Daughter of Joy (16 page)

Conor dragged in a shuddering breath. “First Sullivan made her stand before the class, hoping to shame her into telling him where she’d hid his watch. He called her a bastard, a half-breed little thief! Beth kept insisting that she hadn’t taken it, so then he beat her across her knuckles until they bled. When that didn’t work, Sullivan locked her in the small, dark storage closet next to the wood stove. He left her there for six hours with the stove burning, until I came to fetch her!”

His shoulders slumped and his voice dropped to a rasping whisper. “By the time I carried her out of the closet, Beth was nearly unconscious from the heat and lack of water. And, when I finally got her home she wouldn’t talk. She didn’t talk for five months.
Five months!
“

A hard, brutal look glittered in his eyes. “I rode back to the school the next day. Just after the children left, I beat Sullivan to within an inch of his life. Ended up in jail for a few days before my lawyer got me out.”

Conor gave a low, guttural laugh. “I didn’t care, save that it kept me from Beth. Sullivan deserved it, and more.”

Abby didn’t know what to say. What words could assuage the horror and grief Conor must have felt in discovering what had happened to his daughter? What comfort could she offer, sensing he might well be carrying a heavy burden of guilt over his part in instigating Maudie’s cold-blooded revenge? And what blame could she lay at his feet for his retaliation against such a vicious, unfeeling teacher?

It was wrong to repay violence with violence, but Abby couldn’t find it in her heart to condemn him. That judgment must remain with the Lord.

She understood now the reasons for both Conor and Beth’s distrust. No wonder her presence in their house had been barely tolerated. No wonder the ensuing housekeepers who came and went after Maudie had not stayed long. The house had all but seethed with pain and anger.

“Beth told me the rest,” Abby said. “How you went to the school board and they rebuffed you; how you told them all off before pulling her out of school.”

“Yeah.” Conor gave a snort of disgust. “The self-righteous fools chose to back Peter Sullivan. It didn’t matter to them that he’d humiliated Beth, beaten her, and nearly killed her by locking her in that closet. There was no proof that Beth
hadn’t
stolen the watch, and since Maudie was long gone by then …

“Took me until Beth finally talked again to be sure myself, though I suspected the truth after hearing that Maudie had gone with her to school that day.” He lifted his gaze to the sky, then fleetingly closed his eyes. “So now you know the whole, sordid story.” Conor turned to her, a bitter smile on his lips. “Or at least my side of it anyway. I’m sure you’ve already heard the local version, long before you ever came to Culdee Creek.”

“Oh, I got an earful. But I also know how easily prejudices and misinformation can transform events into a faint imitation of what truly occurred.”

“So you believe me?”

“Yes, I do.”

Conor cocked his head, a half-smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “You’re a strange one, you are, Abigail Stanton. But I thank you, nonetheless.”

Abby’s pulse quickened. In the ravaged depths of his eyes, a strange new emotion, soft and gentling, mingled with a puzzling question. What did that emotion presage? she wondered. And did she dare encourage it?

It didn’t matter. Time would reveal all that needed to be revealed. For now Abby was content to await the future, and accept its advent in God’s own good time.

What
did
matter was that Conor had given her a gift this day. He had laid bare his soul, finally revealing one of the reasons for his anger and mistrust. In the doing, he had risked all.

The healing … the forgiveness … had indeed begun.

She reached out, placed her hand over his. “No, Conor MacKay.” Abby smiled. “Rather, I thank you.”

11

The L
ORD
seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the L
ORD
looketh on the heart.

1 Samuel 16:7

Conor drew up before Gates Mercantile and glanced at Abby. “Why don’t you go on inside and start your shopping, while I head down to the blacksmith’s? I need a haircut, too, so after the barbershop, I’ll meet you back here in about a half hour.”

Abby nodded. “Sounds fine to me. If I get done early, I’ll make a quick trip to the post office to mail a letter to Nelly, then hurry back.” She took up her purse and two big straw baskets, gathered her skirts, and climbed down from the buckboard.

With a tip of his hat to her, Conor urged the team onward.

From the boardwalk that fronted the store, she watched him drive off down the rutted, dirt street, then turned and entered the Mercantile. Immediately, myriad odors assailed her. Abby inhaled deeply of the sweet, rich scent of molasses, the aromatic bite of coffee, the tang of vinegar, and the heady fragrance of spice and ripe pears and apples.

In the center of the store, flanked on both sides by two long, wooden counters and tall shelves filled with all sorts of goods, stood a big, pot-bellied stove. Seated around a small table beside its radiant warmth were two elderly gents playing a game of cards. Abby recognized three women from church: Mrs. Nealy, a portly matron with frizzy brown hair, the blacksmith’s wife; Mrs. Edgerton, stern-faced and rail thin, the wife of the local butcher; and Mary Sue Edgerton, her pretty, eighteenyear-old daughter. They were standing in front of the dry goods counter, talking with Mr. Gates, the proprietor. The women turned toward her and smiled.

