Daughter of Joy (18 page)

I didn’t hold you or kiss you just now in the hopes of taking advantage of you. I swear it.”

“Then why did you …” A sudden realization, a wild joy, swamped Abby. On its heels quickly followed the fear. She did not want him to want her. She did not dare let herself want him.

What had been little more than a pleasant stirring of desire was rapidly becoming something far deeper. Something that not only encompassed her heart but reawakened old hopes, dreams, and unfulfilled yearnings.

Yet surely nothing could come of a relationship with Conor. They were too different. He did not know God. Indeed, she was not even certain how Conor felt about the holy bonds of matrimony, or if he would even honor them.

Where could a woman like her fit into his life? And would he be any different, in the end, than had been her father and Thomas? Would he allow her to become the woman, the person, she’d always wished—and now intended—to be?

Abby backed farther from him. “I don’t want to know why you held and kissed me.” She vehemently shook her head. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Doesn’t it, Abby? Doesn’t it?”

The truth hovered between them—implacably ruthless, inescapably relentless—and clear as the light of day. But it was also a truth not easily or wisely faced tonight of all nights. With a despairing cry, Abby turned and fled. Fled from Conor, and from her overwhelming feelings.

Yet even as she ran, Abby knew she could not run forever. Her growing desire for Conor MacKay was a force that couldn’t long be denied.

12

Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and he shall lift you up.

James 4:10

Conor awoke early the next morning. He walked to the window just as the sun’s rays peeked over a cloud-shrouded horizon, momentarily gilded the land, then were smothered behind another turbulent gray cloud. He stood there for a long while in his frigid bedroom, gazing out the frost-edged window at the white expanse of rolling hills and snow-topped, scattered stands of pines. Unbidden, his thoughts harked back to his midnight encounter with Abby.

The sound of the back door closing, and footsteps moving cautiously across the kitchen floor had awoken him. Though his first impulse had been to grab his Colt 45 revolver and slip downstairs to confront the intruder, somehow Conor had known it was Abby.

He’d found her in the parlor kneeling before the Christmas tree, sobbing as if her heart would break. In the next instant Conor was on his own knees beside her, gathering her into his arms. To his profound surprise and pleasure, Abby had instantly snuggled close, clinging to him as if he were the long lost beacon in her darkness.

She had smelled so good, felt so right in his arms. It was the most natural thing in the world that they should eventually kiss. He had wanted her for a long while now. He had been relieved that she had at last responded to him. It marked the beginning, he had thought, of a new relationship, fraught with mystery and wonder.

With a shuddering sigh, Conor leaned his head against the ice-coated window. He closed his eyes. He had not thought any woman could ever again make him feel so vulnerable, or leave him so confused and yearning. Yet, in the space of a few fevered, chaotic minutes, Abby had done just that.

He straightened and gave a wry laugh. How ironic, after all these years, that he should moon over some woman he might never have. Since Sally and Squirrel Woman, all he’d wanted from any woman was the periodic easing of his body’s physical needs. He had given little thought to the haunting, less tangible needs of his heart.

The wisest move, Conor decided, would be to put aside his growing desire for Abigail Stanton. If that required more frequent visits to Sadie Fleming’s whorehouse outside Grand View for a time, then so be it. It was far better than making a fool of himself in his own house.

Yet, if the truth were told, only Abby held any appeal. Only Abby plucked at his heart, touched him as no other. Even more confounding, since he had met Abby he no longer cared to use women solely for his own pleasure.

He inhaled a deep breath and turned from the window. Walking back to the chair holding his clothes, Conor slipped on his denims, socks, and boots. What a fine Christmas this had been, he thought, with a wry shake of his head. As a sign of good faith, he had allowed Abby to have a Christmas tree. She, in turn, had gifted him with a mind-numbing load of doubts, fears, and unrequited needs.

Merry Christmas, Conor congratulated himself grimly. Merry Christmas and—

A knock, tentative and timid, sounded at the door. Conor grabbed up his woolen shirt and pulled it on. Then he strode across his room and wrenched open the door. Beth stood there in a pink and white flannel nightgown, its high neck enclosed by lace and ribbons. At sight of him, her happy expression faded.

