Maggie's Beau - Carolyn Davidson

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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.

      Chapter Three

      What the food lacked in flavor it made up for in quantity, Beau decided. Pieces of beef swimming in broth with bits of potatoes made up the bulk of his meal, small pieces of carrots adding color. The onions lent seasoning, but she’d been pretty scant with salt and pepper. He shook the salt shaker over his dish with a heavy hand, aware of Maggie watching from across the table.

      “Not very good, is it?” she asked quietly. “I’m not the best cook in the world.”

      He glanced up. “It’s better than I could have done, Maggie.” Another bite found its way into his mouth. “Maybe next time you just need to quit cooking it before the vegetables get…” He paused, unwilling to add to her gloom.

      “Mushy,” she supplied. “I probably won’t be here long enough for there to be a next time, though,” she said after a moment. “I don’t want you to get in Dutch over me stayin’ here.”

      “No one will know where you are, as far as I’m concerned,” he told her grimly. “And if your father comes hunting you, he’ll find more than his match.”

      She glanced up at him, and Beau caught a glimpse of beauty in the line of cheek and brow, a promise of charm in the lifting of long lashes as one eye met his gaze. Her swollen eye was still purpled, but as he watched, a tear fell from its lower lid. She blinked and her mouth trembled. “You’re a nice man, Beau Jackson. I reckon you mean that.”

      Beau reached across the table, capturing her hand, holding it loosely within his palm. “You can stay here as long as you want to, Maggie.”

      She rose from the table, drawing her hand from his, and picked up her plate. “I’ll wash out the wheelbarrow in the morning and load up the potatoes I dug. You got a place to store them?”

      Beau nodded. “There’s an old root cellar on the west side of the house. You’ll want to watch for mice when you open the door. Last year we piled the potatoes against the far wall. Had pretty near enough to last past spring. They’ll get soft by then and you have to cut off the sprouts, but they’re fit to eat. There’s a tub for carrots and a place to hang onions and such.”

      “There’s more to dig, yet. Ma always liked to have the old plants pulled and the ground turned in the fall. I can do that tomorrow.”

      “Then don’t plan on mucking out stalls,” Beau told her firmly. “The men can tend to that. I’d rather have you at the house.”

      She stood at the sink, her shoulders hunched, her hands busy with the dishes. “Do you think I could help with the horses, maybe the yearlings? I’ve got a good touch with animals.”

      “We’ll see,” Beau said. “You might want to take a look at my milk cow in the morning. Maybe you can do something for her. She’s been touchy the last couple of days at milking time.”

      Maggie turned to face him. “Might be she’s a little milk bound. You ever use camphorated oil on her?”

      Beau shook his head. “She’s never had any problems before.”

      “You got any oil? I’ll warm some up and see if it helps. You just don’t want to get it in the milk. You have to wash off her bag before you commence to milkin’ her.”

      Maybe the girl was right. It was worth a try. Beau pushed back from the table and rose. “There’s a boxful of stuff in the pantry,” he said. “Salves and such. Take a look. I’m pretty sure there’s camphorated oil there.”

      Maggie wiped her hands on a towel, nodding her understanding. “I’ll see what I can find. Have you milked her tonight, yet?”

      “No, I’m ready to do the last of the chores now.”

      “Can I come with you?” she asked.

      Beau nodded. “I’ll wait for you.”

      The cow’s tail twitched as Maggie sat on the milking stool. “It’s only me,” she murmured, her hand moving slowly over the animal’s flank. She glanced up at Beau. “She got a name?”

      “Not that I know of,” he told her with a grin. “I just call her the cow.”

      “Animals do better with a name.” Her hands moved together now, over

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