Читать книгу Maggie's Beau - Carolyn Davidson - Страница 10

“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…”

“I’ll wash up in a bucket.” Her words left no room for argument, and yet he plunged ahead, unwilling for any female to be so bereft of simple comforts.

“How about after supper? I’ll fill the tub right here in your room. There’s a lock on the inside of the door.” He waved his hand for emphasis, pointing to where a brass hasp hung from the wooden door.

She stepped closer, peering at the shiny apparatus, then at the doorjamb, where he’d installed the rest of the lock. “You can jam a spike through there,” he pointed out. “It’ll hold firm.” His jaw clenched at her wary look. “You’ll be safe. I promise.”

“You got a towel I can borrow?”

He caught a fleeting look of yearning in her eyes as she looked past him toward the range, where steam rose from the wash boiler. “Clean towels and a bar of soap.” Her eyes narrowed as she shifted her gaze back to his face.

“I’ll do extra, maybe clean up the garden for you, to pay my way. I swept up the barn and cleaned your tack room this afternoon.” She inhaled deeply and then her shoulders rose and fell in a gesture of nonchalance. “Guess I wouldn’t mind havin’ a bath. You needn’t bother about the clothes, though. I got a shift in my bundle. I’ll wear it while I wash out my things in the bath water. You can toss them over the porch rail for me overnight, and they’ll be near dry in the morning.”

He’d won. And won fairly, appealing only to her need for cleanliness. Beau nodded agreeably. “I fried some ham from the smokehouse, and there’s vegetables from the pantry. We’ll eat in a few minutes, then I’ll drag in the tub for you.”

A bent spike passed from his hand to hers and she nodded, agreeing. “This’ll work.” Beau crossed the kitchen to the back door and Maggie watched as the galvanized tub appeared a moment later, Shay carrying one end, Beau the other.

Shay, the quiet one, withheld his glance, intent on fitting the tub through the doorway, and then with a quiet word to Beau, he left. Maggie stepped aside, allowing him room. He nodded in her direction and she watched him pass through the kitchen door to the porch. The screen slammed behind him.

“He’s a strange one,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“Shay won’t bother you,” Beau said from the doorway, where one hand leaned against the jamb. “None of my men will give you cause to complain.”

She believed him, and wondered at her acceptance of his word. He’d offered her the use of his home, at least this small portion of it. Even now, water boiled on his cookstove for her benefit. Maggie snatched up a bucket by the sink and turned sharply as Beau approached, taking the handle from her fingers.

“I’ll dip the water. You’re too short to lift a full bucket,” he told her.

She watched as he deftly tilted the pail and filled it, then carried it across the floor. Water dripped in his wake and she noticed the small, spreading pools as they turned dark against the wooden floor.

“Sophie’s going to scalp me for making a mess on her floor,” Beau said, returning quickly, empty pail in hand. He filled it a second time and traced his path across the room. “I’ll wipe it up when you’re done.”

Maggie watched him, taken by the thought of someone waiting on her in such a fashion. She’d done the toting ever since she could remember, from lugging washtubs to the yard for Ma, to carrying heavy feed sacks from the wagon to the barn. Now she stood here, perfectly healthy and able to do for herself, and a strange man was fixing her bathwater. Hot water, at that. And wasn’t that a switch from scrubbing up in the creek in summer or sitting in a lukewarm second- or third-hand tub of bathwater in the cold weather.

“Maggie?” He stood before her, and she jolted, lost in the vision of lounging in a tub all for herself, without two sisters having left their scum floating atop the cooling water. “I left the soap and a couple of towels and a washrag on the table in your room. The soap is a bar I already used from, but there’s plenty left. Oh,” he added, his tone casual, “Pony sent an old pair of pants and a shirt for you. They’re on the cot.”

He took a small kerosene lamp from the kitchen cabinet. “You want me to light this for you?”

