Daughter of Joy (7 page)

“I’m sorry.” Conor forced a quick, apologetic smile. “You just got me riled.”

“Guess I’ll lay off then.”

“Guess you’d better,” were Conor’s parting words before he turned and headed back to the fence posts and rolls of barbed wire.

5

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?

Romans 8:35

Later that night, Abby finished stitching the last seam in the blue calico doll dress, leaned back, and yawned. She glanced at her bedside alarm clock through the cloth hangings separating her living area from her bedroom. Half past nine. It had been a long day. If she was to be up and cooking breakfast by the time Conor MacKay came down tomorrow morning, she needed to head to bed.

For an instant longer Abby turned back to the little dress, eyeing it critically. She had done a passable job with some of the scrap material she had brought with her. All it needed now to be finished was a quick hand hem of the long skirt, and a few touches of white cambric embroidered edging at the throat and ends of the long sleeves. It was a dress any little girl would be proud of.

She only hoped Beth would see it that way.

Wearily, Abby laid aside the dress, rose, and took up the oil lamp. Just then footsteps sounded outside on the little wooden platform that served as a porch. Someone paused at her door, then rapped smartly on it.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

A deep voice rose from the other side of the door. “It’s Conor. Conor MacKay. Could I have a few minutes of your time?”

Abby’s mouth went dry. Whatever could he want that couldn’t wait until tomorrow? Besides, it really wasn’t proper—

“You’re more than welcome to come back to the main house,” he cut her off in mid-thought, apparently guessing the reason for her hesitation, “if you’re so all-fired worried about propriety. Personally, I never concern myself with what others think, just as long as I know I’m doing the right thing.”

Abby jerked open the door. Of all the smug, egotistical men she had ever had the misfortune of knowing, Conor MacKay certainly stood out above them all! “You, Mr. MacKay, are also a
man
,” she said, glaring up at him, “and judged far less harshly for far greater misdeeds. So please, don’t set such low expectations upon me, expectations that are impossible for any decent human being to uphold.”

He chuckled softly and shook his head. “Are you always so snippy by this time of night? Remind me not to approach you again after dark.”

There was something about this man that seemed to bring out the temper in her, a temper she thought long ago mastered. If the Christian principle of charity wasn’t enough to cause shame for her fiery outburst just now, the fact that he was her employer was a sufficient reminder to curb her tongue.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. MacKay.” Abby lowered her gaze. “That was rude of me. I guess it’s going to take me a while to understand your sense of humor.”

“No offense taken, Mrs. Stanton. I’ve long been accused of a mean streak when it comes to picking at sore spots. And it’s quite evident what one of yours is.”

She lifted her head, suddenly tense. “And that sore spot, Mr. MacKay?” Abby asked, poised for battle. “Pray, exactly what would that be?”

The tall rancher grinned and, in the dim lamplight, his features took on a wolfish cast. “The preservation of your precious reputation, of course. A pointless pastime, to my way of thinking, considering my good name was trampled in the mud long ago. You, however, are apparently still clinging for dear life to yours.”

“There’s nothing wrong with trying to maintain a good name,” she said in her defense. “I’m sure there was a time when the name MacKay was one to be proud of, one that stirred respect in the hearts of all. And it could be again, if you’d take a bit more care with people.”

Conor’s grin faded. His eyes went dark, and his jaw tightened. “What would you know of the MacKay name and whatever it meant to folks in these parts? Have a care, Mrs. Stanton. Don’t venture where you’ve no right to go.”

He spoke true, Abby thought ruefully. Nothing was served in poking and prodding at a man like Conor MacKay.

Abby squared her shoulders. “You came here for a reason, and it was hardly one concerning my reputation, Mr. MacKay.”

He took a step closer. Abby had a strange sense of being engulfed by a mysterious, dark threat. A shiver coursed through her.

She refused, however, to back away. Fists clenched, she forced herself to gaze steadily up at him, awaiting his reply.

“Can I come in?” he asked. “I’d rather not talk standing outside.”

