Maggie's Beau Page 8

  She was so needy, this waif who had invaded his heart and home. Perhaps her appeal was only that he felt pride in being able to help her, give her that which she had so greatly lacked in her growing-up years. And with that thought to sustain him, he offered a smile of benevolence. “I can afford window glass,” he told her. “I’ll see to it that you ‘earn it out,’ as you say.” And thereby keep her here, his heart sang, beating a triumphant rhythm against his ribs.

  Maggie nodded, agreeing to his terms, her glance flickering across his face, her eyes in that moment losing the trace of fear she wore like an old coat that could not be laid aside.

  Someday, he thought, he would strip that look forever from her. One day, she would lift her head and survey the world around her with eyes that no longer sought the shadows for what might linger there.

  He could wait. His patience was long and his cause might very well be his salvation.

  Maggie would not believe him now, should he reveal his soul. He would not ask of her what he needed, while she felt so deeply in his debt. When she came to him, it would be for her own reasons.

  When she learned to love…he would be waiting.

  The small wooden image was on her pillow. Maggie lowered the candle to better see its form and a smile touched her lips. A cat. Beau had carved her a replica of Cat, with only one foreleg to hold it erect, one lop ear held at an angle from her head, the other upright.

  She reached for it and held it within her palm, so small it could almost be concealed in the hollow of her hand. Settling on the edge of her narrow bed, she placed the candle carefully atop the table beside her and touched the small figure with care. All told, it was the length of her index finger, and in such minute detail she could almost see the expression in Cat’s eyes, that narrowed gleam of cynicism that revealed the wounding of her trust.

  Beau must have gazed long and hard at the critter to so fully understand her, Maggie decided, smoothing the lines where his knife had carved details almost too small to be believed. That he had a talent for such things was not so much a surprise, as the fact that he would take the time to form a piece of wood into a thing of beauty for the benefit of Maggie O’Neill.

  She perched the cat on her table, and bent to remove her boots and the stockings she wore. Another gift from his hands, she thought, stripping them from her feet to lay aside for the morning. Three pair, he’d bought her, and she who had not had the luxury of wearing such items in her whole life, had only held them in her hands, without the sense to utter words of thanks.

  It seemed that every time she encountered Beau lately, it was for her benefit. He was a generous man. She stood and unbuttoned her dress, folding it carefully as she placed it on her chair. Beneath its bodice was her shift, a colorless piece of cotton, made from a feed sack two, maybe three, years ago, each stitch taken by candlelight as Verna O’Neill formed the garment for her daughter.

  A veteran of numberless washings, it threatened to give way, should she tug it from place, and she wondered if Beau had any feed sacks he might give her, to be used in the making of another. She could lay out the old one and cut another to the same pattern. She’d seen her mother do it, had watched as she used her prized possession, a pair of scissors that had come with her on her wedding day in a sewing basket from back east.

  Probably the only reason Pa hadn’t tossed it into the fire was because Verna used her skills with needle and thread to mend his clothing and make that which her daughters wore. Except for the overalls her Pa had passed to her, Maggie had known only dresses from feed sacks in her whole life.

  The revelation of clothing such as she had only dreamed of, within the pages of Beau’s book, lingered in her mind as she took off her petticoat, that strange garment, fastened around her waist with ties, that Sophie had offered for her use. Why she needed another skirt beneath her dress was a puzzle. Sophie had said it was so, and Maggie was willing to accept her word.

  She had to admit, the soft fabric and the row of lace around the hem was a delight to the eyes and touch. Added to the pure luxury of a dress that was store-bought, complete with a row of pearl buttons down the front, it gave her a sense of feminine pride she had never known. A woman. She felt like a real woman, with a body that fit into the dress that was made to accommodate a woman’s round parts.

