Daughter of Joy (20 page)

“A kiss isn’t a sin, Abby.” Ella scooted close and wrapped her arm about Abby’s shoulders. She gave her a quick squeeze.

Abby lifted eyes burning with despair. “I wanted far, far more than a kiss from Conor, Ella. The feel of him pressed close to me, the scent of his skin, his taste …” She clutched her arms tightly to her. “I’ve never felt like I felt with him that night. For a moment in his arms, I forgot about everything else. Even,” she said, her breath catching, “even about God.”

“Oh, Abby, Abby.” Her friend laid her head against hers. “Don’t you think it was the Lord who made us that way, when a man and woman come together in love? And doesn’t such a love, when sanctified by the holy bonds of matrimony, honor the very God who made them?”

“But, if it had happened that night, it wouldn’t have been sanctified by marriage,” Abby wailed. “And yet I came so close to not even caring. Oh, Ella, what kind of woman have I become?”

“A woman who has finally awakened to herself, and her true woman’s needs?”

Abby flushed. She hadn’t meant to imply that Thomas hadn’t fulfilled her. To say any more would surely dishonor his memory.

“I tell you true, Ella,” she finally forced herself to reply. “I fear those woman’s needs. For me, they seem nothing more than an occasion for sin.”

The red-haired woman nodded. “They can indeed be. It seems to me, though, that instead of turning from Conor and what you two might share, you need to battle the temptations and not let them overcome you.” She arched a brow. “Isn’t he worth the risk?”

Abby lowered her head. “I don’t know, Ella. Is anyone worth the risk of losing God?”

“No, no one is,” she replied. “But is that the choice the Lord is asking of you? Think long and hard on that one, Abby.”

With a slow, tender movement of her mouth, Ella returned Abby’s wobbly smile. “What matters most, though, I think, is caring about and needing the other person badly enough to risk all. It’s finding the courage to follow one’s heart. And it’s clinging to the faith that love can surmount what has happened before, and surpass what’s yet to come.”

Abby spent a restless night pondering Ella’s words, and her friend’s heartbreaking revelation of her husband’s infidelity. Any woman would’ve found such a betrayal painful. Knowing how deeply Ella loved Devlin, Abby sensed that this particular breach of trust was especially devastating.

What if she allowed herself to fall in love with Conor with the same intensity of love that Ella felt for her husband? Then what if he decided that he wanted nothing more to do with her? What would she do then? The consequences were too terrible to consider.

Time and again, Conor had proven himself to be a hard man, used to taking what he wanted, yet also equally as willing to deny himself if that served him better. What if he decided it best for him to withhold his love? Even worse, what if he offered her his love, but refused to wed her? And what if, in the end, he was incapable of loving again as Abby wished to be loved?

With a groan of despair, she reared up in bed, pounded her pillow, then flipped over onto her side. Love was too hard, too fraught with dangerous consequences. No wonder her father had decided to make the choice for her. Had he even, in his wisdom, purposely chosen for her a kind but passionless man? In many ways, it now seemed safer than risking one’s happiness and independence by chaining one’s heart to some hopeless dream.

Yet why, then, did her yearning for Conor grow stronger with each passing day? Why was it becoming increasingly harder to see him, be near him, and not want to fall into his arms? Was it because it really was God’s will that she should come to love and wed this man, or simply something baser? Something she must fight against with all her strength?

The battle raged for hours but, at long last, exhaustion claimed Abby. She drifted off to sleep—a sleep rife with dreams of heat and fire, and a terrible punishment.

Flames surged up around her. Smoke engulfed her. She choked, clawing at the air.

Abby awoke with a start to find herself sitting upright in bed. Immediately, the scent of something burning assailed her. She gagged as foul, acrid smoke filled her lungs.

A crackling noise reached her. She noted, for the first time, a faint light permeating the room. She looked upward.

There, above the woodstove, flames licked at the ceiling. The metal stovepipe glowed an eerie red.

