Keeping Christmas. Marisa Carroll
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smokehouse, and there’s vegetables from the pantry. We’ll eat in a few minutes, then I’ll drag in the tub for you.”
A bent spike passed from his hand to hers and she nodded, agreeing. “This’ll work.” Beau crossed the kitchen to the back door and Maggie watched as the galvanized tub appeared a moment later, Shay carrying one end, Beau the other.
Shay, the quiet one, withheld his glance, intent on fitting the tub through the doorway, and then with a quiet word to Beau, he left. Maggie stepped aside, allowing him room. He nodded in her direction and she watched him pass through the kitchen door to the porch. The screen slammed behind him.
“He’s a strange one,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“Shay won’t bother you,” Beau said from the doorway, where one hand leaned against the jamb. “None of my men will give you cause to complain.”
She believed him, and wondered at her acceptance of his word. He’d offered her the use of his home, at least this small portion of it. Even now, water boiled on his cookstove for her benefit. Maggie snatched up a bucket by the sink and turned sharply as Beau approached, taking the handle from her fingers.
“I’ll dip the water. You’re too short to lift a full bucket,” he told her.
She watched as he deftly tilted the pail and filled it, then carried it across the floor. Water dripped in his wake and she noticed the small, spreading pools as they turned dark against the wooden floor.
“Sophie’s going to scalp me for making a mess on her floor,” Beau said, returning quickly, empty pail in hand. He filled it a second time and traced his path across the room. “I’ll wipe it up when you’re done.”
Maggie watched him, taken by the thought of someone waiting on her in such a fashion. She’d done the toting ever since she could remember, from lugging washtubs to the yard for Ma, to carrying heavy feed sacks from the wagon to the barn. Now she stood here, perfectly healthy and able to do for herself, and a strange man was fixing her bathwater. Hot water, at that. And wasn’t that a switch from scrubbing up in the creek in summer or sitting in a lukewarm second- or third-hand tub of bathwater in the cold weather.
“Maggie?” He stood before her, and she jolted, lost in the vision of lounging in a tub all for herself, without two sisters having left their scum floating atop the cooling water. “I left the soap and a couple of towels and a washrag on the table in your room. The soap is a bar I already used from, but there’s plenty left. Oh,” he added, his tone casual, “Pony sent an old pair of pants and a shirt for you. They’re on the cot.”
He took a small kerosene lamp from the kitchen cabinet. “You want me to light this for you?”
It was almost too much, that a man would be so kind—and without hope of recompense. And yet, the lure he offered was almost beyond her ability to resist. She seized upon his final suggestion as a place to draw the line. “I can use a candle.”
“There’s some on the shelf,” he told her, and she nodded. She’d seen them there earlier when she’d unloaded her meager assortment on the bottom shelf, next to her bed.
The room was small, but with the candle lit and the door closed, it felt cozy. Maggie looked around at the shadowed corners, where Beau had swept and cleaned for her benefit. The man was a strange one, taking her in the way he had, not asking questions. Her fingers slowed as she unbuttoned her dress. He smelled good, like somebody she’d seen once in town. A fellow who’d stood next to the wagon and talked to Pa, and even nodded in her direction.
Maybe it was the soap he used, she thought, reaching for the yellow bar he’d left for her. Her head bent as she sniffed at the stuff, and she grinned. That was a part of it, at least. That, and maybe his clothes, all clean and smelling of fresh air.
Her dress dropped to the floor and she slipped from her old shift, shivering as cool air touched her skin. One foot dipped in the water and she felt gooseflesh form on her arms. It was hot, probably too hot for comfort, even with the well water he’d added, but he’d left an extra pail of cold to temper it. She poured half of it into the tub, then eased herself into the water. Her eyes closed and she hunkered down, leaning forward so that her arms could be covered, her breasts enveloped with the warmth.
Bliss. 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