  Rising, she picked up the brush Beau had brought her, then released the tail of her braid and began the task of brushing her hair. It was a joyous thing, this grooming she reveled in every night. Alone in the haven he’d offered, she stood before the mirror he’d provided. Beneath the shift, she found evidence of her form, noted the lifting of her breasts as she pulled the brush through her heavy locks. She was still lean and muscular, yet in the past couple of weeks, she’d noticed a difference, a filling out of her hips, a softening of her frame.

  Probably due to the regular meals she was eating. At Beau Jackson’s table, she reminded herself. She was so deep in his debt, she’d never be able to crawl out. Sophie gave her chores to do every living day, and she’d become almost good at the kneading of bread, more than capable of churning the butter and knowing just the moment it was ready to be ladled out and worked with the flat paddle in the big wooden bowl.

  The chickens had taken to laying their eggs in the clean straw she provided instead of every-which-where in the coop. They gathered around her feet in a satisfying fashion every morning when she fed them, clucking and pecking at the corn and grain scattered for their benefit. She’d learned to get them out of the henhouse and busy with their breakfast before she gathered the eggs. They gave them up more readily to her hand that way. Feeling beneath their puffed-up feathers had earned her more than one painful peck from a hen’s beak.

  She placed her brush with care on the chair, then blew out the candle. The sudden dark enclosed her in an embrace that in another time and place might have been frightening. Here it was a comforting thing, and yet she yearned for the moonlight that she knew waited outside the window. With anticipation she turned to the shutters she’d closed earlier, and her fingers slipped the fastening loose, spreading them wide to either side of the window.

  Stars hung low from the night sky and the moon, though not in sight, lent its glow to the scene she viewed from her window. And it was hers, hers alone. Probably one of the only things she’d ever possessed that brought such pleasure simply by being. She stepped closely to the wall and stood on her tiptoes, her eyes just above the bottom of the rough opening.

  At the barn door a figure stood, one shoulder leaning against the doorjamb, one hand shoved into a deep pocket. A broad-rimmed hat shadowed his face, but the man was unmistakably Shay. As she watched, he turned his head, and she knew, as surely as she was Maggie O’Neill, that he saw her there, noted her presence, aware that she looked out at him.

  She sensed no fear at his company. As though there were only the two of them sharing the beauty of the night, they remained motionless, and then he lifted one hand, his index finger nudging the brim of his hat. It was a silent greeting, and she lifted her hand, holding it motionless for a moment, before she stepped back from the opening in her wall.

  “Maggie!” Her name was a shout, the call an urgent command, and Maggie stood, putting aside the churn in an instant.

  “Land sakes, girl. You’d better go see what he wants,” Sophie said, turning from the stove.

  But her words were spoken to an empty room, for Maggie was on the porch and only a wave of her hand acknowledged Sophie’s edict. She jumped to the ground, thankful that she’d donned her boots early on, and her strides were long as she ran toward the barn. Beau stood in the doorway and he held the door open for her entry.

  “One of the yearling colts stepped in a piece of barbed wire,” he said tersely. “His leg’s pretty cut up.”

  Maggie halted before him, turning to gape at him just inside the barn. “You want me to—”

  Beau halted her query. “Rad was going to look at it, but Pony said not. He told me to call you out here. He seems
to think you’re a good hand at doctoring.” His mouth twitched. “Can’t say I disagree with him, myself.”

  Maggie shivered. To be entrusted with one of the prized yearlings was not just an honor, but a responsibility. One she could only hope to be worthy of. But if Beau thought she could help, she’d move heaven and earth to live up to his trust.

  “Where’s the yearling?” She turned, looking toward the far end of the barn, where that door stood open to allow daylight inside. Even as she spoke, Pony led the limping colt into view, a rope attached to his loose halter. The white stocking that shaped the animal’s slender foreleg was bloody, the red stains apparent even from this distance, and Maggie breathed a sigh of regret that such a noble creature should be so wounded.

  “Soap and warm water,” she said beneath her breath. “Then carbolic salve and some cobwebs against the wounds.”

  “Right,” Beau replied, turning back to the house, only to pause midway across the yard. “Maggie?” he called, hands on hips as he hollered her name. “Did you say cobwebs?”

