Keeping Christmas. Marisa Carroll

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      Chapter Three

      What the food lacked in flavor it made up for in quantity, Beau decided. Pieces of beef swimming in broth with bits of potatoes made up the bulk of his meal, small pieces of carrots adding color. The onions lent seasoning, but she’d been pretty scant with salt and pepper. He shook the salt shaker over his dish with a heavy hand, aware of Maggie watching from across the table.

      “Not very good, is it?” she asked quietly. “I’m not the best cook in the world.”

      He glanced up. “It’s better than I could have done, Maggie.” Another bite found its way into his mouth. “Maybe next time you just need to quit cooking it before the vegetables get…” He paused, unwilling to add to her gloom.

      “Mushy,” she supplied. “I probably won’t be here long enough for there to be a next time, though,” she said after a moment. “I don’t want you to get in Dutch over me stayin’ here.”

      “No one will know where you are, as far as I’m concerned,” he told her grimly. “And if your father comes hunting you, he’ll find more than his match.”

      She glanced up at him, and Beau caught a glimpse of beauty in the line of cheek and brow, a promise of charm in the lifting of long lashes as one eye met his gaze. Her swollen eye was still purpled, but as he watched, a tear fell from its lower lid. She blinked and her mouth trembled. “You’re a nice man, Beau Jackson. I reckon you mean that.”

      Beau reached across the table, capturing her hand, holding it loosely within his palm. “You can stay here as long as you want to, Maggie.”

      She rose from the table, drawing her hand from his, and picked up her plate. “I’ll wash out the wheelbarrow in the morning and load up the potatoes I dug. You got a place to store them?”

      Beau nodded. “There’s an old root cellar on the west side of the house. You’ll want to watch for mice when you open the door. Last year we piled the potatoes against the far wall. Had pretty near enough to last past spring. They’ll get soft by then and you have to cut off the sprouts, but they’re fit to eat. There’s a tub for carrots and a place to hang onions and such.”

      “There’s more to dig, yet. Ma always liked to have the old plants pulled and the ground turned in the fall. I can do that tomorrow.”

      “Then don’t plan on mucking out stalls,” Beau told her firmly. “The men can tend to that. I’d rather have you at the house.”

      She stood at the sink, her shoulders hunched, her hands busy with the dishes. “Do you think I could help with the horses, maybe the yearlings? I’ve got a good touch with animals.”

      “We’ll see,” Beau said. “You might want to take a look at my milk cow in the morning. Maybe you can do something for her. She’s been touchy the last couple of days at milking time.”

      Maggie turned to face him. “Might be she’s a little milk bound. You ever use camphorated oil on her?”

      Beau shook his head. “She’s never had any problems before.”

      “You got any oil? I’ll warm some up and see if it helps. You just don’t want to get it in the milk. You have to wash off her bag before you commence to milkin’ her.”

      Maybe the girl was right. It was worth a try. Beau pushed back from the table and rose. “There’s a boxful of stuff in the pantry,” he said. “Salves and such. Take a look. I’m pretty sure there’s camphorated oil there.”

      Maggie wiped her hands on a towel, nodding her understanding. “I’ll see what I can find. Have you milked her tonight, yet?”

      “No, I’m ready to do the last of the chores now.”

      “Can I come with you?” she asked.

      Beau nodded. “I’ll wait for you.”

      The cow’s tail twitched as Maggie sat on the milking stool. “It’s only me,” she murmured, her hand moving slowly over the animal’s flank. She glanced up at Beau. “She got a name?”

      “Not that I know of,” he told her with a grin. “I just call her the cow.”

      “Animals do better with a name.” Her hands moved together now, over the curve of the cow’s belly, then to the front udder. A visible shiver passed over the creature and she shifted her near leg.

      “She feels kinda hot, inflamed maybe,” Maggie said quietly. “Let’s try the warm oil and see if it helps by morning.” One hand moved to her pocket and she withdrew a small bottle she’d warmed atop the cookstove only minutes before. She uncapped it and poured a puddle of it into her palm, then spread the pungent liquid over the bulging udder.

      The cow stood still, only lowing softly as Maggie intoned words of comfort. Her voice was soft as she glanced at Beau. “You’re not gonna want to use her milk tonight. I’m gonna use some of this on her teats, too.”

      Beau murmured agreement, crouching beside her, taking the oil from between her knees where she’d lodged it as she worked. She glanced up quickly at his touch, but he ignored her, his fingers deft as he tightened the cap and waited, silent as he listened to the soft syllables she uttered.

      “I’ll milk her for you,” Maggie offered. “I don’t think I’d ought to strip her out, though, just take milk enough to keep her comfortable.”

      “I’ll get the pail,” Beau offered, rising and moving at an easy pace. He returned in moments and put the bucket in place.