Daughter of Joy (9 page)

“Yes, Pa.”

Robbie turned then and staggered away. Margaret rushed over to Conor and began to dust the dirt and bits of grass off his trousers. “He didn’t mean aught by it, lad,” she crooned. “He just wants you to love the Lord as much as he loves Him.”

Conor stared at the back of his retreating father, his emotions roiling in a confusing tumult of pain, anger, and shame. Yet, though he nodded his acknowledgment of his mother’s words, he wasn’t so sure he believed them. Indeed, he hadn’t believed in a long while now that his father loved God, or that God loved him.

From that day forward, though, Conor had memorized his religion lessons until he could spout page and paragraph. He probably still could, he thought with grim irony, and with only the most minimal of promptings. His father had, at the very least, seen to that.

But, though Conor had continued to practice his faith even after his father’s death, that doctrinal knowledge had never particularly endeared him to God. After all, what had God ever done for him? Not much, Conor thought sourly, save take away nearly everyone he had ever come to love.

No, admitting to a belief in and need for God gave God power over the believer, he reminded himself as he squared his shoulders and strode into the kitchen. Placing any hope in that belief was also frustrating, humiliating, and disappointing. It was a can of worms best left undisturbed.

He certainly didn’t need some big-hearted little busybody stirring up issues long and safely buried, Conor added grimly as Abigail Stanton, dressed in a bright green calico dress that set off her dark hair perfectly, glanced up from the stove. But then he also wasn’t so sure, noting the becoming flush that reddened her cheeks as she caught sight of him, that he wanted to run off this particular, big-hearted little busybody. At least not, he quickly amended that thought, any sooner than he had any of the rest.

6

He hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives.

Luke 4:18

Abby had thought she was ready to face Conor MacKay, but one look at him as he walked into the kitchen the next morning was enough to send her carefully rehearsed speech spiraling into the cosmos. Though circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes, and his lips were drawn in a forbidding line, he was freshly shaven and dressed in his usual boots, blue denims, and a red plaid shirt that complemented his ebony hair. He looked, to Abby, strong and self-assured. He also looked like a man intent upon a mission, and determined to achieve it.

She turned back to the pan of bacon she was frying, hoping her employer would mistake the hot blood flooding her cheeks for the cookstove’s heat. As potent a temptation as Conor MacKay remained, Abby did not care to pick up where they had left off last night.

He came to stand beside her. Seconds ticked by but he said nothing, did nothing, save stare at her. Abby’s pulse quickened. The breath squeezed from her lungs, and the hand holding the fork turning the bacon began to tremble.

Anger at her cowardice filled her. Oh, blast him, she thought. He only does this to unnerve me. Abby shot him a furious glance. He looked back, a solemn, thoughtful light in his eyes.

“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. MacKay?” she demanded, realizing she was even more uncomfortable with him now than she had ever been before.

He opened his mouth as if to speak. Then, suddenly he shook his head. “Is the coffee ready?”

“Yes, it is.”

Taking up a dishtowel, Conor grabbed the coffeepot sitting on the back burner and carried it to the table. Abby didn’t dare peek over her shoulder. She began forking slices of crisply cooked bacon from the pan, easily envisioning his actions: placing the pot on the table’s little sunflower-shaped trivet, then walking away; the clink of pottery mugs banging together as they were being taken down from the cupboard.

“Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Stanton?”

Abby pulled the last slice of bacon from the pan and placed it on the plate. She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m about ready to begin frying the eggs. I’ll wait until I sit down to breakfast to have coffee.”

“Why don’t you put that plate of bacon in the warming oven instead”—Conor MacKay poured out first one, then another mug of coffee—“and come sit down? Breakfast can wait a few minutes. Beth’s just beginning to stir. She won’t be down for another ten or fifteen minutes. We’ve some unfinished business to settle.”

“Really, Mr. MacKay,”—she wheeled around to face him—“I don’t think this is the proper time or place—”

“It is if I say it is, Mrs. Stanton,” he cut her off. “This is still my house, and you are my employee, are you not?”

It was all Abby could do to choke back a tart response about what he could do with his job. As much as she hated to admit it, though, he was right. It was his house, and she had agreed to be his employee.

