Maggie's Beau

by Carolyn Davidson

  “I want you to think about some of the words you say,” he began. “Instead of saying tryin’, I’d like you to pronounce the whole word. Say, trying, Maggie.”

  Her eyes widened. “I never thought about it, I reckon. You always talk so fine, and maybe it’s ’cause you put such a fine ending on words.” She touched her upper lip with her tongue and then pursed her lips. “Trying.” Emphasizing the final syllable, she said it again.

  “That’ll work with all them words that end thataway, won’t it?”

  Beau nodded, wondering if he dared correct the sentence she’d just blurted out. No, one step at a time would be enough, he decided, unwilling to put a damper on her joyous expression as she considered the idea he’d planted in her head.

  Cord McPherson’s place was a short trip down the road, and Maggie stilled as they drove up the long lane, her gaze rapt as she viewed the big farmhouse and the assortment of outbuildings. “This is surely a beautiful place,” she whispered. “Is this really where the bread lady lives?”

  “Her name’s Rachel,” Beau reminded her. “You’ll like her.”

  As if beckoned by his words, the back door opened and a dark-haired woman stepped onto the porch, lifting a hand to her forehead as she watched their approach. “Good afternoon, ” she called, and then lifted her skirts to descend the steps to the yard. “You must be Maggie.” Her smile was bright, and Maggie felt reassured.

  “Sure am,” she said. “Beau brought me callin’—calling.” Her haste in correcting the pronunciation brought a wide grin to Beau’s mouth, and he jumped down from the wagon, reaching up to offer her his hand.

  Her frown, and the quick shake of her head denied his help, but he persisted. “Let me help you down, Maggie.” Perhaps it was the note of warning in his voice, or else the stubborn look he knew must be squaring his jaw. Whichever prompting did the trick, Maggie placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to assist her from the wagon.

  “Did I do that right?” she whispered in his ear as he lifted her by the waist to the ground.

  “You did fine,” he answered, then turned with her to face his neighbor. “I’m going out to talk to Cord,” he told Rachel. “Maggie’s real fond of tea. Maybe you can have a cup with her and get acquainted.”

  Rachel’s eyes lit with pleasure as she claimed Maggie’s hand, drawing her toward the porch. “You just take all the time you like out in the barn,” she told Beau. “I’ve been lonesome for another woman to talk to for days.”

  “Well, what did you think of her?” Beau asked, once more on the road to town after a half hour of dickering with Cord McPherson. The fact that two young boys were hanging on every word spoken by the two men only added to the fun. They’d arrived at a bargain, on the premise that Cord and Rachel’s brothers approved of the yearlings chosen. And of that there was no doubt in Beau’s mind. Another week with Maggie would assure the delivery of two tractable colts to the McPherson farm. And the deposit of a tidy sum in Beau’s bank account.

  Maggie chose her words carefully. “I think she’s right pretty. And she makes a fine pan of cinnamon rolls. I never had any better in my life.” She thought for a moment. “Matter of fact, I only had cinnamon rolls one time, when the man in town gave a pinch of cinnamon and nutmeg and a couple of other things I can’t remember to my mama at Christmastime one year. He put the stuff in a little bit of cotton material and tied it with a string, and told her it was a happy Christmas present.”

  She sighed. “It sure was fine to taste that flavor again. I almost forgot how good it was.” Her smile flashed widely as another thought struck her. “I remembered real good, Beau. I said all my words slow and made them sound like you told me.”

  “I’m proud of you,” he said. And found to his surprise that he was, more than he’d thought possible. She’d learned so much over the past weeks, from cooking to writing letters and words and reading the results, painstakingly slow perhaps, but with a determination he could only admire.

  He slid his arm around her waist, and she looked up, surprise alive in her gaze, but not a trace of fear that he could see. “I’m sure Rachel was pleased to know you,” he said. Allowing his gaze to sweep her length, he formed a decision, one he realized was already half in place, and had been for the past several days.

  “I’d like to buy you another dress, so that when we go calling next time, you can feel like a lady in Rachel’s kitchen.”

