Daughter of Joy (3 page)

“This is intolerable!” Nelly jumped to her feet and grasped Abigail by the arm. “We’ve heard quite enough. These people—and their job—just won’t suit.”

“Nelly, sit down, please.” Abby turned to look back at Conor. “As blunt-spoken as Mr. MacKay is, it was I, not he, who brought up the subject. Thank you for clarifying the situation, Mr. MacKay. I feel greatly relieved to have dealt with that particular issue at the outset. Now, exactly where
would
I be sleeping?”

He shrugged, a bit miffed with her ready acceptance of his purported lack of interest in her. A fair share of the younger women—married or unmarried—who’d ever applied for this position were, by this point, beginning to eye him with lustful intent. “Since my son no longer lives here, there’s an extra bedroom available upstairs. If that’s too close for your personal comfort, the small bunkhouse behind the house is available. It hasn’t been used in years and is in desperate need of cleaning and paint. But it has a functioning wood stove and would afford you more space, not to mention privacy.”

“The bunkhouse sounds best, ” she said. “That is, if I decide to accept your position.” Abigail stood. “I need time to consider all this, Mr. MacKay. How soon do you require my response?”

Conor eyed her closely. She won’t take the job, he thought, inexplicably disappointed. She’s too fine a lady. Indeed, whatever had possessed her even to come out here on such a patently inappropriate journey? Curiosity? An autumn day’s brief adventure? Some unwholesome need for titillation?

At the last consideration, something in Conor hardened. Whatever the reason, she’d wasted his time. And doubly curse her for stirring that tiny spark of hope, however briefly in him, when she’d first met and talked with Beth.

It was past time, Conor resolved, to put an end to this little charade. He hadn’t further time to spare on the likes of her. And he certainly had no intention of serving as grist for the local gossip mill!

“I need an answer now, ” Conor growled, barely containing his rising anger. “You’ve pretty much seen how it is here. Either you want the job, or you don’t.”

Nelly shot to her feet again. “Come along, Abby. He has no right to speak to you like this. Let’s be on our way.”

Abby held up a silencing hand. “Just a moment, Nelly.” She met Conor MacKay’s challenging glare. “I beg to differ with you, Mr. MacKay. Though I see nothing here that would preclude my acceptance of this position, I never make decisions in haste.”

“So, in the meantime, ” Conor MacKay snarled as he climbed to his feet, “while you consider, I sit here, holding this position open. Well, I don’t think so, Mrs. Stanton.”

Secretly, shamefully relieved, Abby expelled a deep breath. “Then I guess I have my answer, Mr. MacKay.”

“I guess you do.”

She turned to Nelly. “It’s time we were leaving. We’ve already taken up entirely too much of Mr. MacKay’s day.”

He stalked to the door and opened it, swinging it wide. The two women walked past him, down the porch steps, and over to the buggy. Abby untied Elsie from the hitching rail and waited for Nelly to take her seat in the buggy, before handing her the reins. Climbing in, Abby shot Conor MacKay one final look, then took back the reins.

All the while Culdee Creek’s owner stood on the porch, his expression frigid, his stance unyielding. The anger in his eyes, however, spoke volumes, and it was a diatribe Abby didn’t ever want to endure again.

She slapped the reins smartly over Elsie’s back and clucked to her. “Let’s go, girl. Get on with you.”

Immediately, the horse moved out, pulling the buggy back down the road toward Culdee Creek’s main gate. This time, however, Abby sensed it was a journey that somehow was not right … or good.

Lord, what would You have me do? she cried out silently. This man doesn’t want me here. He is only looking for an excuse to turn me down.

Is he, Beloved?

The unexpected query, springing from the depths of her heart, gave Abby only a momentary pause. What else was I supposed to think? she protested, her mouth going dry, her palms damp.

Fear welled in her. She choked it down, afraid, so afraid of the answer to come—an answer, she knew now, she’d fought desperately not to hear. This could never be just a temporary respite, a place wherein to hide and lick her wounds. This could never be a situation free of emotional involvement.

