Daughter of Joy (14 page)

With a soft cry, Beth ran and threw herself into his arms. She drew up her legs beneath her nightdress, laid her head on his chest, and clasped her doll tightly to her. Conor enclosed his daughter in the cocoon of his body and arms. Bending over her, he kissed her forehead.

“What is it, girl? Tell Papa what made you cry.”

“M-Mrs. Stanton and th-that m-man,” she sobbed anew. “I-I should’ve never told you.”

“Rather,” Conor corrected her gently, “I wish you’d never seen them in the first place. I had hoped she’d set a better example than that for you.”

“No, no, I shouldn’t have told you what I did,” Beth wailed.

“Yes, you should’ve, and you did. You were right to tell me.”

His daughter squirmed against his protective clasp, breaking free at last to rear back and look him in the eyes. Her chubby face was wet with her tears but her gaze, as she met his, was unwavering and direct.

“No, Papa,” she said, “I shouldn’t have told you what I did because it was a lie. I didn’t come on them. I was already there. I wanted to see if the heifer had had her calf, so I climbed up into the loft over the birthing stall.”

Conor’s gut clenched. There was no way Beth could’ve only seen a kiss, trapped as she was above them. Blast Abigail Stanton!

Tenderly, he wiped away his daughter’s tears. “It’s all right, girl. Did you see things … things you didn’t understand?”

“Oh, Papa!” Beth rolled her eyes. “I didn’t lie ’cause I was embarrassed at what they did. I know all about that stuff from watching our horses and dogs and cattle!”

Conor cocked his head, puzzled. “Then what did you lie about, Beth?”

She inhaled a deep breath. “I lied when I said Mrs. Stanton kissed Mr. Brody. She didn’t want him to kiss her or touch her. He did it anyway.”

Conor went very still. “Go on, girl. Tell me everything.”

“She told him to let her go. She even slapped him, but he just laughed and picked her up and carried her into that pile of straw. That’s when I climbed down and ran to get you.”

If you hadn’t gotten here when you did …

Abigail Stanton’s words pierced clear through him, and into the gaping hole left in its wake surged nausea. God above! Brody Gerard had meant to rape her! And he’d nearly left the man to do it! Her moans had been ones of terror, not of delight. Yet he … he had been willing, no,
eager
, to think the worst of her.

Clutching Beth, Conor leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Ah, girl, girl,” he groaned, “it doesn’t matter. What matters is what I did to hurt Mrs. Stanton. I hurt her so badly she’s leaving.”

“That’s why I lied, Papa,” Beth whispered. “Because I thought you wanted her to leave. And if I could make it seem that she was just like Maudie …”

Words—words Abigail had spoken to him that morning in the kitchen—pricked at the edges of Conor’s memory.
It is your example that she’ll follow … Do you … want that influence to be one of mistrust for her fellow man?

Conor choked back an acrid swell of self-loathing and regret. She had been right all along, Abigail Stanton had. It always came back to him. And he
had
failed once again as a father, if this recent action of Beth’s was any example of the influence he had had upon his daughter.

Despair swallowed him. He had failed first with Evan when his harsh, unyielding ways had run him off, and now he was slowly but surely doing the same thing to Beth. Would she too eventually leave him, heartsick and bitter over what he’d become? Conor didn’t think he could bear it if he also ended up losing Beth. As much as he tried to deny it, despite what his son had done, Conor missed Evan. Missed him so badly that, at times, it was almost a physical, bone-deep pain.

In the end, he was no better than his father. He was
worse
than his father. His father, mired in the misery of his own unhappy childhood, in thrall to his whiskey bottle, didn’t know what he did. But he, Conor MacKay, knew.

He had Abigail Stanton to thank for that precious, if exquisitely painful, revelation. Though he had struggled mightily to discount and deny it, she had been trying to warn him almost from the first time she had met him that his own bitterness corrupted more than just himself.

At the memory of that first day she had come to Culdee Creek, Conor’s lips lifted in a bleak parody of a smile. From the start, Abigail had stood up to him. From the start she had dared tell him what few others had either the insight or the courage to say.

But why? Why had she risked herself, even jeopardized her position here? And what had she received from him in return?

