The wrapping was simple, but Beau’s instincts told him to move slowly, and he did, each corner lifted and examined, peering within the folds to find a soft, misshapen length of knitted wool. His mind noted the uneven stitches, his fingers touched the imperfect edges, and his heart rejoiced. That Maggie should have spent her time in the making of a gift for him was reason to reach for her, gather her in his arms and draw her onto his lap.
“Put it around my neck,” he told her, amused at the blush riding her cheeks. Then watched closely as she obeyed, his gaze taken by the graceful movement of her hands, his skin warmed by the brush of her fingertips. “Thank you,” he said solemnly as she adjusted the length of knitted yarn across his chest, as he would wear it beneath his coat. “No one’s ever given me so wonderful a gift.”
Maggie’s mouth curved in a smile that denied his words, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she shook her head. “I’d wager you’ve had…” She hesitated, as if determining some enormous number to quote.
Beau filled the expectant silence. “Nothing I’ve ever received, no Christmas gift, that is, has given me more pleasure than this.” He lifted his hand from where it rested in her lap, and his fingers gathered brown yarn into his palm. And thought of that other gift he’d not mentioned, here where propriety deemed it inappropriate.
He’d tell her later, tonight in the darkness, when his arms held her close and their hearts beat in tandem. He’d speak of her love and the manifestation of it, when she’d come to him, unwrapped the gift of her body in his sight, and given it with joy.
Maggie. His Maggie, who made his life complete, taking the pain of the past and replacing it with promise for the future.
Christmas morning fell on a Sunday, and to Maggie’s delight, Beau prompted their departure for the small church in town. Breakfast was eaten quickly, the wagon readied by Pony for the trip. Hay filled the bed, and quilts covered it, in preparation for the two women who were assisted there. Sophie and Verna laughed with delight as they were ensconced behind the wagon seat. Maggie sat with Beau, who wore a white shirt for the occasion, while Joe and Pony rode behind on prancing horses.
The church was filled to capacity, and the beaming Reverend Bryant greeted them before the service. In a pew to their left Cord and Rachel McPherson sat beside Lorena. And beside her, in the far aisle, a wheeled chair held a dark-haired man who bore a resemblance to Cord. The brother, Maggie realized. Jake was his name. Maggie bent forward a bit, the better to see, and spotted a wrapped bundle in Lorena’s arms.
She’d had the baby, and not long ago from the size of the armful she held. Rachel looked across the aisle in that moment and smiled, then nudged Lorena, speaking in her ear. A long, slender hand lifted the blue covering and a tiny, round face came into view. Dark hair crowned the infant beauty and a small fist waved in the air.
Lorena’s mouth formed two words. A boy. And Maggie nodded her understanding. A thrill traveled the length of her spine as she gazed in awe at the yawning babe and beside her Beau’s hand reached for her. Their fingers entwined and his gaze followed that which hers had taken.
“We’ll see them later,” he whispered, and Maggie nodded, her attention caught by the resounding chords of the organ. She sat back, looking forward eagerly to where small figures darted to and fro. At the front of the small chapel a giant pine tree took much of the space, and beneath it was a rough manger, where robed children gathered to portray the Christmas story, nudging and elbowing each other as they found their places.
“I’ve never been here for such a beautiful thing before,” Maggie whispered. “Mama brought us once when I was little, but Pa always said it was a waste of time. There was no sense in going to town unless you had a da—a good reason,” she said hastily.
The music was simple now, and Maggie recalled the words from deep in her memory, a song of shepherds and stars and the infant King. Before them the tableau was acted out, children moving as directed, tripping on long robes, singing in treble voices, and waving to watching parents in the congregation. In the back row, garbed in striped robes, Rachel’s brothers stood, holding curved staffs and looking properly solemn for the occasion.
And then it was over and the assembled cast stood in a ragged row, the blue-robed Mary holding a doll upside-down. Maggie covered her mouth to hold back the chuckle and Beau bent his head to nudge hers in acknowledgment of her mirth. As the organ burst into triumphant sound, the congregation rose as one. Maggie looked around, picking up a hymnal as did the others, and then waited as Beau found the correct page.
“‘…and heaven and nature sing…”’ The words were a thing of beauty, she thought, listening as the assembled congregation sang lustily. Beside her, Beau grinned in her direction and beyond him, Sophie mangled the melody, obviously uncaring if her notes matched those on the page.
“‘…and wonders of His love…”’ Verna sang softly, sweetly, and Maggie rejoiced at the happiness displayed on her mother’s face. That the love spoken of in the Christmas song was not of this earth, but of heavenly origin was a fact. Even in her untutored state, Maggie was aware of that much. But today, they could apply to the man beside her, she decided, and in her heart she sang them in silence, translating them into a paean of joy.
“‘…and wonders of His love…”’ They tasted sweet as she whispered them in barely audible tones. “‘…and wonders of His love…”’
The wondrous love of Beau Jackson, given to her…Maggie O’Neill. To have and to hold.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-5966-2
MAGGIE’S BEAU
Copyright © 2001 by Carolyn Davidson
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