Not with a man as hard, as cold as Conor MacKay. Not with a man so lost and wandering in the desert. And his daughter. Ah, what a sad, tormented little girl!

Do you see now, begin to understand why I am sending you to them? Do you hear, and know My will at last?

Her heart thundering in her chest, Abby halted the buggy. Her breath coming in short, painful gasps, she battled with her own plans and desires, her own needs. Battled … and lost.

Do it, and do it now, she ordered herself fiercely. Do it now, before you lose the nerve.

“Here”—she shoved the reins at Nelly—“Hold these. I’ll be back.”

“W-what are you doing?” Nelly sputtered, staring at her as if she had gone mad.

“I’ve got something more to say to Mr. MacKay.”

Abby climbed down from the buggy. Gathering her skirts in shaking hands, she strode resolutely back to the house.

At her approach, Conor MacKay walked down the porch steps. “Forget something, Mrs. Stanton?”

Once more, that now familiar quirk tightened his handsome mouth. Before the last of her courage failed her, Abby dragged in a deep breath and forced herself to utter the words. “Yes, Mr. MacKay, I have, ” she said. “I forgot to tell you that I’ve decided to take the job.” tell you that I’ve decided to take the job.”

2

How shall we sing the L
ORD’S
song in a strange land?

Psalm 137:4

A chill wind blew down from the mountains, bringing with it the season’s first promise of snow. Thick, gray clouds churned overhead, and the sun peeked only fitfully from behind them. A storm was brewing, blowing strong and bitter over the Rockies. There would be no mercy for the high plains this night.

Conor MacKay drew up the collar of his dark brown, blanket-lined canvas coat, pulled his black Stetson more firmly down onto his head, and glanced at Abigail Stanton. Sitting beside him on the buckboard seat, the woman had not spoken ten words since they had loaded up her gear three hours ago and headed out of Colorado Springs. In most cases a reticent woman would have suited him just fine, especially after seeing her reddened eyes and pale face when she had first answered the door. A smart man did not rile a woman already upset about something.

Problem was, Conor had a lot of things that needed saying, and they needed saying before they reached the ranch. In the past week since their first meeting, he had done a little investigating about the sprightly Abigail Stanton. He had learned she was a widow who had also recently lost her only child.

The information had both surprised and unnerved him. Unnerved him so much he had almost informed her right then and there on her cottage doorstep in the Springs that he would just have to find another housekeeper. As it was, the fool deal they’d struck had been on his mind for the past week.

Still, it made no sense—his strange reluctance to bring her back to the ranch. It made no sense even now. There was just something about the sweet-faced young woman with the green eyes and mass of long, dark brown hair that filled Conor with unease.

Even now he sensed something about her. Something different. She wasn’t like the other women he had brought to Culdee Creek.

“Are you warm enough, Mrs. Stanton?” he forced himself to ask, his voice gone raspy and tight. “There’s an extra blanket or two behind the seat, if you need one, I mean.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine, Mr. MacKay. I grew up in New England, in Massachusetts to be exact, and am quite used to the cold. Thank you for asking, though.”

Silence, as heavy and oppressive as the clouds lowering overhead, settled once more between them. Conor, however, had no intention of riding the rest of the way to Culdee Creek in such strained company. If this was all the conversation he was going to get out of the woman, he could have let one of the hands tend to her and the buckboard, and he could’ve ridden straight home!

“There are a few matters I wish to talk about, Mrs. Stanton. Matters best settled before we reach the ranch.”

For a moment, curiosity brightened her eyes. She cocked her head. “What would those matters be, Mr. MacKay?”

There was no sense skirting the issue, Conor decided. Best to get it all out in the open, and spare the hurt feelings and arguments later. “First, I want to know why you took this job, ” he said. “A fine lady such as yourself has never applied before. You’ve been a teacher. Surely you could’ve taken up such a position again?”

“Yes, I could have, Mr. MacKay, ” Abigail replied softly. “But I didn’t want to, at least not for a time. My son, Joshua, was just about school age when he died. It would be too painful to work with other boys near his age.”

Conor’s brow furrowed. “How did he die? Your son, I mean.”