  “I’m not a lady,” she stated, her glow diminished by his words. “I’m just Maggie O’Neill, and bein’—being a lady is not for the likes of me.”

  “I think you’ll turn out to be a fine lady, one of these days,” Beau assured her, willing her to smile once more. “In fact, you’re well on your way. By the time you learn how to read the books in my parlor, and catch on to adding and subtracting the numbers, no one will ever believe you weren’t born to be a female from top to bottom.”

  “Is that what you want?” Her eyes clouded with doubt, and her hands gripped tightly in her lap.

  “I want you to be happy. If learning how to wear a dress and be womanly isn’t what will accomplish that, then we’ll just forget the whole thing. If you’d rather work like a man and shovel manure, I’ll let you.”

  “Ain’t—” She paused, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Isn’t there some way I can do both? And still have you liking me?”

  He closed his eyes, and his arm tightened around her. Drawing the reins taut, he drew his team to a halt in the middle of the road. “Maggie, I like you more than you know. That’s not the issue here. You can help with the horses in your britches and wear a dress for supper at night, and that’s all fine and good.” He turned to face her, and his hand rested on her shoulder, the other turning her on the seat.

  “Are you gonna kiss me?” she asked, looking at him from the corner of her eye, turning her head toward the patient horses.

  “Not if you don’t want me to.” And he wouldn’t, he determined. Never would he force his attentions on her.

  “Oh, I don’t mind. You know, I kinda like it. I already told you that. It’s just that it makes me all wobbly inside and I get red-faced and I don’t know what to do. I’m not very good at kissing back.”

  He bent his head and she closed her eyes, turning her face for his appraisal. “Tell me how to do it, Beau,” she whispered. “I want to do it right for you.”

  “Just do as I do, and we’ll be fine.” His heart wrenched within his chest as he heard her words, knowing she would allow him to do as he would, and his hands grew warm as he thought of the places they yearned to touch. He kissed her then, and his lips opened, savoring the taste of her. She followed his lead, and a quick intake of breath signaled her delight.

  “You taste like licorice,” she whispered.

  “Cord gave me a piece in the barn. Rachel’s brothers are partial to it, and he keeps a cache out there for them.” Their mouths were but a breath apart as they spoke, their lips brushing, tantalizing him with her sweetness.

  “You had sugar in your tea, didn’t you?” he asked, his tongue gentle as it stroked the inside of her top lip.

  She nodded, gasping a bit.

  It seemed she would not deny him, and his trousers fit more snugly as he shifted in the seat. Just once, he thought, just once he would touch her, allow his hand to fill with the fullness of her breast. His fingers tightened at her shoulder, then slid to clasp her ribs, and she obliged, slipping her arm around his neck.

  Her coat was heavy, but the unmistakable, firm shape of a woman’s breast met his seeking palm, and she gasped again, inhaling sharply. “Nobody ever touched me there,” she whispered, tilting her head back, her eyes open to meet his gaze.

  “I thought as much,” Beau whispered. “I’d like to touch you without your coat in the way, honey.”

  “Are you goin’ to—”

  “Going.” Beau spoke the word, prompting her compliance.

  “Are you? Gonna—”

  “Going,” he repeated. “Say it,
Maggie.”

  Her voice whispered the word obediently. “Going.”

  “No,” he told her. “I’m not going to do anything else. What I’d like to do and what I feel is right for both of us are two different things, I fear.” His hand left the curve of her breast and returned to her shoulder. “One of these days we’re going to talk about this again. For now, we’ll just go on into town and get our errands run.” He bent for a loud, smacking kiss directly on her lips, and she reciprocated.

  Picking up the reins, he set the team into motion. “Would you like to get married one of these days?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual manner.

  Maggie huddled next to him. “I don’t know. Maybe it would be worth it to get the kissing and such. I just don’t think I’d like the other part. I heard my mama crying too many nights when Pa was busy giving her bruises and making their bed bang against the wall.”