She walked over to them. “Good day and Merry Christmas, ladies,” Abby said in greeting, then nodded to Mr. Gates.

Mrs. Nealy eyed Abby with an inquisitive smile. “Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Stanton. So nice to see you again. What with all the problems at Culdee Creek, it must be such a relief to come to town from time to time.”

“I can’t say as that I know very many women who don’t find shopping a fine way to spend a day,” Abby replied cheerily. She’d been warned by Ella about the woman’s tendency to gossip and chose to ignore Mrs. Nealy’s attempt to elicit information about the MacKays. “Especially with Christmas only a couple of weeks away.”

She met Mr. Gates’s understanding gaze. “I’ve got quite a list for you today, when you’re finished taking care of these ladies.”

“We’ll only be a few minutes more, Mrs. Stanton,” the gray-haired man said. “I was just finishing up with Mrs. Nealy’s baking items.”

Mary Sue Edgerton scooted around her mother and took Abby by the arm. “Ella’s told me you’re quite the seamstress, Mrs. Stanton. Could you advise me on some fabric I’ve found?” She tugged Abby toward the other counter, where several bolts of colorful ginghams and calicos lay.

Abby paused to set her baskets on the floor at the end of the counter, then focused her attention on the material Mary Sue chose first to unwrap from the bolt.

“I know this isn’t appropriate for winter wear”—the young woman ran her hand over the fabric to smooth it out—“but I’m already beginning a few summer frocks for next year. What do you think of this? I want one especially for the annual town dance on May 1st.” She cast Abby a sideways glance. “I’m hoping Conor might finally come. Perhaps if you began now to encourage him …”

The calico was a subtle print of maroon and blueedged diamonds on a field of white. It would set off Mary Sue’s vibrant blue eyes and lush, wavy, ebony hair to perfection. Abby was tempted to tell her the fabric would not suit.

Then remorse filled her. She had no right to interfere with another woman’s marital designs. Mary Sue seemed pleasant enough. Conor MacKay had the right to choose whomever he wished, if and whenever he decided to wed again.

Abby smiled up at Mary Sue. “Of all the fabrics here, this looks the most flattering one for your coloring. The cloth is of a very good quality and will drape well for any pattern. It should make a lovely summer frock.”

The younger woman’s eyes lit with pleasure. “Oh, I do hope so. I want Conor to notice me for the full grown woman I really am.”

“Well, I can’t promise I can convince him to come to that dance in May,” Abby said with a laugh, “but I’ll try. It would be good for him, I think.”

Mary Sue nodded vehemently. “I think so, too.” She gave Abby’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you so much for helping me with this. You’re such a dear!”

Mr. Gates had just finished with Mrs. Nealy. Catching Abby’s glance, he signaled for her to come over. “If you’ll excuse me,” Abby murmured. She extracted her hand from Mary Sue’s, and headed to the other counter.

“So, what can I do for you today, Mrs. Stanton?”

Mr. Gates graced her with a warm, welcoming grin. He was in his early sixties, of medium height and build, and he wore a pair of spectacles that seemed perpetually smudged and perched on the end of his nose. “Need some flour, do you?” he asked. “And how about salt, baking powder, and sugar?”

“As a matter of fact,” Abby agreed with a nod, “those items will do for starters. Make that five pounds of flour, two of sugar, a tin of baking powder, and half a pound of salt. Plus, a jug of molasses, an ounce of cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, and cardamom, and some candy sprinkles.”

“Planning on a mess of Christmas baking, are you?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

The front door opened. A gust of cold air swirled in, then the door closed. Abby, busy checking items off her list as Mr. Gates filled them, paid the new arrival little heed. The matrons Nealy and Edgerton, however, lost no time in muttering their disapproval from their spot a few feet down from Abby at the counter.

“The nerve of her, to presume to do her shopping at the time of day the rest of us shop,” Abby could hear Mrs. Nealy whisper indignantly. “Who does she think she is?”

“Who else?” Mrs. Edgerton snipped back. “She’s just like the rest of them, a shameless tramp.”

Abby went still, then glanced over her shoulder. There, illuminated in the sharp winter sunlight, stood a young woman of seventeen or eighteen. She was tall and slender, but sweetly curved. Her pale blond hair was piled high on her head, exposing an elegant neck which disappeared in the collar of the ruffled white blouse that peeked from beneath her opened, dark wool coat. Her skin was flawless, her lips full and sensuously molded, her nose delicate and regal.

With downcast eyes, she walked up to the counter beside Abby. Mr. Gates paused in his task of wrapping Abby’s various spices in paper cones he had quickly made, and frowned at her.

“You might as well take a seat over there, Hannah.” He indicated a chair by the door. “I’m going to be busy a while filling Mrs. Stanton’s order.”

At the mention of Abby’s name, the girl lifted her gaze. It was all Abby could do not to gasp.

In the depths of Hannah’s clear, turquoise blue eyes burned the deepest, most soul-searing anguish Abby had ever seen. She could almost feel the girl’s hopelessness and despair. Compassion filled her.

