The sun’s pale rays flooded the interior of the shed and he halted abruptly, his mouth forming a grim line as he beheld the scene before him. A rattler, apparently seeking warmth, had invaded Maisie’s territory and met its death between her teeth. It still hung there, bitten almost in half, long dead. But in dying, it had dealt a fatal blow to the female whose only thought was to defend her litter of pups.
Maggie must not see this, Beau decided rapidly, swinging the door shut behind him as he stepped inside the shed. From the single window enough light illuminated the rough interior to provide him with clear vision, and he filled the pups’s milk pan quickly, watching as they gathered around to drink their fill. From the wall, he took a gunny sack and carefully deposited Maisie’s stiff carcass within its folds. Gingerly, he used a shovel to tuck the snake inside, then tied the top with a length of twine.
From the house, he heard the door close, heard Maggie’s voice as she spoke to her cat. Hastily, he opened the shed door and stepped outside, leaving it ajar behind him.
“Did you feed the pups?” she asked, stepping eagerly, leaning to peer within. “Where’s Maisie? Did she run off already? She’s been leaving them alone a lot lately, now that they don’t nurse anymore,” Maggie said, bending to rub a round belly as one of the pups rolled to her back.
“Maggie.” Beau cleared his throat, surprised at the emotion tinging his voice.
She looked up at him, then stood quickly. “What’s wrong?” Her glance encompassed the gunny sack he held and her eyes grew fearful. “What’s in the sack?” she asked quietly. “Did something happen, Beau?” Looking back inside the shed, she accounted for the pups and even as he watched, he saw the slight droop of her shoulders, the moment of awareness as she sensed what he would tell her.
“It’s Maisie, ain’t it?” She braced herself, stiffening as she turned back to him. “What happened, Beau?”
He told her, as quickly and gently as he could—yet it wasn’t enough. Even knowing that the dog had died to keep her pups alive was not sufficient solace to comfort the girl standing before him. Her eyes barren of joy, her mouth turned down in sorrow, she wept—harsh, bitter sobs that shook him to his depths.
Beau placed the gunny on the ground, dimly aware of Pony’s approach as the man picked up the sack to tend to its disposal. Intent only on giving what comfort he could to the woman before him, he held out his arms and she took the single step required to allow him to enfold her against himself. Her head touched his chest and he enclosed her loosely, lest she not allow the fullness of his embrace. Her shoulders shook and she burrowed against his coat, her sobs muffled in the wool plaid he wore.
He could only hold her, clasping her more closely as she clung, her fingers reaching for him, gripping the front of his coat. And over her head, he watched as the men questioned Pony. Shay glanced up, meeting Beau’s gaze, and nodded, his silent message clear. He would tend to the burying of the dog. Within moments, Beau saw Pony and Shay head for the peach orchard, Shay carrying the long shovel.
He turned Maggie from the sight and walked with her to the house. She rubbed at her eyes, muttering beneath her breath, and he pulled his kerchief from around his neck. “Here, it’s clean. I just pulled it out of my drawer this morning.” She took it and wiped her cheeks, then glanced back at the woodshed.
“Do you think there was another one? Maybe the first rattler’s mate?”
“If there was, it’s long gone,” Beau said. “I’m surprised there was even the one. It’s too late in the year for snakes to be out and about. They’re pretty much holed up for the winter already.”
Maggie nodded in agreement. “You’re probably right. It was just bad luck, that’s all.” Her chin lifted and her mouth firmed. “No sense in getting attached to animals.”
He felt the shudder of her grief and tightened his grip on her shoulder. “I forgot the pail of milk,” he said quietly. “Will you want to give some to the cat?” He halted and watched as she considered the idea.
“Might as well. She tried chasin’ a mouse in the barn yesterday, but ended up fallin’ on her face. She’s about as worthless as they come, I guess. Not good for much of anything.” The gray creature watched from beside the steps, as though aware that Maggie spoke of her, then hobbled to lean against her mistress.
