Daughter of Joy (10 page)

Ethel gave a loud bawl, kicked over the half-filled milk pail, then flung her tail around to hit Conor squarely in the face. With a bellow of surprise, the rancher toppled off the milking stool, falling backward into a moldering pile of soiled straw. Unrepentant, the Jersey cow next turned to scrutinize him, a look of mild reproach in her big brown eyes. Then, ever so calmly, she resumed feeding from the hayrack.

“Okay, okay.” Conor climbed to his feet, and dusted off as much of the dung and straw that he could reach. “Maybe I was a bit rough milking. But I couldn’t expect you to understand, could I? One way or another, you females all back each other.”

“Talking to cows now, are you?”

Conor wheeled around. There in the barn’s doorway stood his cousin, a quizzical smile on his lips.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he growled, not in the mood for any more conversation after the one he’d just finished with Abigail Stanton. “If not, I’ve got a half-milked cow to finish.”

With the greatest solemnity, Devlin surveyed the overturned bucket and soaked floor. He couldn’t quite hide the smile, however, that tugged at one corner of his mustachioed mouth. “Looks to me like you wasted a good bit of the milk already. Was that your or Ethel’s doing?”

The absurdity of the situation finally struck Conor. He heaved a great sigh, shoved a hand roughly through his hair, then grinned. “Ethel kicked over the bucket, but I first had to irritate her, what with my less than gentle handling.”

“I’ve never known you to mistreat an animal.” His cousin frowned. “What’s eating you, Conor?”

“Nothing that a certain housekeeper couldn’t set right by learning to keep her mouth shut,” he muttered. “And I wasn’t mistreating Ethel. I was just a bit too heavyhanded.”

He bent and righted the milking stool, then pulled the bucket once more beneath the cow’s bulging udder. With a slow, expert motion of both hands, Conor pulled down alternately on a teat, squeezing out a thin stream of milk. Soon he once again had a good rhythm going. The milk, hitting the metal pail, made harsh
fffit-fffit
sounds.

“So, Mrs. Stanton’s already causing problems, is she?” Devlin queried gravely.

“She’s gotten it into her head to lecture me about how to raise Beth.” Conor shot Devlin a furious glance. “Been here all of two days, and already she thinks she has everything figured out.”

“That you’re not a good father, you mean?”

“Well, she didn’t come right out and say that. She just lectured me about setting a good example for Beth. Then she began nosing around about why Beth doesn’t cotton much to strangers anymore.”

“Why should she care? All she was hired for was to cook and clean, not gather more dirt for the local gossips.”

The milk stream from Ethel’s teats slackened, and Conor switched to the other two. “That wasn’t her intent. She claimed to want to understand Beth better.”

His tall cousin moved to stand beside him, then squatted, meeting Conor eye to eye. “Well, where’s the harm in that?”

“It’s our business—Beth’s and mine—and I already told you I don’t want her nosing around.”

“There’s more to it than that, Conor, and you know it. She’s starting to get under your skin, isn’t she?” Devlin slapped his thigh in glee. “I knew it, I knew it!”

“What you think you know doesn’t amount to a hill of beans,” Conor snarled. He pulled the milk pail aside, shoved back his stool, and stood. “She just prods and pokes too much. And I don’t like it.”

Devlin straightened. “Well, women do that. It’s their calling in life. They prod and poke until they get us rearranged just the way they want us.”

“That’s a married man’s lot, not mine.” Conor picked up the milk bucket. “I won’t stand for it.”

“It’s really not all that bad.” Devlin chuckled. “It’s a small price to pay most of the time, for all the comforts you get in return.”

“I thought you’d sworn off of pestering me about marriage.”

His cousin’s mouth dropped, then he grinned sheepishly. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did.”

Devlin shoved his Stetson back on his head. “I still think you’re being too hard on Mrs. Stanton. She seems a decent sort.”

“You can pass judgment in two days’ time?”

The foreman shrugged. “I’m pretty good at first impressions.” He paused. “Why’d you hire her in the first place, if you knew she’d be such a passel of trouble?”

The question took Conor by surprise. Why, indeed, had he hired her, when everything about Abigail Stanton set off warning bells? Was it because of her kindness to Beth when they had first met? Had he softened to her long enough to let down his guard? Yet now all he did was block her efforts at every turn, raging at her in the process, for the exact actions that had attracted him to her in the first place.

It made no sense. That angered Conor. He’d always prided himself on his logic and cool-headed decisions. These attributes had served him well when it came to most women.

He had known from the start that Maudie was little more than a whore, and that the other housekeepers were not much better. He hadn’t misjudged Beth’s mother, Squirrel Woman, either, for the simple, good-hearted squaw that she was. And, even at seventeen when he had wed Sally, he had known she was immature and self-centered.

