Daughter of Joy (13 page)

Any other time, out of kindness if nothing else, Abby might have been tempted to acquiesce. There was something in the man’s voice, though, and the way his gaze traveled down her body as he spoke, that filled her with unease. There was also something, she decided, about his manner—so self-assured and confident that he’d get what he asked—that set her teeth on edge. She wished she had listened more closely to Ella’s warnings.

Abby shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gerard. Perhaps some other time.”

She tugged back on her hand, fully expecting him to release it. His grip, however, only tightened. Her heart rate quickened. “Mr. Gerard,” she croaked, suddenly afraid. “Please let me go.”

“Well, if you won’t stay, at least let me have a kiss.
If
you even want me to let you go, once I’m done kissing you.”

With that, he pulled her to him, tugged her shawl from her hair, and grasped the back of her head, imprisoning it. Abby tried to twist free, but he was too strong. She opened her mouth to cry out for help, but it was too late. With a speed and power that shocked her, Brody Gerard slammed his mouth down on hers.

9

I have trodden the winepress alone; and of the people there was none with me.

Isaiah 63:3

For a split second, Abby stood there, frozen in horrified disbelief. Then anger flooded her. How dare he! How dare he!

She reared back, breaking his hold, and slapped his face. “Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go!”

Brody smiled, his lips lifting in a feral grimace that reminded her of a snarling wolf. “I kinda like screamers. Besides, I heard talk of the sort of housekeepers MacKay hires. At least you’ve got the pick of the litter with me.”

With that, Brody Gerard swung Abby up into his arms. Before she could gather her wits about her for a fullthroated scream, he shoved her face against his chest and pinned her head there. Frantically, blindly, Abby fought to break free as he carried her to a pile of straw heaped in the furthest corner of the barn.

Panic filled her. Disbelief that this was happening numbed her. She fought and she prayed. Prayed for deliverance, for some hand to rescue her.

When he reached the corner, Brody knelt and threw her down on the straw. Abby shoved up and scrambled as far back from him as she could.

“Don’t do this,” she pleaded. “I’m not that kind of a woman!”

Hands perched on his hips, he leered down at her. “Yes, you are. I heard you were a widow woman. You know what it’s like. You need it.”

“No!” Abby screamed as he crept toward her. “No! Help me. Somebody h-help m—”

Gerard smothered her further cries with his mouth. She struck out at him wildly, kicking, clawing. He grabbed her, dragged her beneath him, and covered her with the heavy weight of his body.

Dear God!
Abby begged in silent, terror-stricken desperation.
Dear God, help me!

“Can’t say as I’m pleased with the price our beef has gotten these past three years,” Conor observed before downing the last of his whiskey. “If the amount of rainfall doesn’t improve next summer, and the grass doesn’t get a chance to catch up, we’re in for another expensive year.”

“Yeah,” Devlin agreed, glancing outside from his spot across from Conor in the other fireplace chair. “Makes you almost wish for open range grazing again, doesn’t it?”

Frank Murphy shifted on the sofa and cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him. “Those were the good old days, the roundups, your meals cooked over a campfire, sleeping under the stars … But, as good as it was, those days are gone. It’s just lucky for us Culdee Creek’s got a lot of its own grazing land, and Conor here’s a good manager of his money. Some of the other ranchers haven’t been quite so fortunate.”

Henry and H.C. nodded in unison. “Yeah,” H.C. then spoke up, “like the Rockin’ B. I heard it’s on the selling block. And there’s rumors the Big Sandy ain’t doing too well, either.”

“Rest assured”—Conor stood and walked over to refill his glass at the side table—“Culdee Creek is holding its own. And a lot of that success is thanks to your—”

“Papa, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Conor turned to find his daughter, cheeks flushed, still dressed in her jacket, woolen cap, and mittens, standing in the hall doorway. “What is it, girl?” he asked.

She lowered her gaze and began to shuffle her feet. “I-I’d rather talk to you in private, Papa.” Beth glanced up. “It’s … it’s about Mrs. Stanton.”

“Mrs. Stanton?” Conor frowned. He set down his glass. “Guess I’d better see what kind of spat these two have managed to get into this time,” he said to the men. Devlin groaned and rolled his eyes. The other hands just grinned.

Taking Beth by the hand, Conor led her out of earshot of the parlor and of Ella, who was still working in the kitchen. “What’s it now, girl?” he demanded, his irritation rising. Obviously, from the men’s reactions just now, his housekeeper’s and daughter’s ongoing battles were becoming common knowledge. “I thought you two were beginning to get along better?”

“It’s not me this time, Papa.” She sidled close and lowered her voice. “It’s Mrs. Stanton. I saw her in the barn just now, kissing Mr. Gerard!”

For a split second, Conor thought he had misunderstood. But the telling color that flooded Beth’s face confirmed her words. He squatted and took hold of her by both arms.

“You stay here,” he rasped, clamping down on his rising anger, and equally intense sense of disappointment. “Do you hear me?
Stay here.
”

She jerked her head up, her eyes now big as saucers. “Y-yes, Papa.”

Conor rose, then turned and walked to the parlor doorway. “I’ve got to step out for a spell, boys. Enjoy the whiskey but save me some. I might be needing it.”

Before anyone could reply, he wheeled about, stalking down the hall and through the kitchen.

A startled Ella looked up from the sink of soapsuds and dishes. “Conor, did you need—”

Ignoring her question, he jerked open the back door and kept on going, giving no care to a jacket or the wind blowing now in frigid, bone-numbing gusts. With long, strong strides, Conor covered the distance to the closer barn, knowing that was where Brody Gerard was keeping an eye on the prize heifer. And, as he moved along, Conor battled the confused rage burgeoning inside him.

