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
