Daughter of Joy (4 page)

“Supper’s already cooking. I talked Conor into letting me prepare the meal this evening, to give you a chance to settle in a bit. The bread’s finished baking and in the warming oven. It’ll be another hour before the stew’s ready.” She paused. “You do like beef stew and fresh bread with apple pie for dessert, don’t you?”

Abby’s niggling sense of homesickness began to ease. Though she had wept herself into a near panic over what she was about to undertake just before Conor MacKay had arrived this morning, Ella’s continued acts of kindness warmed her heart. She had been here barely two hours and, already, Abby knew she had made her first friend. Thank you, Lord, she thought, lifting a quick, fervent prayer.

Then she grinned. “It sounds heavenly. Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness. I owe you one very big favor.”

Ella laughed merrily. “Don’t give it another thought. It was the neighborly thing to do. Besides, you’re now the only other woman in ten miles, so one thing is certain. We’re sure to be trading favors back and forth a lot!”

From his study, Conor heard the kitchen’s back door slam. He laid aside his fountain pen and recapped the inkstand. Though he had planned on catching up on the ranch accounts before supper, his heart was not in it. After the long ride to the Springs today, he was tired.

Not that he could fully blame his distractedness on the long day of travel, he admitted ruefully. Try as he might to keep his mind off of her, his thoughts kept creeping back to his new cook and housekeeper.

Conor leaned back in his chair, placed his arms on the armrests, and closed his eyes. His little talk with Abigail Stanton earlier today had revealed many things. He’d verified what he’d suspected. She was a woman of strong convictions who would not be easily swayed or intimidated. She was also surprisingly honest.

Her claim that she had taken the position at Culdee Creek because she could not bear to work with little boys right now seemed forthright enough. But surely there were deeper, more self-serving reasons at work. There always were.

Conor had but to discover them, and discover them he would.

He expelled a deep breath and shook his head in frustration. Why, oh why had he agreed to hire her? Selfdisgust welled in him. He was a fool. He’d always be a fool. Hadn’t his father hammered that into him over and over when he was a boy?

“Life’s nothing but hard work, disappointment, and pain, ” his father had slurred many a night, drinking himself into another of his black despairs. “You’re a fool if you think otherwise, ” he would howl, pounding his fists into the walls, the furniture, and sometimes even Conor’s young, defenseless body. “There’s no fairness, no goodness, no love left in the world!”

Yet still Conor had clung to hope. Surely somewhere there was fairness, goodness, and love left in the world. Surely someday, somewhere he’d find a woman to love him as deeply and unconditionally as had his mother. His good, God-fearing, gentle mother …

He’d clung to that hope, Conor thought bitterly. Clung to it tenaciously until Sally walked out and Squirrel Woman died. Then he’d clung to hope no more.

Voices, women’s voices, rose from the kitchen. The savory smell of beef stew and the rich, yeasty scent of bread wafted by. Conor’s mouth began to water. It had been weeks since he had had a good home-cooked meal.

Straightening in his chair, Conor slowly opened his eyes. Time to get on with it, he told himself. He needed to fetch Beth, who’d refused to come downstairs since Mrs. Stanton’s arrival.

He couldn’t blame her really. It was hard to take another woman into their home. Would she turn on them, too?

Conor shoved to his feet. If he had any say about it, no one would ever hurt his daughter again. And no one was going to hurt him, either. After all this time, his heart had finally hardened into a block of stone.

Abby stood at the back door with the kerosene lamp and watched Ella walk toward her own home a hundred yards beyond the bunkhouse. Though she had all but begged Ella to stay and partake of the meal she had so generously cooked, her new friend had refused. Her own family awaited her. She would come, though, she assured Abby, to visit tomorrow.

Her own family …

A renewed wave of homesickness and longing washed over Abby. Oh, how she missed her own family, Thomas and little Joshua. If only … if only she’d been a better mother, perhaps Joshua wouldn’t have died. If only she had been a more biddable, loyal wife …

Hot tears stung her eyes. Abby wrenched her thoughts from her guilty self-torment, pulled the door closed, and turned. Conor MacKay and his daughter stood in front of the kitchen table.

“M-Mr. MacKay, ” Abby stammered, startled. Furiously, she blinked back her tears. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

His shuttered glance first took in her—and Abby knew he’d noted her tears—then moved to the table, set with glasses, bowls, spoons, the pot of stew, thick slices of bread, and a crock of sweet cream butter. “We were getting hungry, Mrs. Stanton, ” he said, his words surprisingly gentle and subdued. “I take it supper is served?”

