Maggie's Beau

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?”