You—you believe him over me?
he heard her hoarsely demand.
You’ve always held me in such low regard.

Shame and bitter regret filled him. Humiliation was all he had ever offered her, in return for her efforts on his and Beth’s behalf. And now, now even she had had enough. Abigail was leaving.

“I was very wrong to let you think I wanted Mrs. Stanton to leave,” he said, gazing tenderly down at his daughter. “I don’t want her to leave. Do you?”

For a long moment Beth eyed him carefully. “Not really, Papa,” she admitted finally. “She’s been nice to me, even when I haven’t been so nice to her. She told me she wants to be friends. But if you don’t want me to, I won’t, Papa,” his daughter hastened to add. “You come first, Papa. You always will.”

He smiled, then leaned down to kiss her once more on the forehead. “And you’ll always come first with me, girl. I don’t think that means you can’t be friends with Mrs. Stanton, though. You’re growing up mighty fast. I’d lay odds she could teach you a lot about being a young woman. What do you think?”

Beth grinned. “Yes, I think so, too, Papa.”

“Well, good then.” Conor slid her off his lap and set her on her feet. “It’s getting late, and you need to be abed. Let me tuck you in first.”

“And then what, Papa?”

“Then,” he said, rising and taking her hand, “I need to have a very important talk with our Mrs. Stanton.”

10

Even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye.

Colossians 3:13

With little care as to how she was doing it, Abby threw her clothes into the big luggage trunk. She had cried out all her tears hours ago, and grim reality had finally set in. She was leaving on the morrow. When Conor MacKay, or one of his hands who had been delegated to take her back to Colorado Springs, arrived at her door, she would be packed and ready to go.

After tossing in two shirtwaist blouses, four petticoats, and six pair of underdrawers, Abby paused to search out the next items to pack. The room was in a state of chaos, the bed rumpled from her repeated bouts of frustrated weeping, one pillow pounded flat, the other on the floor. The second large trunk sat open, all the sewing fabrics hastily folded and dumped inside. Her school books sat piled precariously on the edge of the small worktable beside her flower-painted white porcelain teapot, her beloved, framed daguerreotypes carefully stacked nearby. Finally, Abby’s gaze came to rest on the small, nickleplated box with the combination lock.

Myriad emotions churning within, she walked to the table, picked up the box, and carried it over to the rocking chair where she sat and opened it. Inside were her most precious possessions. She sorted through them, her eyes misting over once more.

Oh, how she missed them: sweet Martin, her youngest brother; impetuous John, the middle one; and shy, studious Edward. Good boys one and all, she thought as she fingered their pictures tenderly.

Her gaze snagged on a scene of her mother, waving gaily beside a massive white lighthouse situated somewhere along the New England coast. Her mother, industrious, virtuous, the ideal minister’s wife. Had her father ever truly realized what a crown she was to him?

But then her father, so focused on serving the Lord, failed frequently to notice or appreciate what the Lord had gifted him with. Abby smiled sadly. As well-intentioned as he was, her father viewed his family solely as instruments to be used in his ministry. All were sacrificed in his pursuit of God, with little thought given to the needs and feelings of those closest to him.

It was why she had married Thomas, Abby thought, fingering a daguerreotype of her husband. Her father had decided—without consultation with either her or her mother—that Thomas, a full fifteen years older and recently widowed, was the proper life mate for Abby.

No matter that Abby hadn’t loved Thomas. No matter that they hadn’t anything in common but their love for the Lord. All that mattered was that her father’s will be done.

With a sigh, she set the daguerreotypes aside. It didn’t matter anymore, anyway. She was free at last of the two domineering, if well-meaning men in her life. And, on the morrow, she’d also at last be free of an unfair, judgmental, and supremely exasperating one, too.

Her glance fell on the items that remained within the metal box: baby booties, a gold, oval brooch holding a lock of Joshua’s hair, her wedding ring, several of her son’s childish drawings, and a small, wooden toy train. These were all Abby had left of her former life.

She choked back a freshened swell of tears. All that truly mattered had been relegated to this one small box. Indeed, what else was left her?