“Why, yes, so it is.” Abby placed the kerosene lamp she was holding in the middle of the table, then hurried to one of the two cupboards and picked up the pitcher of milk sitting there. “Please, sit where you usually do.” She lifted the pitcher, relieved to have something to do. “Would anyone like a glass of milk?”

Conor looked pointedly at Beth. The girl didn’t reply. “Beth likes milk, ” he finally answered for her. “Sit down, Beth.”

His daughter shot him a mutinous glance but took her seat without a word. Abby moved to her side, filled her glass, then another for herself. “What about you, Mr. MacKay? What would you like to drink?”

He wanted to tell her a stiff shot or two of whiskey would be welcome right about now, but decided against scandalizing his new employee the first night out. As it was, she looked as if, at any moment, she was on the verge of breaking into a fit of weeping. “Water will do me fine, Mrs. Stanton.”

Abby pumped out some water into his glass and returned to his side.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stanton, ” he said, glancing up at her. “Please, sit. I can’t abide a woman hovering over me.”

Abby flushed. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what you expect of me.” She took her seat across from Beth.

The pot of stew sat closest to Conor. He dished up for Beth a portion of dark, rich beef stew, thick with tender carrots, potatoes, and peas, then reached for Abby’s bowl. Once he had served himself, Abby passed the plate of bread and crock of butter.

She sat there and waited until all had their food, hoping that, as the man of the house, Mr. MacKay would then lead them in the saying of grace. He, however, never lifted his eyes from his bowl.

Abby turned to Beth, watching to see what she would do. The little girl was even quicker than her father to shove the first spoonful of stew into her mouth.

Abby clasped her hands before her and bowed her head, offering a silent prayer of thanks for the meal the Lord had given. Then, after finally unfolding her hands and placing her napkin on her lap, she lifted her gaze.

Two pairs of eyes were riveted on her, and the look in one particular, smoky blue pair made Abby’s heart almost skip a beat. Forcing the brightest smile she could manage, she picked up her spoon and began to eat.

3

Let us run with patience the race that is set before us.

Hebrews 12:1

The next morning at 5:00
A.M.
sharp, Abby woke to the raucous clanging of her new alarm clock. Groggy and disoriented, she groped blindly for the unfamiliar instrument, finally finding the button that silenced the bell clapper. Tapping it down smartly, she lay there in the darkness, struggling to make sense out of the unfamiliar surroundings.

A strong gust of wind slammed into the bunkhouse, rattling the little wooden structure. In a rush, it all came back. Culdee Creek Ranch … her first day of work for the MacKays. Then, following swiftly on the heels of that came the all too familiar, agonizing swell of remembrance.

Remembrance of that hot July day when they’d brought Thomas home, his bloody, mangled, lifeless body lying in the back of a buckboard, covered by a canvas tarp. Vaguely, Abby remembered ignoring the hands outstretched to help her, and crawling awkwardly on her own up into the back of the big wooden wagon. She remembered ripping back the tarp, then staring down at her husband, so shocked and horrified that, at first, she didn’t even recognize him.

It had all seemed like some horrible dream, a dream from which she prayed soon to awaken. Then a big horsefly buzzed by, circled Thomas’s face, and landed on his nose. For a crazy instant Abby watched, fully expecting her husband to open his eyes and, with an indignant snort, to swat away the fly. When he didn’t, the utter, ugly reality of the situation hit her, slamming into her gut, sucking the breath from her lungs. She sank to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and wept.

Now, with a shuddering sob, Abby shoved out of her bed and knelt beside it.

For a long moment, she drowned in a flood tide of tears. Even after all this time—if there could ever be sufficient time to adequately mourn the loss of loved ones—it hurt just as deeply as those first days. It hurt so very, very badly.

Lord, help me through this day, Abby begged, her hands clenched before her, the tears spilling down her cheeks. Come between me and this pain. Grant me strength, and patience, and guide me in Your ways …

Yet, though she shut her eyes and clung as hard as she could to thoughts of God, little by little, like a chill, heavy mist, the hated, unwelcome memories seeped back again. She saw Joshua, lying in his little bed, his skin gray, his lips blue, struggling for breath. She saw herself bend down for the hundredth time, brush aside his sweatdarkened blond hair, and wipe his brow with a damp cloth, all the while consumed with a helpless panic and a sick fear that grew with each passing second. Then, at long last, the minutes and hours of that hideous, harrowing vigil were over. Joshua lay there, cold, silent, and still—gone away … away from life … from her.

