment’s anger at the man who had instilled fear into her very being. “Run on out, Maggie,” he urged her. “I can’t take a chance on a dog bite. We’ll have to tie her, I guess. She’s not going to feel safe with those pups nursing.”

Maggie ran before him, her feet flying across the packed earth. Even with the heavy boots she wore, her gait was more graceful, the limp subsiding, and Beau followed close at her heels, his eyes intent on her. She pulled up short before Joe, keeping a distance as she spoke to him.

“She won’t hurt you none if I tell her who you are. Come on in with me,” she urged in a rush of breath. “She needs to know you.”

Joe tipped his hat back and shook his head. “I’m sorta attached to my fingers, ma’am. I’d just as soon not have her take after me.”

Maggie looked up at Beau. “Tell him. Tell him she’ll listen to me.”

Beau nodded. “I believe she will, Joe. Let’s take a look.” He led the way, opening the doors fully and walking toward the back of the barn, the rest trailing behind him. Maggie hurried past and spoke to the new mother in soft tones, then stood as the men approached.

“Just squat down here by me, all of you,” she said firmly. Then, turning to the dog, she spoke the names of the men who watched, reaching with one hand to touch each of them in order, her fingers barely grazing the backs of their hands. Her other hand curled atop Maisie’s head, and her monologue was continuous as she introduced each of them to the watching dog. Only as the velvet nose sniffed at the back of Joe’s hand did Maisie hesitate, her low growl signifying doubt.

“I want you to be a good girl,” she said finally, and then bent low to whisper soft phrases in the animal’s ear. Maisie whined and tilted her head, then barked and stood, wagging her tail.

“I’d give a passel to know what she’s sayin’ to that critter,” Pony muttered beneath his breath.

The same thought had just crossed Beau’s mind, and he nodded. “Whatever it is, I think…”

“She won’t bother you none,” Maggie said, cutting off his train of thought. “Just leave her be, and she’ll be fine.”

Joe sent her a doubtful look. “You’re sure?”

Maggie stood before the five men, dwarfed by their size. And yet, Beau thought she was, on some level, an equal. And the men seemed to consider her a bit differently than they had that first day.

“I’m more than sure. I’m dead certain,” Maggie told them, looking from one to another. “If you leave her a bite of your leftovers once in a while, she’ll warm up. Just don’t reach for her pups.”

She looked across the aisle to an empty stall and her eyes lit up. “There you are, Cat. I wondered where you’d got to.” From the darkened area, the lean three-legged feline hobbled toward the group, and Maggie bent to pick up her pet.

“I fed her this morning, over by the bunkhouse,” Joe admitted shyly. “I figured she couldn’t do much hunting on her own, what with…” He shrugged, as if unwilling to speak aloud the cat’s infirmity.

“Thank you kindly.” Maggie nodded at him solemnly. “I surely appreciate it.”

Beau cleared his throat. “I think we’ve been lollygaggin’ around long enough this morning. There’s work to do.” The men broke ranks, two of them heading for the back door and the corral, the others picking up pitchforks. “How about taking a look at the cow while we’re here, Maggie?” he asked.

She was already heading in that direction and he followed. “She all right?”

Maggie squatted by the spotted Guernsey and ran her hands over the udder. She looked up at Beau and grinned. “She’s not hot anymore. I wouldn’t drink the milk yet, and I’d better put some more oil on her today, but she’ll be fine, I think. I’ll just milk her first.”

He’d thought to do that chore himself, but there was no sense in arguing with success, he decided, and right now it looked like Maggie was on a roll. “I’ll get the oil.” He’d play nursemaid this time around, gladly, if it meant his cow was on the mend.

Supper in his kitchen was late again; the men in the bunkhouse were already doing the evening chores by the time Beau sat down at his table. The potatoes were underdone, but the steak was rare. He’d convinced Maggie to throw it in the pan and let it sear for only a minute or so before she turned it over. She’d cringed, shivering as he cut into the tenderloin, watching as the juices ran bright red on his plate.

“How can you eat that?” she asked, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “It’s a wonder it’s not still moving.”

Beau chewed the tender morsel and swallowed. “You can fry yours to a frazzle if you like, but I want mine fit to eat.”

