Maggie′s Beau
Maggie's Beau
Carolyn Davidson
On the run from a nightmarish life, Maggie had the power to stir feelings of forever in rancher Beau Jackson's soul. From the first moment, he knew he loved this sweet-spirited gamin, but would she ever feel anything more for him than gratitude?She must have died and gone to heaven, Maggie O'Neill swore, for Beau Jackson treated her with all the kindness and respect only a genuine lady deserved. But how was she to know if what she felt for him was love?
“Some days I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven,” she said quietly
Beau softened as his eyes met hers. “This is a far cry from heaven, Maggie. The trouble with you is that you’ve never lived anyplace where folks liked each other, and tried to make life enjoyable.”
“I just know that livin’ here is like being in a dream. I thank you for bein’ kind to me, and for doin’ all you do.” Emotion welled within her and words spurted forth. “I just feel like huggin’ you,” she blurted. And that was probably enough to scare him off if anything ever would, she thought.
“You can if you want to,” he said, his grin wide. “I’d really like to kiss you, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“You want to kiss me?” she asked incredulously. And then she laughed aloud. “Nobody ever kissed me in my life…!”
Dear Reader,
With the passing of the true millennium, Harlequin Historicals is putting on a fresh face! We hope you enjoyed our special inside front cover art from recent months. We plan to bring this wonderful “extra” to you every month! You may also have noticed our new branding—a maroon stripe that runs along the right side of the front cover. Hopefully, this will help you find our books more easily in the crowded marketplace. And thanks to those of you who participated in our reader survey. We truly appreciate the feedback you provided, which enables us to bring you more of the stories and authors that you like!
We have four terrific books for you this month. The talented Carolyn Davidson returns with a new Western, Maggie’s Beau, a tender tale of love between experienced rancher Beau Jackson—whom you might recognize from The Wedding Promise—and the young woman he finds hiding in his barn. Catherine Archer brings us her third medieval SEASONS’ BRIDES story, Summer’s Bride, an engaging romance about two willful nobles who finally succumb to a love they’ve long denied.
The Sea Nymph by bestselling author Ruth Langan marks the second book in the SIRENS OF THE SEA series. Here, a proper English lady, who is secretly a privateer, falls in love with a highwayman—only to learn he is really an earl and the richest man in Cornwall! And don’t miss Bride on the Run, an awesome new Western by Elizabeth Lane. True to the title, a woman fleeing from crooked lawmen becomes the mail-order bride of a sexy widower with two kids.
Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Maggie’s Beau
Carolyn Davidson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Available from Harlequin Historicals and CAROLYN DAVIDSON
Gerrity’s Bride #298
Loving Katherine #325
The Forever Man #385
Runaway #416
The Wedding Promise #431
The Tender Stranger #456
The Midwife #475
* (#litres_trial_promo)The Bachelor Tax #496
* (#litres_trial_promo)Tanner Stakes His Claim #513
* (#litres_trial_promo)One Christmas Wish #531 “Wish upon a Star”
Maggie’s Beau #543
I have been blessed in many ways. I have a wonderful husband, a flock of terrific children and grandchildren, and a writing career that has fulfilled my wildest dreams. Add to that an agent who understands me and gives me absolute support, and the picture is almost complete. Except for one item.
Every published writer has an editor. Margaret O’Neill Marbury is mine. She takes my phone calls, listens to my story ideas, encourages me on my bad days and then edits my final drafts with tender loving care. For the past seven years she and I have cooperated in a partnership that has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I can only hope we survive many more such ventures as this one.
Maggie’s Beau is Margaret’s book, dedicated to her with all the appreciation this writer’s heart can hold.
And to the man who holds my hand throughout the whole process of writing my stories, meeting my deadlines and keeping my life on an even keel, I give my thanks. I love you, Mr. Ed.
Contents
Chapter One (#ue888f382-3805-51c9-9564-8227e84c7166)
Chapter Two (#u32b4cc7d-8323-59b0-8eb0-5cabcff6657e)
Chapter Three (#u2eaeb41f-c83c-5d76-a90b-e89b4b5ca547)
Chapter Four (#u0ec03fc6-5316-54f9-a75b-dbe3482c8418)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
She was the most pathetic creature he’d ever seen. Perhaps if she were clean…. Beau Jackson shook his head. Even a bath wouldn’t do much for the bitch. Even now, she was snarling and showing her teeth, in a display meant to scare him from his own barn. Sides showing clear signs of pregnancy, the dog stood spraddle-legged in the aisle and dared Beau to come one step further. He was no fool, and so instead squatted in the wide doorway and held out his hand.
“Come here, girl,” he coaxed, balancing on the balls of his feet. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The dog backed up a few inches and growled again, a menacing warning. Yet her ears twitched forward, and if canine eyes could be called hopeful, Beau decided this one’s could qualify. His eye caught a movement in the shadows just beyond the dog, and his brow lifted in surprise.
“Well, I’ll be—looks like you got yourself a friend, honey.” His words were soft, meant to pacify the bedraggled animal before him, and for a moment, she relaxed her stance, her tail moving from between her hind legs to become a flag at half-mast. Crouching beside the feed barrel, a cat shifted and lunged to its feet, wavering uncertainly for a second or two, until it caught its balance.
“I’d say you’ve got a problem, kitty.” Beau felt his brow furrow and knew a moment of pity as he watched the gray cat move beyond the dog’s shadow. Three legs held the creature erect, a scarred area, bare of hair, revealing the site of the fourth missing limb. The cat balanced on its one remaining foreleg beside the dog and watched Beau with stoic indifference.
It was a stand-off, one he could not afford to continue. The dog would either attack or back down, and it was time to give her a chance to make that decision. Beau stood slowly, one hand on the butt of his gun. “You going to let me pass, dog? Or do we have to do this the hard way?”
The dog’s back ridged in protest as Beau spoke and her lips drew back over white teeth, even as a low, threatening growl announced her position.
“Damn. This isn’t my first choice, pooch. But I can’t let you take a chunk out of me, can I?” Beau drew his gun carefully, even as he reached for a rope that hung on the wall. If the dog lunged, he could fend it off with the heavy coil of rope, but if he couldn’t manage to chase it from the barn, he’d probably have to put a bullet in its head. And that didn’t sit well with him.
Not only was he opposed to putting down an animal unless there was no other choice, but it was a hell of a way to start the day. Especially since he hadn’t even had his breakfast. He took one step closer, prepared for the snarl that erupted from the animal.
What he wasn’t prepared for was the sight of a bare foot descending from the hayloft. It barely touched the top step of the ladder before its mate moved lower, and he was exposed to the sight of curving calves and slender feet. A drab, colorless skirt fell to cover the feminine limbs as their owner scampered to the barn floor and whirled to face him.
“Don’t you shoot my dog. She’s just scared you’ll hurt her.” The girl stepped forward, shielding the pair of animals, her narrowed eyes glittering defiance. Dark hair hung in disarray, its snarled length falling over her shoulders and partially covering her face. She snatched at the unruly mop and peered up at him.
“Who beat the tar out of you?” Beau asked, his voice quiet, even as his stomach roiled in disgust. She hadn’t narrowed her eyes at him purposely. One was almost shut, its lid puffed and purpled, a bruise covering most of her cheek. Blood stained the corner of her mouth and her lips were swollen and discolored.
“None of your business.” The dog moved to nudge its nose against the girl’s hand and Beau watched as her fingers spread to cover the furry head. “Just let us get by and we won’t bother you none.” The cat stood again, and hobbled to lean against the girl’s bare leg. She glanced down and reached for the wounded creature, her movement swift, her gaze returning quickly to Beau.
“I don’t think I can do that, ma’am,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t steal nothin’,” she told him sharply. “I just took a nap in your loft. We didn’t touch anything.”
“I wasn’t worried about that.” What he was concerned about was getting her and her menagerie better acquainted with the idea of eating breakfast.
She watched him warily. “If you’ll move out of the way, mister, we’ll be gone faster than you can blink.” She took one step toward him, the dog moving to her side, the cat creeping up to wind itself around the back of the girl’s neck.
“You got any belongings, miss?” Surely she hadn’t arrived in his barn without some sort of baggage, aside from the creatures she protected.
Her eye twitched and she hunched her shoulders, glancing to where the ladder led to the loft. “I left my stuff up there. Forgot it.”
Beau nodded. “Why don’t you go up and get it, and I’ll see what I can rustle up for breakfast for you and your critters.”
Stock-still, she watched him, her head turning a bit as she gauged his considerable length, her gaze finally coming to rest on the gun he held. “You gonna kill my dog?”
“Not till I feed her,” Beau said, sliding the pistol back into its holster.
“I don’t take somethin’ for nuthin’,” she said firmly. “I’ll earn the food.”
He hesitated, but only for a moment. He’d have to let her call the shots, most likely. Otherwise, she’d be gone in a heartbeat once he turned his back. “All right, you can do that. Come on up to the house and I’ll find some grub. Then you can work for a while in the garden, if you want to.”
Her chin stuck out mutinously. “I’d rather clean stalls.”
Beau swallowed a chuckle as she stood her ground, then shrugged. “That’s up to you. I just need to have the potatoes dug and the rest of the onions pulled.” At her glare, he relented. “Hey, if you’d rather clean stalls, by all means, have at it.”
She turned away, reaching for one of the pitchforks on the wall and he stilled her hand with a word. “No.” It was a firm command, and she was obviously used to the harsh tone he used, for she turned quickly, her expression fearful. “You can earn your food after you eat it, and after your animals get fed.”
Her head nodded slowly, her hand returned to clutch at the side of her dress and she waited. “Go ahead, mister. I’ll follow you up to the house.”
“Is your dog going to latch on to my leg when I turn away?” he asked, amusement coloring his words, hoping to lull her into conversation. He offered a smile and was stunned as she backed from him again.