  His voice was loud, his look incredulous and she grinned as she nodded, then called aloud, lest he not see the inclination of her head. “Check up above, Beau. I’ll warrant there’s plenty in the hayloft.”

  He turned, hastening to the house and she went to meet Pony and the yearling colt.

  That such fragile-seeming legs could hold this handsome creature erect was one of God’s miracles, Maggie had long since decided. Pony held the halter as she examined the damaged skin, washed the blood away and inspected the punctures and slashes the colt had suffered. He was patient, only flinching once as Maggie worked on the open wounds, as her constant stream of words had the desired effect.

  “Hold this for me, Pony,” she said, placing a pad of clean material around the colt’s leg, careful not to disturb the placing of gray cobwebs. It held gobs of salve, each designed to cover the angry sites where wire had pierced through the animal’s hide. The pieces of old sheet, freshly torn into strips by Sophie were then wound carefully in place, holding the dressing firmly.

  Pony did as she asked, squatting beside her, his hands agile, his whispers to the horse almost an echo of hers. “I’ve heard of using cobwebs on wounds before,” he said softly. “Never tried it myself.”

  Maggie tied a final knot in the white fabric and rubbed her hands the length of the colt’s leg, careful not to exert pressure on the wounds. “It works, is all I know. I heard it from an old Indian who lived off in the woods for some little while. He was a good hand at healing. Told me a few things.”

  She glanced up then, recognizing another presence beside her. Shay held the halter, and as she rose, he stepped back. “Thought you needed a hand,” he said quietly. He lifted one wide palm to the colt’s neck and placed it there, leaning forward to speak softly into the animal’s ear. Then turned and walked away.

  Pony led the colt to the front stall in the barn, walking slowly, speaking softly to the animal as they went. “I’ll give this young’un some grain and enough hay to do him for the day,” he said over his shoulder.

  From beside her, Beau picked up the lantern and blew out the flame. They were in the shadows once more, and Maggie blinked at the disappearance of the light. She’d noted its presence, thankful for the additional light by which to work, aware now that Beau must have provided it for her benefit. But for those long minutes, the yearling had taken up her attention, and she’d been enclosed in a world that included only herself and the animal she sought to help.

  “Thanks, Maggie,” Beau said, his eyes on the bandages she’d put in place. “I have to admit, I felt a little foolish gathering up cobwebs in the loft, but I’m not about to turn aside any help offered.” He lowered himself with one knee on the floor. “I’ve been standing here racking my brain, trying to remember where I’d heard such a thing before.”

  “Did you remember?” She turned to him, balanced on the balls of her feet, aware of the ache in her calves. She’d been in the awkward position for almost half an hour, and the muscles she’d strained began to protest.

  He nodded. “It was during the war. I was in a field hospital and supplies were in short supply.”

  “You were wounded?” she asked quickly, and then subsided as he continued.

  “Only a nasty hole in my upper arm. I was one of the lucky ones.” He reached up to rub at a spot just below his shoulder, and his mouth drew down, his eyes growing dull with remembered pain.

  It was a look Maggie was familiar with, one her mother had worn often, and she felt her heart lurch as she touched his fingers. “I’m glad. I’m glad you weren’t hurt worse, I mean. I bet your family was happy to see you come home in one piece.”

  “They didn’t survive,” he said, rising abruptly, leaving her off balance with his sudden movement. She landed on her bottom, her feet thrusting to one side as she fell, and she rose quickly, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly, brushing at her trousers, where hay and straw clung to the fabric. Unable to look at him, embarrassed by her impulsive words that had angered him, she turned away. She limped as her leg protested the sudden movement, and then broke into an awkward trot, aware of Pony’s stare as she passed the stall where he tended the yearling colt.

