Maggie's Beau. Carolyn Davidson

and Beau followed close at her heels, his eyes intent on her. She pulled up short before Joe, keeping a distance as she spoke to him.

      “She won’t hurt you none if I tell her who you are. Come on in with me,” she urged in a rush of breath. “She needs to know you.”

      Joe tipped his hat back and shook his head. “I’m sorta attached to my fingers, ma’am. I’d just as soon not have her take after me.”

      Maggie looked up at Beau. “Tell him. Tell him she’ll listen to me.”

      Beau nodded. “I believe she will, Joe. Let’s take a look.” He led the way, opening the doors fully and walking toward the back of the barn, the rest trailing behind him. Maggie hurried past and spoke to the new mother in soft tones, then stood as the men approached.

      “Just squat down here by me, all of you,” she said firmly. Then, turning to the dog, she spoke the names of the men who watched, reaching with one hand to touch each of them in order, her fingers barely grazing the backs of their hands. Her other hand curled atop Maisie’s head, and her monologue was continuous as she introduced each of them to the watching dog. Only as the velvet nose sniffed at the back of Joe’s hand did Maisie hesitate, her low growl signifying doubt.

      “I want you to be a good girl,” she said finally, and then bent low to whisper soft phrases in the animal’s ear. Maisie whined and tilted her head, then barked and stood, wagging her tail.

      “I’d give a passel to know what she’s sayin’ to that critter,” Pony muttered beneath his breath.

      The same thought had just crossed Beau’s mind, and he nodded. “Whatever it is, I think…”

      “She won’t bother you none,” Maggie said, cutting off his train of thought. “Just leave her be, and she’ll be fine.”

      Joe sent her a doubtful look. “You’re sure?”

      Maggie stood before the five men, dwarfed by their size. And yet, Beau thought she was, on some level, an equal. And the men seemed to consider her a bit differently than they had that first day.

      “I’m more than sure. I’m dead certain,” Maggie told them, looking from one to another. “If you leave her a bite of your leftovers once in a while, she’ll warm up. Just don’t reach for her pups.”

      She looked across the aisle to an empty stall and her eyes lit up. “There you are, Cat. I wondered where you’d got to.” From the darkened area, the lean three-legged feline hobbled toward the group, and Maggie bent to pick up her pet.

      “I fed her this morning, over by the bunkhouse,” Joe admitted shyly. “I figured she couldn’t do much hunting on her own, what with…” He shrugged, as if unwilling to speak aloud the cat’s infirmity.

      “Thank you kindly.” Maggie nodded at him solemnly. “I surely appreciate it.”

      Beau cleared his throat. “I think we’ve been lollygaggin’ around long enough this morning. There’s work to do.” The men broke ranks, two of them heading for the back door and the corral, the others picking up pitchforks. “How about taking a look at the cow while we’re here, Maggie?” he asked.

      She was already heading in that direction and he followed. “She all right?”

      Maggie squatted by the spotted Guernsey and ran her hands over the udder. She looked up at Beau and grinned. “She’s not hot anymore. I wouldn’t drink the milk yet, and I’d better put some more oil on her today, but she’ll be fine, I think. I’ll just milk her first.”

      He’d thought to do that chore himself, but there was no sense in arguing with success, he decided, and right now it looked like Maggie was on a roll. “I’ll get the oil.” He’d play nursemaid this time around, gladly, if it meant his cow was on the mend.

      Supper in his kitchen was late again; the men in the bunkhouse were already doing the evening chores by the time Beau sat down at his table. The potatoes were underdone, but the steak was rare. He’d convinced Maggie to throw it in the pan and let it sear for only a minute or so before she turned it over. She’d cringed, shivering as he cut into the tenderloin, watching as the juices ran bright red on his plate.

      “How can you eat that?” she asked, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “It’s a wonder it’s not still moving.”

      Beau chewed the tender morsel and swallowed. “You can fry yours to a frazzle if you like, but I want mine fit to eat.”

      Maggie turned back to the stove. “I want it good and dead when it goes in my stomach,” she told him. The pan sizzled as she turned the piece of meat again, and finally after a few minutes, she speared it, transferring it to her plate. “That’s more like it.”

      She helped herself to green beans, leaving Beau a second helping in the dish. “I churned butter today, and finished up with diggin’ the potatoes,” she said after a few minutes. “They’re all in the root cellar.”

      “Did anyone help you?” He’d told Shay to keep an eye out for her this afternoon.

      Maggie shook her head. “No. Shay offered, but I told him I could do it. He watched me from out by the barn while he was shoein’ a horse.” She took a bite and chewed slowly, then pushed her potatoes around on the plate. “I helped him a little bit. You don’t mind, do you?”

      “Not if he doesn’t,” Beau said. “Shay’s not much for small talk. Don’t have your feelings hurt if he doesn’t say much.”

      “He didn’t say anything, only nodded his head when I took hold of the mare’s halter and held her steady.”

      “It was her first set of shoes,” Beau explained. “She was probably a little spooked.”

      “I know. I felt like she needed someone to talk to her,” Maggie explained. “So I did. But I got the potatoes done anyway.”

      They finished eating in silence and Beau took his plate to the sink. “I’ll be out back for a while. Thanks for cooking.” He left the house, noting the two men who busied themselves inside the barn. He had things to think about, he decided, veering past the bunkhouse and heading for the small peach orchard. The trees were bare of fruit and the leaves had begun to wither. It was quiet, with starlight filtering through the tree limbs overhead. Settling himself on the ground against a dark tree trunk, he bent one knee, leaning back against the rough bark. He needed to consider carefully just how deeply he was becoming involved with his little fugitive.

      She was bright, but uneducated. He’d watched as she scanned through the book of recipes Sophie used on occasion. That she was unable to read the script therein was obvious. A look of utter frustration had masked her features, and he’d been appalled that anyone lacked the basic skills in this day and age. Most girls spent at least six years in schooling, sometimes more. And yet, Maggie appeared not to have been given that opportunity. He’d not wanted to embarrass her and had looked aside.

      Now he considered her situation. There must be some way he could approach her, some plan he could evolve to help her. She was intelligent, despite her lack of schoolroom skills. And her innate knowledge of animals was remarkable.

      Shifting against the tree, he felt a piece of tree branch beneath him and his fingers searched it out. It lay in his palm, a thickened area catching his attention, and he lifted it closer, studying the odd shape of a bole in the wood. Something about it appealed to him, and he eased his knife from his pocket as he considered the shape of his find. In the light cast from moon and stars overhead, his narrowed gaze found the suggestion of a cat within the piece of tree limb. He cut off the excess branch, then whittled at it, turning it back and forth, seeking the elusive form he’d envisioned there.

      Tomorrow evening he’d sound her out, he decided. Some way, somehow, he’d ease past her distrust and persuade her to his side. She’d come a long way already, except for flinching from him twice. When he’d taken the bottle of oil from between her knees in the barn last night, she’d inhaled sharply and shivered. And again today, when she’d