“Maisie won’t bite you if I tell her not to.” She touched the dog’s head and the animal sat quietly by her side. “Go ahead on. We’ll follow you.”
Beau turned away, walking briskly toward his house, the silence behind him tempting him to look back. She was a fey creature, without much to recommend her. Somebody had trounced her good from the looks of it. And unless he missed his guess, she’d gone hours, maybe days, without food. It was no wonder she was wary of him, with his gun slung around his waist. He’d only worn it in case he encountered the snake he’d spotted last night. Rattlers were rare around the house and barn, but he wasn’t about to take any chances.
He hunched his shoulders and then stretched upward, bringing sore muscles into play. Damn, his day was shot all to hell and back and he’d hardly had time to rub the sleep from his eyes.
Maggie moved behind him, matching her steps to his, scampering as he outpaced her. Cat clung to her hair, balancing across her neck, and Maggie reached up to grasp the animal’s hind legs. Beside her, Maisie moved cautiously, and as they approached the back porch of the ranch house, the dog halted and growled a warning. Maggie touched the shaggy head and looked down.
“Your dog not partial to men?” The rancher stood on the porch and turned to face her. “She can stay out here. Hell, you can all stay out here if you like. Or come on in. It makes no matter to me.” He turned from her and opened the screened door, walking into the house.
“We’ll eat on the porch,” Maggie said, raising her voice so as to be heard. The screened door slammed and she climbed the steps with care, her feet tender from the long hours of walking on rough ground. She should have snatched up her shoes when she’d left, but Pa had been rustling around in the next room and she’d not wanted to take a chance on being caught. She’d skinned over the windowsill and landed on the ground with a thud, then snatched up her bundle and taken off like a streak across the yard, toward the woods.
Settling against the wooden corner post, she pulled the cat from around her neck. The wound was healing well, she decided, brushing back the hair to better make out the rough stitches she’d put in place. Her mouth drew down as she recalled the horror of a steel trap and the howls of the wounded creature who’d strayed into its jaws. Pa had nailed her a good one for hiding the cat and not giving away its whereabouts, but it was worth it. Already Cat was walking pretty good. Before long, she’d be…Maggie’s eyes dimmed as the creature’s hopeless future loomed before her. No longer would Cat be able to hunt for food, or protect herself from predators.
“I’ll take care of you. Don’t you worry none,” she murmured, her fingers tugging at the gray ears with tender caresses. Maisie watched from the grass below, sitting patiently, her gaze never swerving. “And you, too, Maisie.” Maggie lifted her shoulders, stretching, easing the cramps from sleeping in the loft. She’d settled down near the opening, watchful of her animals, and the floor had been hard and ungiving.
In the room beyond the screened door, sounds promised the coming of a meal, or at least some sort of hastily prepared food, if she was any judge. A pan clattered, a spoon scraped, and water was pumped into a container. Who’d have ever thought a man could put together something to eat? Pa wouldn’t have been caught dead dealing with the kitchen stove or making a meal for himself. But he always managed to be there when Mama dished things up.
Maggie leaned her head against the post behind her. For right now, for this moment, she was safe. If Pa was after her, she’d see him coming, for the lane was in sight. Beyond the barn, several men were heading in this direction, but they didn’t seem to be on the lookout, just making their way toward a long, low building where smoke drifted from the chimney and a clanging noise seemed to be a signal of sorts. She shrank within herself, lest she be seen by the men. Three of them there were, and so far they hadn’t taken any mind of her. She could hear them calling back and forth, and then they made their way through the doorway into the building next to the barn.
“If I was smart, I’d be out there eating with the hands.” The big man was behind the screened door, talking to her, and here she’d been so intent on watching the yard that he’d managed to creep up on her.
“Go ahead on,” she muttered, embarrassed at being caught unawares.
“I told you I’d feed you,” he reminded her, and pushed the door open. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ve put the coffee on the front of the stove and found some bread and butter and a jar of apples. There’s some meat left from yesterday’s dinner.”
“Don’t your wife cook?” Maggie asked suspiciously. “Ain’t she around?”
The rancher looked at her, and shook his head. “No wife, and the cook went to be with her daughter for a couple of days. I’m making do with leftovers, but I’ll probably eat with my ranch hands tonight.”
She leaned forward, peering suspiciously past him into the dim kitchen. “You all alone in there?”
He held the door wide. “Come take a look for yourself.”
Maggie edged closer to him, peering past his formidable bulk into the kitchen. An oblong table, covered with a checkered oilcloth centered the room, sturdy chairs positioned around it. Heat from the cookstove warmed her as she crossed the threshold, and the scent of coffee beckoned.
“You got any milk for the coffee?” she asked, venturing to the far side of the table. A lone cup and solitary plate, with a knife and fork framing two sides, awaited her as she stood behind the chair. Her eyes widened as she beheld a pitcher filled with rich, yellow cream. “You put the top cream in your coffee?”
He shrugged, facing her from the doorway. “Why not? Seems like a good way to use it up.”
“My ma always had to churn it all. We drank the dregs. Never could take to the skim.” She reached for the pitcher and then halted, aware of the grime she’d managed to gather on her skin. “Reckon I could wash up a little first?”
“Certainly.” He nodded toward the stove. “There’s warm water in the reservoir. I’ll get it for you.”
Maggie watched as he filled a saucepan, dipping into the cavern that was attached to the side of the cookstove. He carried the pan to the sink, emptying it into a basin there, then pumped an equal amount of cool water from the well. His glance was accompanied by a small smile, and he stepped back.
“Have at it. I’ll get you a towel.”
He turned to the pantry, and she moved quickly to where the luxury of warm water awaited her. A thin bar of store-bought soap lay on the wooden sinkboard and she picked it up, lifting it to her nose. The scent was clean, and she inhaled it greedily. The basin was directly beneath the pitcher pump. She moved it to one side, then pumped once, allowing the water to splash over her hands. The soap turned dark with the residue of dirt on her hands and she rubbed her fingers vigorously before she pumped again, rinsing them. No sense in letting that nice, warm water get grungy right off, she decided.
Again Maggie worked at her hands, pleased as the soapsuds dissolved her two-day collection of grime. Finally satisfied, she bent to the basin, wetting her face with both hands before she rubbed up a good amount of suds between her palms. The clean scent pleased her as she lifted her hands to her face and soaped its surface. She closed her eyes, her fingers working from forehead to chin and below, then from one ear to the other, wincing a bit as her bruises protested their cleaning. There was no help for it, she decided. The chance for real soap and warm water was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to turn down. She lifted a double handful of water, splashing it against her skin, and then blew out the soap that clung to her lips.
“Here’s a towel for you to use.” He was beside her, and she stood erect, her heart beating furiously. His body heat touched her even as the towel was thrust into her hands. Tall and broad-shouldered, he loomed over her, and she shrank from him. Her eyes burned from soap and water combined, and she scrubbed gingerly at her face with the towel, then looked up at him, inhaling deeply for a lungful of air.
“You could scare a body to death, comin’ up on them like that.” Maggie’s lips threatened to quiver with fright, and she would not have it. She tightened them, compressing her mouth into a thin line.
“I beg your pardon,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His eyes dwelt on her face, his mouth again tightening as his gaze traced her damaged skin. “I should have brought you a washcloth, too, I suppose.”
What on earth was the man talking about? “Whatever for?” she asked. “I’ve been usin’ my hands to wash with for more years than I can count.”
“I always like to scrub up with…” He halted. “Never mind. Let’s just get you fed and find something for your animals.”
Her animals! She’d forgotten them. The towel met the sinkboard and she backed from the man, then hastened to the screened door. A sigh left her lips, an audible sound of relief. Maisie and Cat were where she’d left them, the pair of them watching and waiting patiently.
“They’re fine,” she announced, turning again to the table. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just take them out half of whatever you were gonna give me to eat.”
His eyes turned dark, and he shook his head, an abrupt movement. “No. You’ll eat whatever you please, and then we’ll find more for the dog and cat.” He motioned to the chair and she obeyed his silent command, her stomach growling as she faced the food he offered. A plate with several chunks of beef, and beside it, a Mason jar filled with cooked apples. Even as she watched, her host unwrapped a loaf of bread from a kitchen towel and placed it on a wooden board.
“You want me to slice some for you?” he asked, knife in hand.
She nodded. “That’d be welcome.” The knife cut with ease through the brown crust, and white slices fell like slabs of lumber from a felled tree at the mill in town. She was pleased with the thought, and reached for a slice as he drew back. “Sure is nice and white. You musta got good flour.”
“Just what my housekeeper told me to buy,” he said quietly, his gaze intent on her.
She buttered the bread, using a scant portion of his supply, and heard the sound he made deep in his chest. Looking up quickly, she caught a look of anger in his eyes, a narrowed, dark glimpse into the depths of his soul. “I’m sorry if I used too much butter, mister.” If he was angry about that, she could scrape it off and do without. Butter was a luxury, anyway, Ma had always said. It brought good money from the store in town. No sense wasting it on family.
He shook his head. “Use all you want. There’s more where that came from.” He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. He’d poured himself a cup of coffee, and she watched as he poured a generous amount of cream into it. The cream swirled and blended and he reached for a spoon, completing the process with a quick stir. Then he pushed the pitcher toward her.
“Go ahead, help yourself.” His voice was gruff, even to his own ears, and Beau cleared his throat. He’d never seen such a wary creature in female form before. She was clean from the neck up and the wrists down, revealing fine skin, tanned to a golden hue. His curiosity was running rampant, becoming more aroused each moment by the creature he’d discovered. More woman than girl, now that he had a good look at her, with full breasts beneath the nondescript garment she wore. Her face held a piquant beauty, with wide-set eyes and a narrow nose. The bruising was dark around one eye, closing it to his view, but the other was dark blue, the orb circled with black. Her mouth was swollen and scraped, and she bit gingerly at the bread she held.