She said she was a decent, God-fearing woman. Why, she’d even spurned his overtures. Yet now she was in the barn with a hand who’d hardly been here a week, kissing him and doing God knew what else by now?

Well, what did
he
care? he asked himself. So what if Abigail Stanton, for all her fine airs and false protestations, was a woman of loose morals? As long as she did her work, and treated Beth decently, what did it matter if she bedded half the hands at Culdee Creek?

In the end, he’d always known she was no better than the rest.

Yet still, as Conor approached the barn, his pace slowed. He paused in the doorway for a split second, surprised to find his heart pounding, his fists clenched. What in the Sam Hill was the matter with him?

It was almost … almost as if he were afraid to know the truth.

Conor forced himself on. He strode across the barn’s expanse, passing the lamp-lit stall with the heifer and her new calf, a basket of untouched food sitting nearby, all the while scanning the interior. At last he found them, sprawled in a far corner in a pile of straw, Brody Gerard atop a passionately writhing Abigail Stanton.

Conor slid to a halt, his mind reeling at the sight before him. Just turn and leave, he told himself. Leave them to their sordid activities.

Then Abigail let out a long, low moan. Something in Conor exploded. With a growl of pure, animalistic rage, he closed the distance, reached down, and grabbed Brody Gerard by the waistband of his trousers, jerking him to his feet.

“What the—”

The big hand staggered backward, then gained his footing. Hands clenched, he whirled around. Quickly, Conor assumed a fighting stance, his weight poised on the balls of his feet. His own hands fisted, he waited, ready to fend off any blow.

Then Brody Gerard recognized him. “Mr. MacKay. I didn’t know it was you.”

Behind him, Abigail Stanton shoved to a sitting position, and fumbled to rebutton the front of her blouse. “Thank the Lord you came when you did, Mr. MacKay.” She climbed to her feet. “I don’t know what I would’ve done—”

Brody Gerard chuckled. “Oh, I reckon we all know what you would’ve done, don’t we, honey?” He turned to face Conor. “I’m sorry you caught us like this, Mr. MacKay. She came in here, and one thing led to another. But I never wanted anyone to know. Even ladies like her prefer to keep up appearances.”

“Ladies like me?”
Abigail Stanton pushed her way past him. Her hair was a tumbled, disheveled mass. Her eyes were unnaturally bright. Beneath her hastily refastened white blouse, her bosom heaved in a most disconcerting way.

With an effort Conor jerked away, hardening himself to his sudden surge of desire. She didn’t want him, never had, he fiercely reminded himself. Yet her wanton behavior just now was ample evidence she did want someone!

“He’s lying, Mr. MacKay!” Her impassioned cry wrenched him back to reality. “He was the one who forced it all. If you hadn’t gotten here when you did—”

“I don’t care what you do or with whom, Mrs. Stanton,” Conor cut her off. “All I ask is that you use more discretion in the future. My daughter saw you two groping each other in the straw. I’d prefer she not be subjected to such a disgusting display of vulgarity again. Is that clear?”

Struck speechless, she turned ashen. Then, as realization as to the meaning of his words seemed to fill her, her eyes flooded with tears.

“You—you believe him over me?” Abigail Stanton finally ground out hoarsely. “You don’t even care to hear my side of it, do you! You’ve always,
always
held me in such low regard!”

“My regard for you has never been a requirement for employment,” Conor snarled. “I thought I made that clear. Just obey the rules from here on out, and we’ll get along fine.”

“Rules? Rules?” She glared at him, her tears apparently all but forgotten in her growing anger. “Hang your stupid rules! I’m not some child who needs rules, especially not yours. And how dare you dictate to me what you’ll tolerate as my moral behavior? Don’t you dare. Your standards are far too low ever to satisfy me!”

“Well, I can see I’m not needed here anymore,” Brody Gerard interjected with a smirking grin. “I’ll just take my Thanksgiving supper and head on back to the bunkhouse.”

The now enraged Abigail Stanton rounded on him. “No, Mr. Gerard, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re far more important to Mr. MacKay than I could ever be. You stay here with him, and
I’ll
leave.”

She turned back to Conor, her eyes flashing, her chin lifted defiantly. “Yes, Mr. MacKay,” she cried, “that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ve had all I can take of you and your condescending, cynical attitude. I quit, do you hear me? First thing in the morning, you can just make arrangements for one of your more gentlemanly hands to take me and my belongings back to the Springs!”

Long after everyone had returned to their dwellings Conor sat in the parlor, yet another glass of whiskey cradled in his hand, staring into the fire. The room was warm, cozy even. Any other evening after a day’s hard work he would, by this time, be fighting off drowsiness.

Beth had gone upstairs a couple of hours ago to play with her dolls. He knew he should head up soon to tuck her in and give her a good-night kiss. For some reason, though, Conor couldn’t seem to find the energy needed to impel his limbs from the chair.

Abigail Stanton was leaving on the morrow. Just as he had feared, he had managed to set the record of all records, running her off quicker than all the rest of his former housekeepers. The thought, however, was not at all amusing. In fact, it downright hurt.

He should have known it would come to this. She had always seemed too good to be true.

Conor leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Stupid fool, he silently berated himself. You should have known better. Stupid, lonely, vulnerable fool …

A soft footfall sounded a few feet away. Conor jerked upright. Beth stood there in her long, white cotton nightdress. She clutched her rag doll to her. Her eyes were red, swollen. She had been crying.

Laying aside his drink, Conor extended his arms to her. “Come here, girl. Come and let Papa hold you.”