Keeping Christmas. Marisa Carroll
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.”