The thought that the brute who had damaged her flesh might have loosened teeth in the process angered Beau almost beyond his control. His hands tightened their hold on his cup, then flexing his fingers, he tightened them into fists. He’d give a bundle to lay hold of the man who had hurt her. She glanced up at him, and he caught the hint of fear she could not hide, as if she must guard against any sudden moves on his part.
Beau leaned back in his chair, then forced the corners of his mouth to curve upward. “More coffee?” he asked. “If I’d gathered the eggs this morning, I could’ve scrambled some for you. Never did get the knack of frying them without breaking the yolks.” Nonsense talk, all of it designed to help his guest relax. Yet he saw no results.
She ate cautiously, quietly, steadily, her hand holding the fork as if it were a weapon, clutching it against her palm. Ever vigilant, she was poised on the edge of her chair, alert to his every movement. “I’d take more coffee, mister,” she said after a moment, pushing her cup across the table.
She looked revived, her movements more limber, and the routine of eating had slowed. “Thanks for the food,” she said, almost grudgingly, as he rose to pour steaming coffee into her cup. Her mouth pursed as she poured cream into the strong brew, and he caught a glimpse of satisfaction in her half smile. “Maybe I can milk your cow for you. To help pay for my breakfast, I mean.”
Beau leaned against the kitchen cabinet, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Why don’t you stick around for a day or so, just till you get your feet under you?” Her gaze shot in his direction and she hesitated, her cup held midair.
“You need another hand around here?” She’d seen the three men near the barn, and seen a fourth ringing the bell. Surely he had help enough to run the place. And yet, hope rose within her breast. If she could hide here, just for a while. Maybe sleep in the loft and earn her grub. His lower lip protruded a bit and his eyes scanned her. She sat up straighter in the chair, then pushed away from the table and stood erect.
“I’m strong, mister. I can muck stalls and tend stock like a man.”
“What’s your name, miss?” he asked quietly.
She hesitated, a bit too long it seemed, for he frowned. “Don’t lie to me, honey. I can spot a phony a mile away.”
“I’m Maggie,” she said, tilting her chin a bit, allowing him to look directly into her one good eye. “And I’m not a phony. If you don’t need any more help around here, I’ll earn my breakfast and be on my way.”
He walked toward her and halted just beyond her reach. One hand stretched forth and she looked down at it, then back up at the somber look he wore. “My name’s Beau Jackson,” he offered.
The man wanted to shake her hand. Maggie shivered at the thought of giving him the chance to drag her against him. Yet, maybe that wasn’t his aim. He’d had plenty of chance to haul her around if he’d been set on that course, and he’d kept his distance. Now, he held out his hand like a gentleman might, and she lifted her own to press her palm against his, allowing her fingers to curl around the wide expanse. He held her smaller hand in his, looking down for a moment. Then with a gentle movement, he squeezed, and released her from his grip.
She drew back, rubbing her palm against the side of her dress. It was warm, holding the heat from his flesh, as though the memory of his hard calluses somehow remained. “I’ll go clean your barn, mister,” she told him, anxious suddenly to be away from his presence. He was too big, too close for comfort.
He nodded, sliding his big hand back into his pocket. Maggie backed from him, then turned to the door. On the porch, visible through the screen, her woebegone companions sat, waiting for whatever she might offer them. Guilt struck her and she flinched. “I forgot,” she said, turning quickly to face her benefactor. “You said I could feed Cat and Maisie.”
“I’ll get it,” he told her. Beau reached for a bowl on the shelf, dumping its contents into the scrap pan in the sink. “More of the beef left over from last night,” he told her. “Never seen a dog yet that didn’t like stew meat.” He tore up two slices of bread, adding them to the pan, then reached for a crock on top of the cookstove. What looked to be bacon grease spilled over the whole offering, and he carried it toward the door.
She opened the screen and held it wide for him to pass. He nodded his thanks. “I’ll get some milk for the dog,” he offered. “Looks like she’ll be dropping a litter before too long.”
The animals beheld the pan of food for a moment, wary of his scent, Beau supposed, then gave in to the hunger they could not hide. Ever watchful, they shared the pan, Cat finally crouching as her balance gave way.
“I thank you,” Maggie said with polite formality, bowing her head. “They haven’t had much to eat lately.”
And neither have you. She was a prickly little thing, but her loyalty to the creatures who depended on her gave away a soft side of her nature Beau planned to exploit. He’d keep her here, for a while at least. Help her get cleaned up and find something decent for her to wear. And then, if it was the last thing he ever did, he’d find out who’d beaten the tar out of the girl.
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.”
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.”
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.
“What you got in this oven, girl?” Sophie’s query rang out even as Maggie heard the big roasting pan slide from place and clatter against the stovetop. The lid was lifted with a rattle and all was silent.
“Pork,” Maggie said, peeling long strips of skin from the potato she held.
“Where’s the onions?”
Maggie’s eyes closed and she leaned her head back against the swing. “I’ll get a couple, right away,” she answered, lifting the kettle from the floor and carrying it through the kitchen door.
She deposited it on the sinkboard and turned to face Sophie. “I’m not a very good cook, I’m afraid. And Beau’s got me fixin’ meals for all five of them, while they’re bringin’ in the hay.”
Sophie stuck a wooden-handled fork into the pork, which Maggie noticed had browned nicely. She’d remembered the salt and pepper, and was thankful for that small favor.
“This is pret’near done, I think. Let’s get the onions in right off and let them cook awhile,” Sophie said. “You got some in the house?”
Maggie nodded, hurrying to the pantry. Sophie took them from her hands and whipped out a paring knife, Maggie watching in awe as the slices fell beneath the agile blade. In moments, the roaster was back in the oven and Sophie was donning a huge apron. She lifted the coffeepot from the back of the stove and gauged its weight.
“Feels like we need a fresh supply for supper. Myself, I like a cup of tea in the afternoon. You want one, Maggie?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” Maggie answered, hurrying to finish the lone potato she’d abandoned minutes past. The full kettle was on the stove in moments, over the hottest area, and Maggie slapped a lid in place, then quickly lifted it to add a scant handful of salt. She’d learned that much, at least, during this long week.
Sophie arranged the flowered teapot from the kitchen buffet in the middle of the table, brought a pitcher of cream from the pantry and stuck a spoon in the sugar bowl. “Come sit down, girl. I think we need to talk,” she said, choosing two cups from the half dozen that graced the top shelf of the hutch. Matching saucers held the china cups she’d admired from afar during her stay, and Maggie sat as instructed, her eyes taking in the tea party Sophie assembled with such ease.
Her mother had spoken of such a thing, recalling the years of her youth, before Edgar O’Neill stole the roses from her cheeks and the dreams from her heart. Without thinking, Maggie spoke the thoughts in her mind. “My mama told me about a tea party once.”
Sophie settled herself across the table, chose a spoon from the jar and placed it on her saucer. “Did she fix tea for you?”
Maggie shook her head. “My pa said tea was foolishness.” Her lips compressed as she considered her words. Sophie would think her an ungrateful daughter. “He let us drink milk, though,” she said quickly.
Sophie nodded. “Where’d you come from, girl? How long you been here?”
“A week, and better,” Maggie said. “Beau—I mean, Mr. Jackson said I could stay for a while.” Remembering the fading bruising of her cheek and eye, Maggie looked down, and then realized her foolishness. Sophie would have long since spotted the telltale signs of a beating. And as if her thoughts had wings to the woman’s mind, Maggie heard the question voiced aloud.
“Who hit you, Maggie? You got other bruises besides those I can see?” Sophie leaned across the table, pouring a stream of tea into Maggie’s cup, and then her own. A spoonful of sugar was added, then a dash of cream before she offered the pitcher to Maggie. “Do you like cream?” she asked quietly.
Inviting the woman’s scrutiny, Maggie lifted her head and met a kindly gaze. “I never had tea before,” she admitted. “I reckon I’d like cream in it. It tastes good in coffee.” Pouring a reckless amount into the delicately scented beverage seemed wasteful, but following Sophie’s lead, Maggie added sugar to the brew and, choosing a spoon, stirred it with care.
Somehow there seemed to be a ritual about this occasion, and she sipped at the hot tea carefully, replacing the cup as she savored the new flavor. And then she folded her hands in her lap and prepared for what was to come. “My pa gets mean sometimes,” she began.
“Your mother didn’t stop him?” Sophie asked softly, even as her eyes flashed and her tone sharpened.
Maggie shook her head. “Nah. I’m the last one home and Ma knew not to put in a word or Pa would lash out at her, too. My sisters took all they could before they high-tailed it last spring.”
“Where’d they go?” Sophie asked, lifting her tea cup to her mouth.
“Two men from town, brothers they were, asked Emily and Roberta to marry up with them. They’d seen them on the sly, I think.”
Sophie nodded. “And they were more adventuresome than you, I guess.”
Maggie chanced a grin. “Yes, ma’am, they were. Pa didn’t have a glimmer, till he found their empty bed one morning.” Her grin became a wide smile. “He was hoppin’ mad. Pret’near punched a hole in the wall, and then remembered himself and hit me and Mama instead. Said we were to blame for not tellin’ him, so he could stop them from leavin’.” She recalled that day and a profound satisfaction filled her heart. “I’m glad they got away. I’m just sorry Mama took a whippin’. Laid her up for a couple of days.”
Sophie stood abruptly, moving across the kitchen. Reaching the window, she turned and faced Maggie. “Land sakes, girl. You’re lucky to be alive. Why did you stay so long?”
Maggie’s mind filled with the image of Verna O’Neill, the woman who’d borne her. “I knew he’d take after Mama real bad once I left. But I couldn’t hang on any longer, once he killed my critters.”
“Your critters?”