It was almost too much, that a man would be so kind—and without hope of recompense. And yet, the lure he offered was almost beyond her ability to resist. She seized upon his final suggestion as a place to draw the line. “I can use a candle.”

“There’s some on the shelf,” he told her, and she nodded. She’d seen them there earlier when she’d unloaded her meager assortment on the bottom shelf, next to her bed.

The room was small, but with the candle lit and the door closed, it felt cozy. Maggie looked around at the shadowed corners, where Beau had swept and cleaned for her benefit. The man was a strange one, taking her in the way he had, not asking questions. Her fingers slowed as she unbuttoned her dress. He smelled good, like somebody she’d seen once in town. A fellow who’d stood next to the wagon and talked to Pa, and even nodded in her direction.

Maybe it was the soap he used, she thought, reaching for the yellow bar he’d left for her. Her head bent as she sniffed at the stuff, and she grinned. That was a part of it, at least. That, and maybe his clothes, all clean and smelling of fresh air.

Her dress dropped to the floor and she slipped from her old shift, shivering as cool air touched her skin. One foot dipped in the water and she felt gooseflesh form on her arms. It was hot, probably too hot for comfort, even with the well water he’d added, but he’d left an extra pail of cold to temper it. She poured half of it into the tub, then eased herself into the water. Her eyes closed and she hunkered down, leaning forward so that her arms could be covered, her breasts enveloped with the warmth.

Bliss. Pure bliss, she decided. Bending lower, she sloshed her hair beneath the surface, then worked up a lather with the yellow soap.

Why he waited here was beyond him. She’d been behind the closed door for nearly an hour. The sun was below the horizon, his coffee was gone cold, and the lights in the bunkhouse were beckoning with the promise of a game of poker, if the muffled laughter from that direction was any indication. Yet, he waited.

The sound of metal against metal caught his attention and Beau turned his head, watching as the door creaked open. She peered around the edge, and her expression was defensive as she met his gaze.

“These clothes look close to new,” she said accusingly, stepping into the kitchen.

And they’d never looked that good on Pony, he thought glumly. She’d tucked in the shirt and it clung to the curves it covered. A length of rope looped her waist, holding the loose pants in place, and she’d rolled them above her ankles.

“He told me the shirt shrank when Sophie washed it, and the pants…” Beau shrugged. He’d paid Pony two bits for the pants, but there wasn’t any way Maggie could know that. She’d be volunteering to scrub the chicken coop if she thought he’d put out hard cash for her benefit.

“I’ll thank him tomorrow,” Maggie said quietly. “I’ll hang my clothes on the porch rail myself, and then dump my bathwater.” She moved past the table to the back door and he followed her progress with interest.

There was a slight hitch in her gait, as though she favored one leg, and he frowned, wondering if the clothing he’d provided covered more bruising. Her face in the lamp light gave mute evidence of painful injury, and Beau’s fist clenched as he considered the beating she’d endured.

The screened door opened again and Maggie shot him a glance of inquiry. “Where’d you put the bucket? I thought it’d be on the porch.”

He rose quickly, setting his coffee cup aside. “I’ll empty the tub, then you can help me carry it outside.”

Her mouth tightened, even as her chin tilted a bit. “I take care of myself, mister. There’s no need for you to wait on me.”

He hesitated, unwilling to give her cause to fear his presence. “Can we do it together?” he asked finally. “I’ve got a couple of pails we can fill.”

Her eyes flitted over him and she nodded hesitantly. “All right. I guess so.”

Beau scooped up the galvanized pail from beside the stove and entered the storeroom. A scent arose from the cooled bath water, and he inhaled it greedily. It’d been too damn long since he’d been with a female, he decided, when soap and water smelled this appealing.

He bent to his task and filled the pail, then carried it into the kitchen. “Here you go. Just dump it over the side of the porch. There’s some bushes there that can use some watering.”

Maggie took it from him and headed for the door, walking carefully, lest she allow the pail to slosh its contents on the floor. Beau went to the pantry door and searched for a moment before he caught sight of the second pail. Things would go quicker with the two of them at it, and he’d be better off if he stayed away from the girl. It was a sad day when a bedraggled fugitive began looking good.