“Worthless, that’s all you are,” Maggie said roughly, bending to touch the gray fur. She settled on the second step, lifting the cat to her lap. Her head bent, her forehead resting against the animal’s gray fur.
Beau turned back to retrieve the milk, Maggie’s words in his ears. No matter how true they might be, for indeed the cat was not worth much in the general scheme of things, for now, she was a comfort to the woman who held her. And if for no other reason than that alone, Cat had earned herself a place here.
The soft chords crept beneath her door and invaded the darkness. Maggie sat upright in her bed, tilting her head, as if to better hear the music coming from beyond her room. If he’d planned it, she thought, he couldn’t have tempted her more. Yet how was Beau Jackson to know that her heart had ever hungered for the sounds that pleased her ear? Songbirds held within their breasts the ability to charm her from the darkest depths of despair. Their melodies had lured her more than once from her bed at night, out into the darkness where the nightbirds sang.
Tonight she was tempted by another, even more potent lure. For with the harmony of strings and human voice, Beau was calling to her in a way she could not resist.
Sliding her feet to the floor, she wrapped the quilt around her, cocooning herself in the warmth, drawn by the simple melody Beau was singing. Her door opened silently, and the whispering words pierced her heart as he sang of a love lost to the arms of another. She listened, her feet moving quietly across the kitchen floor, down the hallway to the parlor door. There she halted, unwilling to disturb his lament.
One hand gripping the quilt against her bosom, the other holding it up from the floor, she peered around the doorway. He sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa, his head bent as he watched his fingers press the strings. They shifted, producing another chord, then another, his voice blending with each, each tone roughened with emotion.
“‘…she’s gone, gone far away,”’ he sang softly. “‘…and I am left to pray…for love to find its way…to me once more…”’
His eyes opened and as if drawn by her presence, he lifted his head, his gaze meshing with hers. “Maggie.” His voice was a whisper. “I didn’t know if you’d join me.” He smiled and her heart wept at the beauty of the man. “I’m glad you came.”
Maggie could only nod. Of course, she’d come. As if the man didn’t know that music such as he’d made with a piece of wood, six strings and a thumb nail to strum across them, would lure even the fairies from the woods. “I heard you singing,” she said, suddenly, foolishly aware that she was next to naked under the quilt, only her threadbare shift covering all her parts.
“I tried to go to sleep, but my eyes wouldn’t close,” he told her, lifting his hand from the guitar to motion her closer. “Sit by me, Maggie.”
“I’m not dressed,” she said.
His grin made a small dimple appear in one cheek. “I noticed,” he said. “But I’d say you’re well-covered.”
Reluctantly, she crossed the threshold, thankful for the warmth of the carpet against her bare feet, then settled herself on a chair, allowing the quilt to droop over her toes.
Beau shook his head. “Come over here, sweetheart.” He patted the floor beside him, and the dimple lured her from her chosen seat.
“All right,” she said agreeably, willing to do as he asked if he would only place those fingers back on the strings and coax the music from the depths of the curved instrument. His eyes shone their approval as she settled next to him, drawing her knees up so that the quilt tented over her.
“That’s better. Now, we’ll sing together.” His left hand gripped the neck of the guitar, his fingers touching the strings in a pattern of moves t
hat amazed her. His right hand strummed, both thumb and fingers plucking out a melody. And then he sang, a simple melody she remembered from somewhere. Probably one of the few her mother had sung, she decided.
“Do you know this?” he asked, even as his fingers plucked the melody.
She shook her head, unwilling to mar the beauty of his voice by adding her own. “I’d rather listen,” she whispered. And she did, as he played a livelier melody, then another, slower, more tender than the first, his voice low, whispering the words.
The chords vibrated in the air as he finished, and then his hand pressed them into silence with his palm. “Would you like to learn how to play?”
She felt a hot warmth invade her cheeks. “I couldn’t. I’d never be able to learn, and besides—” She spread her hand wide against the quilt. “My hand’s not near as big as yours. My fingers would never stretch.”
He spread his hand, matching his fingers against hers. “I think you could do it, Maggie. See? You have long, slender fingers.”