“I had a couple of cages in the woods where I kept wild things that were hurt, and I fixed them and then let them go again. Pa found them and killed them.” She shivered, recalling that day, remembering the anger that had driven her to flee. “I left that night, walked a few miles and slept in the woods. Then the second night I hid in the hayloft here in the barn, and Beau found me in the morning.”
“And took you in, bless his heart,” Sophie finished, nodding as if such a development was not surprising. “Does your pa know where you are?”
Maggie felt a leap of fear. “No, if he did, I’d not still be here. He’d have dragged me home already.”
“Huh! I doubt Beau Jackson would allow that.”
“I don’t know that he could stop him, ma’am. Pa says the laws give him leave to do whatever he wants to his womenfolk. He says we’re just the same as his cow and horse. We’re part of his property.”
“I was all set to rake you over the coals, you know.” Sophie eyed Beau from her perch on the back porch. He stood on the step below, his eyes calculating her degree of aggravation. It was hard to tell. Her mouth was pursed, yet her eyes held a trace of amusement.
“Well, hello to you, too, Sophie. When’d you arrive?”
“About an hour ago,” she answered. “I’ve been waitin’ for a chance to talk to you.”
“What did I do this time?” he asked after a moment, although his better judgment had already clued him in on the problem. Maggie was nowhere to be seen, and unless he missed his guess, she was due to be the subject of this conversation. If there was to be one. From where he stood it looked like Sophie’d already met and judged the girl.
“I took one look at your guest…” Sophie began.
“She looked that way, and a hell of a lot worse, in fact, when she got here,” Beau cut in. “And she’s staying, Sophie. There’s no argument where that’s concerned.”
She nodded. “By the time she told me where she got the bruises, I’d decided you were right to give her a place to stay.”
“Then what’s all the fuss about?” He looked past his housekeeper toward the kitchen door. “Where is she?”
“I told her to take a bath before supper, and helped her fix the tub. She didn’t have any other clothes to wear, so I found her a dress of mine. She’ll swim in it, but it’ll do till tomorrow, and then you’re goin’ to town to find her something to wear from the general store. You ought to know without me telling you that it’s not fitting for a young woman to be wearin’ men’s clothes.”
Beau grinned. “You got her to agree to that?”
“Well, she didn’t argue a bit about the bath part, except to worry about using up your soap, but wearin’ my dress caused a bit of a problem. I cut off the bottom and made a sash for the waist. It’s not fancy, but it’ll do for today.”
He nodded, willing to be amiable. “I need to make a trip to town, anyway, Sophie. I’ll see what I can find. But I’m warning you, she’ll make a fuss. She’s used to wearing pants, and if she’s going to be working in the barn, it’s probably for the best.” The thought of Maggie sashaying around the horses in a dress didn’t set well with Beau. Long skirts would hamper her movements, and she’d be tripping all over herself.
“Well, we’ll see,” she answered. “You’d best come on in. Supper’s about ready.”
Beau snatched his hat off and followed Sophie inside, his gaze cutting to the storeroom door. It was closed tight and he thought of the woman inside, probably still sloshing around in the galvanized tub. She’d probably not had two baths in the same week in all of her life, up till now. And he hadn’t even thought of it, hadn’t even considered that she needed another change of clothing. The days of bringing in the hay had kept him going from early to late, and he’d barely kept his eyes open after supper each night. Washing up in a basin was about as good as it got when his day started at dawn and ended after dark.
“Thanks, Sophie,” he murmured. He followed her to the cookstove, watching as she stirred the gravy, then lifted the lid on a kettle of succotash. The scent rose temptingly and his stomach growled accordingly. “I’m glad you’re home. Maggie did her best, but we missed you.”
“Don’t be buttering me up, Beau Jackson. You don’t look to me like you’ve lost any weight while I was gone.” She opened the oven and slid the roasting pan out, transferring it to the stovetop. Steam rose as she lifted the cover and the scent of pork roast made his mouth water. “I’m about to make gravy,” Sophie said, reaching for a platter for the meat. “Are those men ready to come in and eat?”
“They’re almost done. Pony was unharnessing the team when I came up to the house. They’ve been spoiled the past three days, not having to do their own cooking, with Maggie fixing supper every night.”
“Well, ring the bell. You got time to wash up.”
Beau hung his hat by the door and stepped onto the porch, reaching for the bell rope. He tugged at it sharply and the brass bell swayed twice, the sound loud and clear. From the barn an answering call assured him it had been heard and he went back in the kitchen. The storeroom door opened, and he looked across the room to where Maggie poked her head into view. Her smile was wide as she spied him near the stove, and she stepped into the kitchen. An ill-fitting garment covered her from neck to ankles, a dress that would never be in fashion again, if Beau was any judge.
“I thought I heard you,” she said quietly, glancing from Beau to Sophie, and then back. “I’m gonna empty the tub real quick, and then maybe you could help me take it outside, Beau.”
He shook his head. “Leave it be till after supper and I’ll dump it then. I’m going to take a bath in the kitchen later on. I’ve about reached my limit on scrubbing up in a pan.” He rolled up his sleeves and splashed water into the sink pan.
Maggie nodded and scurried to the back door, comb in one hand. “I’ll help in just a few minutes, Sophie,” she said. “First I have to braid up my hair.”
“You got five minutes, girl. It’ll take about that long for me to make the gravy and for those men out back to high-tail it up here.”
Maggie hurried to the porch and bent low from the waist, allowing her long hair to cascade forward. She combed its length, working at the snarls and tugging the teeth through from her scalp to the trailing ends of her dark locks. Beau, as clean as a quick wash could make him, stood behind her, watching through the screen, his eyes drinking in the graceful lines of her arms and hands as she groomed herself. Her dress fell in voluminous folds from the strip of fabric she’d circled around her waist, and he mourned the loss of the snug-fitting trousers he’d become accustomed to seeing.
After a moment she stood erect, holding her hair in one hand at the back of her head, then clenching the comb between her teeth, began twisting the long tresses into a braid. Her fingers worked rapidly and he watched in fascination, wondering at her ability to perform such a task. Stepping out onto the porch, he caught her attention, and she spun to face him, her eyes startled, her nostrils flaring.
The comb fell from her mouth and he snatched it midair. “I can’t figure out how you can braid your hair behind your head. You can’t see what you’re doing.”
Her lids were both open, the swelling so far gone that only a bit of puffiness remained beneath the damaged eye, and for the first time he gazed fully into the blue depths. He cringed at the bloodshot look of her, ached for the bruising that had faded over the past days to hues of yellow and pale green…yet at the same time admired the delicate lines of brow and cheek as she tilted her head to look at him.
“I’ve been doin’ it for years. My fingers just know what to do, I guess.” She pulled the long braid over her shoulder and continued forming the three strands until there was only a short tail undone. “Tear me off a strip from this belt, will you?” she asked, lifting the makeshift sash she wore, extending it in his direction with two fingers.
He took it from her hand and did as she asked, then handed her the piece of material. She wound it rapidly around the pigtail and tied it with a flourish, then bent in his direction. “I had a talk with your Sophie,” she whispered.
He grinned in reply. “I know. She told me.”
“Is it all right with her if I stay on here?” Her look toward the kitchen door was anxious. “She was real nice to me, Beau, but I don’t want to be in her way.”
“You won’t.” He handed her the comb, recognizing it as his own. “Where’s the comb you used before?” he asked.
“It wasn’t very good. It only had a few teeth in it, and Sophie threw it out,” she admitted. “She told me I could use yours. She didn’t think you’d mind.”
“No, I don’t, but you need your own. I’ll get you a new one, and a brush, too, when I go to town tomorrow.” Something more feminine, he decided, than the plain black specimen he used. Perhaps a hand mirror, too, and some talcum powder in a tin. It gave him a jolt of pleasure to think of buying her such intimate items, envisioning the delight in her eyes when he presented his gifts.
“I’ll earn them out,” she said quickly. “I need to be figuring up what all I owe you already.”
Unwilling to injure her pride, he nodded agreement, then reached to tug teasingly at the end of her pigtail. Her wince did not escape him and he hesitated. “I won’t ever hurt you, Maggie. I’ve told you that before. When you gonna start believing it?”
Her face was downcast and he fit his palm under her chin, lifting it to his view. She bit at her lip and he shook his head at the movement. “Don’t do that. You’ll make that lip sore again, and it’s just starting to heal up good.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Old habits die hard. My mama always used to say that and I guess I know now what she meant. I know you’re a good man, but whenever I see a hand come at me or someone movin’ quicklike, my heart pounds real funny and I want to run.”
His own heart twinged with pain at her words and he nodded his understanding. “Let’s go in to supper, Maggie. The men are coming up from the barn, and Sophie’s got supper on the table.” His hand touched her shoulder and rested there. “I fed your dog in the barn when we brought the last load of hay in. Those pups look pretty healthy. They’re moving around real well.”
She shifted and moved beneath his fingers and they tightened a bit, holding her in place. His voice was low, his words gentle. “I’m not going to stop touching you, honey. It’s like handling a skittish colt. They just have to get used to it, and I suspect it’s going to be the same way with you.”
“Maybe,” she said quietly, turning from him and opening the screened door. “I thank you kindly for tending to Maisie,” she murmured.
He bowed his head. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
“How would you like to look at a couple of my books, Maggie?” Beau stood in the doorway and Maggie dried her hands on a towel, turning to face him. “Take them into the parlor,” he told her. “I’ll be out here in the bathtub and you’d best have something to do for a while.”
“Do they have pictures in them?” she asked, laying the towel aside and eyeing his offering. Her heart beat rapidly as she considered his suggestion. No one had ever given her the chance to sit and spend time with a book. The thought of having nothing else to do but look at the pages of words she could not read, trying to decipher the letters she could not name was more than she could fathom.