Perhaps, though, when it came to women, he wasn’t as logical and cool-headed as he liked to imagine. Perhaps he really was just a softhearted, addlebrained fool. Or perhaps, just perhaps, he still longed for what he could never have, a woman as good and kind and brave as his mother.

He’d certainly hoped that Sally would eventually become that kind of woman. There was always something about her, Conor mused, his thoughts harking back to that first day he’d met her. She was fourteen, and she’d just moved to Grand View from Missouri. The new butcher’s youngest child, the blond-haired, brown-eyed Sally had been an exotic rose in a field of more common wildflowers.

True, she was well aware of her beauty, and played it to her fullest advantage when it came to all the local boys. Yet still, from the first moment her gaze met Conor’s, he’d known she was special, that she was for him. Sally must have known it too. She’d tried to please him in every way she could, with every resource in her limited, girlish command. From the first he’d known she’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her.

His problem, Conor supposed, had always been in his misguided fantasy that he could control Sally or any woman, and eventually mold her to his way of things. Was this what he’d hoped to do with Abigail Stanton? All he’d managed to gain for his efforts was an increase in her stubborn resistance, and to have her threaten to leave.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the truth of the matter was he didn’t really want to change much about Abigail Stanton. That admission startled Conor. What exactly was it about the woman anyway?

“Have I stumped you with that question?” Devlin asked, the amusement in his voice dragging Conor from his jumbled reverie.

“No … no, you didn’t,” Conor pretended otherwise. “I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Yeah, sure. I’d say, rather, you’ve met your match in that woman, and you haven’t the guts to admit it.”

“She’s a smart one; I’ll give her that.” Conor shifted the pail of milk to his other hand. “But I’m far from ready to believe she’s as sweet and pure as she pretends to be. A decent woman wouldn’t have taken this job, and you know it.”

“Why, because of all the talk about you?”

“Why else?”

Devlin scratched his jaw. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s smart enough to see past all those tall tales to the truth.”

“And what truth is that?”

“That you’re a decent sort,” Devlin said with a grin, “and Beth’s just a sweet little girl who’s never been given a fair shake.”

Conor grimaced. “I hardly think Abigail Stanton could’ve figured that out, leastwise not after how we’ve treated her so far.”

“Some folks are special, Conor. Some folks are able to see past all the rubbish and cut straight through to the heart of the matter.”

“And you’re saying that’s how it is with her? Is that it?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” His cousin shrugged. “Why not give her a chance, and see what happens?”

Why not? Conor asked himself. But he already knew the answer. For all practical purposes, Abigail Stanton was still a stranger. And strangers couldn’t be trusted.

Perhaps he wasn’t giving her, as Devlin put it, a “fair shake.” If it had only been himself involved, he might have been willing to do so. After all, he was a grown man. He could handle anything Abigail Stanton could dish out.

But Beth … Conor’s thoughts turned lovingly to his cherished daughter. Beth was so vulnerable, so battle-scarred from the women who had already passed through. And after that incident with that teacher …

“No,” Conor ground out, settling on his decision, “I don’t think so. She got all the chance she’s going to get. I’ve allowed her into my house. The rest is up to her. If she really cares to win Beth over, then she’s just going to have to put in the time and effort it’ll take to do it. She’s going to have to figure it out by herself.”

“And the same goes for you?” Devlin swatted a piece of straw from his trousers. “She’s just going to have to figure you out all by herself, too?”

Conor fixed his cousin with a glacial stare. “Yeah.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “And hell will freeze over first.”

7

Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.

John 3:3

Abby scooped the last bit of hot cinders from the back of the cookstove’s ashpit and dumped it in the ash bucket. After covering it with the lid, she carried the bucket to the back door to cool. She planned to dump the contents in the vegetable garden beds later to sweeten the soil for next spring’s planting. For now, though, the ashes could sit where they were.

She worked with a sense of urgency. There was so much to do this morning, just to set the kitchen back to rights. Her conversation earlier with Conor MacKay, unfortunately, only added to Abby’s sense of frustration and stress.

He had refused to help her with Beth. Indeed, it was almost as if he had dared her to succeed with the little girl. To top it all off his mercurial behavior, as he swung from moments of near cordiality and kindness to a frigid, distrustful demeanor, was even more upsetting than if he’d just been hostile all the time.

Grabbing a handful of old newspapers, she cleaned the stovetop, then wiped the surface with an oiled rag to shine and help protect it from rust. That done, she cleared the table of breakfast dishes and put them in the sink to soak. Once the tablecloth was wiped clean of crumbs, Abby swept the floor. Then, with a bucket of soapy water at her side, she began on hands and knees to scrub it.