“Fine. Whatever you say.” Abby turned back to the plate of bacon, picked it up and, flinging open the warming oven door, shoved the plate inside. She resisted, however, the urge to slam the oven door shut.

Conor MacKay pulled out her chair and motioned for her to sit. As she did, he walked around to the head of the table and took his own seat.

“First,” he finally said, “I want to apologize about my less than gentlemanly conduct last evening. I should’ve never come to you in such an inebriated state.”

Embarrassed, Abby made a motion of dismissal. “It was as much my fault as yours, Mr. MacKay. I should’ve never gone down on my knees to you or touched you. It won’t happen again.”

He leaned forward, gripping his mug. “I think, Mrs. Stanton, that your actions were far more innocently intended than mine. It was I who chose to interpret them in the wrong light.”

Abby could not bear to meet the intensity of his gaze. “All I ask is that you not make the same mistake again, Mr. MacKay.” She found sudden interest in her coffee. “If such an incident occurs again, I’ll be compelled immediately to tender my resignation.” She forced herself to look up. “I came to do a job, Mr. MacKay, not warm your bed or win you as a husband. If you’ll forgive my bluntness, you are hardly the kind of man I’d care ever do either with.”

He leaned back, eyed her quizzically, then laughed. “Well, I suppose I’ve just been set straight. Come, come, Mrs. Stanton, don’t hold back now. Tell me your
true
feelings about me.”

Abby frowned, confused by his sudden change in mood. “Really, Mr. MacKay, I don’t see the humor in this. I told you the truth in an effort to ease the misunderstanding of last night. And those are my true feelings.” Or at least all you’ll ever know, she silently added. If you were to guess the complete truth …

The consideration of what a man like Conor MacKay might do if he realized the extent of her attraction to him was beyond comprehension. It was also a sure road to ruination.

Her nerves more rattled than she cared to admit, Abby took a sip of her coffee. “Since we seem to have that issue settled,” she then said, deciding it the wisest course to change the topic, “I just want you to know I won’t say another word to you or Beth about God. That is,” she hastened to add, “unless you decide to bring up the subject.”

He cocked his head and studied her gravely. “That’s quite a concession for you, isn’t it, Mrs. Stanton?”

“Yes, Mr. MacKay, it is. But I gave you my word, and I’ll stick by it. All I ask in return is that you permit me to worship the Lord as I see fit.”

“Does that include going to church on Sundays?”

Abby sucked in a breath. Oh, how she longed to keep holy the Sabbath! “I’d dearly love to attend church every Sunday, Mr. MacKay, but I’ve agreed to your terms of only one day off a month. If you don’t mind, though, I’d at least like to make that one day a Sunday.”

He took a deep swig from his mug, then set it down. “Has anyone ever told you that you make a fine cup of coffee, Mrs. Stanton?”

“No, but I thank you for the compliment.” Abby paused. “Now about that day off, Mr. MacKay …”

He shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you like. Take it as a Sunday. It’s a better day than during the week anyway. In fact, as long as your work’s done, you can have every Sunday morning off, too, in case you want to go to church in Grand View. It’s a good half-hour buggy ride there, but I’m sure you can hitch a ride with Ella and Devlin. They attend the Episcopal Church there. Not that,” he added with a wry grin, “Devlin’s all that taken with church going. He only does it to please Ella and set an example for the children.”

Abby stared, flabbergasted. Conor MacKay was giving her extra time off to attend church? She couldn’t believe her ears. Even if it wasn’t a church like the one she was raised in by her Methodist minister father, she was sure her father would have given his blessing. And there had never been any doubt in Abby’s mind that her Father in heaven would understand.

“That’s most generous of you, Mr. MacKay,” she murmured, too shocked and pleased to be able to say more.

“You were willing to compromise something of great importance to you, in order to give me something equally important to me. Despite what you may have heard to the contrary, I am a fair man.”

“I assure you. I’ve never heard anything to contradict that.”

“Haven’t you?” Conor gave a disbelieving snort. “Well, it doesn’t matter.” He shoved back his chair and stood.

“A moment more, Mr. MacKay.”

“Yes?” He arched a dark brow, then softened it with a smile.