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Carolyn Davidson
On the run from a nightmarish life, Maggie had the power to stir feelings of forever in rancher Beau Jackson's soul. From the first moment, he knew he loved this sweet-spirited gamin, but would she ever feel anything more for him than gratitude?She must have died and gone to heaven, Maggie O'Neill swore, for Beau Jackson treated her with all the kindness and respect only a genuine lady deserved. But how was she to know if what she felt for him was love?
“Some days I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven,” she said quietly
Beau softened as his eyes met hers. “This is a far cry from heaven, Maggie. The trouble with you is that you’ve never lived anyplace where folks liked each other, and tried to make life enjoyable.”
“I just know that livin’ here is like being in a dream. I thank you for bein’ kind to me, and for doin’ all you do.” Emotion welled within her and words spurted forth. “I just feel like huggin’ you,” she blurted. And that was probably enough to scare him off if anything ever would, she thought.
“You can if you want to,” he said, his grin wide. “I’d really like to kiss you, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“You want to kiss me?” she asked incredulously. And then she laughed aloud. “Nobody ever kissed me in my life…!”
Dear Reader,
With the passing of the true millennium, Harlequin Historicals is putting on a fresh face! We hope you enjoyed our special inside front cover art from recent months. We plan to bring this wonderful “extra” to you every month! You may also have noticed our new branding—a maroon stripe that runs along the right side of the front cover. Hopefully, this will help you find our books more easily in the crowded marketplace. And thanks to those of you who participated in our reader survey. We truly appreciate the feedback you provided, which enables us to bring you more of the stories and authors that you like!
We have four terrific books for you this month. The talented Carolyn Davidson returns with a new Western, Maggie’s Beau, a tender tale of love between experienced rancher Beau Jackson—whom you might recognize from The Wedding Promise—and the young woman he finds hiding in his barn. Catherine Archer brings us her third medieval SEASONS’ BRIDES story, Summer’s Bride, an engaging romance about two willful nobles who finally succumb to a love they’ve long denied.
The Sea Nymph by bestselling author Ruth Langan marks the second book in the SIRENS OF THE SEA series. Here, a proper English lady, who is secretly a privateer, falls in love with a highwayman—only to learn he is really an earl and the richest man in Cornwall! And don’t miss Bride on the Run, an awesome new Western by Elizabeth Lane. True to the title, a woman fleeing from crooked lawmen becomes the mail-order bride of a sexy widower with two kids.
Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Maggie’s Beau
Carolyn Davidson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Available from Harlequin Historicals and CAROLYN DAVIDSON
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The Wedding Promise #431
The Tender Stranger #456
The Midwife #475
* (#litres_trial_promo)The Bachelor Tax #496
* (#litres_trial_promo)Tanner Stakes His Claim #513
* (#litres_trial_promo)One Christmas Wish #531 “Wish upon a Star”
Maggie’s Beau #543
I have been blessed in many ways. I have a wonderful husband, a flock of terrific children and grandchildren, and a writing career that has fulfilled my wildest dreams. Add to that an agent who understands me and gives me absolute support, and the picture is almost complete. Except for one item.
Every published writer has an editor. Margaret O’Neill Marbury is mine. She takes my phone calls, listens to my story ideas, encourages me on my bad days and then edits my final drafts with tender loving care. For the past seven years she and I have cooperated in a partnership that has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I can only hope we survive many more such ventures as this one.
Maggie’s Beau is Margaret’s book, dedicated to her with all the appreciation this writer’s heart can hold.
And to the man who holds my hand throughout the whole process of writing my stories, meeting my deadlines and keeping my life on an even keel, I give my thanks. I love you, Mr. Ed.
Contents
Chapter One (#ue888f382-3805-51c9-9564-8227e84c7166)
Chapter Two (#u32b4cc7d-8323-59b0-8eb0-5cabcff6657e)
Chapter Three (#u2eaeb41f-c83c-5d76-a90b-e89b4b5ca547)
Chapter Four (#u0ec03fc6-5316-54f9-a75b-dbe3482c8418)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
She was the most pathetic creature he’d ever seen. Perhaps if she were clean…. Beau Jackson shook his head. Even a bath wouldn’t do much for the bitch. Even now, she was snarling and showing her teeth, in a display meant to scare him from his own barn. Sides showing clear signs of pregnancy, the dog stood spraddle-legged in the aisle and dared Beau to come one step further. He was no fool, and so instead squatted in the wide doorway and held out his hand.
“Come here, girl,” he coaxed, balancing on the balls of his feet. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The dog backed up a few inches and growled again, a menacing warning. Yet her ears twitched forward, and if canine eyes could be called hopeful, Beau decided this one’s could qualify. His eye caught a movement in the shadows just beyond the dog, and his brow lifted in surprise.
“Well, I’ll be—looks like you got yourself a friend, honey.” His words were soft, meant to pacify the bedraggled animal before him, and for a moment, she relaxed her stance, her tail moving from between her hind legs to become a flag at half-mast. Crouching beside the feed barrel, a cat shifted and lunged to its feet, wavering uncertainly for a second or two, until it caught its balance.
“I’d say you’ve got a problem, kitty.” Beau felt his brow furrow and knew a moment of pity as he watched the gray cat move beyond the dog’s shadow. Three legs held the creature erect, a scarred area, bare of hair, revealing the site of the fourth missing limb. The cat balanced on its one remaining foreleg beside the dog and watched Beau with stoic indifference.
It was a stand-off, one he could not afford to continue. The dog would either attack or back down, and it was time to give her a chance to make that decision. Beau stood slowly, one hand on the butt of his gun. “You going to let me pass, dog? Or do we have to do this the hard way?”
The dog’s back ridged in protest as Beau spoke and her lips drew back over white teeth, even as a low, threatening growl announced her position.
“Damn. This isn’t my first choice, pooch. But I can’t let you take a chunk out of me, can I?” Beau drew his gun carefully, even as he reached for a rope that hung on the wall. If the dog lunged, he could fend it off with the heavy coil of rope, but if he couldn’t manage to chase it from the barn, he’d probably have to put a bullet in its head. And that didn’t sit well with him.
Not only was he opposed to putting down an animal unless there was no other choice, but it was a hell of a way to start the day. Especially since he hadn’t even had his breakfast. He took one step closer, prepared for the snarl that erupted from the animal.
What he wasn’t prepared for was the sight of a bare foot descending from the hayloft. It barely touched the top step of the ladder before its mate moved lower, and he was exposed to the sight of curving calves and slender feet. A drab, colorless skirt fell to cover the feminine limbs as their owner scampered to the barn floor and whirled to face him.
“Don’t you shoot my dog. She’s just scared you’ll hurt her.” The girl stepped forward, shielding the pair of animals, her narrowed eyes glittering defiance. Dark hair hung in disarray, its snarled length falling over her shoulders and partially covering her face. She snatched at the unruly mop and peered up at him.
“Who beat the tar out of you?” Beau asked, his voice quiet, even as his stomach roiled in disgust. She hadn’t narrowed her eyes at him purposely. One was almost shut, its lid puffed and purpled, a bruise covering most of her cheek. Blood stained the corner of her mouth and her lips were swollen and discolored.
“None of your business.” The dog moved to nudge its nose against the girl’s hand and Beau watched as her fingers spread to cover the furry head. “Just let us get by and we won’t bother you none.” The cat stood again, and hobbled to lean against the girl’s bare leg. She glanced down and reached for the wounded creature, her movement swift, her gaze returning quickly to Beau.
“I don’t think I can do that, ma’am,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t steal nothin’,” she told him sharply. “I just took a nap in your loft. We didn’t touch anything.”
“I wasn’t worried about that.” What he was concerned about was getting her and her menagerie better acquainted with the idea of eating breakfast.
She watched him warily. “If you’ll move out of the way, mister, we’ll be gone faster than you can blink.” She took one step toward him, the dog moving to her side, the cat creeping up to wind itself around the back of the girl’s neck.
“You got any belongings, miss?” Surely she hadn’t arrived in his barn without some sort of baggage, aside from the creatures she protected.
Her eye twitched and she hunched her shoulders, glancing to where the ladder led to the loft. “I left my stuff up there. Forgot it.”
Beau nodded. “Why don’t you go up and get it, and I’ll see what I can rustle up for breakfast for you and your critters.”
Stock-still, she watched him, her head turning a bit as she gauged his considerable length, her gaze finally coming to rest on the gun he held. “You gonna kill my dog?”
“Not till I feed her,” Beau said, sliding the pistol back into its holster.
“I don’t take somethin’ for nuthin’,” she said firmly. “I’ll earn the food.”
He hesitated, but only for a moment. He’d have to let her call the shots, most likely. Otherwise, she’d be gone in a heartbeat once he turned his back. “All right, you can do that. Come on up to the house and I’ll find some grub. Then you can work for a while in the garden, if you want to.”
Her chin stuck out mutinously. “I’d rather clean stalls.”
Beau swallowed a chuckle as she stood her ground, then shrugged. “That’s up to you. I just need to have the potatoes dug and the rest of the onions pulled.” At her glare, he relented. “Hey, if you’d rather clean stalls, by all means, have at it.”
She turned away, reaching for one of the pitchforks on the wall and he stilled her hand with a word. “No.” It was a firm command, and she was obviously used to the harsh tone he used, for she turned quickly, her expression fearful. “You can earn your food after you eat it, and after your animals get fed.”
Her head nodded slowly, her hand returned to clutch at the side of her dress and she waited. “Go ahead, mister. I’ll follow you up to the house.”
“Is your dog going to latch on to my leg when I turn away?” he asked, amusement coloring his words, hoping to lull her into conversation. He offered a smile and was stunned as she backed from him again.
“Maisie won’t bite you if I tell her not to.” She touched the dog’s head and the animal sat quietly by her side. “Go ahead on. We’ll follow you.”