  Outside, she leaned for a moment against the side of the barn, bending to squeeze the muscles in her calf that had seized up. A charley horse, her mother had called such things, and a little rubbing at the culprit usually solved the problem nicely. Nothing was going to solve the problem of a runny nose and reddened eyes though, she thought as her tears fell to dampen the dirt at her feet.

  “Maggie.” He stood beside her, his boots only inches from her own, and she looked stubbornly downward where small circles in the dust gave evidence of her distress. “Maggie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. And I sure didn’t mean to knock you over that way.”

  “You didn’t,” she said sullenly. “I lost my balance. I told you I was sorry. I know I ask too many questions. My pa told me that a long time ago.”

  “I didn’t make you fall over on purpose.” He squatted beside her and looked upward into her face. His hand went to his back pocket, withdrawing a clean handkerchief. “Here…”

  Like a white flag, it lay between them on his outstretched palm, and she focused her gaze on it. No one had ever apologized to her in her whole life. And now this man who owned every piece of clothing she wore, who had provided her with bed and board and shown her only kindness, had crossed that line.

  She reached for the cloth he held and wiped her nose, then opened it and rubbed at her damp eyes. “I don’t cry,” she announced, clearing her throat. “I just had something in my eye.”

  “You were limping,” he reminded her.

  “Just a charley horse. I’m fine.” The handkerchief twisted between her fingers and she looked away from his crouching figure. “Get up, Beau. You make me feel hateful, getting upset with you that way.”

  “It wasn’t that you asked the question, Maggie. It was that giving the answer caused me pain, and I wanted to run from it.”

  She waited as he stood erect, aware that Pony watched from the barn door only a few feet away. The need to know was uppermost in her mind, but she would not expose him to her curiosity. If he wanted to talk about it, he knew where to find her. “I’ll wash the handkerchief,” she said, tucking it in her back pocket. “Thank you.”

  Pony slid into the shadows as she turned to the house and Beau lengthened his stride to catch up with her. “What did I catch you in the midst of?” he asked. “When I called you to the barn, I mean.”

  “I was about done with the churning. I’ll warrant Sophie has it finished by now.”

  “Maggie, wait,” he said as she climbed to the porch. “I wanted to tell you that I moved Maisie and her pups to the woodshed.”

  “Why?” Turning to face him, she caught him searching her features, and then his hand reached for her arm, and he drew her back down the ste
ps. “Come out and take a look,” he said. His voice lowered. “You need to splash off your face a little, or I’ll have Sophie on my neck. Anybody’d think you’ve been crying.”

  Maggie halted before the pump and lowered the handle twice, bringing forth a stream of water. She filled her hands and splashed her face, blinking her eyes and shaking her head as the wet, cold water refreshed her. Her teeth clenched as she looked up at Beau. “I told you, I don’t cry.”

  “All right.” He grasped her hand, and her wet fingers slid in his grasp. “Come on. Your dog’s been missing you.” He grinned down at her. “I’ve got a surprise for you. The pups’ eyes are wide open.”

  Chapter Six

  Beau had gone beyond her expectations and brought home a ready-made window, with two panes that slid independently of each other. She tested out the contraption, easing the bottom one flat against the upper, allowing fresh air to enter her room, and then turned to him.

  “I must seem like a loony to you,” she said, unable to hide her glee. “I just never seen such a thing before I came here. And now to have one for my very own is…” She hesitated, lost for words to describe her pleasure.

  His grin matched hers and he stuck his hands into his front pockets and rocked back on his heels. “You make it such fun, Maggie. I haven’t had such a good time in years.”

  “What?” she asked. “Watchin’ me act the fool over such a thing as a window?” She reached up and slid the bottom pane into place, then smiled smugly, her hands unmoving against the sanded surface of the frame. “Long as I’m here, this is my very own window, Beau. Just let me enjoy it.”

  She felt the heat of his body as he stepped closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I’m taking as much joy from it as you,” he told her, and she closed her eyes, wishing his hands would clasp her shoulders, that his long fingers would warm her flesh through the shirt she wore. And then shook her head at the foolishness of her thoughts.