Maggie turned back to the stove. “I want it good and dead when it goes in my stomach,” she told him. The pan sizzled as she turned the piece of meat again, and finally after a few minutes, she speared it, transferring it to her plate. “That’s more like it.”

She helped herself to green beans, leaving Beau a second helping in the dish. “I churned butter today, and finished up with diggin’ the potatoes,” she said after a few minutes. “They’re all in the root cellar.”

“Did anyone help you?” He’d told Shay to keep an eye out for her this afternoon.

Maggie shook her head. “No. Shay offered, but I told him I could do it. He watched me from out by the barn while he was shoein’ a horse.” She took a bite and chewed slowly, then pushed her potatoes around on the plate. “I helped him a little bit. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not if he doesn’t,” Beau said. “Shay’s not much for small talk. Don’t have your feelings hurt if he doesn’t say much.”

“He didn’t say anything, only nodded his head when I took hold of the mare’s halter and held her steady.”

“It was her first set of shoes,” Beau explained. “She was probably a little spooked.”

“I know. I felt like she needed someone to talk to her,” Maggie explained. “So I did. But I got the potatoes done anyway.”

They finished eating in silence and Beau took his plate to the sink. “I’ll be out back for a while. Thanks for cooking.” He left the house, noting the two men who busied themselves inside the barn. He had things to think about, he decided, veering past the bunkhouse and heading for the small peach orchard. The trees were bare of fruit and the leaves had begun to wither. It was quiet, with starlight filtering through the tree limbs overhead. Settling himself on the ground against a dark tree trunk, he bent one knee, leaning back against the rough bark. He needed to consider carefully just how deeply he was becoming involved with his little fugitive.

She was bright, but uneducated. He’d watched as she scanned through the book of recipes Sophie used on occasion. That she was unable to read the script therein was obvious. A look of utter frustration had masked her features, and he’d been appalled that anyone lacked the basic skills in this day and age. Most girls spent at least six years in schooling, sometimes more. And yet, Maggie appeared not to have been given that opportunity. He’d not wanted to embarrass her and had looked aside.

Now he considered her situation. There must be some way he could approach her, some plan he could evolve to help her. She was intelligent, despite her lack of schoolroom skills. And her innate knowledge of animals was remarkable.

Shifting against the tree, he felt a piece of tree branch beneath him and his fingers searched it out. It lay in his palm, a thickened area catching his attention, and he lifted it closer, studying the odd shape of a bole in the wood. Something about it appealed to him, and he eased his knife from his pocket as he considered the shape of his find. In the light cast from moon and stars overhead, his narrowed gaze found the suggestion of a cat within the piece of tree limb. He cut off the excess branch, then whittled at it, turning it back and forth, seeking the elusive form he’d envisioned there.

Tomorrow evening he’d sound her out, he decided. Some way, somehow, he’d ease past her distrust and persuade her to his side. She’d come a long way already, except for flinching from him twice. When he’d taken the bottle of oil from between her knees in the barn last night, she’d inhaled sharply and shivered. And again today, when she’d brushed past him, there’d been that moment of hesitation, as though she expected a blow from his hand.

His knife slipped and he sliced through the wood he held. “Damn,” he muttered, the profanity not one he was given to use. His mother had frowned on cusswords, and respect for her memory kept them to a minimum in his vocabulary. This time, the single syllable was heartfelt and he repeated it.

“Damn. She thought I was going to hit her,” he growled beneath his breath.

He cast aside the piece of wood he held and skimmed the ground with his left hand, seeking another scrap, but it was not to be. And then he stood, a thought piercing his mind. There were any number of likely prospects in the woodshed, just beyond the outhouse. Tomorrow he’d find one and spend some time with Maggie. He’d carve her a cat, and get her to talk to him.

Long strides carried him from the stand of peach trees toward the house. The thought of the girl there was a lure he could not resist. “I only want to help her,” he whispered staunchly to himself. And his pace increased as he walked.

Perhaps she was still in the kitchen.

Chapter Four

Whittling would have to go by the wayside, Beau found upon arising the next morning. The weather looked good, a cloudless sky and hot sunshine setting his course. He’d learned early on to take advantage of fine weather and this looked to last for a couple of days.

