Maggie's Beau Read online

  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…”