  His heart lurched within his chest as he heard her blurted disclosure. “It isn’t supposed to be that way, Maggie. Men and women—” How could he explain to this woman-child that loving could be fine and good and filled with the greatest joy given to mankind? “We’ll talk about it again,” he promised. And in the meantime, he’d better come up with words that would express his mind without sending her into a tizzy of embarrassment.

  The store was a wonderment to her. Beau saw it in the gleam of her eyes as they walked in the wide doorway. Conrad’s doors were of heavy oak, with gleaming beveled-glass windows inset, and Maggie paused to examine the cuts that gathered the light and shone prisms of color on the floor of his establishment. If the aromas of leather goods and apples piled in peck baskets, mingling with spices and the smell of wood smoke were heavy to Beau’s mind, they seemed to have the opposite effect on the woman who clung to his arm.

  She looked eagerly at first one display, then another, her eyes avid as she scanned the apples, then traveled to the bolts of colorful yardgoods that decorated the counter. “He’s surely got a passel of treasures, don’t he?” she whispered.

  “Doesn’t,” Beau whispered back, and Maggie grinned.

  “Doesn’t he?” she repeated, her eyes shiny with delight.

  “Go ahead and look around,” Beau told her. “I’m going to talk to a couple of the men by the stove. Let’s see if I can find a buyer for the puppies.”

  Even the threat of losing her beloved pups was not enough to deter her apparently, for she nodded and stepped away from his side, and Beau watched as she slipped her mittens off, tucking them into her pockets, in order to touch with careful fingers the array of fabric.

  Once more Maggie felt as though she’d gone to heaven, that mysterious place her mama’d assured her existed beyond the sun and moon, to which good folks would somehow be transported from the earth upon their death. If such a place really did exist, it would surely be no more inviting than the four walls surrounding her now, she decided.

  A basket of eggs sat on the counter, and she looked at them disdainfully. The ones from Beau’s chicken coop were larger, most of them double-yolked at that. She moved on to where a display of ladies’ boots took her fancy, not that she needed such things. With small heels and buttons marching up the side, they were far too fine to be subjected to chicken poop and corral dust.

  Ah, there. She sighed. There in glass bins on tall shelves, were bits and pieces of fine fabric, with snatches of lace visible in the folds, and she wondered, clenching her fingers into fists, what it would be like to possess such finery.

  “May I show you something?” a young woman asked, smiling a greeting, even as she cast a surreptitious glance at Maggie’s attire.

  “What’s all the stuff in those boxes?” Maggie whispered, leaning across the counter, nodding at the display.

  “Ladies’ undergarments,” the woman answered. “You know, like petticoats and chemises and such.”

  “Like a shift, you mean?”

  The woman nodded. “It’s about the same thing as a chemise, I think.”

  “Do they cost dearly?” She knew her tone was wistful and Maggie cleared her throat. “Never mind, I need other things.” She turned her head, searching the shelves for what she sought. “Do you have any yarn for knitting stuff? You know, like scarves and such?”

  “Certainly, right down here.” Leading the way down the counter, the woman lifted a box from below, opening the lid to uncover a variety of yarn, all neatly separated in skeins.

  “How much does it take to make a scarf?” Maggie asked softly. “If it’s not too much, Miss Sophie, out at Beau Jackson’s ranch, where I’m working, said I should get some.” She bent closer. “It’s for a scarf for him.” She nodded briefly to where Beau stood beside three other men in front of the pot-bellied stove across the room.

  “I think he’d look well in brown,” the woman said, taking two skeins from the box. “Did Sophie want it on her bill?”

  Maggie could only nod, amazed at the ease of the transaction. “Wrap it up, please, would you? In a piece of paper or something?” Capable hands made short work of the task, and Maggie reached for her purchase. “Thank you,” she said, tucking the package inside her coat. Sparing one last glance at the tempting garments behind the counter, she turned to where Beau was deep in conversation.

  As if he felt her regard, he looked up. “Maggie, come get the list Sophie made out and let Cora get things together for us.”

  She nodded, walking to where he waited, and took the list from his hand. Head bent, unwilling to meet the gaze of his companions, she stepped back to the counter and offered the brown paper to Cora.

