Maggie's Beau Page 6

  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 v
iew. 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.”