When the floor was half-done, Abby paused to carry the bucket of now dirty water outside. She dumped it, then lingered for a few minutes to enjoy the fresh, crisp air and bright sunshine before reentering the house. She found Beth sitting at the kitchen table, stuffing a sugar cookie into her mouth. On the tablecloth before her lay a stack of six more cookies.

At sight of Abby the girl shoved back her chair and jumped to her feet. Grabbing up the remaining cookies, she turned to leave.

“Beth,” Abby called as she shut the back door. “Wait. There’s no need to run off. It’s all right to eat your cookies here. In fact,” she added, walking to the cupboard, “why don’t you wash them down with a glass of milk? It’s nice and fresh. I was just going to pour myself a glass before I took the rest of it to the springhouse.”

Beth swallowed the cookie she was chewing, then reluctantly walked back and sat down. “I’m not supposed to have snacks. At least that’s what the other housekeepers told me. They said I was too fat.”

“Did they now?” Abby brought over two glasses of milk. She set one before Beth, then carried the other around to the opposite side of the table and sat. “What does your papa say about it? Does he think you’re too fat?”

Beth took a drink of her milk, wiped away the white mustache it had formed with the back of her hand, then shook her head. “Nope. Papa tells me I’m the most beautiful, perfect young lady he’s ever met.” She cocked her head. “But you think I’m fat, don’t you?”

“I think you have a healthy appetite, and that you eat what you eat because you need to.” Abby eyed Beth’s pile of cookies. “Are there any left in the cookie jar?”

“Nope.” With a smug little smile, Beth took a big bite of another cookie, then another drink of milk.

“Do you think you could spare me one cookie then? To go with my milk, I mean?”

Bright brown eyes studied her. Abby could almost see the wheels turning in the little girl’s head.

Finally, Beth nodded. “I suppose you could have one.” With quite evident reluctance, she shoved a cookie across the table. “But only because my papa taught me to share, not because I like you or anything like that.”

Abby accepted the cookie and took a bite. “Sharing is good,” she offered, once she had chewed and swallowed her mouthful of sugar cookie. “Manners are good, too. You never know when they might stand you in good stead.”

Beth gave a snort of disgust. “Manners! Some folk in these parts wouldn’t recognize a manner if it hit them square between the eyes!”

“No, some folk wouldn’t,” Abby conceded, carefully not mentioning the fact that neither would Beth. “But good manners are as much to your benefit as to those you give them to. In the end, it’s just as important that a lady, or gentleman for that matter, knows in her heart that she did well by others.” Abby paused, then laughed. “Do you understand what I mean, Beth? I’m not even sure myself if I said that straight.”

“Yeah.” The girl mumbled from around another sugar cookie. “It comes down to honor and what’s in your heart.”

Abby smiled. “That’s correct, Beth. You’ve hit it right on the head.” She bit into her cookie.

Beth shoved yet another cookie into her mouth, then washed it down with the rest of her milk. After wiping her mouth clean, she pushed back her chair and stood. “I need to go see Cousin Ella. I promised her I’d play games with Devlin Jr. this morning.”

“That sounds like a fine plan. We really must begin your lessons today, though.” Abby eyed her. “How about you be back here in an hour? That’ll give us a couple of hours to look over some books I brought along especially for you, before it’s time to start the noon meal.”

Beth scowled. For an instant, Abby was sure the girl was going to refuse. Then she nodded. “Okay. I haven’t much choice anyway. Papa told me last night I had to start my lessons today, or risk a good hide tanning.”

Abby’s eyes widened. “He threatened to beat you?”

“Nah.” Beth laughed. “Papa’s more bark than bite, leastwise when it comes to me.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Beth turned and headed toward the back door. When she reached it, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. “By the way,” she said, “you can have the rest of my cookies if you want. Four filled me up just fine.”

Abby smiled. “Well, thank you, Beth. But I think I’ll just put them back, in case you get hungry for a snack later on.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Beth,” Abby said as the girl turned back toward the door.

“Yeah?” Her tone had suddenly turned sullen, her look guarded.

“I have this,”—Abby hurried to the other cupboard and picked up a small, cloth-wrapped package—“for you. I made it last night.”

Beth eyed it warily. “What is it?”

“A gift.” She held it out to the little girl. “It’s nothing expensive or anything, but I thought you might like it.”

“I shouldn’t be accepting gifts from you,” Beth muttered as she took the package. “Papa says we don’t need nothing from nobody.”

“That’s ‘anything from anybody,’” Abby automatically corrected, watching Beth begin to unwrap the little parcel.

Beth shot her an irritated look. “Yeah. Isn’t that what I said?” She pulled out the doll dress. “What’s this for?” she demanded, holding it up.