“Wh-what’s wrong, Papa?” she asked. “I heard you moving about, so I thought it was all right to come visit.”

Conor’s heart gave a guilty lurch. He forced a smile. “It’s nothing, girl. Nothing at all.” He began to button the front of his shirt. “What can I do for you at such an early hour?”

His daughter’s eyes brightened once more. She brushed a tangled hank of hair from her face. “I went downstairs for a peek at the tree. I saw some presents there. Some presents for you and me!”

“Indeed?” In the intensity of the moment, Conor hadn’t noticed much else last night but Abby. Now, though, it all made sense, her presence there so late in the parlor.

Beth’s head bobbed in agreement. “We gave Abby a Christmas gift, so she must have given us some, too.” She grabbed his hand. “Can we go down and see them, Papa? Can we open them?”

So, Conor thought sourly, Abby had not seen fit to stop with just her rejection of him. She had chosen to twist the knife deeper by being kind and thoughtful, and full of the Christmas spirit. A sudden impulse to take up her gifts and fling them back at her filled him.

But he couldn’t, and wouldn’t. This was the first time they had celebrated Christmas since Squirrel Woman had died. He had not seen Beth this excited or happy in a long while. His tumultuous feelings for Abby notwithstanding, Conor wasn’t about to deny his daughter this fleeting moment of joy.

Unfortunately, if Beth’s enthusiasm for this Christmas celebration were any evidence, it would not be the last. Whether intended or not, Abigail Stanton had seen to that, too.

“Yes.” Conor nodded, pasting on a happy face as he allowed himself to be tugged from his bedroom. “We can go down and open the gifts.”

Five minutes later, as he added fresh logs and tinder to the hearth and stirred the coals to a renewed flame, Beth excitedly sorted presents, delighted to find the majority were for her. She had the good manners, however, to wait until her father finally joined her before tearing into her little pile of gifts.

Conor watched her, unable to long hold back a grin of pleasure. Only when she had finished opening and remarking over all of hers did he at last unwrap his own gift from Abby. The gloves were a surprise. He fingered the fine leather, his emotions mixed. He also, he belatedly realized, must have frowned.

“Why do you look so angry, Papa?” Beth gazed up at him in concern. “Don’t you like Abby’s present?”

“Yes, I like it very much.” He sighed. “It was kind of her to do this for us.”

“I didn’t know Christmas could be so fun. I always wanted to get gifts like the ones I saw under Aunt Ella and Uncle Devlin’s tree each year, but I didn’t know how really, really nice it was until we finally had Christmas in our own house. Let’s do it again next year. Please, please, Papa?”

Gifts, fun, excitement. They weren’t the true reason, Conor knew, for the celebration of this holiday. He could almost hear his mother, her voice soft and dear, speaking to him, reminding him even now of what he had chosen so long ago to forget. Forget the fleeting moments of Christian happiness he had had with his own family, because it hurt too much to remember.

“Be always mindful, Conor, lad,” she had instructed him one Christmas when he was nearly the same age as Beth, “of the lowly stable and its precious occupant. And make of your heart the humble, hallowed bed in which to lay the Holy Child.”

Something stirred deep within Conor, a movement, a subtle shifting of memories and convictions. He did not know if he could stoop so low again. It was a mighty thing to ask of a proud man. But for a brief moment, for his daughter’s sake, Conor would try.

He gestured toward Abby’s little wooden manager scene sitting beneath the tree. “Christmas isn’t about gifts, girl,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s about the baby born so long ago to a simple man and woman of Israel. Would you like to hear the story?”

“Yes, Papa.” Beth nodded solemnly.

After all these years, Conor wasn’t so sure he could trust such a tale to memory. He rose, walked to the big oak cupboard and bookcase. From the top shelf he took down an ancient Bible and began to leaf through the timeworn pages. It had been his father’s Bible, passed down from generation to generation of devout Christians, all the way back to his grandfather Sean MacKay, the first MacKay to emigrate from Scotland during the horrible years of the Highland Clearances.