Abby had thought she’d turned the corner on her grief when she’d come to Culdee Creek. The events of the past few weeks had seemed to signal a gradual thawing in Conor MacKay’s frigid reserve. Beth had at last accepted the doll dress she’d made for her. Things seemed to be getting better.

But now … now Abby saw that she had been wrong. She had failed. Failed herself … failed the Lord. Abby knew she couldn’t stay.

To remain while Brody Gerard continued on at Culdee Creek would be too humiliating. And, if that wasn’t shame enough, Abby feared the new hand now would have few qualms about accosting her again.

But this was only part of the reason behind her departure. In her heart of hearts, Abby knew Conor MacKay was the real reason. To stay on now would be to surrender her growing sense of self. She had standards and values. She wanted her walk with the Lord to guide others, too.

Perhaps it was prideful to feel this way. Perhaps she was still blind to the Lord’s true will. But one thing she did know. She could no longer serve God here. Conor MacKay stood in the way.

Abby closed the metal box and locked it. With a despairing sigh, she buried her face in her hands.

Ah, Lord, I cry unto Thee, and Thou dost not hear me, Abby lifted her thoughts heavenward as she uttered the prayer of the despondent Job. I stand up, and Thou regardest me not.

“What else do you wish of me, Lord?” she whispered. “Tell me, I beseech you, before—”

A heavy tread sounded on the porch. A firm hand rapped upon the door.

She jumped. Terror rippled through her. What if … what if it were Brody Gerard, come to finish what he’d earlier begun?

Frantically, Abby looked around. The cast-iron poker beside the stove caught her eye. She hurried to it and picked it up.

The knocking, more insistent now, came again.

“G-go away.” She gripped the poker, never moving from her spot by the stove. “I’m not receiving visitors tonight.”

“It’s me, Abby. Conor. Conor MacKay.”

Confusion filled her. Why, tonight of all nights, would Conor MacKay wish to speak with her?

“Go away, I s-say.” Abby’s voice quavered.

“No, Abby, I won’t go away.”

Abby. He’d called her Abby! Why now? Her suspicions rose.

Poker in hand, Abby strode to the door. “I’m not fool enough to let you in,” she angrily called to him through the wooden barrier. “Not after today. If you’ve come to say something, just say it now, through the door.”

After a long pause, she heard a chuckle.

“Well, I suppose, after my behavior of late, I deserve that. And, if this must be my penance, standing out here in the cold, talking to you through this door like some miserable supplicant, then so be it.”

She bit back a harsh reply. “Just say what you came to say.”

“Beth came to me just a while ago, and told me she’d lied about what she’d seen in the barn. She told me you resisted Brody Gerard, not encouraged him. She also told me she doesn’t want you to leave.”

Conor’s voice moved closer. Abby could almost imagine him pressing his forehead against the door. Her throat went dry; her hands turned clammy.

“I don’t want you to leave, either, Abby.”

The softly spoken words touched her, plucking at Abby’s heart. Yet, though they were words she’d longed to hear since she’d first come to Culdee Creek, she was no longer sure they were enough now to keep her here. What did they really mean, anyway, when spoken by a man such as Conor MacKay?

She leaned against the door, and laid her cheek to it. “I’m sorry, Mr. MacKay, but it’s too late. What you said to me today was the culmination of what you’ve thought of me all along. Why else would you have so quickly jumped to the conclusion you did?”

Her question pierced clear through to Conor’s heart. He closed his eyes. Why else, indeed? he asked himself bitterly. Though this woman had intrigued him from the start, he had kept his guard up against her, automatically attributing nearly everything she did to self-serving, ulterior motives. After all these years, he knew no other way to protect himself against the inevitable rejection.

But did he dare risk sharing such a personal insight? Did he dare to disarm his heart after all these years, even if just a little? And was keeping Abby here really worth such a gamble?

Somehow, Conor knew it was. He was tired. Tired of fighting alone. Yet he was also so very, very afraid. Afraid to hope, to trust, to let himself depend on someone ever again.

His fear waged a mighty battle against his growing need and, for the first time in a long while, Conor allowed his need to win. This time he had to risk it. He leaned more heavily against the bunkhouse door. If he didn’t, he would lose Abigail Stanton and the flicker of hope beginning to burn in his heart.

