Daughter of Joy (29 page)

There was no room left for anger and resentment, Conor realized. There was no time for fear or mistrust. A man of honor could no longer close his eyes, turn away in cowardice, or harbor heartand soul-rotting grudges. Not if he wished to heal, be whole again, and be worthy of all that was good in his life.

Conor smiled down at his wife. “I’m glad you came back,” he tenderly said. “I’m glad you overcame your pride and fear, both for my and for Evan’s sake.”

Tear glistened in Sally’s eyes. “So, beloved, you understand at last.”

“Yes.” He leaned down and took her hand. “I think I finally do.”

Three days later, Sally died in her sleep. The funeral services were held one morning two days after. The MacKay family and most of Culdee Creek’s ranch hands attended. The Reverend Noah Starr, the Episcopal Church’s new assistant pastor, presided over the burial in Grand View’s forest cemetery.

It was a cool, crisp, but sunny November day. A brisk wind rustled the branches of the tall, Ponderosa pines. The dried prairie grasses covering the nearby hills waved languorously, glinting pale, flaxen-gold. Black, tuft-eared squirrels scrabbled overhead, and pine needles crackled underfoot.

As was the custom, Sally’s grave faced east toward the high plains. The little party of mourners gathered there. The Reverend Starr took out his prayer book and finally, when everyone fell silent, he began to read.

“As a shepherd seeketh out his flock in the day that he is among his sheep that are scattered; so will I seek out my sheep, and will deliver them out of all places where they have been scattered in the cloudy and dark day …”

This particular passage from Ezekiel had been one of Sally’s favorites. She had had Conor read it to her the night she had died, before he had left her and gone to bed. She had claimed she had liked it because to her it spoke so clearly of God’s faithful, persistent love in her life. Listening to it now, Conor thought that it spoke equally as well of his life, too.

“And I will bring them out from the people, and gather them from the countries, and will bring them to their own land, and feed them upon the mountains of Israel by the rivers, and in all the inhabited places of the country.

“I will feed them in a good pasture, and upon the high mountains of Israel shall their fold be: there shall they lie in a good fold, and in a fat pasture shall they feed upon the mountains of Israel …”

The Lord had relentlessly pursued them both, Conor mused, and had brought them to the good and fruitful pastures. Yet, though Sally’s life was now complete and she had gone on to her eternal rest, there was still much work left for him. Much work … in service of the Lord.

“I will seek that which was lost,” the Reverend Starr read, his strong, clear voice carrying to the edge of the gathering and beyond, “and bring again that which was driven away, and will bind up that which was broken, and will strengthen that which was sick …”

The Lord had done that and more for him, Conor thought. The realization filled him with a deep and quiet joy. It felt good, right, to come home again. Home to the Lord.

The young priest finished the reading, said a few words about Sally, then stepped from the grave. Evan, his eyes red and swollen, took up a handful of dirt and tossed it down onto his mother’s coffin. Next came Beth and then Conor. As they backed off and began to walk away, the rest of the mourners took their turn.

It was only then that Beth saw Abby, a slender figure in black standing quietly beside her buggy. Beside her was her sister-in-law, Nelly.

“Papa,” the girl cried. “She’s come back!” Beth looked up at her father. “Can I go to her, Papa? Can I?”

For a fleeting moment, Conor’s grip tightened on his daughter’s shoulder. Across the expanse of graveyard separating them, his gaze met Abby’s. Something strong and poignant and loving passed between them. His heart gave a great leap of joy.

“Yes, girl,”—Conor released his daughter—“you can go.” After a moment he followed her, secure in the knowledge that he finally came to the woman he loved as a whole man with a whole heart.

A man precious and glorious in the sight of the Lord.

Epilogue

February 16, 1897

Hotel Colorado

Glenwood Springs

Dearest Nelly
,

Conor and I arrived safely yesterday afternoon, after a glorious trip on the Denver and Rio Grande railroad from Denver through the Rockies to Glenwood Springs. I never would have believed the grandeur of these huge, snow-covered peaks. They certainly put our New England mountains to shame.