“For your doll, of course.” Abby bit back her rising exasperation. Couldn’t the child at least accept a present with some pretense at graciousness? “I don’t know very many little girls who don’t enjoy a new dress for their doll from time to time. Perhaps you might eventually even enjoy making some doll clothes of your own. I have a whole box of pretty fabric scraps that would make some wonderful—”

“I don’t want to learn to sew. That’s prissy girl’s work, and I’m no prissy girl!” Beth threw the dress on the table. “I don’t want this, either. Papa was right. Accepting gifts always puts you in someone else’s debt.”

“Not necessarily, Beth.” Abby placed her hand over the little girl’s. “Sometimes a gift is given out of friendship, for the sheer joy of giving. You owe me nothing just because you accept this dress, any more than learning to sew would place you in my debt. Sewing is an extremely useful skill for everyone, not just ‘prissy girls.’”

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Beth’s face darkened with anger. Abby could tell a storm was about to break. “I don’t want your dress!”

Whatever hope she had had of making any headway with Beth disintegrated. Abby released Beth’s hand and stepped back. “Fine. But if you change your mind, let me know. In the meanwhile, I’ll keep it in my bunkhouse.”

“You just do that.” The girl backed away. “And it can rot there, for all I care!” With that she turned and ran from the kitchen.

Abby finished her cookie and milk. Then she cleaned up and resumed her scrubbing of the floor. On hands and knees she swung the scrub brush to and fro, rhythmically, mindlessly, fighting back her tears of frustration.

“What, L-Lord, am I doing wr-wrong?” Abby asked, her voice wobbly with emotion. “What m-more do you want me to do?”

Her thoughts flitted back over the events of the morning. Everything had started off pleasantly. Yet she had soon antagonized both father and daughter to the point they’d stomped off in anger.

Was it her careless tongue? Or was she just pushing them too fast in her eagerness to help, to heal?

Abby gave a shrill, wry laugh. Who was she to imagine she could help or heal anyone, especially right now? She could barely manage her own life, much less even drag herself from bed some days. Indeed, what was there to drag herself from bed for?

Tears filled her eyes. Though Abby knew they were tears of self-pity—which made her even more angry and upset—she let them flow nonetheless. She cried long, guilty, gulping sobs, the tears falling to mingle and meld with the floor’s dirty wash water. Yet, all the while, she scrubbed, fiercely attacking the wooden floor as if her life depended on it.

She knew she shouldn’t feel this way. After all, she was a Christian; the Lord was always with her. God would protect and deliver her even from this most terrible time in her life, if only she trusted, and had patience. But, even knowing and believing this with all her heart, Abby still sometimes found it so very, very hard. Indeed, right now, fighting the battle of living from day to day seemed the hardest battle she had ever fought.

“Lord, why can’t You help me just a bit more to cope with and overcome the pain of my losses?” she moaned softly. “Why can’t You soften the hearts of Conor and Beth MacKay just a little faster? All I want is a little peace without stress and strife,” she sobbed. “Is that too much to ask, after what I’ve been through, to expect things to go easier for a time?”

The Lord spoke so often of walking in love, of the need for patience and perseverance. But sometimes Abby wondered if she had sufficient strength left anymore for the immense task of living God had set for her. Sometimes, especially now in the aftermath of her grief, she feared there wasn’t enough of herself left to pull back together.

Like now, Abby thought. How easily my spirit tumbles into despair over a few slights and thoughtless words. I never fell apart so quickly before … before Joshua and Thomas died.

Was this, then, the terrible consequence of grief and loss? The destruction of everything that had once so well served you? If so, why did the Lord permit such catastrophes to occur? And what good could possibly come from them?

Even before the questions filtered fully through her mind, Abby had her answer. It had been there all along. The Lord Jesus had given His answer through the Scriptures. They were words, beloved words, inscribed forever in her heart.

Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.

Born again. Abby had once imagined those words spoke of the rebirth inherent with baptism, and the acceptance of God as one’s personal Savior. But now, now she was beginning to see a greater, far deeper meaning.

Everything that happened in life—whether for good or bad, joyous or tragic reasons—held the potential to sanctify and bring one closer to the Lord. Even, Abby realized, the personal pain and horror of loss. In life’s catastrophic upheavals, in the self-fragmentation, confusion, and spirit-shattering grief, there was always the hope of rebirth to a new and even better life—a life not of this world but of the Spirit.

A surprising peace, a deep joy, filled her. Gradually, Abby saw the frustrating, discouraging events of today through new eyes—the Lord’s eyes. Though little progress except that she could attend Sunday services had been made, even this was a major concession for a man such as Conor MacKay. And, though the talk with Beth had ended poorly, Abby sensed she’d begun to span the chasm of mistrust and hostility separating them.

Things were indeed progressing, but in God’s own good time, not hers. Patience. Patience, diligence, and unrelenting trust in the Lord were all she needed. She would show Mr. Conor MacKay the stuff a good and faithful Christian was made of. She would win his daughter over with or without his help. And she would win him over, too.