Beau turned away, walking briskly toward his house, the silence behind him tempting him to look back. She was a fey creature, without much to recommend her. Somebody had trounced her good from the looks of it. And unless he missed his guess, she’d gone hours, maybe days, without food. It was no wonder she was wary of him, with his gun slung around his waist. He’d only worn it in case he encountered the snake he’d spotted last night. Rattlers were rare around the house and barn, but he wasn’t about to take any chances.
He hunched his shoulders and then stretched upward, bringing sore muscles into play. Damn, his day was shot all to hell and back and he’d hardly had time to rub the sleep from his eyes.
Maggie moved behind him, matching her steps to his, scampering as he outpaced her. Cat clung to her hair, balancing across her neck, and Maggie reached up to grasp the animal’s hind legs. Beside her, Maisie moved cautiously, and as they approached the back porch of the ranch house, the dog halted and growled a warning. Maggie touched the shaggy head and looked down.
“Your dog not partial to men?” The rancher stood on the porch and turned to face her. “She can stay out here. Hell, you can all stay out here if you like. Or come on in. It makes no matter to me.” He turned from her and opened the screened door, walking into the house.
“We’ll eat on the porch,” Maggie said, raising her voice so as to be heard. The screened door slammed and she climbed the steps with care, her feet tender from the long hours of walking on rough ground. She should have snatched up her shoes when she’d left, but Pa had been rustling around in the next room and she’d not wanted to take a chance on being caught. She’d skinned over the windowsill and landed on the ground with a thud, then snatched up her bundle and taken off like a streak across the yard, toward the woods.
Settling against the wooden corner post, she pulled the cat from around her neck. The wound was healing well, she decided, brushing back the hair to better make out the rough stitches she’d put in place. Her mouth drew down as she recalled the horror of a steel trap and the howls of the wounded creature who’d strayed into its jaws. Pa had nailed her a good one for hiding the cat and not giving away its whereabouts, but it was worth it. Already Cat was walking pretty good. Before long, she’d be…Maggie’s eyes dimmed as the creature’s hopeless future loomed before her. No longer would Cat be able to hunt for food, or protect herself from predators.
“I’ll take care of you. Don’t you worry none,” she murmured, her fingers tugging at the gray ears with tender caresses. Maisie watched from the grass below, sitting patiently, her gaze never swerving. “And you, too, Maisie.” Maggie lifted her shoulders, stretching, easing the cramps from sleeping in the loft. She’d settled down near the opening, watchful of her animals, and the floor had been hard and ungiving.
In the room beyond the screened door, sounds promised the coming of a meal, or at least some sort of hastily prepared food, if she was any judge. A pan clattered, a spoon scraped, and water was pumped into a container. Who’d have ever thought a man could put together something to eat? Pa wouldn’t have been caught dead dealing with the kitchen stove or making a meal for himself. But he always managed to be there when Mama dished things up.
Maggie leaned her head against the post behind her. For right now, for this moment, she was safe. If Pa was after her, she’d see him coming, for the lane was in sight. Beyond the barn, several men were heading in this direction, but they didn’t seem to be on the lookout, just making their way toward a long, low building where smoke drifted from the chimney and a clanging noise seemed to be a signal of sorts. She shrank within herself, lest she be seen by the men. Three of them there were, and so far they hadn’t taken any mind of her. She could hear them calling back and forth, and then they made their way through the doorway into the building next to the barn.
“If I was smart, I’d be out there eating with the hands.” The big man was behind the screened door, talking to her, and here she’d been so intent on watching the yard that he’d managed to creep up on her.
“Go ahead on,” she muttered, embarrassed at being caught unawares.
“I told you I’d feed you,” he reminded her, and pushed the door open. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ve put the coffee on the front of the stove and found some bread and butter and a jar of apples. There’s some meat left from yesterday’s dinner.”
“Don’t your wife cook?” Maggie asked suspiciously. “Ain’t she around?”
The rancher looked at her, and shook his head. “No wife, and the cook went to be with her daughter for a couple of days. I’m making do with leftovers, but I’ll probably eat with my ranch hands tonight.”
She leaned forward, peering suspiciously past him into the dim kitchen. “You all alone in there?”
He held the door wide. “Come take a look for yourself.”
Maggie edged closer to him, peering past his formidable bulk into the kitchen. An oblong table, covered with a checkered oilcloth centered the room, sturdy chairs positioned around it. Heat from the cookstove warmed her as she crossed the threshold, and the scent of coffee beckoned.
“You got any milk for the coffee?” she asked, venturing to the far side of the table. A lone cup and solitary plate, with a knife and fork framing two sides, awaited her as she stood behind the chair. Her eyes widened as she beheld a pitcher filled with rich, yellow cream. “You put the top cream in your coffee?”
He shrugged, facing her from the doorway. “Why not? Seems like a good way to use it up.”
“My ma always had to churn it all. We drank the dregs. Never could take to the skim.” She reached for the pitcher and then halted, aware of the grime she’d managed to gather on her skin. “Reckon I could wash up a little first?”
“Certainly.” He nodded toward the stove. “There’s warm water in the reservoir. I’ll get it for you.”
Maggie watched as he filled a saucepan, dipping into the cavern that was attached to the side of the cookstove. He carried the pan to the sink, emptying it into a basin there, then pumped an equal amount of cool water from the well. His glance was accompanied by a small smile, and he stepped back.
“Have at it. I’ll get you a towel.”
He turned to the pantry, and she moved quickly to where the luxury of warm water awaited her. A thin bar of store-bought soap lay on the wooden sinkboard and she picked it up, lifting it to her nose. The scent was clean, and she inhaled it greedily. The basin was directly beneath the pitcher pump. She moved it to one side, then pumped once, allowing the water to splash over her hands. The soap turned dark with the residue of dirt on her hands and she rubbed her fingers vigorously before she pumped again, rinsing them. No sense in letting that nice, warm water get grungy right off, she decided.
Again Maggie worked at her hands, pleased as the soapsuds dissolved her two-day collection of grime. Finally satisfied, she bent to the basin, wetting her face with both hands before she rubbed up a good amount of suds between her palms. The clean scent pleased her as she lifted her hands to her face and soaped its surface. She closed her eyes, her fingers working from forehead to chin and below, then from one ear to the other, wincing a bit as her bruises protested their cleaning. There was no help for it, she decided. The chance for real soap and warm water was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to turn down. She lifted a double handful of water, splashing it against her skin, and then blew out the soap that clung to her lips.
“Here’s a towel for you to use.” He was beside her, and she stood erect, her heart beating furiously. His body heat touched her even as the towel was thrust into her hands. Tall and broad-shouldered, he loomed over her, and she shrank from him. Her eyes burned from soap and water combined, and she scrubbed gingerly at her face with the towel, then looked up at him, inhaling deeply for a lungful of air.
“You could scare a body to death, comin’ up on them like that.” Maggie’s lips threatened to quiver with fright, and she would not have it. She tightened them, compressing her mouth into a thin line.
“I beg your pardon,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His eyes dwelt on her face, his mouth again tightening as his gaze traced her damaged skin. “I should have brought you a washcloth, too, I suppose.”
What on earth was the man talking about? “Whatever for?” she asked. “I’ve been usin’ my hands to wash with for more years than I can count.”
“I always like to scrub up with…” He halted. “Never mind. Let’s just get you fed and find something for your animals.”
Her animals! She’d forgotten them. The towel met the sinkboard and she backed from the man, then hastened to the screened door. A sigh left her lips, an audible sound of relief. Maisie and Cat were where she’d left them, the pair of them watching and waiting patiently.
“They’re fine,” she announced, turning again to the table. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just take them out half of whatever you were gonna give me to eat.”
His eyes turned dark, and he shook his head, an abrupt movement. “No. You’ll eat whatever you please, and then we’ll find more for the dog and cat.” He motioned to the chair and she obeyed his silent command, her stomach growling as she faced the food he offered. A plate with several chunks of beef, and beside it, a Mason jar filled with cooked apples. Even as she watched, her host unwrapped a loaf of bread from a kitchen towel and placed it on a wooden board.
“You want me to slice some for you?” he asked, knife in hand.
She nodded. “That’d be welcome.” The knife cut with ease through the brown crust, and white slices fell like slabs of lumber from a felled tree at the mill in town. She was pleased with the thought, and reached for a slice as he drew back. “Sure is nice and white. You musta got good flour.”
“Just what my housekeeper told me to buy,” he said quietly, his gaze intent on her.
She buttered the bread, using a scant portion of his supply, and heard the sound he made deep in his chest. Looking up quickly, she caught a look of anger in his eyes, a narrowed, dark glimpse into the depths of his soul. “I’m sorry if I used too much butter, mister.” If he was angry about that, she could scrape it off and do without. Butter was a luxury, anyway, Ma had always said. It brought good money from the store in town. No sense wasting it on family.
He shook his head. “Use all you want. There’s more where that came from.” He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. He’d poured himself a cup of coffee, and she watched as he poured a generous amount of cream into it. The cream swirled and blended and he reached for a spoon, completing the process with a quick stir. Then he pushed the pitcher toward her.
“Go ahead, help yourself.” His voice was gruff, even to his own ears, and Beau cleared his throat. He’d never seen such a wary creature in female form before. She was clean from the neck up and the wrists down, revealing fine skin, tanned to a golden hue. His curiosity was running rampant, becoming more aroused each moment by the creature he’d discovered. More woman than girl, now that he had a good look at her, with full breasts beneath the nondescript garment she wore. Her face held a piquant beauty, with wide-set eyes and a narrow nose. The bruising was dark around one eye, closing it to his view, but the other was dark blue, the orb circled with black. Her mouth was swollen and scraped, and she bit gingerly at the bread she held.
The thought that the brute who had damaged her flesh might have loosened teeth in the process angered Beau almost beyond his control. His hands tightened their hold on his cup, then flexing his fingers, he tightened them into fists. He’d give a bundle to lay hold of the man who had hurt her. She glanced up at him, and he caught the hint of fear she could not hide, as if she must guard against any sudden moves on his part.