Cutting hay was the order of the day, with the last field awaiting the mower. It was a hot, sweaty chore, one he figured to last about three days. But with five men working, the job went well, and with Maggie putting together meals of sorts, they managed to cut the field and rake it loosely, spreading it to dry by the second evening. By noon of the third day Beau looked out on the hayfield, satisfied that the sun had cooperated. With another turning by hand, the hay would be ready, once the dew burned off in the morning. They would rake it again, into rows this time, ready for the hay wagon to make its rounds.

That first evening, Beau had dragged himself atop his stallion, heading for his nearest neighbor, where he’d explained his dilemma, then begged loaves of bread from Rachel McPherson. With Sophie still not back, they were hard-pressed for fresh bread, and he was not willing to put such a demand on Maggie’s talents.

Rachel had cheerfully offered to come and help her for a morning, but Beau refused, unwilling to involve his neighbor in his situation. Bad enough that he had slipped and divulged the girl’s presence in his home. Swearing Rachel to secrecy, he’d headed for his place with three loaves of fresh bread and the promise of more on the morrow.

Cord McPherson had glowered from the back of his horse as Beau left, the man’s possessive streak apparent. If Rachel hadn’t been spoken for a few years back, Beau would have given the other rancher a run for his money. But trespassing on forbidden property was not in line with his values. Rachel was taken, and Beau was only too aware that the dark-haired beauty had eyes only for the tall rancher she’d married.

He’d carried his booty into the house and unveiled the three loaves for Maggie’s inspection. She’d produced the breadboard and a knife and set to work with a will, mumbling as she cut the heel off with a vicious whack.

“There was no need to go beggin’ at the neighbors. I told you I’d try my hand at baking,” Maggie’d told him, slicing savagely at the loaf before her, as if his dependence on a neighbor was in some way a betrayal of her skills.

Beau winced. “Watch what you’re doing, Maggie. You’re making hash out of that thing.”

She sniffed, stepping back to view her efforts. “I think it’s too soft, that’s all. Mama’s bread always sliced real easy.”

“Probably not so light as Rachel’s,” Beau surmised. “My neighbor is a good hand at baking. She’ll have more for us tomorrow. You’ll have to develop a lighter touch with that knife by then,” he teased.

And she had, reduced to muttering about her own shortcomings as she ate with relish the bounty from Rachel McPherson’s oven. Beau’s only fear in the matter was that if he wasn’t careful, he’d have his neighbor on his doorstep, investigating his refugee. Rachel’s curiosity was potent, and he’d barely persuaded her to stay at home where she belonged. If she wasn’t up to her neck with the two little ones Cord McPherson had given her, one right after the other, she’d probably have been here already.

Maggie’d done well, he decided, munching on one of the roast beef sandwiches she’d prepared for them. He sat with his back against a tree on the west side of the hayfield, where the afternoon shade was best. Sophie was due back, he figured. He’d begun looking for her the day before yesterday. He almost rued her return. Having Maggie to himself had become a habit.

Luring her closer day by day had become a challenge. And there was a certain amount of danger in that. Not that he’d been in any shape to pursue a female. Cutting hay and filling the hayloft was a job that took the starch out of a man. They cut hay at least twice a year. Sometimes if the summer was early and ran late, they managed to get in three cuttings, which provided more than enough for his own stock and some to sell off to the livery stable in town. But it was a whole lot of work crammed into three or four days, he thought glumly, and he was ripe with sweat and ready for a long soak in the galvanized tub.

Around him the scent of hay and the sounds of men’s small talk lent satisfaction to his thoughts. It was his hayfield and his crew of workers, and before long Beau Jackson would be the sole name on the title to his farm. When Joe and Rad returned from Dodge City with the money from the horses he was committed to sell to the army, he’d have enough to make the final payment on his mortgage.

His gaze settled on the two men, Joe only twenty years old, Rad the elder by a decade or so. They’d proved to be worthy of his trust, and that was just about what this trip amounted to. He’d be trusting the pair of them to handle a sale he ought to have his own hand on. A faint chill of unease passed over him and he set it aside, rising to his feet, summoning the crew back to work.