She looked away then, her mouth tight, her hands clenching suddenly in her lap. An uncharacteristic pang of remorse filled Conor. “You don’t have to tell me, you know, ” he said. “I shouldn’t have pried.” Or even cared enough about you and your personal business to pry, he added as an afterthought.

“No, I’ll tell you.” Abigail met his gaze. “But I warn you. There may be tears. Can you abide a woman who weeps, Mr. MacKay?”

“If you’re asking if I turn into a pile of mush when a woman cries, no, I don’t. I’m not easily manipulated by tears, or much of anything else, Mrs. Stanton.”

“And I, Mr. MacKay, don’t cry to manipulate.” High color flushed her cheeks. “My emotions are honest and heartfelt. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Well, they won’t, ” he growled, suddenly angry and unaccountably embarrassed. “Get on with your story.”

“As you wish, Mr. MacKay.” She closed her eyes. “Joshua died early last summer, when he caught diphtheria. It started with a sore throat, then the glands in his neck swelled and, in a day’s time he could barely breathe. He was dead by the morning of the second day.”

There was pain in her voice. Conor struggled to shrug off the sympathy and swell of compassion her words stirred. Her grief wasn’t any more unique or heartwrenching than what many others experienced, he told himself. It was life, and life was often brutal, unfair.

“And your husband?” He was determined to know it all and be done with it. “How did he die?”

“A railroad accident two years ago this July. A bridge collapsed. Thomas was killed trying to rescue the engineer’s wife and child.”

“So, in two year’s time you’ve lost everything.”

Not everything, Mr. MacKay, Abby thought. I still have the Lord.

Yet sometimes, God forgive her, she could not help but rage at the Lord for what had happened. Then, other times, Abby couldn’t help but feel envy. Thomas and Joshua were safe and happy in heaven, while she had to remain here—alone and bereft. Sometimes, there seemed nothing left her: no joy, no peace, no semblance whatsoever of the life she had once known.

There were even times, in her darkest moments, when she longed most ardently to die and join them. But Abby knew it could never be. It wasn’t yet her time.

Sadness and guilt, tinged with a deep sense of despair, rose to overwhelm her. Her defiant bravado on the journey with Nelly to Culdee Creek last week to the contrary, Abby was no longer certain she really did run toward the Lord anymore. When had she wandered from the true path? When Thomas died? After she had lost Joshua?

“Yes, Mr. MacKay, ” Abby forced herself to reply finally. “In two years’ time, I’ve lost nearly everything.” Everything, she silently added, but my faith in God.

Conor gripped the buckboard reins until his knuckles turned white. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Stanton, ” he muttered, feeling inane but not knowing what else to say. “But at least your husband died a hero. There must be some comfort in that.”

She fell quiet for a long moment. “Thomas followed the Lord the best way he knew how, ” she finally said.

He shot her a quick, quizzical look. Somehow, that flat, unemotional comment wasn’t what he’d expected. He wanted to delve deeper. There was more to her former marital relationship than what first appeared, but to ask was to care, and Conor didn’t dare let himself care. In the end, it was enough that she stayed for a time and did the job—and
only
the job—for which she had been hired.

On a sudden impulse, he halted his team of horses. “Your mention of God, ” Conor growled, turning to face her. “That brings to mind the second matter I want to discuss with you, Mrs. Stanton.”

“Yes, Mr. MacKay?”

“I don’t go to church. I don’t believe in God. And I’ll be”—he caught himself before the word escaped—“I won’t tolerate any talk of God in my house, much less any attempt by you to convert me or my daughter. Is that clear, Mrs. Stanton?”

She didn’t blink an eyelash. “Quite clear, Mr. MacKay.”

Confusion, followed swiftly by exasperation, flooded him. “Then why did you tell Beth she was precious in God’s eyes?”

“Because I believe it. Because she seemed so vulnerable, so certain of my rejection.” Abigail inhaled a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I offended you. But let me assure you it came from the heart. I love Beth because God loves her.”

Conor gritted his teeth. Blast her, she was doing it again, and they hadn’t even reached the ranch!