As he turned the pages, searching for the story his mother always read to him on Christmas Eve, a sense of continuity, of union and fellowship with all the MacKays who had come before him washed over Conor. It was a glorious, if humbling experience. The realization made his eyes burn and his throat tighten.

With trembling fingers, Conor finally touched the page wherein began chapter two of St. Luke, the physician. “And it came to pass in those days,” he began to read, “that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed …”

All day Conor pursued Abby, searching for an opportune moment to confront her about their midnight kiss. His pursuit, however, proved fruitless until late that evening. After the big Christmas dinner given for the hands and an endless and totally unexpected round of Christmas carols led by the ever ebullient Irishman, Frank Murphy, Abby’s frenzied efforts to put the kitchen aright then began. Though he waited patiently through it all, after a time, Conor couldn’t help but view Abby’s endless dashing about the kitchen as a pretense to avoid him. At long last, with a silent house and Beth put to bed, that patience finally wore thin.

As she stood at the sink washing the last of the dishes, Conor poured them both a mug of coffee. Pausing beside her, he impaled her with a hard-eyed stare. “We need to talk. Come. Sit.”

Her hands shook so badly she dropped the dishrag she’d been holding. “I-I can’t,” Abby stammered, not quite meeting his gaze. “It’s late, and I need to finish the dishes.”

“And if the rest sit until tomorrow, who’s to care?” Conor refused to be deterred. “I’m the only one you really need worry about.” He indicated the seat across from him, where he had set her coffee. “Now, sit, will you? And wipe that petrified look off your face. Why now, because of one little kiss, do you act as if I’ve suddenly become some monster?”

Abby blushed crimson. “I don’t think you’ve become a monster, Conor MacKay. But please, just let it be. I can’t deal with this, or you, right now.”

Anger swelled in Conor. He had been right. She had been avoiding him all day. “How long do you plan to pretend it never happened?” he demanded. “How long will it take before you
are
ready to talk?”

When she refused to answer, he slammed his fist on the table. The coffee mugs trembled, and some of their contents sloshed over the sides. “Blast it, Abby! Don’t do this to me.” Try as he might, Conor could not control the frustrated rage boiling within him. If he did not take care, there was no telling what this infuriating woman might drive him to.

“If my holding and kissing you revolted you so badly,” Conor tried again, attempting to take a less threatening tack, “just say so and be done with it. Tell me I was out of line, that you don’t want it to ever happen again. But don’t dance around me, pretend I’m not there, all the while hoping and praying that I really
will
go away.”

Like a flower wilting on the stem, the fight seemed to drain from her. Abby lowered herself into the chair. She buried her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she moaned. “I don’t mean to make you feel bad just because you kissed me. It’s just … just that I’m so confused.”

Conor gripped his mug. “Well, I’m confused, too.” He stared into the dark depths of his coffee. “I ache to hold you, Abby. I yearn to kiss you again and again. Yet you make me feel to reattempt either would be to cause you dishonor.”

He laughed, and the sound was bleak, despairing. “And you think
you’re
confused!”

“Please, Conor. I said I didn’t wish to talk about this.”

“Why?” He jerked his gaze up to meet hers. “Because you might find yourself admitting to some feelings for me? Because you might find yourself in my arms again, kissing me?”

Fire flashed in her eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like me to throw myself at you like … like all the others.”

The accusation struck Conor full in the face. Pain twisted in him. So, he thought, she didn’t know him that well after all.

“You see me as some depraved monster, don’t you, Abby?” he asked softly. “A man who’d stoop so low as to take advantage of a woman in her moment of weakness. A man,” he added as a sudden thought struck him, “who, because he’s no longer a practicing Christian, can never be worthy of you.”

“No, no.” Abby moaned. “Please, Conor. Don’t drag my religious beliefs into this. It’s far more than just that.”

“Then tell me what it is, Abby. Help me understand.” She sighed, and closed her eyes. “I … can’t. It’s too personal, and I don’t wish to talk about it.”