“Let’s see if we can get this hay in the barn by suppertime,” he said. Lifting the jar of water Maggie’d provided him with to his lips, he swallowed deeply. Then watched as the four men took their places once more. The sun was hot against his back as he picked up his hay rake and lifted the first forkful of hay, tossing it easily to the waiting wagon. Around him, the men worked in harmony, Pony driving the wagon, the others pitching hay.

He bent to pick up a sheaf, testing it for dryness, satisfied that the care they’d taken in turning it to dry had given results. It wouldn’t do to put green hay in the barn. Fires had been started that way, and he couldn’t afford such a loss.

Maggie waited on the porch, her hands busy peeling potatoes from the bread pan she held in her lap. She was doing better these days, she decided, leaving more of the potato to be cooked, instead of tossing so much to the pigs with the parings. She quartered the specimen in her hand and tossed it into a waiting kettle of water. The sun was leaning toward the west, and the hay wagon had just made its second trip of the afternoon in and out of the barn.

She missed those minutes of laughter from the men as they transferred the hay to the loft from the big farm wagon, rued their absence as the vehicle lumbered off, back to the field. Only Pony and Rad had come back this time, the others raking and piling hay for the next load. Cat lay beside her on the porch swing and she bent her head to speak to the shy creature.

“Just you and me, Cat. Old Maisie’s got herself a fulltime job with those pups, hasn’t she?” The cat looked up from yellow eyes and a purr of content was Maggie’s answer. And then the eyes narrowed and the sleek head turned quickly to the yard, her ears pricking and twitching, one folded, the other erect.

Even as Maggie sensed the animal’s apprehension, she heard the sound of buggy wheels against the long driveway, and the whinny of a horse. She rose, in her haste spilling the pan of potatoes to the porch. Then, knife in hand, she watched as the visitors approached. A young man drove the buggy, and at his side a middle-aged woman sat erect, holding a basket in her lap. They drew up to the porch, the horse’s nose almost within touching distance as Maggie drew in a deep breath of relief.

And met Sophie’s gaze. For it could be no one else. Surely not the woman called Rachel McPherson, for she was mother to two young’uns, and this woman had more years on her than Maggie’s own mother. The driver jumped down with a nod to Maggie and scurried around the back of the buggy, lifting his hand to assist his companion.

“You gotta be Sophie,” Maggie said hoarsely, wishing she’d had the presence of mind to gather the potatoes to the pan instead of standing there like a dunderhead. For surely that’s what Pa would have called her, had he seen her clumsiness.

“I’m Sophie all right,” a sharp voice returned. “And who are you?” Piercing eyes raked Maggie from stem to stern, and she wished for a shroud to cover her, instead of the pants and shirt she’d cadged from Pony. The man added his scrutiny to that of Sophie and Maggie backed to the door, her only thought to escape his penetrating stare.

She felt the mesh of the screen against her back and her fingers lay flat against the wooden doorjamb. “I’m Maggie,” she whispered, then cleared her throat to repeat the admission. “My name’s Maggie. I’ve been stayin’ here.”

Sophie climbed the stairs, sidestepping the potatoes that blocked her path and offered the basket she carried to Maggie’s care. “Take this, girl. I’ll just grab a’hold of my satchel.”

Turning, she took her bag from her companion and bent to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You take good care of my girl, Carmichael. You hear me?” At his abashed nod, Sophie turned back, her brow rising as she faced Maggie.

“Well, back off, girl, and I’ll open the door for you to carry my baking inside. Then you better come back out here and pick up those spuds. They won’t get to the kettle by themselves.”

Maggie knew she was staring, sensed that her mouth was agape, and was only able to do as she was bid. By the time she’d carried the heavy basket indoors and deposited it on the table, the buggy was gone, and Sophie was trudging past her with satchel in hand, muttering words that predicted a troublesome time for Beau Jackson when he showed his face once more.

Back on the porch, Maggie gathered the potatoes and settled back on the swing, working rapidly at the peeling process, fearing her time here was soon to come to an end. She reached for last potato as the oven door clanged open in the kitchen.