Daughter of Joy (5 page)

“Here”—he scooted aside and pointed to the little door below and to the left of the firebox—“why don’t you practice with it while I go back upstairs to wash and dress? It can’t be that different from the stoves you’re used to. If we’re lucky, maybe you’ll even have the coffee water boiling by the time I get back.”

Abigail shot him a dubious look. “I’ll give it a try. If I were you, though, I wouldn’t set your hopes on a cup of hot coffee any time soon.”

Conor gave a hoarse laugh. A fresh cup of coffee wasn’t the only thing he had no intention of setting his hopes on. “Oh, I won’t, Mrs. Stanton, ” he muttered half to himself, climbing to his feet. “I won’t.”

Abby watched him go, then heaved a sigh of relief. Lord have mercy, she thought, but Conor MacKay was even more attractive with his shirt off than with it on, and that was saying a lot. She knew she shouldn’t let his presence unnerve her. She was a grown woman after all, not some flighty schoolgirl—a recently widowed, married woman and mother, no less.

Abby pressed a trembling hand to her breast. Why, even her heart was racing, pounding away like some wild, Indian tom-tom!

What was it about this man that sent her thoughts to spinning? she wondered. Despite their marital difficulties, she still missed and mourned her husband. Despite the fact Thomas had been fifteen years older than her and had most times treated her as if she were some child, she had still loved him. The thought of finding someone else to replace him was the furthest thing from her mind. Indeed, if it ever
did
enter her mind, Conor MacKay would be the last man she would ever consider.

Still, like it or not, Mr. Conor MacKay made her very nervous, stirring emotions—yearnings—Abby had never felt before, not even for Thomas. But then, the affection she had had for her husband had been based on respect and duty and a shared love for the Lord. Indeed, that sense of wifely duty had been the sole reason she had ever performed the marital act. No sense of duty, however, beckoned her now toward Conor MacKay, and she knew it.

After a time of fiddling with the cookstove, Abby finally got the wood in the firebox burning nicely. Deciding it best to leave well enough alone, she turned her efforts to gathering the necessary ingredients for breakfast. Beside her stash of four eggs that she placed in a bowl on the kitchen table, Abby added a bag of flour, some baking powder, a bowl of sugar, and a large tin of what looked like a fancy New England maple syrup.

For an instant her gaze lingered on the syrup tin. The scene painted thereon of dark, skeletal maple trees, snowy backdrop, and a little, red-jacketed man sitting in a sleigh sent a renewed pang of homesickness shooting through Abby. Oh, for those happy, carefree days of her girlhood, running with her brothers through the snowy woods that surrounded their house outside Fall River, Massachusetts! It had been such an idyllic time, when life seemed so safe, so simple, and so very good.

Just then Conor MacKay walked back into the kitchen. Cheeks flaming, Abby swung around. This time, in addition to his well-worn blue denims, he had added a gray woolen, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of boots. His tousled black hair was now combed, his face freshly shaved. Abby managed a smile and pointed to the coffee pot. “Would you like a cup? It’ll be ready soon.”

With a curt shake of his head, he walked to the back door and donned his jacket and black Stetson. “Save it. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes anyway.” He paused at the door to pick up a covered empty milk pail. “If you’re needing some milk for making breakfast, I mean.”

“Yes, I will, ” Abby replied. “Are flapjacks and bacon to your liking?”

The corner of Conor’s mouth twitched. “After all the mornings of just a cup of coffee and maybe a slice of bread, most anything will be to my liking. That is, if you and Old Bess can manage to cook a meal without burning most of it.”

“Old Bess?” Abby’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Who’s Old Bess?”

With a jerk of his head, Conor MacKay indicated the big cookstove. Then, without further explanation or a farewell, he turned on his heel, opened the back door, and walked out.

“Old Bess, indeed, ” Abby muttered, sending the stove a skeptical glance. “I’ve heard of naming your horse and even your hand gun, but naming a stove …”

She grabbed up the lantern, a sharp knife, and long metal pan, and headed to the cellar door across the kitchen. The room was a dark, chilly place, with hastily dusted cobwebs still clinging doggedly to the corners. The family washtub and bathing tub were stacked against a far wall. Thick slabs of pork and beef, covered with muslin, hung from the rafters in the middle of the long room. It was there Abby went, to the chunks of smoked and salted bacon. With a few, quick slashes of her knife, she hacked off enough bacon for breakfast, then climbed back up the stairs.

Fifteen minutes later, just as he had promised, Conor MacKay strode in with a pail of warm, foaming milk. He immediately poured the milk into a cheesecloth-covered pail sitting on a small table by the back door, then placed the empty pail on the floor beside it. Hanging up his coat and Stetson, Conor joined Abby at the stove.

The mouth-watering aroma of frying bacon mixed tantalizingly with the smell of fresh coffee. He took one look at the fat strips of bacon sizzling in the iron fry pan, and smiled.

Grabbing a dishcloth, Conor used it to pick up the coffeepot. “I need that cup of coffee now. Would you like one, too?”

Abby glanced briefly over her shoulder, then returned her attention to the bacon. “Yes, please. I take mine black.”