For a fleeting instant, Abby hesitated. She was loath to threaten the pleasant sense of fellowship that had formed between them in the past few minutes, but the issue of Beth was yet unresolved. The little girl, however, would remain a bone of contention between them, Abby feared, until she was able to develop some sort of positive relationship with her. But to do that, she needed to know exactly what obstacles that relationship was up against.

She lifted her chin and stared Conor MacKay straight in the eyes. “It’s about Beth. I need your help.”

Conor’s smile faded. A wary look shuttered his gaze. “What about her?”

“She’s so guarded and suspicious of me. It’s going to be difficult to make much headway in her lessons as long as there’s such a barrier between us.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Amusement filled Abby. Beth wasn’t the only one guarded and suspicious of her. Abby knew she must venture slowly and carefully.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she began with as much tact as she could muster, “but if you could share some reasons for her animosity toward me … well, perhaps it might provide some valuable insights.”

Cool, gray-blue eyes regarded her dispassionately. “Neither Beth nor I are ones to snivel when life treats us unfairly. And we certainly don’t want anyone’s pity.”

“Pity!” Abby rolled her eyes. “I think you confuse pity with caring and compassion. I’m not asking for you to snivel, just help me understand Beth better so I can help her.” She shoved her mug aside and leaned toward him. “She needs a woman’s influence in her life, Mr. MacKay. She needs to learn that she’s worthwhile, beautiful, and intelligent.”

“Are you implying I don’t make her feel that way? That I’ve failed miserably as her father?”

Abby froze. Now I’ve really done it, she thought. “No, no.” She shook her head vehemently. “That’s not at
all
what I meant. It’s evident that Beth adores you, and you, her. But she needs more than just what one person can give her—even if that person is her father—if she’s to heal that wounded little heart of hers.”

“So you’re offering to help heal, is that it?” Like a storm on the horizon, Conor MacKay’s expression darkened ominously. “Have a care, Mrs. Stanton. You risk much in daring to draw too close to my daughter.”

“As much as you risk, in daring to trust me to do it, Mr. MacKay?”

A hard, angry look flared in his eyes. “Forgive me if I’ve somehow stumbled off the path of this conversation,” he said, “but I thought Beth was the topic.”

“She was,” Abby tossed back at him, realizing she was now so embroiled in their renewed battle there was little sense in mincing words. “But it always comes back to you, doesn’t it?”

“How so, Mrs. Stanton?”

Something in the tone of his voice warned her that only a fool would tread down that road, but Abby no longer cared. Sooner or later, this father needed to recognize the damage his mistrust and repugnance for others had wrought upon his daughter. His anger and purposeful isolation would ultimately embitter and shrivel not only his soul, but Beth’s as well.

As it would anyone who turned from life, Abby realized with a sudden insight, whether from fear, or hurt, or disappointment. As it would with her, if she purposely avoided the path the Lord had so long ago set her upon.

“She needs you to set the example of how to deal with life, Mr. MacKay,” Abby said, fired now with a conviction that encompassed them both. “It is your example she’ll follow the rest of her days, as you most likely followed your parents. Do you truly want your influence to be one of mistrust, of loathing for her fellow man?”

“Who are you, to lecture me about how I raise my daughter?” he demanded furiously, his broad shoulders gone rigid, his fists clenched at his side.

“No one, Mr. MacKay,” Abby replied softly. “I’m no one to you, but it seems there’s no other person who dares to tell you, or warn you before it’s too late.”

Abby extended her hand to him across the table, then caught herself. Realizing it was too late to withdraw it, she slowly fisted her hand instead. “I don’t say this to judge you, truly I don’t. How can I judge you? I can’t begin to know what pain and sorrow life has brought to you. I can’t even look into your heart, save to catch a glimpse of the love you bear for your daughter.”

He stepped back in rejection of her gesture. “No, you can’t.” Conor MacKay’s voice went hoarse with emotion, “and never will. No one ever will again!”

At the vehement intensity of his words, a deep, aching sadness filled Abby. Ah, his pain, his pain. It was almost past bearing. “Don’t you mean no
woman
, Mr. MacKay?”

“That’s right.” He spat out the words as if they were vile to his tongue. “No woman.”