Keeping Christmas. Marisa Carroll

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.

      His attention was too intense, his presence too near, and Maggie shifted uncomfortably on the stool. “Haven’t you got chores to do?” she asked, glancing up at him. “I can handle her just fine by myself.”

      He nodded and stepped back. “Leave the pail by the door when you’ve finished. I’ll dump it.”

      The cow suffered Maggie’s hands on her, only shifting a bit in protest. “I’m about done, cow. You’ll be fine tomorrow. Just a little fever, nothing we can’t take care of.” The words flowed in a quiet stream, and within minutes the task was done. Putting the stool against the wall, she looked toward the back of the barn to where deep shadows held the gloom of nightfall. There was no sign of Beau.

      “Must have gone out back,” she murmured to herself, and then knelt down to look beneath the manger. “Come on out, Cat. I see you there.” With a low chirp deep in her throat, the three-legged creature stepped cautiously past the cow and into the aisle.

      “Guess I shoulda followed my own advice, Cat,” Maggie murmured, bending to run her fingers through the rough fur. “Never did give you a name, did I?” She squatted next to the animal, speaking softly. “I wasn’t real sure you were gonna live, you know. I didn’t want to bury a critter I was attached to, and I thought if I didn’t name you, it wouldn’t matter so much if you died. That was pretty dumb, wasn’t it?”

      She stood, and the cat eyed her from her three-legged stance. “Come on, then,” Maggie told her. “You can walk with me up to the house. I don’t think the mister would want you inside, though.”

      Lifting the milk pail, she stepped to the double doors, the cat at her heels. Overhead, the stars were like silver buckshot against the sky and she tipped her head back in amazement at the sheer number of them. Perhaps she hadn’t looked up lately, she decided. For more years than she could remember, she’d hung her head lest she be accused of being uppity, it seemed. But tonight she felt free, and the thrill of that discovery brought a sunburst of joy to her heart. With a light step, she set off for the house. The pail bumped against her leg, reminding her of Beau’s words, and she deposited it next to the doorway, then made her way across the yard.

      “She’s got a good hand, don’t she?” Pony stood in the shadows just inside the last stall, watching as the girl vanished in the darkness. “Do you suppose she knows what she’s doin’? With the stuff she smeared on your cow, I mean?”

      “We’ll find out, won’t we.” She’d disappeared, swallowed up in the night, and then he heard the distinct sound of his screened door closing. “There’s something about her that I can’t put my finger on. I saw it the other day, with her cat and dog, and again, just now, the way she talked to that poor crippled animal.” He shot a glance at Pony. “You’re going to think this is far-fetched, but it’s like she understands them—and they know it.”

      “Nah,” Pony said, denying Beau’s concern. “I’ve seen folks like that in the circus. Either you got it, or you don’t. Most of us don’t. I kinda got the touch, with horses anyway, but there’s those who have a gift.” His voice trailed off and he snorted. “Now you’ll think I’m the one goin’ out on a limb.”

      The two men walked the length of the barn, a lone lantern providing light overhead. “What you gonna do with her, boss?” Pony asked diffidently.

      “Nothing,” Beau answered.

      “She’s a pretty good-lookin’ woman, ain’t she?”

      He shot Pony a dark look and his words were grudging. “Yeah, I suppose so.” Better than pretty good, he thought glumly, remembering the gleam of dark hair in lantern light as she soothed the milk cow.

      “She know how to cook? I’m gettin’ plumb sick of eatin’ my own fixin’.” Pony’s query held a wistful note. “Seems like I get stuck with most of the meals. Course, Joe don’t know the first thing about food, ’cept for eatin’ it, and Radley does his share just haulin’ in wood and keepin’ the ashes dumped.”

      Beau noted the lack of Shay’s name in Pony’s litany, then grinned as the man continued his sad tale. “I was thinkin’ maybe she’d fill in a meal once in a while for us, when she gets the knack real good.”

      “Once she learns how to shake on a little more salt and pepper, she won’t be too bad,” Beau told him. “I doubt her mother had much inspiration in the kitchen. From what she’s said, there wasn’t much to be grateful for around their table.”

      Pony stepped into the aisle, then bent to peer between two barrels. “I thought as much,” he exclaimed softly. “I heard a noise a while ago. Looks like we got something goin’ on. That mangy hound’s made herself a nest.”

      “I saw her by the porch earlier,” Beau said softly, crouching beside the other man. A soft growl issued from the darkness, and he caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows. “I wonder that Maggie didn’t notice,” he whispered.

      “You better tell her,” Pony advised. “She’ll be madder’n a wet hen if you don’t and she finds out.” His chuckle was short. “Damned if we’re not both a couple of softies, boss. Dogs been havin’ litters on their own since year one. This’n will do just fine by herself.”

      He rose stiffly, and Beau followed suit. “You’re probably right.” They walked to the front of the barn, and Beau lifted the lantern from its perch. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, moving from the barn to the yard. Behind him, Pony swung the doors into place and latched them firmly.

      The storeroom door was closed, and he stood indecisively, his knuckles poised to rap against the solid wood. Without warning, it swung open and Beau remained where he stood, one hand uplifted. Framed in the glow of candlelight, she resembled a nymph, her eyes startled, her body beneath the simple shift a shadowy outline. Without thinking, he clenched his hand, and she hunched her shoulders, ducking her head.

      His arm dropped, the fist he’d unwittingly formed jamming against his hip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, Maggie.”

      Her chin lifted and she backed into her room, one hand pushing against the open door, as if she would close him out. “I was going to