The back of her hand was warmed by his palm, and then he curled his long fingers around to contain hers within his grasp. “I’ll teach you if you like,” he offered. His smile enticed her, his eyes beckoned her and she felt her heart beat increase until it pounded in her ears.
A feeling akin to fear overwhelmed her and she snatched her hand from his grasp, scooting from his side. “I don’t think so,” she whispered, aware of the silence of the house, the shadowed depths of the parlor and most of all the clean scent of the man beside her.
“Are you afraid of me, Maggie?” he asked, his words speaking of sadness, his eyes searching her face. “Don’t you know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you?”
“I shouldn’t be in here with you, all alone.”
“Sophie’s upstairs,” he reminded her. And then he smiled again, and his voice held the trace of amusement she was so familiar with. “She’d skin me alive if I did anything to frighten you.” He lifted the guitar and placed it in her lap. “Here, I’ll press the strings,” he said. “You just strum with your right hand.”
Placing his arm above her shoulders, he leaned closer and gripped the neck of the guitar, his long fingers holding firmly. “Now, strum,” he instructed her.
She did, awkwardly at first, using her thumb, listening to each tone as it vibrated at her touch. He shifted his fingers. “Again,” he told her. And again she brushed her thumb across the strings, hearing another chord.
From within her being, a sunburst of joy spewed forth, and she felt her mouth curve upward, heard the chuckle she could not contain. “See? You can do it,” he said. His fingers moved again and without urging, she strummed, feeling the rhythm as he formed new chords. His voice joined in and he whispered words of a river running to the sea. And then he halted, and his hand that had hovered near, dropped to her shoulder, and his fingers squeezed.
“Will you let me teach you the fingering, Maggie?”
The room was silent, and she considered the offer.
“We could work at it a couple of evenings every week,” he said, his voice casual, as though it mattered not, one way or the other. “After your reading lesson, maybe.”
“You do too much for me,” she said. “I won’t ever be able to pay you back. This isn’t something I can earn out, Beau.”
His fingers tightened and then as if he thought better of it, he lifted his arm from her shoulder and rose to his feet, leaving the guitar in her lap. Walking to the window, he pushed the lace curtain to one side and looked upward to where only darkness beckoned.
“I’m not asking anything of you, Maggie. Only your company. Let me be your friend, will you?”
Her hand caressed the satin finish of his guitar, and her eyes stung with unbidden emotion. She, who rarely felt the urge to weep, had twice today been overcome by a rush of hot tears. The first time with a desperate surge of sorrow. Now, with a feeling akin to sheer joy.
Beau Jackson wanted to be her friend.
Chapter Seven
The blue scarf hung over her coat on the hook by the back door. Maggie lifted it, aware of Sophie’s gaze resting on her. The yarn was warm against her hands, the color like that of sky at twilight, when the sun is gone and the last of daylight lingers.
“I thought it was the same color as your eyes,” Sophie said. “You needed something to keep your neck warm.” Her voice was gruff, and she turned away to tend the stove, but not before Maggie noted the softening of the woman’s features.
“I never noticed that my eyes were any particular color,” she said, “but I thank you for taking the time to make it for me.”
“Didn’t take long,” Sophie said dismissively. “You’d better wind it around your collar and tie it tight. That wind’s rising. You don’t want to be down with a case of the quinsy.”
Maggie lifted her coat from the hook and slid into it. “Sophie?” Scarf in hand, she hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Do you think you could show me how to knit?”
“I’d say you got enough learnin’ goin’ on already,” Sophie told her, turning with spoon in hand. “What with sitting at the table every night with your head in a book, and then sittin’ in the parlor, messing with Beau’s guitar, I don’t know that you’ve got time for cramming much more into that head of yours.”
“My mama used to make mitts for us when we were little, and sometimes socks for my pa.” Maggie told her. “I was thinking maybe I could make something for Beau.”