“Suit yourself.” Slapping the reins over the team’s back, he urged them onward. “Just keep your religious beliefs to yourself from here on out. Neither Beth nor I are interested.”

“I try never to force my personal beliefs on others, Mr. MacKay. But I cannot pretend to hide their importance in my daily life, either. That much you should know and understand about me.”

He drew in a raw, ragged breath. “Fine. Fine. Just as long as we understand each other.”

“Oh, I think we do, Mr. MacKay.” A tiny smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “I think, at long last, we certainly do.”

The impending snow held off long enough for them to reach Culdee Creek, and transfer Abby’s belongings into the bunkhouse. Two ranch hands—one tall, lanky, and in his mid-fifties, who introduced himself as Frank Murphy, and his younger, shorter, and more heavily muscled compatriot named Henry Watson—unloaded the furniture and leather trunks. Two other hands, whose names Abby quickly discovered were Wendell Chapman and Jonah Goldman, worked to reassemble Abby’s iron and brass bed—the bed Thomas had given her as a wedding present. The men came and went, carrying in the sewing machine, then dresser, rocking chair, and little side table. With the assistance of Ella MacKay, the wife of Culdee Creek’s foreman who was also Conor MacKay’s cousin, Abby directed where things were to go.

Conor MacKay had seen to the refurbishing of the small bunkhouse. A fresh coat of paint had recently been applied inside and out—green with white trim on the exterior, and whitewashed walls within. The two small windows had been scrubbed until the glass panes sparkled. The floors had been swept, and all the cobwebs whisked away.

Someone had even started a fire in the small, potbellied wood stove. Despite the frequent opening of the door as the men came and went, the little stove heated the one-room building well. Abby glanced about her and smiled. It was a small, snugly built dwelling. With the stove’s help, she should keep plenty warm this winter.

“We can string a rope across the back half of the bunkhouse, ” Ella offered at one point, eyeing the room critically, “and hang some fabric. That way, you can have a private area for your bedroom and a sitting room in front.” Ella, a thin, red-haired, freckle-faced woman in her early forties, seemed delighted to have another woman to talk to.

“That sounds wonderful.” Abby smiled back.

“Do you have any children?” Abby asked, at a sudden loss for anything else to say in the uncomfortable silence that frequently falls between two strangers.

Ella threw back her head and laughed. “Oh my, yes. I’ve two youngsters—Devlin Jr., who’s four, and Mary, who’s one. I lost my first husband—the Lord bless and keep him—to a blizzard when I was thirty. Didn’t marry Devlin Sr. until six years later. The children have been such a gift, considering my age.” She cocked her head, her expression suddenly solemn. “I heard about how your man died, but not much about your boy, save that the diphtheria took him. How old was he?”

Abby’s smile faded. “Five. Joshua was five.”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking.” Ella walked over and put her hand on Abby’s arm. “Being a mother and all, I was curious, and trying to get much information out of Conor is like squeezing blood from a turnip.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Abby’s mouth quirked wryly. “And I can well imagine getting Mr. MacKay to do anything must be difficult.”

Ella grinned. “Oh, he’s not so bad. When it comes to people, Conor’s just a very cautious man. He doesn’t trust most of them, you know.”

“I gathered that.”

“But when he does get to know you”—Ella pulled a set of bed sheets from an open trunk and shook them out—“there’s no more generous, loyal friend to be had. The things he’s done for my Devlin and me … well, it boggles the mind.”

Though Ella’s glowing description of Conor MacKay was a bit hard for Abby to believe, it was reassuring nonetheless. Perhaps her new employer wasn’t as bad as he made himself out to be.

“Here, ”—Abby motioned to the bed sheets—“give me those. You needn’t trouble yourself making my bed. I can make it and put everything away later.”

Ella clutched the bed sheets to her protectively. “And what’s to keep us from finishing up in here?”

Abby looked out the window. Already, the day was slipping rapidly toward dusk. The first big, fat flakes of snow were beginning to fall. “I don’t know when Mr. MacKay likes his supper, ” she murmured, turning back to Ella, “but I’m sure it’s past time to start.”