Beau leaned back in his chair, then forced the corners of his mouth to curve upward. “More coffee?” he asked. “If I’d gathered the eggs this morning, I could’ve scrambled some for you. Never did get the knack of frying them without breaking the yolks.” Nonsense talk, all of it designed to help his guest relax. Yet he saw no results.
She ate cautiously, quietly, steadily, her hand holding the fork as if it were a weapon, clutching it against her palm. Ever vigilant, she was poised on the edge of her chair, alert to his every movement. “I’d take more coffee, mister,” she said after a moment, pushing her cup across the table.
She looked revived, her movements more limber, and the routine of eating had slowed. “Thanks for the food,” she said, almost grudgingly, as he rose to pour steaming coffee into her cup. Her mouth pursed as she poured cream into the strong brew, and he caught a glimpse of satisfaction in her half smile. “Maybe I can milk your cow for you. To help pay for my breakfast, I mean.”
Beau leaned against the kitchen cabinet, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Why don’t you stick around for a day or so, just till you get your feet under you?” Her gaze shot in his direction and she hesitated, her cup held midair.
“You need another hand around here?” She’d seen the three men near the barn, and seen a fourth ringing the bell. Surely he had help enough to run the place. And yet, hope rose within her breast. If she could hide here, just for a while. Maybe sleep in the loft and earn her grub. His lower lip protruded a bit and his eyes scanned her. She sat up straighter in the chair, then pushed away from the table and stood erect.
“I’m strong, mister. I can muck stalls and tend stock like a man.”
“What’s your name, miss?” he asked quietly.
She hesitated, a bit too long it seemed, for he frowned. “Don’t lie to me, honey. I can spot a phony a mile away.”
“I’m Maggie,” she said, tilting her chin a bit, allowing him to look directly into her one good eye. “And I’m not a phony. If you don’t need any more help around here, I’ll earn my breakfast and be on my way.”
He walked toward her and halted just beyond her reach. One hand stretched forth and she looked down at it, then back up at the somber look he wore. “My name’s Beau Jackson,” he offered.
The man wanted to shake her hand. Maggie shivered at the thought of giving him the chance to drag her against him. Yet, maybe that wasn’t his aim. He’d had plenty of chance to haul her around if he’d been set on that course, and he’d kept his distance. Now, he held out his hand like a gentleman might, and she lifted her own to press her palm against his, allowing her fingers to curl around the wide expanse. He held her smaller hand in his, looking down for a moment. Then with a gentle movement, he squeezed, and released her from his grip.
She drew back, rubbing her palm against the side of her dress. It was warm, holding the heat from his flesh, as though the memory of his hard calluses somehow remained. “I’ll go clean your barn, mister,” she told him, anxious suddenly to be away from his presence. He was too big, too close for comfort.
He nodded, sliding his big hand back into his pocket. Maggie backed from him, then turned to the door. On the porch, visible through the screen, her woebegone companions sat, waiting for whatever she might offer them. Guilt struck her and she flinched. “I forgot,” she said, turning quickly to face her benefactor. “You said I could feed Cat and Maisie.”
“I’ll get it,” he told her. Beau reached for a bowl on the shelf, dumping its contents into the scrap pan in the sink. “More of the beef left over from last night,” he told her. “Never seen a dog yet that didn’t like stew meat.” He tore up two slices of bread, adding them to the pan, then reached for a crock on top of the cookstove. What looked to be bacon grease spilled over the whole offering, and he carried it toward the door.
She opened the screen and held it wide for him to pass. He nodded his thanks. “I’ll get some milk for the dog,” he offered. “Looks like she’ll be dropping a litter before too long.”
The animals beheld the pan of food for a moment, wary of his scent, Beau supposed, then gave in to the hunger they could not hide. Ever watchful, they shared the pan, Cat finally crouching as her balance gave way.
“I thank you,” Maggie said with polite formality, bowing her head. “They haven’t had much to eat lately.”
And neither have you. She was a prickly little thing, but her loyalty to the creatures who depended on her gave away a soft side of her nature Beau planned to exploit. He’d keep her here, for a while at least. Help her get cleaned up and find something decent for her to wear. And then, if it was the last thing he ever did, he’d find out who’d beaten the tar out of the girl.
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.”
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.”
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.
“What you got in this oven, girl?” Sophie’s query rang out even as Maggie heard the big roasting pan slide from place and clatter against the stovetop. The lid was lifted with a rattle and all was silent.
“Pork,” Maggie said, peeling long strips of skin from the potato she held.
“Where’s the onions?”
Maggie’s eyes closed and she leaned her head back against the swing. “I’ll get a couple, right away,” she answered, lifting the kettle from the floor and carrying it through the kitchen door.
She deposited it on the sinkboard and turned to face Sophie. “I’m not a very good cook, I’m afraid. And Beau’s got me fixin’ meals for all five of them, while they’re bringin’ in the hay.”
Sophie stuck a wooden-handled fork into the pork, which Maggie noticed had browned nicely. She’d remembered the salt and pepper, and was thankful for that small favor.
“This is pret’near done, I think. Let’s get the onions in right off and let them cook awhile,” Sophie said. “You got some in the house?”
Maggie nodded, hurrying to the pantry. Sophie took them from her hands and whipped out a paring knife, Maggie watching in awe as the slices fell beneath the agile blade. In moments, the roaster was back in the oven and Sophie was donning a huge apron. She lifted the coffeepot from the back of the stove and gauged its weight.
“Feels like we need a fresh supply for supper. Myself, I like a cup of tea in the afternoon. You want one, Maggie?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” Maggie answered, hurrying to finish the lone potato she’d abandoned minutes past. The full kettle was on the stove in moments, over the hottest area, and Maggie slapped a lid in place, then quickly lifted it to add a scant handful of salt. She’d learned that much, at least, during this long week.
Sophie arranged the flowered teapot from the kitchen buffet in the middle of the table, brought a pitcher of cream from the pantry and stuck a spoon in the sugar bowl. “Come sit down, girl. I think we need to talk,” she said, choosing two cups from the half dozen that graced the top shelf of the hutch. Matching saucers held the china cups she’d admired from afar during her stay, and Maggie sat as instructed, her eyes taking in the tea party Sophie assembled with such ease.
Her mother had spoken of such a thing, recalling the years of her youth, before Edgar O’Neill stole the roses from her cheeks and the dreams from her heart. Without thinking, Maggie spoke the thoughts in her mind. “My mama told me about a tea party once.”
Sophie settled herself across the table, chose a spoon from the jar and placed it on her saucer. “Did she fix tea for you?”
Maggie shook her head. “My pa said tea was foolishness.” Her lips compressed as she considered her words. Sophie would think her an ungrateful daughter. “He let us drink milk, though,” she said quickly.
Sophie nodded. “Where’d you come from, girl? How long you been here?”
“A week, and better,” Maggie said. “Beau—I mean, Mr. Jackson said I could stay for a while.” Remembering the fading bruising of her cheek and eye, Maggie looked down, and then realized her foolishness. Sophie would have long since spotted the telltale signs of a beating. And as if her thoughts had wings to the woman’s mind, Maggie heard the question voiced aloud.
“Who hit you, Maggie? You got other bruises besides those I can see?” Sophie leaned across the table, pouring a stream of tea into Maggie’s cup, and then her own. A spoonful of sugar was added, then a dash of cream before she offered the pitcher to Maggie. “Do you like cream?” she asked quietly.
Inviting the woman’s scrutiny, Maggie lifted her head and met a kindly gaze. “I never had tea before,” she admitted. “I reckon I’d like cream in it. It tastes good in coffee.” Pouring a reckless amount into the delicately scented beverage seemed wasteful, but following Sophie’s lead, Maggie added sugar to the brew and, choosing a spoon, stirred it with care.
Somehow there seemed to be a ritual about this occasion, and she sipped at the hot tea carefully, replacing the cup as she savored the new flavor. And then she folded her hands in her lap and prepared for what was to come. “My pa gets mean sometimes,” she began.
“Your mother didn’t stop him?” Sophie asked softly, even as her eyes flashed and her tone sharpened.
Maggie shook her head. “Nah. I’m the last one home and Ma knew not to put in a word or Pa would lash out at her, too. My sisters took all they could before they high-tailed it last spring.”
“Where’d they go?” Sophie asked, lifting her tea cup to her mouth.
“Two men from town, brothers they were, asked Emily and Roberta to marry up with them. They’d seen them on the sly, I think.”
Sophie nodded. “And they were more adventuresome than you, I guess.”
Maggie chanced a grin. “Yes, ma’am, they were. Pa didn’t have a glimmer, till he found their empty bed one morning.” Her grin became a wide smile. “He was hoppin’ mad. Pret’near punched a hole in the wall, and then remembered himself and hit me and Mama instead. Said we were to blame for not tellin’ him, so he could stop them from leavin’.” She recalled that day and a profound satisfaction filled her heart. “I’m glad they got away. I’m just sorry Mama took a whippin’. Laid her up for a couple of days.”
Sophie stood abruptly, moving across the kitchen. Reaching the window, she turned and faced Maggie. “Land sakes, girl. You’re lucky to be alive. Why did you stay so long?”
Maggie’s mind filled with the image of Verna O’Neill, the woman who’d borne her. “I knew he’d take after Mama real bad once I left. But I couldn’t hang on any longer, once he killed my critters.”
“Your critters?”
“I had a couple of cages in the woods where I kept wild things that were hurt, and I fixed them and then let them go again. Pa found them and killed them.” She shivered, recalling that day, remembering the anger that had driven her to flee. “I left that night, walked a few miles and slept in the woods. Then the second night I hid in the hayloft here in the barn, and Beau found me in the morning.”