Wave after wave of regret and unrequited longing washed over Abby, gradually undermining her pain, sucking away her emotions until she was, once more, blessedly numb. Only then could she pray anew, though the words gave her little comfort. She prayed on, nonetheless, her thoughts lifting heavenward by sheer force of will.

In time, though, Abby wiped away her tears, rose, and lit the kerosene lamp on her bedside table. With a sudden shiver—as the early morning chill struck her now with a vengeance—she hurried to the pot-bellied stove and threw a few sticks of kindling into it. After a few good puffs, the glowing embers again flared to life. Soon, the kindling caught on fire. Abby then added a fat, split pine log.

The pot of water she had placed atop the stove last night was lukewarm. She bundled up in a woolen shawl and climbed back into bed. Even with the fire now burning hotly, it would take at least another twenty minutes for the water to heat sufficiently to use for washing up. Time enough, Abby decided, for a short reading from the Scriptures.

Gradually, tendrils of vapor began to waft languidly upward from the pot of water on the wood stove. Abby reluctantly set aside her Bible, climbed back out of bed, and carried her porcelain wash basin to the small worktable. She placed a clean washcloth, bar of lavender soap, and a fresh towel beside the basin, then retrieved the now steaming pot of water.

Fifteen minutes later Abby had washed and dressed. Her long, thick brown hair was pinned neatly into a bun, and her bed was made. She then donned her warm winter coat, wrapped the woolen shawl over her head, and headed outside, the basin of dirty wash water in her hands. After dumping its contents, Abby returned the basin to the table. She lit an old kerosene lantern, then extinguished the oil lamp, and left the bunkhouse.

Snow had begun to fall before sunset yesterday, but thanks to the blustering winds only a light layer now coated the ground. As she made her way to the chicken coop in the fading darkness, the icy crystals crunched beneath her feet. The chill wind plucked at her skirt, then scurried beneath it. Abby shivered again and quickened her pace.

“At least it’s relatively warm in here, ” she muttered when she finally stepped inside the chicken coop. Setting the lantern down on the dirt floor, she began gathering what few eggs there were from beneath the now irately clucking, highly agitated hens. “Well, warm at least in comparison to the outside, ” Abby added, as the seemingly indefatigable wind managed at last to find the chinks in the little building’s walls, and whistled gleefully inside.

Though the coop could hardly be called toasty warm, Abby envisioned the morning yet to come and decided she would still prefer it over the lack of human warmth she suspected she would find in the main house. Her thoughts drifted back to last night’s supper. After the tension-fraught meal and stony looks, Abby was not so sure she ever wanted to break bread with Conor and Beth MacKay again.

It was not as if she had defied Culdee Creek’s owner by saying grace. She had only, after all, agreed not to force her beliefs on them. But apparently Conor MacKay hadn’t thought so. His scowling countenance for the rest of the meal had all but shouted his disapproval.

On the other hand, Beth had chosen to take a far more active approach. First she had “accidentally” knocked over her glass of milk. Then, after Abby had that mess sopped up and a fresh glass of milk poured, the youngster started pouting that her bowl of stew was cold.

After dishing her up a fresh bowl of stew, Abby barely had a chance to dig into her own bowl of lukewarm stew, when Beth sweetly asked for some raspberry preserves to put on her bread. By then Abby’s patience was beginning to wear thin. However, before she had a chance to suggest Beth get up and get her own preserves, her father, also apparently weary of his daughter’s little game, ordered his daughter to do just that.

The remainder of the meal passed in silence, save for the unmistakably angry visual messages Beth sent Abby. Recalling her looks, Abby could only guess at the encounters to come this day.

No indeed, she admitted wryly. If she had had her druthers, she would have far preferred to wile away the day in this boisterous chicken coop.

But that wasn’t to be, Abby reminded herself as she stood and pocketed four eggs. She had hired on for this job and, one way or another, had just about used up all her druthers in the doing. There was nothing to be done but face up to what lay ahead.