The coffeepot still clutched in his hand, Conor walked to one of the cupboards. Taking down two thick pottery mugs, he placed them on the table. After quickly pouring out the coffee, Conor added several teaspoons of sugar to his. Still stirring his coffee, he ambled over to Abby.

“How much longer before breakfast?”

“About ten more minutes.” Abby lifted crisp strips of bacon from the fry pan and placed them on a plate. “I’m just about ready to start making the flapjacks. Does someone need to go up and wake Beth, or will she know to get up on her own?”

“I’ll go wake her.” Conor took a long draught of his coffee. He closed his eyes, almost sighing aloud in pleasure. Somehow, the coffee tasted better this morning than it had in a long time. “She expects me.”

Abby glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Well, I can’t think of a more pleasant way for a little girl to greet the new day, than by being awakened by her father. It’s good to have some special family traditions. Beth will remember and cherish them even when she’s grown.”

Her reply nonplused him. “I suppose, ” he growled, not knowing what else to say but inordinately pleased, nonetheless.

“One thing more, Mr. MacKay.”

He had just lifted his mug for another swallow but paused, the coffee halfway to his lips. “Yes?”

“After breakfast. What household chores would you like me to tackle first?” As if to soften any implied insult, she added. “Considering your, er, long-standing problems keeping a housekeeper, I assume some chores have piled up more severely than others?”

His brow furrowing in thought, he considered her request for a long moment. “The laundry, for starters. We’ve a mess of dirty clothes that need a good washing. That should take most of today. Tomorrow will be soon enough to tackle the rest of the house, the sweeping and dusting. And the clean clothes will need ironing, the floors scrubbing—”

Abigail laughed and held up her hand. “I think I get the idea.” She paused. “And what about Beth?”

Conor MacKay went still. “What about her? I hired
you
to be cook and housekeeper.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Abby choked back her exasperation. Considering the circumstances, she must, she supposed, make allowances for an overly protective and indulgent father. “I spoke of Beth’s lessons. Would you like me to begin those today, too?”

He eyed her closely. “Yes, that’d be nice, if you think you’ll have the time, what with all the other work.”

Abby smiled. “There are ways, Mr. MacKay.”

“Well, then, I suppose it’s time to roust out Beth.” He set down his mug. “We’ll be back shortly.”

“Bring a hearty appetite with you, ” Abigail called after him as he stalked from the kitchen. She finished laying out the fried bacon, then poured most of the grease into a strainer-topped grease keeper. Humming a tune, Abby next measured out the ingredients for flapjacks into a big, chipped, yellow pottery bowl. Behind her, the fry pan rewarmed on the cookstove. The small spoonful’s worth of bacon grease she had left in it began to sizzle and pop.

The morning was not turning out half as badly as she had imagined it might, Abby thought contentedly. Conor MacKay had been almost cordial. So far, the breakfast preparations were going well and, from the sunbeams now streaming into the parlor, the day promised to at least be sunny, if cool. Now, if only Beth’s mood—

The acrid scent of burning grease wrenched Abby from her pleasant musings. With a gasp, she wheeled around, flinging fat dollops of flapjack batter from the spoon into the air. Smoke billowed from the fry pan.

Abby quickly tossed the spoon onto the table, grabbed a hand towel, and removed the smoldering pan from the stove. “Blast, but you’re the cussedest stove I’ve ever cooked on!” she muttered, carrying the pan to the sink.

After pumping the pan full of cold water, she hurried back to the stove. Once more, Abby squatted and fiddled with the main draft regulator door hoping, at long last, she’d finally gotten the recalcitrant thing adjusted properly.

By the time Conor and Beth entered the kitchen, Abby had four golden brown flapjacks stacked on each of their plates. “Good morning, Beth.” She graced the little girl with what she hoped was her sweetest, most welcoming smile. “Did you sleep well?”

Beth, hair askew and dressed in yet another pair of overalls and boy’s woolen, long-sleeved undershirt, scowled darkly, mumbled some unintelligible reply, and plopped down at the table. Wasting no time, she grabbed a handful of bacon and stuffed two slices into her mouth. Then, after dousing her flapjacks with a generous amount of maple syrup, she dug in.

Abby sent Conor an inquiring glance. He just shook his head and rolled his eyes. Beth, she realized, was none too happy with either of them this morning. Deciding it the better part of valor to avoid any direct confrontation first thing with the little girl, Abby turned back to the stove.

She finished the remainder of the flapjacks for their breakfast and took her seat at the table. By then, the stack of flapjacks on both Beth and Conor’s plates had diminished considerably.

Abby smiled in satisfaction. “I take it the breakfast met with your approval?” She added three flapjacks and several pieces of bacon to her own plate.

Beth, toying now with the puddle of syrup in the middle of her plate, refused to look up. Her father, however, rocking back in his chair and savoring his second cup of coffee, did manage a bit more social grace. “It was delicious, Mrs. Stanton. You and Old Bess seem to be getting along surprisingly well.”

Abby gave a wry chuckle. “Let’s just say we’ve agreed to a temporary truce. Just before you returned, we had a few tense moments.”