The Hotel Colorado, a copy of the Villa Medici in Rome, is indeed as luxurious and extravagant as everyone had said. What a perfect place to spend one’s honeymoon! Our suite of rooms is beyond imagining and, like the rest of the hotel, is equipped with those newfangled electric lights. The private bathroom has a marble tub and washstand. There’s a twenty-five-foot-high waterfall cascading into a pool in the north court of the lobby. The south court also has a large pool in its center, from which a fountain shoots one hundred feet into the air. The food served in the grand Devereux Dining Room is deliciously sumptuous, and the myriad activities available, even in winter, boggles the mind. We’ve already tried the hot springs—which Conor and I both adore—and taken a romantic moonlit sleigh ride. I must admit, though, that we’ve also squandered part of our first day here snuggling in our bed with its gracefully wrought arabesque tester.

Tomorrow, we plan to visit the Yampah Hot Springs Vapor Caves. These caves are formed by hot mineral water percolating up through fissures in the rocks, and supposedly have curative powers for a variety of ailments. I have to chuckle a little, though. Conor and I have to bathe separately and wear what amounts to a linen sack with a drawstring at the neck for swimming.

Oh, Nelly, I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am! Each and every day I’m with him, Conor reveals yet another new and wondrous facet to his personality—and heart. He’s so kind, so tender, so solicitous of my every need. Yet at the same time, he allows me the freedom to express my views and listens with great interest and respect. I—and I’m sure you, too—have to laugh at the dramatic change from that first day I met him. Yet his innate honor and goodness were there all along, buried beneath his terrible burden of pain, anger, and mistrust.

God has been so very good to the both of us. We have each other, a wonderful family, dear friends, and a beautiful home. Yet, best of all, Conor and I, at long last, share a deep and abiding religious faith. I have learned so much in this past year and a half—about myself, others, and how to come through the greatest tragedy of my life. Even more importantly, I’ve learned so much about my relationship with the Lord. I’ve learned that, though everything is ultimately transient, His love is steadfast and eternal. I’ve learned to daily cherish His gifts and graces, all the while remembering that they are His and not mine to depend upon or cling to. Most of all, my faith and trust in Him have grown. I place everything in His hands now, where it was always meant to be. Who else, indeed, can take better care?

Thank you so much, Nelly, for attending our wedding. That day would never have been as perfect had you not been there. Conor was happy to have you there as well. Do I dare hope that you two are finally coming to some sort of friendship? I pray so.

Well, it’s been a long day. A fine, fragrant piñon pine fire is burning in the fireplace, and Conor says it’s time for bed. I must admit I think so, too. I’ll write more once we return home to Culdee Creek.

Fondly,
Abby

Discussion Questions for
Daughter of Joy

1. Historical fiction can present recurring, timeless themes—such as the role of faith in our lives and how it can help us to cope with and overcome life’s problems—in a fresh, new light. What themes did you discover in the process of reading
Daughter of Joy
?

2. Abigail, which means “source of joy,” is the heroine of
Daughter of Joy
. In what ways are her spiritual and personal journeys similar to yours? In what ways are they different?

3. Conor MacKay, the owner of Culdee Creek Ranch, is a man who long ago turned his back on God. How can loss and sorrow undermine the loving relationship a person has with God? Do you know of anyone who has turned his or her back on God? What did he or she do to find a way back to God? Were others instrumental in assisting in this return, and if so, how?

4. Were there any other characters that resonated with you? If so, which ones and in what ways?

5. Abby’s whole life and experience have been rooted in her Christian faith—a faith she now clings to simply to survive. When she is hired to serve as a cook, housekeeper, and governess to Conor’s nineyear-old daughter, she soon finds that her faith—a faith grounded on a foundation formed for her by others—is beginning to shift and truly be tested. Have you ever found yourself in a similar situation? What did you do to not only retain but also strengthen that faith?

6. Several times, either Abby or Conor is called upon to forgive someone who has hurt or betrayed them. All of us have experienced opportunities to offer forgiveness. What have you learned about yourself from such opportunities? What have you learned about people you forgave that might have helped make it possible to forgive and even love them?

7. Sometimes, like Abby, we are certain we know God’s will for our lives. Have you ever had an experience where you thought you knew God’s will for your life, but you eventually realized you had been wrong? How did it make you feel? What did it take for you to finally change directions and begin walking that new, different, and perhaps far more difficult path?