  “Your name’s Maggie?” Cora asked, perusing the scribbled words. “Did you write this? Is this brown sugar you want, or the fine granulated?”

  “I don’t know,” Maggie admitted, peering to see the words Sophie had printed. “Sophie made out the list. I know we have white sugar on the table, and I think there’s a plenty of it in the bin yet. Must be she means brown.” Sugar, she decided, must be the word on the top line. It began with that snakey-looking letter, the one that sounded like it looked. And it was the same word as was on the big sack of sugar Sophie had in the pantry. She felt a jolt of delight as she recognized the letters, yearning to turn to Beau and tell him of her discovery.

  “Well, everything else is plain enough,” Cora said, reaching for a bottle on the shelf behind her. “There’s pails of lard over there, if you want to get one,” she told Maggie. “And why don’t you pick out one of those baskets of apples for her.”

  Feeling a sense of importance she was most unfamiliar with, Maggie did as she was bidden, then looked up as Beau took the basket from her hand.

  “I’ll take that,” he said. He bent low to speak directly into her ear. “Charlie wants one of the pups, and Herm Dorchester said he’d like a pair of them. His dogs ate bad meat and died last month.”

  A pang struck Maggie as she nodded her agreement. It was what they’d come to town for, at least part of the reason. As long as the animals were given good homes, she would have no complaint, miss them though she might. Anyway, she couldn’t fault Beau for accomplishing his goal, and if he gave her a bit of what money the pups brought, she’d have enough to pay Sophie for the yarn. And then, she thought, given the chance, she might even consider replacing her worn-out shift with one of those lacy, fancy-looking things the lady, Cora, had called a chemise. And wasn’t that a slinky-sounding thing to be wearing under her clothes.

  “Will they come out and get the pups?” she asked Beau, following him to the counter.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, drawing money from his pocket for the supplies Cora was readying for them.

  “I’ve got an extra cardboard box you can have to carry this in,” she offered, and at Beau’s nod of thanks, she reached beneath the counter and placed the container beside his purchases. “It’ll most all fit,” she told him, stacking the items inside.

  “Are you all set, Maggie?” Beau picked up the box and placed it atop his shoulder, reaching for the basket with h
is free hand. “Open the door for me, will you?” he asked, nodding a goodbye to the men who watched their departure.

  “Did you recognize any of those fellas?” he asked Maggie as he stowed the supplies in the wagon. She sat on the seat waiting for him, and her gaze swung back to the store window. One of the three men watched, and then, as she met his gaze, he turned back to the stove.

  “No,” she said. “I never paid any mind to anybody the couple of times I came to town. And Pa didn’t have much company on the farm. Just once in a while somebody stopped by to pick up a jug from him.”

  Beau’s eyebrow rose quizzically. “A jug? Your pa made moonshine?”

  Maggie nodded. “He said it was the best cash crop he had.”

  Chapter Nine

  “You don’t do much drinking, do you, Beau?” Sitting beside him on the sofa, Maggie watched as he fingered the strings of his guitar, playing an elusive melody. He looked up at her and shook his head. “I didn’t think so,” she said. “At least I never smelled any booze on you.”

  “Does your pa drink a lot of the stuff he sells?” Beau asked, certain already of her answer.

  “He’s his own best customer.” She brushed at her skirt, smoothing the fabric and picking at a bit of thread. “I’ve been thinking maybe I’d try to see my mama, find out if she’s all right.”

  Beau’s hands flattened against the guitar, stilling the music. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” The thought of Maggie coming face to face with Edgar O’Neill, and perhaps falling victim to his fists again made his heart clench in his chest, prompting his offer. “Shall I go with you?”

  “No, I’d just sneak on the place while he’s up at his still. He makes a trip into the woods out back of the barn every couple of days.”

  “I don’t like to have you run the risk of him finding you there,” Beau told her.

  Her hands clenched in the fabric of her skirt and her head bowed as she spoke. “I guess I need to do this.”

  It was not in him to forbid her the visit, but he could sure as hell discourage it, Beau decided. “How you going to get there? And how do you know your father won’t punish your mother if he finds out?”