“You’re right,” Conor forced himself to say. “I did jump to a false conclusion today, based on my own sorry, sordid expectations. But, blast it, Abby,”—he slammed his fist against the door—“it was never through any fault of yours. The fault was mine. Do you hear me?” he groaned. “Mine.”

The latch rattled. The doorknob turned. It was all Conor could do to straighten and leap back before the door swung open. Lamplight flooded the small porch, illuminating Abigail Stanton’s pale face and reddened, swollen eyes.

For long seconds they stood there, facing each other, silent and staring. Then she moved slightly. Conor caught sight of a cast-iron poker clutched in her hand.

He grinned. “Planning to beat me to death rather than compromise your honor?”

Her glance skittered momentarily down to the stove tool, then back up to his. “If necessary, yes,” she replied, defiance in her eyes and voice. “At first I grabbed it because I thought you might be Brody Gerard. Then, when I discovered it was you, it seemed equally as handy. I couldn’t be sure, after what you said today, what your intentions were, either.”

“Gerard will be out of here first thing in the morning,” Conor growled, now angry. “I won’t keep a man on Culdee Creek who abuses a woman. I’m not, and never have been, that kind of a man. All I came to do was talk to you.”

“Like last time, Mr. MacKay?”

Her note of challenge reminded Conor of the innuendoes he’d made that night he’d all but invited her into his bed. Heat flooded his face.

“No, not like last time. I came to apologize for my stupidity and my cruel words. I was wrong, plain and simple.”

Abby saw the shame burning in his eyes. It was in stark contrast to the defiant tilt of his chin, the tight line of his lips. Yet, he’d called himself stupid. He had admitted his words were cruel. This was, she realized, a hard admission for a man as proud as Conor MacKay.

But it had been hard on her, too. He had humiliated her, cut her to the quick. Could she possibly open the door of her heart to him again?

“I accept your apology, Mr. MacKay,” Abby muttered tautly. “But it’s still too late.” She began to close the door. “Good night.”

“No!” He shoved his booted foot between the door and frame. “It’s
not
too late. I won’t let it be too late. I can’t.”

Her heart pounding beneath her breast, Abby stared up at him. “Please, Mr. MacKay,” she whispered, her throat gone tight and dry. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he snarled, his blue eyes flashing. He gripped the door so she couldn’t close it. “Don’t expect forgiveness from you? But I thought that was the
Christian
thing to do?”

She staggered back. The poker clattered to the floor, and she stood there trembling with the power of her emotions. Emotions that were a confusing jumble of fear, anger, and heartrending need.

“I said I accepted your apology,” she finally gritted out the words. “What more do you want?”

“I want
forgiveness
. I want you to give me another chance. Me and Beth.” He slammed open the door and strode inside. “Is that such a hard thing for a good Christian woman like you to do?”

Forgiveness, Abby thought. Why was it suddenly so hard for her to grant? The Lord had instructed to forgive seventy times seven if need be. Yet to truly forgive this man would mean trusting and trying again. It would mean accepting his request to stay on at Culdee Creek. And it might even mean opening her heart to loving him.

The realization terrified her. She’d thought she was safe at last, now that she’d finally made the decision to leave. Every instinct shouted—no
screamed
—for Abby to get away while she still could. She sought desperately for an excuse, any excuse, to flee this place—and this man. But Conor MacKay wouldn’t give her that excuse. And neither, it seemed, would the Lord.

Tears filled her eyes. “Yes, Mr. MacKay,” Abby said softly, “it is hard to forgive you. But it’s not because I’m not a good Christian. It’s because I’m weak and afraid.”

The tears trickled down her cheeks, but through the tears, Abby saw an answering moisture spring in Conor MacKay’s eyes. The realization gladdened her, and eased the pain of her next words. “With the Lord’s help, though, I can do all things.”

“So you’ll forgive me and give us another chance?”

A final, fleeting impulse to turn and run before it was too late swamped Abby. But an equally strong certainty that the Lord had answered her prayers rushed in to sweep away those lingering doubts and fears.

Ah, Lord, I cry unto Thee, and Thou
dost
hear me!

“Yes, Mr. MacKay,” she said. “I forgive you, and will give you and Beth another chance.”