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