With a cry, Abby flung back the covers and leaped from bed. She slammed her feet into her boots, and threw her wool coat over her shoulders. Heedless of the frigid weather and slippery, snow-covered terrain, she ran outside.

The back door of the main house was unlocked. She rushed inside and headed for the stairs leading up to the bedrooms.

“Conor,” she screamed, taking the steps two at a time. “Conor, come quick. The bunkhouse is on fire!”

As she reached the top of the stairs, Abby heard a muffled curse, then the sound of bare feet slapping against the floor. Breathing hard, she clutched her coat over her nightgown, slid to a stop outside his bedroom, and waited. A minute later Conor, bleary-eyed and haphazardly dressed, appeared in his doorway.

“What happened?”

“I-I don’t know,” Abby stammered. “I’m guessing it’s a chimney fire. The upper part of the stovepipe looks red hot, and the ceiling and roof above it are in flames.”

He shoved a hand through his uncombed hair. “Water will be hard to come by in this freezing weather,” he muttered. “We’ll have to use snow.”

Conor fixed her with a fierce look. “Run to Devlin’s house and rouse him. I’ll roust out the hands.”

The two headed down the stairs, hurried across the kitchen, and parted on their separate missions. By the time all available help had been commandeered, the entire bunkhouse roof was in flames. Smoke billowed from the open door. Ladders were soon placed against the little house, and buckets of snow were hauled up in an attempt to douse the fire.

It did little good. As Abby stood there watching the men fight what was rapidly becoming a losing battle, she suddenly remembered her belongings. Frantic, she ran over to Conor, who was directing the fire fighting efforts.

“My things!” she gasped. “My trunks and sewing machine. Is there any way anything can be saved?”

With a face smudged black from the smoke, Conor turned and looked down at her. “We can try, but I can’t promise we’ll salvage much. The fire’s out of control.”

“Wendell, H.C.!” He shouted over the din, signaling the two closest hands. “Over here.”

The two men hurried to his side.

“Wet some blankets, cover yourselves, and see what you can save from inside. Try for Abby’s sewing machine first, then her trunks. But don’t risk your safety. If it looks too bad in there, get out with what you can.”

The men nodded. A few minutes later, covered with wet wool blankets, they headed into the bunkhouse. They soon returned with the sewing machine and one trunk. Another trip inside, and they dragged out Abby’s other trunk plus an armload of books. This time, though, thick, black smoke followed them. Abby could see the tongues of flame leaping within, devouring everything in their path. The two men bent, coughing and struggling for breath.

Finally, a soot-blackened Wendell staggered over. “That’s about all we d-dare bring out, Mr. MacKay,” he panted. “What with all the smoke, we could hardly see or breathe that last trip inside.”

Abby grasped the ranch hand by the arm. “It’s okay, Wendell.” She forced a smile. “You’ve done all you could. There’s nothing left in there that’s more important than your—”

Her breath caught, then Abby uttered a small cry. “My pictures! Joshua’s drawings and lock of hair!” She had lost so much. She could not bear to lose what little she had left.

Without thinking, Abby darted toward the bunkhouse. Conor grabbed her by the arm and jerked her back.

“Where in the blazes do you think you’re going?”

Tears streaming down her face, Abby twisted and fought to free herself. “Let me go! My metal box!” she sobbed. “I have to get my metal box!”

Conor pulled Abby to him. “Are you mad? Didn’t you just hear Wendell say that was it? It’s too dangerous to go back in there, Abby. The roof is going to collapse any second now.”

“I don’t care! It’s all I have left of Joshua and Thomas,” she wailed, even as she fought to control the mindless panic rising inside her. “Let me go. Let me go, I say!”

“Ella.” Conor motioned to her. “Come here, quick.”

Ella hurried over.

Conor shoved Abby into her arms. “Hold onto her, and don’t let her go.”