Abby hesitated, then shrugged off her qualms. She was an adult; she’d been a married woman. Surely she could deal with the likes of Conor MacKay. Besides, this bunkhouse was as much his as was any other building on the property.

“I’ve no intention of ravishing you, Mrs. Stanton. I thought I made that clear the day of your interview.”

His blunt words wrenched Abby back from her thoughts. She felt ashamed. For all his intimidating ways and lack of tact, Conor MacKay had never been less than a gentleman.

“So you did, Mr. MacKay. So you did.” Abby stepped aside and motioned him in. “Please forgive the mess.” She gestured vaguely around the room. “It’ll take a while longer to settle in, I’m afraid.”

He glanced about him, his sharp gaze taking in the treadle-driven sewing machine, rocking chair, and open trunk still full of skirts, dresses, blouses, and neatly folded piles of white cotton chemises, petticoats, underdrawers, and an assortment of long, black and white cotton stockings. Just beyond the colorful swatches of fabric—that Abby intended eventually to turn into dresses—now hanging across the rope dividing the room, her white muslin nightgown could be seen, laid out across her downturned, brass bed.

Abby’s face flooded with heat. She scooted around Conor MacKay and quickly flipped the lid of her trunk closed. Next, she hurried across the room to pull down the fabric turned back to reveal her bedchamber.

“Please, Mr. MacKay.” With a curt, embarrassed motion, Abby indicated the table with its single chair. “Please, take a seat.”

“No, you take the seat, Mrs. Stanton.” His expression was inscrutable. “I’ll just pull over the rocking chair, if that’s all right with you.”

Somehow his presence made the room seem suddenly close and stifling. Abby nodded and took the seat. By the time, though, that Conor MacKay had settled in the rocking chair he’d carried over to place before her, she’d managed to snatch back the scattered remnants of her composure.

“Well, Mr. MacKay,” Abby began, compelled by the need to get the visit over and done with, “I don’t mean to appear rude, but it is getting rather late. What did you want to talk about?”

He crossed his leg, balancing the ankle of one booted foot on his other knee, and began to rock, slowly and methodically. As the seconds ticked by he studied her until Abby thought she’d scream.

Conor could tell he was making her nervous. He continued to stare, intent on building the tension, unnerving her. It would drive home his point, when he chose to make it.

His gaze slid over her face, noting her sweet mouth, the high color that swept her cheekbones, the tender curve of her neck. Once more he had to admit it. Abigail Stanton was a most attractive woman.

She reminded him, in some ways, of Sally.

Conor’s gut twisted. That was all he needed, he thought sourly. Another woman the likes of his wife.

Yet, on closer inspection, he realized his startling revelation had nothing to do with outward characteristics. The likeness ran far deeper, and it had something to do with the reason he’d first fallen in love with Sally.

Angrily, Conor shifted in the rocking chair and forced his thoughts back to the present. “What else is there to talk about?” he growled, shattering at last the brittle silence. “Beth, of course.”

Abby’s stomach sank with a thud. So, she thought, the little girl had wasted no time complaining to her father about today. “Exactly what about Beth did you wish to discuss?” she forced herself to ask. “I don’t suppose it’s a complaint that we didn’t make much progress on her lessons today, is it?”

Conor scowled. “No. She wouldn’t have any complaints about that.” He stroked his beard-shadowed jaw, and eyed her speculatively. “It’s about you and your preaching.”

“Preaching?” For a long moment, Abby stared in puzzlement. “I don’t recall any …” Gradually, the memory of her words to Beth about God’s love filtered into her mind. Dear Lord, she thought in frustration. Can’t I even speak of You in their house as justification for my own actions and beliefs?

“Are you referring to my comments to Beth about God loving her?” Abby tried to keep her tone neutral, her voice calm.

“Yes. Was there more said than that?”

“No.” Abby leaned toward him, resting her forearms on her thighs. “And did Beth also tell you in what context I said those words?”

Conor graced her with a glacial stare, and Abby was struck with the realization of how mercurial this man could be. A few minutes ago, he had been smiling, nearly joking with her. And now … now he had withdrawn behind a stony countenance, a wall that she knew she’d no hope of breaching.