In ten minutes’ time the tub was sitting upside-down on the porch, and Maggie was on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, wiping up the damp spots with a rag. She mopped at the dust of footprints with the tattered remains of a shirt Beau had provided, and, after looking around, she’d settled back on her heels.

“Guess it’s as clean as it’s gonna be,” she said, rising to her feet.

“Thanks,” Beau said from the doorway. He’d known better than to stop her from the wiping up. She’d made it clear that she wouldn’t be beholden to him, and a grudging sense of respect for the girl was added to his unwilling attraction.

He cleared his throat and caught her attention. “I’m about ready to hit the sack,” he said quietly, watching as her eyes widened at his words. “If you’re not going out anymore tonight, I’ll head on upstairs.”

A flush touched her cheeks, warring with the purple blemishes below her eye. “No, I’m ready for bed.”

If she’d been heading for the outhouse, he’d have watched till she came back in, and the girl was smart enough to recognize his meaning. “If you want the outside door locked, there’s a bolt you can use. That way you can leave the door of your room open for a breeze if you want to.”

She shook her head. “Thanks just the same. I reckon I’ll sleep better with the door shut.”

Beau nodded. He’d cut a window in the outside wall tomorrow, with a shutter she could pull closed for privacy. Maybe he’d even take a trip to town and get some window glass. He turned away toward the hallway where a wide staircase swept upward. A grin curled his lip as he thought of the changes he was willing to put in place for this one small female.

“Sophie’s not comin’ back for a week or so.”

Beau stared at Pony, his frown registering his disbelief. “Why the hell not?” he asked harshly.

“Sophie’s girl took a bad turn after she birthed her baby, and Sophie sent word that she’s gonna stay till the girl’s back on her feet.” Pony grinned, a cocky expression crossing his wizened face. “Guess your little refugee’s gonna be doin’ the cookin’ for a while.”

“She’s not my little anything,” Beau snapped. “She’s a girl who’s had a bad time, and we’re giving her a bolt-hole till she decides what to do.”

“She cleans up pretty good, boss,” Pony said softly, his eyes sharp as they met Beau’s gaze. “I watched her combin’ her hair on the porch this morning.” His gaze grew wistful. “Haven’t seen such pretty long hair in a month of Sundays. Kinda reminded me of one of the gals who used to work on the flying trapeze. She sure was a looker.”

And he’d missed that particular scene, Beau thought. Maggie’s hair had been braided and stuffed into a hat when he’d caught sight of her in the barn.

“Anybody looks better when they’re cleaned up,” he said harshly. “You make sure she’s not pestered, understand?”

Pony nodded, wisely silent. He turned away, hot-footing it toward the barn, and Beau called after him. “Tell Maggie when she gets done with the stalls to come on up to the house. I want to talk to her.”

“You didn’t eat any breakfast,” he said accusingly, his gaze piercing the slender female standing before him. “Looks to me like you could use some solid food in your belly.” He waved at the cookstove. “I’m not much of a hand with putting together a meal, but there’s biscuits made and bacon fried.”

Maggie skirted him, silent as she surveyed the offerings he’d left for her. “Who made the biscuits?”

Beau bristled. “They’re better than nothing. I didn’t think you could afford to be fussy,” he said curtly.

She picked up a biscuit and shrugged. “I’m not. I’ve eaten worse, that’s for sure. Just wondered, that’s all. My pa never lent a hand in the house. I didn’t know men could do much in the way of cookin’.” She bit into the flat specimen she held and hesitated, then turned to him. “Thank you kindly, mister. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

“They’re not real tender,” he admitted gruffly as she made the effort to chew. “I don’t know for sure how Sophie makes them. But the bacon’s pretty good.”

“They’ll do,” Maggie said, reaching for the pan he’d shoved to the back of the stove. She snatched up a strip of bacon, and Beau nodded at the table.