Sophie’s mouth twitched. “Maybe you’d ought to start with something simple. Scarves are about the easiest thing to knit. You just keep goin’ till you get it long enough and then end it. Socks take a bit more know-how, what with turnin’ the heel and all.”
“A scarf would be fine,” Maggie said. “Is it costly to buy the yarn? Maybe I could sell one of the pups to somebody and have enough money.”
“Well, that’s a thought,” Sophie allowed. “There’s always folks looking for a dog. Maybe Beau would know of someone. He’s probably gonna be thinking about finding places for them anyway. They’re climbing out of the woodshed. There’s no keepin’ them penned up anymore.”
Maggie felt gloom clutch at her. “I hate to lose them. But I know it’s costly to feed animals that don’t earn their keep.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Beau’s planning on hanging on to one of them,” Sophie said.
The cloud over her head vanished as Maggie clutched at the straw of hope Sophie offered. “I’ll bet they’d be good at herdin’. That shepherd dog Maisie got tangled up with was a good cattle dog.” Her fingers flew, pushing her coat buttons into place, her mind already plotting. The new scarf was warm against her throat as she wound it beneath her collar, and she flipped the ends over her back.
“Here, let me tie that for you,” Sophie said, clucking her tongue at Maggie’s haste. Her hands swept the length of the scarf into a loose knot and she turned Maggie to face her. “I was right. Matches your eyes just like I thought it would.”
“Cross your fingers, Sophie. It won’t be near as hard to see those pups go if Beau keeps one. I’ll bet he’d like the biggest one. He looks most like the shepherd dog.”
“You go on out there and talk to Beau,” Sophie told her. “And then feed those chickens, and bring me in the eggs.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maggie stepped onto the porch, drawing the door closed behind her. The wind was sharp this morning, the sky tinged with winter’s gray, as though snow clouds hovered near. She pulled her hat tighter, drawing it across her brow, and headed across the yard. The woodshed door stood open and an old door lay on its side across the opening, effectively penning the pups inside.
Hearing her approach, they began to bark, and several heads appeared over the top of the barricade, tongues lolling and ears twitching as the pups begged her attention. Maggie bent to touch one head, then another. “What’s all the noise for?” she said, laughing at their antics. They stood on back legs, their front paws sliding against the barrier, vying for positi
on, their tongues busily swiping at her hand.
“Which one do you like best, Maggie?” From behind her, Beau’s voice offered a new distraction and the puppies yipped their approval of their latest visitor.
Maggie stood erect, turning to face him. “It’s hard to decide, ain’t it? They’re all cute as the dickens.”
“They have to find new homes, Maggie,” he said. “We don’t need six dogs here.”
Now that sounded hopeful, she thought. “Do you think we could keep one?” And wouldn’t that be a job, choosing one of them, when all six made her feel like breakfast mush every time she sat in their midst.
Beau nodded. “I thought I’d ask you if I can have the black-and-tan male. Pony seems to think he’d be easy enough to train. He’d like to take him out to the barn and get him used to the animals.”
“You’re askin’ me?”
“They’re your dogs.”
“You’re the one’s been feedin’ them and givin’ them a place to stay,” Maggie said stubbornly. “I don’t feel like I’ve got the right to deny you anything, Beau. Least of all a mongrel pup.”
“Well, that’s decided then,” he said, stepping closer to the shed door. Bending low, he cradled one round belly in his hands and lifted the squirming creature to his chest. “How’d you like to be a cattle dog, Buster?” Both front paws against Beau’s shirtfront, the pup leaned toward Beau to lap his approval of the idea. Beau’s head tilted back, out of reach of the eager tongue and he laughed aloud.
“I think he’s taken with the idea, Maggie.”
She grinned, her task accomplished with no effort on her part. “And here I was going to ask you about keeping one of them,” she told Beau.
“For yourself?” he asked, lowering the pup to the ground and watching as it squatted to relieve itself.
Hope rose within her as she met his gaze. “Not exactly. I was just hopin’ you’d keep one here for a watchdog or maybe to herd cattle. If you like this one the best, that’s fine with me.”
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