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