“I left a plate for you. And there’s coffee in the pot. From now on, you’ll eat before you go out to the barn and work. Once Sophie gets back, we’ll have decent meals.”

Maggie took the plate to the stove, scooping the bacon from the pan, then adding another biscuit to the pile. “I can cook some,” she offered. “My ma did most of it at home, but when she was laid up sometimes, I learned how to put a meal together.”

Beau’s ears pricked up at her words. “She’s sickly?” he asked.

Maggie’s gaze refused to meet his and she shook her head abruptly. “No, just once in a while, she didn’t feel well.”

“There’s plenty of butter,” he told her. “And cream ready to churn for more.”

“Thank you,” she said, almost formally, reaching for her knife. “I know how to do that—do the churnin’—I mean, if you want me to.”

“Might be a good idea,” Beau told her. “I just heard from Pony that Sophie won’t be back for at least a week.”

“Show me where things are and I’ll get your kitchen set to rights,” Maggie said, spreading butter across the surface of the biscuit in her hand. She cut him a glance and he caught a glimpse of humor there. “I’ll even make the biscuits tomorrow morning, if that’s all right. I can fry eggs without breaking the yolks, too.”

“That’ll work,” Beau agreed. “Do you know how to cook a piece of beef? I’ll cut off a hunk, if you know what to do with it.”

Maggie shrugged her shoulders. “Just put it in a kettle with a couple of onions and some salt and pepper, I guess. If it’s simmered long enough, it’ll tender up pretty good.”

She ate the last piece of bacon and licked her fingers. “I’ll even dig your potatoes,” she told him. “You’ll want some in with the meat.”

Beau watched in fascination as her tongue attended to a trace of bacon grease on her lips. Her fingers were slender, her hands graceful, and he was struck by the visible calluses on their palms. No woman should have to work at tasks that would leave their marks on such tender flesh.

But then, no woman should ever bear marks of cruelty such as Maggie wore. “Who hit you, Maggie?” he asked quietly.

She bent her head, as if hiding the evidence from view would daunt his curiosity. “My pa likes to use his fists sometimes,” she said finally. “He says I’m sassy and don’t know my place.”

Beau felt his teeth clench at her words. “What did you do that made him so angry?”

She laughed, a short, bitter sound. “It didn’t take much. This time was because I’d set up some pens in the woods with animals in them that I was tending, and he got mad.”

“What happened to the animals?” Beau asked, even as he dreaded hearing the expected answer.

Maggie lifted her gaze to his. “He shot them. I was lucky Cat wasn’t out there, or he’d have got her, too.” She glanced at the stove. “I’ll get myself some coffee, if you don’t mind.”

Beau nodded. “Go on ahead.” Watching her, he felt the helpless anger build within his chest. Likely, her faint limp was evidence of her father’s cruelty, he’d warrant. Maggie poured from the coffeepot and returned to the table. “Use all the cream you want,” Beau told her, then watched as she poured from the pitcher.

“No one will ever hurt you here, Maggie.”

She lifted defiant eyes to meet his. “I’ll never let a man lay hands on me again, mister. I made up my mind when I crawled out my bedroom window that I’d got my last beating. Anyone tries to hit me ever again, and I swear I’ll kill him.”

“I’ll do it for you, Maggie.” The words were a promise he intended to keep. Some way, somehow, he’d make certain this girl was not abused.

She drank from her cup, silent at his avowal, her eyes wary. “I’ll feed my animals now, if it’s just the same to you. Thought I’d give them the heel from the loaf of bread and put some bacon grease on it.”

“Check with Pony. There might be some leftovers out at the bunkhouse. I think the men ate steak last night.”

“You’d have done better to eat with them,” she said. “I could have got along.”

“I’m sure you could have,” he said agreeably, “but I asked you to be my guest, and I wasn’t about to leave you on your own for supper.” He rose and went to the kitchen cupboard where a drawer held cutlery. A large butcher knife was there and he grasped it firmly. “I’ll go on out to the barn. There’s the better part of a steer hanging. I’ll cut off a piece for you to cook up.”