He lives this way to protect himself, she thought with sudden insight. He keeps people off balance and defensive, unsure of themselves around him. It gives him the upper hand.

Yet, in the doing, though he might maintain control, he paid a heavy price. He paid for it in isolation and loneliness. He paid for it by running in terror from life and living. He paid for it in the false sense of power he imagined it gave him—a power that no one save God could ever truly possess.

A soft, sad, knowing smile touched Abby’s lips. It was a truth, at the very least, she’d learned when she’d lost Thomas and Joshua. There was no control in life—at least not over what really mattered. She hadn’t been able to prevent Thomas’s death, or to keep Joshua alive, no matter how hard she’d tried. Her sense of control, of fairness, order, and purpose, had always been nothing more than an illusion.

An illusion … yet truth nonetheless. It was a truth in the facing, however, that had shattered her former way of looking at life. She was, in reality, the master of nothing. And that was a truth that still, at times, terrified her.

In their desperate quest for an elusive, false sense of control, Abby realized she and Conor MacKay were probably more alike than she cared to admit.

“Well, Mr. MacKay,” Abby prodded. “Did she tell you the whole story?”

He didn’t move, just rocked slowly, methodically, watching her all the while. Finally, though, he spoke. “I really don’t care in what context you said the words, Mrs. Stanton. You are not to speak about God in my house.”

“And why is that, Mr. MacKay?” she demanded, refusing to back down. “What harm could it possibly do? You told me you don’t believe in God. Yet, in refusing ever to have God’s name mentioned, you act like you fear Him.”

Abby cocked her head. “How can you fear someone you think doesn’t exist?”

Anger flashed in his eyes. He stopped rocking. “Does it really matter, Mrs. Stanton?” he asked softly. “The rules remain the same.”

In a rush of angry frustration, Abby’s patience fled. “How am I to live, if you deny me the right to speak freely of the God I love?” she cried. “How am I to win Beth’s trust and affection, if you forbid me the one way I know to convince her of my sincerity?”

She fell to her knees before him, and placed her hands over his. “Please, Mr. MacKay. You said I didn’t have to hide my personal beliefs or their importance in my daily life. You said, ‘suit yourself.’”

Gazing up at him, Abby searched for any sign of his acquiescence. He stared back, hard, unyielding.

Then something imperceptibly changed. Conor MacKay’s gaze slowly, languorously slid up Abby’s body until it locked with hers. A chill of recognition, of woman’s intuition, swamped her.

She leaned back, attempting to pull her hands from his, but he was too quick for her. His long fingers encircled her wrists, imprisoning her where she knelt. Abby’s mouth went dry. Her heart began a mad pounding beneath her breast.

“Mr. M-MacKay … I …” she stammered.

“Exactly what do you want from me, Mrs. Stanton?” He leaned toward her. “I can’t imagine you truly wish to bed me, yet maybe I’m wrong. Rarely do I find women on their knees to me, save in the most compromising of circumstances. Yet here you are …

“I must admit, though,” he continued, “that you confuse me. One minute you’re talking about God, and the next”—his lips lifted in a feral smile—“well, you’ve been married. I’m sure you understand as well as I.”

His breath, redolent of fine whiskey, wafted over Abby. Her heart sank. He’d been drinking, she realized, terror surging through her. He’d been drinking and now he was here, in her room, alone, and in total command.

Total command …

The two words stirred deep-seated, long-buried emotions. A memory of a crisp, fall, New England day flooded her mind. She saw her and her father walking through the leaf-carpeted forest near their home and heard, once more, his voice, firm but patient, explaining why she wouldn’t be going to college.

“Your place is at the side of a good, God-fearing man,” he said. “Only there can you serve the Lord as He truly wishes you to serve Him.”

Abby had stopped then, her heart pounding, the blood rushing deafeningly in her ears, and clutched her father’s arm. “There are other ways besides marriage to serve the Lord, Papa. I can teach. You always said I had a gift for teaching. And it’s not as if I never want to marry. I just want to do other things first, like go to college.”