“Please, please, Conor,” Abby begged, now sobbing hysterically. He didn’t understand. No one could understand. “Just let me go in. The box is on the table. I left it there tonight. I’ll be in and out in less than a minute. I have to have it, Conor. I just have to.”

He stared down at her, his features set in a steely resolve. In the depths of his eyes, however, something wavered, momentarily softened. “No, Abby. I won’t let you do it,” he said with a quiet conviction. “It’s too dangerous.”

Conor bent and picked up the scorched blanket Wendell had dropped. “But, if it means so all-fired much to you, I’ll go instead.”

For a moment frozen in time, their gazes locked. Something precious, poignant, passed between them. Then Conor released her and backed away.

“Hold onto her!” he ordered Ella. Throwing the blanket over his head and shoulders, he turned and, without a backward glance, ran into the flaming bunkhouse.

14

I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known.

Isaiah 42:16

Flames shot from the broken windows. A deafening roar filled the air. Clouds of smoke billowed and furled, its wind-borne soot blackening everything in its wake.

Precious seconds, then minutes passed. Still Conor did not come out of the burning bunkhouse.

Terror filled Abby.
Lord! Please, Lord!
she prayed.
Don’t let any harm come to him.

Then, without warning, a fire-eaten roof timber fell, crashing down into the bunkhouse’s interior. With a cry, Abby wrenched free of Ella’s grip. Her booted feet slipped in the muddy mire. She skidded, lost her balance, and fell to one knee.

Conor. Conor was in there. She
had
to get to Conor.

Behind her, voices lifted. Voices crying out her name. Frantically, Abby shoved to her feet and kept on running. They must not catch her, she thought through her panic-stricken haze. They would hold her back, keep her from Conor.

Then, from out of the conflagration that was now the bunkhouse, a dark figure appeared. Flame-covered, it hurtled itself through the fire, sailed out over the small porch, then plummeted down to the muddy ground.

Conor hit hard, grunting in pain. In his hands, though, he clutched the small metal box. Then, as if it were suddenly too hot to hold, he flung it away, and began rolling wildly in an apparent effort to extinguish his still burning blanket.

Abby was the first to reach him. Heedless of her own safety, she began slapping at the flames. “Conor,” she cried, when he tried to roll away. “Lie still! Let me put out the fire!”

A moment later, Devlin and H.C. rushed up to help her.

Devlin pushed her aside. “Let us do it,” he ordered gruffly. “We’ve got gloves on.”

Ella joined them, dragging Abby back. “Let the men take care of him, Abby.”

Abby stood there, her nightgown wet and mud-soaked to the knees, shivering and sobbing. “It was m-my fault,” she wailed as she watched the men fight to smother the flames. Then she could bear to watch no more. She turned and buried her face in Ella’s shoulder. “If something should happen to C-Conor I don’t kn-know what I’d do.
It was all my f-fault!
“

“Hush, hush,” her friend crooned, patting her back. “It’s no one’s fault. And Conor will be fine, just you wait and see.”

With a sickening implosion of falling timbers, the entire roof of the bunkhouse collapsed. Abby wheeled about. Soot mixed with glowing red embers surged upward. Then, like a gentle fall of snow, the flakes of burnt, blackened wood covered them.

Now that it was all but over, the horror of the night rose to consume her. Abby clenched shut her eyes. The loss of her home and belongings. The realization that Conor had nearly died. She swallowed hard against a sudden rush of nausea. She had been so self-serving and stupid in her concern over some possessions, no matter how dear they were to her.

Abby turned. Conor still lay on the muddy ground, Devlin and H.C. kneeling around him. They had turned him over, and were pulling off the remnants of the charred, smoking blanket. She squared her shoulders and rejoined them.

“Conor.” She sank to her knees beside him. “Are you all right?” Ever so gingerly, Abby touched him. “I’m so sorry I asked you to go back in there. It was selfish and thoughtless of me. Can you forgive me?”