“And took you in, bless his heart,” Sophie finished, nodding as if such a development was not surprising. “Does your pa know where you are?”
Maggie felt a leap of fear. “No, if he did, I’d not still be here. He’d have dragged me home already.”
“Huh! I doubt Beau Jackson would allow that.”
“I don’t know that he could stop him, ma’am. Pa says the laws give him leave to do whatever he wants to his womenfolk. He says we’re just the same as his cow and horse. We’re part of his property.”
“I was all set to rake you over the coals, you know.” Sophie eyed Beau from her perch on the back porch. He stood on the step below, his eyes calculating her degree of aggravation. It was hard to tell. Her mouth was pursed, yet her eyes held a trace of amusement.
“Well, hello to you, too, Sophie. When’d you arrive?”
“About an hour ago,” she answered. “I’ve been waitin’ for a chance to talk to you.”
“What did I do this time?” he asked after a moment, although his better judgment had already clued him in on the problem. Maggie was nowhere to be seen, and unless he missed his guess, she was due to be the subject of this conversation. If there was to be one. From where he stood it looked like Sophie’d already met and judged the girl.
“I took one look at your guest…” Sophie began.
“She looked that way, and a hell of a lot worse, in fact, when she got here,” Beau cut in. “And she’s staying, Sophie. There’s no argument where that’s concerned.”
She nodded. “By the time she told me where she got the bruises, I’d decided you were right to give her a place to stay.”
“Then what’s all the fuss about?” He looked past his housekeeper toward the kitchen door. “Where is she?”
“I told her to take a bath before supper, and helped her fix the tub. She didn’t have any other clothes to wear, so I found her a dress of mine. She’ll swim in it, but it’ll do till tomorrow, and then you’re goin’ to town to find her something to wear from the general store. You ought to know without me telling you that it’s not fitting for a young woman to be wearin’ men’s clothes.”
Beau grinned. “You got her to agree to that?”
“Well, she didn’t argue a bit about the bath part, except to worry about using up your soap, but wearin’ my dress caused a bit of a problem. I cut off the bottom and made a sash for the waist. It’s not fancy, but it’ll do for today.”
He nodded, willing to be amiable. “I need to make a trip to town, anyway, Sophie. I’ll see what I can find. But I’m warning you, she’ll make a fuss. She’s used to wearing pants, and if she’s going to be working in the barn, it’s probably for the best.” The thought of Maggie sashaying around the horses in a dress didn’t set well with Beau. Long skirts would hamper her movements, and she’d be tripping all over herself.
“Well, we’ll see,” she answered. “You’d best come on in. Supper’s about ready.”
Beau snatched his hat off and followed Sophie inside, his gaze cutting to the storeroom door. It was closed tight and he thought of the woman inside, probably still sloshing around in the galvanized tub. She’d probably not had two baths in the same week in all of her life, up till now. And he hadn’t even thought of it, hadn’t even considered that she needed another change of clothing. The days of bringing in the hay had kept him going from early to late, and he’d barely kept his eyes open after supper each night. Washing up in a basin was about as good as it got when his day started at dawn and ended after dark.
“Thanks, Sophie,” he murmured. He followed her to the cookstove, watching as she stirred the gravy, then lifted the lid on a kettle of succotash. The scent rose temptingly and his stomach growled accordingly. “I’m glad you’re home. Maggie did her best, but we missed you.”
“Don’t be buttering me up, Beau Jackson. You don’t look to me like you’ve lost any weight while I was gone.” She opened the oven and slid the roasting pan out, transferring it to the stovetop. Steam rose as she lifted the cover and the scent of pork roast made his mouth water. “I’m about to make gravy,” Sophie said, reaching for a platter for the meat. “Are those men ready to come in and eat?”
“They’re almost done. Pony was unharnessing the team when I came up to the house. They’ve been spoiled the past three days, not having to do their own cooking, with Maggie fixing supper every night.”
“Well, ring the bell. You got time to wash up.”
Beau hung his hat by the door and stepped onto the porch, reaching for the bell rope. He tugged at it sharply and the brass bell swayed twice, the sound loud and clear. From the barn an answering call assured him it had been heard and he went back in the kitchen. The storeroom door opened, and he looked across the room to where Maggie poked her head into view. Her smile was wide as she spied him near the stove, and she stepped into the kitchen. An ill-fitting garment covered her from neck to ankles, a dress that would never be in fashion again, if Beau was any judge.
“I thought I heard you,” she said quietly, glancing from Beau to Sophie, and then back. “I’m gonna empty the tub real quick, and then maybe you could help me take it outside, Beau.”
He shook his head. “Leave it be till after supper and I’ll dump it then. I’m going to take a bath in the kitchen later on. I’ve about reached my limit on scrubbing up in a pan.” He rolled up his sleeves and splashed water into the sink pan.
Maggie nodded and scurried to the back door, comb in one hand. “I’ll help in just a few minutes, Sophie,” she said. “First I have to braid up my hair.”
“You got five minutes, girl. It’ll take about that long for me to make the gravy and for those men out back to high-tail it up here.”
Maggie hurried to the porch and bent low from the waist, allowing her long hair to cascade forward. She combed its length, working at the snarls and tugging the teeth through from her scalp to the trailing ends of her dark locks. Beau, as clean as a quick wash could make him, stood behind her, watching through the screen, his eyes drinking in the graceful lines of her arms and hands as she groomed herself. Her dress fell in voluminous folds from the strip of fabric she’d circled around her waist, and he mourned the loss of the snug-fitting trousers he’d become accustomed to seeing.
After a moment she stood erect, holding her hair in one hand at the back of her head, then clenching the comb between her teeth, began twisting the long tresses into a braid. Her fingers worked rapidly and he watched in fascination, wondering at her ability to perform such a task. Stepping out onto the porch, he caught her attention, and she spun to face him, her eyes startled, her nostrils flaring.
The comb fell from her mouth and he snatched it midair. “I can’t figure out how you can braid your hair behind your head. You can’t see what you’re doing.”
Her lids were both open, the swelling so far gone that only a bit of puffiness remained beneath the damaged eye, and for the first time he gazed fully into the blue depths. He cringed at the bloodshot look of her, ached for the bruising that had faded over the past days to hues of yellow and pale green…yet at the same time admired the delicate lines of brow and cheek as she tilted her head to look at him.
“I’ve been doin’ it for years. My fingers just know what to do, I guess.” She pulled the long braid over her shoulder and continued forming the three strands until there was only a short tail undone. “Tear me off a strip from this belt, will you?” she asked, lifting the makeshift sash she wore, extending it in his direction with two fingers.
He took it from her hand and did as she asked, then handed her the piece of material. She wound it rapidly around the pigtail and tied it with a flourish, then bent in his direction. “I had a talk with your Sophie,” she whispered.
He grinned in reply. “I know. She told me.”
“Is it all right with her if I stay on here?” Her look toward the kitchen door was anxious. “She was real nice to me, Beau, but I don’t want to be in her way.”
“You won’t.” He handed her the comb, recognizing it as his own. “Where’s the comb you used before?” he asked.
“It wasn’t very good. It only had a few teeth in it, and Sophie threw it out,” she admitted. “She told me I could use yours. She didn’t think you’d mind.”
“No, I don’t, but you need your own. I’ll get you a new one, and a brush, too, when I go to town tomorrow.” Something more feminine, he decided, than the plain black specimen he used. Perhaps a hand mirror, too, and some talcum powder in a tin. It gave him a jolt of pleasure to think of buying her such intimate items, envisioning the delight in her eyes when he presented his gifts.
“I’ll earn them out,” she said quickly. “I need to be figuring up what all I owe you already.”
Unwilling to injure her pride, he nodded agreement, then reached to tug teasingly at the end of her pigtail. Her wince did not escape him and he hesitated. “I won’t ever hurt you, Maggie. I’ve told you that before. When you gonna start believing it?”
Her face was downcast and he fit his palm under her chin, lifting it to his view. She bit at her lip and he shook his head at the movement. “Don’t do that. You’ll make that lip sore again, and it’s just starting to heal up good.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Old habits die hard. My mama always used to say that and I guess I know now what she meant. I know you’re a good man, but whenever I see a hand come at me or someone movin’ quicklike, my heart pounds real funny and I want to run.”
His own heart twinged with pain at her words and he nodded his understanding. “Let’s go in to supper, Maggie. The men are coming up from the barn, and Sophie’s got supper on the table.” His hand touched her shoulder and rested there. “I fed your dog in the barn when we brought the last load of hay in. Those pups look pretty healthy. They’re moving around real well.”
She shifted and moved beneath his fingers and they tightened a bit, holding her in place. His voice was low, his words gentle. “I’m not going to stop touching you, honey. It’s like handling a skittish colt. They just have to get used to it, and I suspect it’s going to be the same way with you.”
“Maybe,” she said quietly, turning from him and opening the screened door. “I thank you kindly for tending to Maisie,” she murmured.
He bowed his head. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
“How would you like to look at a couple of my books, Maggie?” Beau stood in the doorway and Maggie dried her hands on a towel, turning to face him. “Take them into the parlor,” he told her. “I’ll be out here in the bathtub and you’d best have something to do for a while.”
“Do they have pictures in them?” she asked, laying the towel aside and eyeing his offering. Her heart beat rapidly as she considered his suggestion. No one had ever given her the chance to sit and spend time with a book. The thought of having nothing else to do but look at the pages of words she could not read, trying to decipher the letters she could not name was more than she could fathom.
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Carolyn Davidson
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: On the run from a nightmarish life, Maggie had the power to stir feelings of forever in rancher Beau Jackson′s soul. From the first moment, he knew he loved this sweet-spirited gamin, but would she ever feel anything more for him than gratitude?She must have died and gone to heaven, Maggie O′Neill swore, for Beau Jackson treated her with all the kindness and respect only a genuine lady deserved. But how was she to know if what she felt for him was love?