8. If you could ask the author any question, what would it be?

Woman of Grace

by Kathleen Morgan

The eastern plains outside
Colorado Springs, Colorado
April 1897

There were days, increasingly now, when the burden of such deep, dark, shameful secrets became too hard to bear. Days that filled Hannah Cutler with such wild hopes for the future that the the old self-serving impulses threatened to fade forever. Days when she was so overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity of others that she thought she might weep with gratitude.

But then there were other days. Days like today, as Devlin MacKay shot her yet another sour look, when Hannah knew those shameful secrets were best kept hidden away. Best kept clasped tightly where no one could threaten the tenuous hold she had on this new, far better life.

Only fools gave others the weapons to destroy them, and Hannah had learned long ago, in many painful, degrading ways, how to survive.

She had to admit, though, that she was mighty tired of Devlin’s hostility. It had never been his right to pass judgment on Conor’s and Abby’s decision to allow her to remain at Culdee Creek Ranch. Or to belittle her relationship with Evan either. Indeed, it should hardly be any of his business. But he hadn’t seen it that way, and the proud ranch foreman was not the kind of man to easily—or ever—let go of a grudge.

“Come on in,” the dark-haired, powerfully built man growled, making an impatient motion for her to enter. “The house is cold enough without you standing there with the door open.”

Hannah, a bundle of clean towels and sheets tucked beneath her arm, hurried inside. When no offer of assistance was forthcoming, she turned and shut the door against the blowing snow and howling winds. A dusting of powdery flakes followed in her wake, coating the threshold and floor. With a surreptitious glance at Devlin, who scowled at her even more fiercely, Hannah tried to brush them back toward the doorway with the side of her black, high-buttoned shoe.

“I’m sorry,” she said, choking back her irritation at his lack of manners.

Though Hannah wanted to say more, to refute his harsh words and the implied insults behind them, she did not dare. To challenge Devlin would be, as it had always been with other men before him, to risk dire punishment. Though he might not stoop so low as to actually beat her for any implied impertinence, he could do far worse. He could jeopardize her continued stay at Culdee Creek. He could ruin everything.

So with gritted teeth and clamped lips, Hannah kept her glance cast downward and strode across the small kitchen. It didn’t matter, at any rate, what he thought of her. She would never have come if it had just been for him. He could have lain here in this house and rotted for all she cared.

No, it wasn’t for Devlin that Hannah had dared enter. It was for his wife, Ella, who lay writhing in her childbed, and for Abby. It was for the two women who had first welcomed her to Culdee Creek almost a year ago. Women who had tirelessly championed her when almost no one else would.

As Hannah moved past where Devlin sat, a mug of coffee clenched in his hands, a soft, low moan rose from a bedroom at the end of the short hall. Her footsteps quickened.

“One thing more.” Devlin’s voice, hard as steel, sliced through the tension-laden air.

She slid to a halt, shoulders rigid, and waited for the blow she knew was about to come.

“Yes, what is it?” Hannah asked softly.

“You can stay because Abby needs your help right now. But just as soon as Doc gets here, I want you out of my house. Women like you aren’t fit to be near decent folk or innocent children.”

Rage boiled up inside Hannah. How dare he?
How dare he?

She turned, her gaze meeting his. A look of mutual fear and distrust arced between them. “I’m done with that life, and you know it, Devlin MacKay,” she finally spat out.

“Are you?” He gave a harsh bark of derision. “Don’t fool yourself. When the going gets rough, women like you always go back to your old ways. After all, it’s the only thing you ever learned to do easily and well. Mark my words. You’ll go back.”

No, I won’t, she thought with fierce, fervent determination, even as the old doubts plucked at her anew. I would rather die than go back to that life. I would rather die than prove people like you right. People like you, who have sinned in ways far greater than I ever could.

She almost uttered those very words, almost turned and pointed an accusing finger. But she didn’t. Devlin MacKay was too blinded by his own guilt and complicity ever to see the truth. It sat far better with him to lay all the blame on her. In some twisted way, she supposed he also imagined it absolved him. Absolved him, and washed his soul as white as snow.

Or as white as dead men’s bones, scattered and forgotten in a desolate, whited sepulchre.