Without using his hands, he shoved awkwardly to his elbows. His face was black. In the light of lanterns that some of the other hands had quickly brought over, Abby could see myriad scorched patches on his shirt and denims. A freshened pang of guilt assailed her. Impulsively, she reached for his hand.

Conor jerked it away. “Don’t touch my hands. The rest of me might be a bit worse for the wear, but I burned my hands.” He sucked in a ragged breath as he extended his arm to H.C. to be pulled to his feet. “Your metal box was fire hot. I didn’t have time to do anything but grab it and run. As it was, I barely avoided that first timber that crashed down, splitting the table.”

Abby climbed to her feet. “Let’s get you into the house and better light.” She scooped up two handfuls of clean snow and gently applied some to each of Conor’s palms. “Please help him,” she directed Devlin and H.C. “The sooner I can get a good look at his hands the sooner we can get him treated.”

The two men lost no time and began to lead Conor away. He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t forget your metal box,” he called to her. “Just be careful. It might still be pretty hot.”

After what it might have cost Conor, Abby was not so certain she ever wanted to see that box again. Its safe retrieval, however, had been bought at great cost.

She carefully grasped the box with a large piece of Conor’s discarded blanket. Then, accompanied by Ella, Abby followed the men into the main house.

Beth was standing at the window. When they entered, the frightened little girl took one look at her father and ran to him.

He put up his hands in a warding motion. “Stay back, girl. I’m hurt pretty bad.” He indicated a nearby chair. “Why don’t you sit there for right now? Once we get settled, I’m sure Abby will need your help.” Conor shot Abby a piercing look. “Won’t you, Abby?”

She nodded and smiled reassuringly at Beth. “Help Conor to the table,” she then ordered Devlin and H.C. Closing the back door after Ella, Abby began to remove her wool coat when she froze in her tracks. Red-faced, she met her friend’s gaze.

Ella smiled in gentle understanding. “Why don’t you put that bib apron over your nightdress and start seeing to Conor? I’ll be back in a few minutes with some clothes for you.”

Abby managed a weak smile. “Thank the Lord there’s another woman on this ranch.”

Ella gave Abby’s hand a quick squeeze. “Hold up. It’ll all work out,” her friend replied just before she slipped out the door.

Abby turned back to Conor. Besides his hands, his shirt and torso had taken the brunt of the flames. She choked back a freshened swell of tears and forced herself to concentrate on the job at hand. “Get his shirt off,” she briskly ordered Devlin, “while I find something to soak his hands in.”

Moving to the cookstove, Abby took down the long bib apron that hung nearby, then walked back to the pegs beside the back door, and hung up her coat. After quickly donning the apron, she pulled out the wash basin, filled it with cool water from the pump, and carried it to the table. By then, the two men had managed to get Conor’s ruined shirt off.

Abby surveyed his naked torso. As she feared, multiple reddened patches marked his skin, especially over his upper back and chest. There were spots where the flames had even singed away some of his chest hair. Fortunately, none of the burns on his trunk looked severe; they would most likely just blister, peel, and then heal. His hands, however, were another story.

Conor’s palms, which had come into prolonged contact with the overheated metal box, were already beginning to swell. The skin was a mottled white and red. “Here.” Abby shoved the pan of cool water over to him. “Put your hands in there. It’ll ease the pain and, hopefully, slow the damage being done.”

He did as told, though the initial contact with the water obviously hurt. He made a sharp, hissing sound through his gritted teeth, and closed his eyes.

Once more, Abby steeled herself to him and his pain. The only thing that mattered now was caring for him as best she could.

While Conor soaked his hands, Abby took down another basin, filled it partially with more, cool pump water, then added some hot water from the big cast iron kettle she always kept simmering on the stove. After placing that on the table, she sent Beth off to gather clean washcloths and old laundered sheets to tear into bandages. In the meanwhile, Abby pulled out the hand soap, a box of cornstarch, and the jar of beef tallow she kept available for cooking.