Reluctantly, Abby left the chicken coop and turned toward the main house. Down the hill near the barns, several ranch hands, shrugging on dark canvas jackets and thick gloves, were beginning to leave the big bunkhouse. There were horses to be fed, pigs to be slopped, and gear to be readied for the day’s work ahead, Abby knew, before they all trudged up to the main house for breakfast. To the east, a faint hint of rose now washed the sky. Overhead, a few fluffy clouds scudded by. It promised to be a sunny, if rather windy day.

Abby only hoped it would pass pleasantly. She knew it would pass quickly and, thankfully, keep her mind off further memories she’d rather not dwell upon. And there was always, after all the work was done, at least the possibility of a visit from Ella MacKay to look forward to.

Conor cursed as he readjusted the main draft regulator door on the big cookstove for what seemed the hundredth time. Though all the other dampers and regulators were wide open, if he didn’t get the draft regulator on this particular stove opened to just the right angle, the fire refused to burn hot enough. Problem was, if it didn’t burn hot enough, the water in the coffeepot would take a month of Sundays to heat. And if he didn’t get at least one cup of coffee before he headed out to milk Ethel …

With a frustrated snarl, Conor slammed the regulator door closed and tried once more to open it just so. He really didn’t have time for this, he thought. He still had to wash up and finish dressing before he milked. Since he’d forgotten to inform Mrs. Stanton what time they and then the hands expected breakfast, he’d most likely also have to wake her up on the way out. Of course, Conor added sourly as an afterthought, if the woman had been doing her job, she’d have thought to ask him that very thing last night herself.

To give Abigail Stanton her due, he admitted as he tinkered with the regulator, aside from the blatant defiance of saying grace, she had tried to be pleasant and helpful last night. She had even borne Beth’s ill-disguised antics with surprising patience.

Yet Conor knew there were bound to be more problems in the making. There always were, when it came to Beth and a new housekeeper.

He smiled in wry remembrance. There was, to name just a few, poor Mrs. Hutchinson, that officious little biddy who’d soon had her wings clipped when Beth sewed all her underdrawer legs shut. And then there was that busybody Frannie Kent, who had been the shocked recipient of a particularly prickly pinecone in her chair, not to mention having her supply of fine perfumes poured out and replaced with a potent vinegar mixture.

God help both Beth and Abigail Stanton, though, Conor thought, if the pair of them started anything today. He’d slept poorly last night and wasn’t in the mood.

The back door creaked opened. A blast of frigid air swirled into the kitchen. Conor stood, then swung around, a sharp reprimand on his lips for the ranch hand who had dared walk in at this hour.

Abigail Stanton, a kerosene lantern clutched in her hand, strode into the kitchen. Even in the dim, flickering lantern light, Conor could see the color flare in her cheeks.

Following the direction of her gaze, he recalled that he stood there, bare-chested and bare-footed, dressed only in his blue denims. Though typical apparel for his early morning forays into the kitchen, it was not at all appropriate garb before a well-bred woman not his wife. There wasn’t much he could do about it now, though.

“I always start up water for coffee first thing, ” Conor offered with a vague motion toward the cookstove. “And, since I didn’t expect you’d be up quite so early …”

She managed a tremulous smile. “I wanted to get an early start. Besides, it’s not like I’m unacquainted with half-naked men, after all.” Then, as if realizing how that might be construed, she hurriedly added, “I was speaking only of my husband, of course.”

Conor held up his hand. “I’m quite aware who you were talking about, Mrs. Stanton.”

He paused, waiting for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he motioned toward the cookstove. “Well, since you’re here, you might as well start learning about this stove’s particular quirks. It’ll take you some time before you can regulate it well enough to keep from scorching the soups and burning the breads.”

Abigail Stanton walked to the kitchen table and put down the lantern. She removed her shawl and coat, hung them on a peg by the back door, then made her way to his side. “A temperamental stove, is it?” she asked, all seriousness and apparent sincerity.

“Very.” For a fleeting instant as she squatted beside him at the cookstove, MacKay caught a faint scent of lavender soap. The sudden awareness of her as an attractive female struck him with a painful intensity. His bare skin began to tingle, flush with heightened awareness. His gut twisted. Startled by his unexpected and surprisingly forceful response, Conor sucked in an angry breath.

He angled away until he could no longer smell her fresh-washed fragrance. “This main draft regulator … see how easy it is to overor under-compensate?” As he spoke, he pulled the door open bit by bit, then closed it the same way. “It takes practice to develop the right touch.