Maggie's Beau. Carolyn Davidson

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СКАЧАТЬ shirt she’d cadged from Pony. The man added his scrutiny to that of Sophie and Maggie backed to the door, her only thought to escape his penetrating stare.

      She felt the mesh of the screen against her back and her fingers lay flat against the wooden doorjamb. “I’m Maggie,” she whispered, then cleared her throat to repeat the admission. “My name’s Maggie. I’ve been stayin’ here.”

      Sophie climbed the stairs, sidestepping the potatoes that blocked her path and offered the basket she carried to Maggie’s care. “Take this, girl. I’ll just grab a’hold of my satchel.”

      Turning, she took her bag from her companion and bent to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You take good care of my girl, Carmichael. You hear me?” At his abashed nod, Sophie turned back, her brow rising as she faced Maggie.

      “Well, back off, girl, and I’ll open the door for you to carry my baking inside. Then you better come back out here and pick up those spuds. They won’t get to the kettle by themselves.”

      Maggie knew she was staring, sensed that her mouth was agape, and was only able to do as she was bid. By the time she’d carried the heavy basket indoors and deposited it on the table, the buggy was gone, and Sophie was trudging past her with satchel in hand, muttering words that predicted a troublesome time for Beau Jackson when he showed his face once more.

      Back on the porch, Maggie gathered the potatoes and settled back on the swing, working rapidly at the peeling process, fearing her time here was soon to come to an end. She reached for last potato as the oven door clanged open in the kitchen.

      “What you got in this oven, girl?” Sophie’s query rang out even as Maggie heard the big roasting pan slide from place and clatter against the stovetop. The lid was lifted with a rattle and all was silent.

      “Pork,” Maggie said, peeling long strips of skin from the potato she held.

      “Where’s the onions?”

      Maggie’s eyes closed and she leaned her head back against the swing. “I’ll get a couple, right away,” she answered, lifting the kettle from the floor and carrying it through the kitchen door.

      She deposited it on the sinkboard and turned to face Sophie. “I’m not a very good cook, I’m afraid. And Beau’s got me fixin’ meals for all five of them, while they’re bringin’ in the hay.”

      Sophie stuck a wooden-handled fork into the pork, which Maggie noticed had browned nicely. She’d remembered the salt and pepper, and was thankful for that small favor.

      “This is pret’near done, I think. Let’s get the onions in right off and let them cook awhile,” Sophie said. “You got some in the house?”

      Maggie nodded, hurrying to the pantry. Sophie took them from her hands and whipped out a paring knife, Maggie watching in awe as the slices fell beneath the agile blade. In moments, the roaster was back in the oven and Sophie was donning a huge apron. She lifted the coffeepot from the back of the stove and gauged its weight.

      “Feels like we need a fresh supply for supper. Myself, I like a cup of tea in the afternoon. You want one, Maggie?”

      “Yes, oh, yes,” Maggie answered, hurrying to finish the lone potato she’d abandoned minutes past. The full kettle was on the stove in moments, over the hottest area, and Maggie slapped a lid in place, then quickly lifted it to add a scant handful of salt. She’d learned that much, at least, during this long week.

      Sophie arranged the flowered teapot from the kitchen buffet in the middle of the table, brought a pitcher of cream from the pantry and stuck a spoon in the sugar bowl. “Come sit down, girl. I think we need to talk,” she said, choosing two cups from the half dozen that graced the top shelf of the hutch. Matching saucers held the china cups she’d admired from afar during her stay, and Maggie sat as instructed, her eyes taking in the tea party Sophie assembled with such ease.

      Her mother had spoken of such a thing, recalling the years of her youth, before Edgar O’Neill stole the roses from her cheeks and the dreams from her heart. Without thinking, Maggie spoke the thoughts in her mind. “My mama told me about a tea party once.”

      Sophie settled herself across the table, chose a spoon from the jar and placed it on her saucer. “Did she fix tea for you?”

      Maggie shook her head. “My pa said tea was foolishness.” Her lips compressed as she considered her words. Sophie would think her an ungrateful daughter. “He let us drink milk, though,” she said quickly.

      Sophie nodded. “Where’d you come from, girl? How long you been here?”

      “A week, and better,” Maggie said. “Beau—I mean, Mr. Jackson said I could stay for a while.” Remembering the fading bruising of her cheek and eye, Maggie looked down, and then realized her foolishness. Sophie would have long since spotted the telltale signs of a beating. And as if her thoughts had wings to the woman’s mind, Maggie heard the question voiced aloud.

      “Who hit you, Maggie? You got other bruises besides those I can see?” Sophie leaned across the table, pouring a stream of tea into Maggie’s cup, and then her own. A spoonful of sugar was added, then a dash of cream before she offered the pitcher to Maggie. “Do you like cream?” she asked quietly.

      Inviting the woman’s scrutiny, Maggie lifted her head and met a kindly gaze. “I never had tea before,” she admitted. “I reckon I’d like cream in it. It tastes good in coffee.” Pouring a reckless amount into the delicately scented beverage seemed wasteful, but following Sophie’s lead, Maggie added sugar to the brew and, choosing a spoon, stirred it with care.

      Somehow there seemed to be a ritual about this occasion, and she sipped at the hot tea carefully, replacing the cup as she savored the new flavor. And then she folded her hands in her lap and prepared for what was to come. “My pa gets mean sometimes,” she began.

      “Your mother didn’t stop him?” Sophie asked softly, even as her eyes flashed and her tone sharpened.

      Maggie shook her head. “Nah. I’m the last one home and Ma knew not to put in a word or Pa would lash out at her, too. My sisters took all they could before they high-tailed it last spring.”

      “Where’d they go?” Sophie asked, lifting her tea cup to her mouth.

      “Two men from town, brothers they were, asked Emily and Roberta to marry up with them. They’d seen them on the sly, I think.”

      Sophie nodded. “And they were more adventuresome than you, I guess.”

      Maggie chanced a grin. “Yes, ma’am, they were. Pa didn’t have a glimmer, till he found their empty bed one morning.” Her grin became a wide smile. “He was hoppin’ mad. Pret’near punched a hole in the wall, and then remembered himself and hit me and Mama instead. Said we were to blame for not tellin’ him, so he could stop them from leavin’.” She recalled that day and a profound satisfaction filled her heart. “I’m glad they got away. I’m just sorry Mama took a whippin’. Laid her up for a couple of days.”

      Sophie stood abruptly, moving across the kitchen. Reaching the window, she turned and faced Maggie. “Land sakes, girl. You’re lucky to be alive. Why did you stay so long?”

      Maggie’s mind filled with the image of Verna O’Neill, the woman who’d borne her. “I knew he’d take after Mama real bad once I left. But I couldn’t hang on any longer, СКАЧАТЬ