Finally, Abby paused once more at the table. “You men aren’t needed anymore right now,” she said finally, glancing from Devlin to H.C. “Is there anything else you need for them to do”—she turned to Conor—“until I call them back to help you up to bed?”

“Just make sure the fire’s out, will you?” he rasped. “And then bring in the rest of Abby’s things. No sense letting what we did manage to save get ruined, sitting the rest of the night out in the snow.”

“You sure you’re all right?” Concern roughened Devlin’s voice.

“Yeah.” Conor nodded. “I’m sure Abby
and
Ella”—he added as she walked back in the kitchen, a basket of clothing tucked over her arm—“can take care of me just fine. Thanks for all your help, both of you.”

Devlin motioned for H.C. to join him. As the two men headed back outside, Ella handed the basket to Abby. “Why don’t you take a few minutes to clean up and get into some dry clothes. I can get started on Conor while you dress.”

Abby took the basket. Then she paused, her gaze once more settling on him. Freshened emotions welled within her. In pain, his hands badly burned, Conor’s first thoughts had still been of her. His kindness made her want to weep.

Conor must have noticed the abrupt swing in her emotions. His eyes darkened, warmed with affection. Then he jerked his head in the direction of the stairs.

“Get on with you. I’m not going anywhere.” He managed a lopsided grin. “Though I must say you do look fetching enough in that nightgown and apron to follow you upstairs.”

She blushed furiously. What an incorrigible man! Even a pair of badly injured hands failed to quench for long the lustful fires that burned within him. Abby couldn’t bring herself to chastise him, though. Especially not when his statement far more pleased than scandalized her.

“A gentleman,” she replied tartly, softening her words with a smile, “wouldn’t have been looking.”

“Well, I never claimed to be
that
much of a gentleman.”

With his teasing banter, the strain of the past hour momentarily eased. What always, always mattered most in the end, Abby reminded herself, was human life and the precious experience of others. Though she had lost much in losing Thomas and Joshua, she realized now the Lord had gifted her with other, equally precious people. People like Ella, Beth, the ranch hands, and Conor. She had only to open her eyes—and heart—and accept what the Lord had offered.

“No, I suppose you’re not much of a gentleman at that,” Abby agreed, filled suddenly with a strange but glorious sense of release. “But then, if you were, I also wouldn’t find you half as interesting, would I?” She grinned, then, clutching the ends of her apron together, began to back from the kitchen. “And that, I think, would be a great pity.”

It was well past dawn the next morning when Abby dragged herself out of bed. Sunbeams streamed through the lace-curtained windows of Evan’s old bedroom, puddling in a bright pool of light on the floor. She blinked to clear the haze, fought back a renewed surge of exhaustion, and forced herself to wash and dress.

Luckily, Ella was only a size larger than Abby. With minimal adjustments, she was able to get the blue woolen skirt and green and blue flannel shirt to fit. The woolen chemise, drawers, and petticoat were also comfortably roomy, but Abby did not care. They were clothes, and they were warm. Until she could get to town to buy more fabric and thread, she resolved as she finished buttoning her high-topped shoes, threw aside the buttonhook, and headed for the door, Ella’s things would serve quite nicely.

From her open doorway, Abby peeked down the hall. Both Conor and Beth’s bedroom doors were still closed. She tiptoed to the stairs. After what they had all been through last night, it was best to let them sleep as long as they wished. Which for Conor, she added wryly, would probably only be as long as the dose of laudanum she had given him last night lasted.

Time enough, though, to put on some water for coffee, check the chickens for eggs, and attempt to milk Ethel. Conor would definitely not be milking the cow for some time to come. And, though she had never milked a cow, it surely could not be all that difficult.

Devlin was just leaving as Abby entered the kitchen. He paused in the back doorway. “I went ahead and saw to Ethel this morning.” He indicated the bucket of foaming milk sitting by the door. “I didn’t think you’d have much time for it, what with having now to care for Conor along with all your other chores.”