The thought of meat available and at hand was amazing to Maggie. Her mama had made do with an occasional chicken, or a rabbit when Pa was lucky with his traps. He’d swapped out butter and eggs for meat on occasion with one of the neighbors, but Maggie couldn’t remember a time when meat was easy to come by. Imagine having a steer butchered and curing in the barn.

She watched as Beau left the house, then rose hastily and tended to her animals. They’d make do with bread and grease for now. She’d save scraps from the beef for later on. She cleaned the kitchen in minutes and she set off for the garden, where withered potato plants guaranteed a crop beneath the earth.

“You’d do better with a pitchfork, missy.” The voice behind her was rusty, almost harsh, and Maggie looked over her shoulder at the man who watched her. Shay held the four-tined fork in his hand, offering it to her.

She rose from the ground and stepped closer to the gate. “Thank you, sir. I thought I could just dig them out by hand, but the pitchfork will make it easier.” She backed away from him and turned again to her task, aware that he watched her. The ground was soft and she lifted a mass of potatoes on the fork, then bent to shake them from the roots of the plant. Reaching into the hole she’d left, she sorted through the dirt, finding three more that had broken loose.

“You’ve done that before,” Shay said quietly.

Maggie nodded, head bent to her task.

“You’ll be safe here.” Again she heard the promise of protection, and she glanced up quickly. His face was stern, the wide scar forming a forbidding barrier to an unwary glance. His eyes rested on her, and she met his gaze. No trace of male appraisal glittered there, only a calm acceptance of her presence.

“Thank you,” she said formally, turning again to her chore, aware that he left as silently as he had approached. That made two men who’d promised her their protection, she thought, digging beneath another plant.

The potatoes piled up beside her as she worked, and there was a certain amount of satisfaction in the homey task. The late summer sun beat down on her head and she was grateful for the hat she’d found in the barn. In the trees surrounding the farmhouse birds sang, fluttering to the garden as she worked, pecking nearby through the overturned earth. She watched as a robin found a fat worm and leaned back, tugging it from the lump of dirt it inhabited. Her chuckle did little to daunt the red-breasted bird as he held his prize and flapped his wings, flying to the nearest tree.

The sound of her own amusement stilled her movements and Maggie closed her eyes. She’d not found anything to smile about in longer than she wanted to consider. But this place…it put her in mind of a small piece of heaven, this sun-drenched bit of earth where she knelt. Beside her, the pile of potatoes grew ever larger as she worked, and around her a small flock of birds fluttered, reckless now in her presence. She rose, grasping the pitchfork, and they fluttered away, chirping, only to return in moments. She dug beneath a withered plant, then grasped it in one hand, shaking the harvest from its roots. There was something to be said for garden work, she decided, her movements mechanical as she moved to the next row. It gave a body time to think, made her soul feel at peace.

Sweat dripped from Maggie’s eyebrow, and she rubbed her forehead with the back of one hand, looking toward the barn. Beau Jackson stood in the wide doorway, and his gaze touched hers with warmth. He nudged the brim of his hat and turned away, leading a tall mare toward the corral, but the memory of his dark eyes did not fade. He was a handsome man. Maybe if someone like him had paid her some mind she’d have taken the same route Roberta and Emily had trod, getting married and moving to town.

They’d sure grabbed at the first chance they had to clear out of the house and away from Pa’s heavy hand. Ma had helped them gather their things and leave, much as she’d turned the other way when Maggie had called it quits and climbed out the bedroom window the other night.

And now Mama was left alone to bear the brunt of Pa’s miserable self. Maggie bent her head, almost tempted to return, to bear some of her mother’s burden. She shuddered at the very thought of going back to that hateful place. Pa would be fuming mad at having to do the field work alone as it was. She’d not give him the chance to whip her into shape again.

Never.