Dear Lord, Abby thought.
Dear Lord.

Then, as quickly as she’d exposed her heart, Hannah shuttered it once more. The girl’s head dipped. She gathered her skirts, and wordlessly walked to the chair by the door. She sat, never looking up again.

Suddenly, the stove’s heat now seemed stifling. Abby turned back to Mr. Gates. “I need to mail a letter at the post office,” she mumbled. “Once you’ve wrapped all my things, why don’t you see to Hannah’s needs? I can finish up my order when I return.”

Mr. Gates’s bushy gray brows lifted in surprise. “Well, I suppose that’d be—”

“I do believe
I
was here, waiting my turn, long before that … that
woman
came in.” Mary Sue rushed up to the counter on Abby’s other side. She clutched the bolt of maroon and blue calico. “I demand you wait on me next, Mr. Gates.”

Abby graced Mary Sue with a quiet, considering look, then nodded curtly. “Do as you see fit, Mr. Gates. I’ll be back shortly.”

Turning on her heel, Abby strode toward the door. Just short of it, she paused to rebutton her coat. As she did, Hannah looked up. Their glances locked, and something fragile passed between them. Something guarded, tentative … yet intently seeking.

Abby smiled. “God loves you, Hannah,” she said, her voice pitched low so no one else could hear them. “Merry Christmas.”

The girl’s eyes grew wide, and instantly filled with tears. Abby swallowed hard, not knowing what else to say. Grasping the latch, she twisted it and shoved open the door.

Frigid air rushed in and whirled around her. Abby hurried outside. The door slammed shut behind her. Before she had taken two steps, however, the dark mass of a masculine body loomed before her. With a squawk, Abby plowed right into him.

Strong hands gripped her arms. A smug chuckle rumbled from a big chest.

“Well, well, now. What do we have here?”

The familiar voice, thick with an oily gratification, wrenched Abby from her tormented musings. She jerked her horrified gaze upward. Brody Gerard leered down at her.

“Didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of your company again so soon, Mrs. Stanton. Did you come to Grand View alone? Perhaps we have time for another quick, passionate encounter.”

Hot blood flooded Abby’s face. Anger filled her. “Unhand me this instant,” she demanded. “I want nothing to do with you. Do you hear me? Nothing!”

“I’d do what the lady asks, Gerard,” came a deep voice behind Brody that vibrated with a quiet fury. “Do it, and do it now.”

Conor, Abby thought with a rush of relief. Thank the Lord.

Brody Gerard froze. The smirk vanished from his face. His hands, however, tightened on Abby’s arms.

“And what are you going to do about it if I don’t, MacKay?” he snarled. “You’re not on your ranch now. There’ll be no hands to back you.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Conor growled back. “I kicked myself for letting you get off Culdee Creek anyway, without beating the tar out of you. It’s right nice of you to hang around Grand View for a spell. Long enough, at least, for me to correct that little oversight.”

For the first time, uncertainty flashed across Brody Gerard’s face. His grip loosened. Abby twisted free and stepped away.

Ever so slowly, he turned to face Conor. The two men eyed each other for the longest time. Then Gerard laughed, his voice still defiant.

“I got better things to do today than get into a fistfight with you. Especially,” he rasped, “over the likes of her. Maybe some other time, MacKay.”

Conor stood there. Though his hands hung loose at his sides, his stance was wide, poised for a fight. He nodded slowly. “Some other time, then.”

Brody Gerard mottled with rage. He turned and jerked open the door. Sticking in his head, he leaned into the mercantile store. “Hannah, get out here! I ain’t standing around all day at your beck and call.”

Hannah, who was still sitting beside the door, jumped to her feet and hurried outside. Gerard cast her one sneering look, then grabbed her by the arm and headed back down the boardwalk.

Abby made a move to go after them. Conor gripped her arm and pulled her back.

“Whoa now,” he said. “What do you think you’re doing? I thought I just heard you telling Gerard you wanted nothing to do with him.” He arched a dark brow. “Or did I misunderstand?”

Abby squelched the impulse to kick him in the shins. Snide comment or no, it really wouldn’t do to repay his recent rescue with violence.

“I just wanted to stop him from treating Hannah that way,” she said. “He has no right—”

“That’s where I beg to differ,” Conor was quick to interject. “He has every right, I imagine, to treat her any way he likes.”

Abby stared up at him, confused. “What do you mean? You defended my honor against him. Why won’t you defend Hannah’s as well?”

“Why else?” Conor’s features hardened into a mask. “Hannah’s a prostitute. She deserves whatever she gets. And I’m guessing, from his presence here in Grand View, that Brody Gerard has taken on a new job working for the local madam.”

Abby slid the last tray of cookies from the cookstove oven and placed it on a trivet to cool. Then she turned to survey the results of the past several hours’ work. Across the big kitchen tabletop, covered with old newspapers, sat five plates of colorfully decorated cookies, a dark, rich fruitcake brimming with nuts and candied fruit, two pumpkin and one dried apple pie.