Maggie's Beau
Author
Carolyn Davidson
Reads
15.7K
Chapters
16
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.
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