He smiled, leaned forward until all four legs of his chair were once more firmly planted on the floor, and set down his mug. “From the sudden smell of burnt grease upstairs, I gathered there’d been some sort of altercation. To your credit, though, it seems you came out the victor.”

“This time, perhaps.” Abby laughed outright. Why, miracle of miracles! The man actually had a sense of humor! “Though one battle may have been won, I’d wager the war is hardly over.”

“You just watch out, ” Beth muttered, suddenly coming out of the sullen pout she’d managed to maintain for the entire meal.

Two pair of eyes turned to her.

“And why is that, girl?” Conor asked, an edge of warning in his voice.

Beth focused her now wide-eyed, innocent gaze on her father. “You know Old Bess, Papa. One minute she’s sweet. The next, she turns on you, burning everything in sight. If I didn’t know better, I’d lay odds Old Bess is just biding her time with Mrs. ‘Know-it-all.’”

“Would you now?” An enigmatic smile crossed his lips. “Well, you’ll have plenty of chances to find out how much Mrs. Stanton knows, won’t you?”

Beth’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, Papa?”

“Why, what else, girl? It’s past time you began your lessons, and today’s as good a day as any to start.” He looked toward Abby. “Wouldn’t you say so, Mrs. Stanton?”

Abby inhaled a steadying breath, then forced what she hoped was a bright, obliging smile. “As good a day as any, Mr. MacKay.”

4

And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

1 Corinthians 13:13

Abby? It’s me, Ella.”

The voice from the kitchen’s back door caught Abby by surprise. She dropped the bar of lye soap she had been using on Beth’s dirty dungarees. It hit the wash water with a resounding plunk, splattering her with dirty droplets.

She swung around, swiped a damp hank of hair from her sweaty forehead, and grinned. There, in the open doorway, stood Ella MacKay, a rosy-cheeked baby in her arms, a young, red-haired boy clinging to her skirts.

“Come in, Ella.” Gratefully, Abby stepped back from the steaming washtub. “Come on in and have a seat.”

She wiped her wet hands on her cotton apron, walked to a cupboard, and pulled down two mugs. “Would you like something to drink? A cup of tea, perhaps? I can fetch some milk for the children from the springhouse. It’ll only take me a few minutes.”

“A cup of tea would be nice, but nothing for the children, ” Ella murmured as she made her way to the table and took a seat. “They just woke up from their morning nap. Mary’s been nursed, and Devlin Jr.’s already had some raisin bread and milk.” She looked at her son. “Why don’t you go find Beth? She’s upstairs in her room, isn’t she?”—she glanced at Abby for confirmation.

At Abby’s affirmative nod, Ella gave her son a gentle shove. “Skedaddle now.”

“Beth really dotes on him, ” she informed Abby after he had left, “and Devlin Jr. adores her. They can spend hours together, telling stories, playing dress up, and all sorts of other imaginary games.”

With a sharp pang, Abby had watched the toddler scurry from the kitchen. For a moment the memory of Joshua, laughing merrily and racing through their old house to join his little friend Caleb outside, was almost more than she could bear.

The two boys weren’t much different in age—Joshua, five, and Devlin Jr., four. Though Devlin Jr. had a wild carrot-red thatch of hair and a generous smattering of freckles across his face, and Joshua had been dark blond and fair, they were enough alike that Abby knew it would be hard to see the little boy and not be reminded of her own. But then, she glumly reminded herself, so many things reminded her of her son and would, she supposed, for a very long time to come.

Blinking back a swell of tears, Abby squared her shoulders and headed for the stove. Commandeering the simmering teapot, she moved it to a hotter spot beside the pot of leftover stew she was rewarming for lunch. Walking back to the cupboard, she took down a small, red lacquered wooden tray she had discovered just that morning, added the two mugs, a bowl of sugar, a jar of tealeaves, a silver tea strainer, two spoons, and two blueand white-checkered cloth napkins.

“I’m sorry there’s none of your delicious apple pie left, ” Abby said, as she carried the tray back to the table. “What little we had Beth finished off just a little while ago.” She shook her head in amazement. “For such a little girl, she certainly has an enormous appetite.”

Ella shifted Mary to the other side of her lap. “I sometimes think she tries to fill that lovesick hole inside her with food.” She hesitated before going on. “I saw the look you gave Devlin Jr. just now, Abby. If it’s too difficult for you to be around him, I won’t bring him anymore.”

“No, no.” Abby managed a wan smile. “I’ve got to get over it sooner or later. After all”—she forced a laugh—“I don’t want to be known as ‘Old Lady Stanton who can’t have children visit.’”

Ella laughed. “I don’t think you’ve got much to worry about, Abby. You don’t strike me as a woman who runs away from things.”

“On the contrary.” She set the tray on the table and began laying out the napkins, silverware, and sugar bowl. “That’s exactly what I had hoped this position would be. A place to get away from everything, until I could sort out my life.”

“And exactly how long did it take you to discard that foolish flight of fancy?” Ella asked with an impish grin. “The first time you talked to Conor or Beth?”

Abby’s smile faded. “Actually, I haven’t discarded that plan, Ella. It’s just getting harder to convince myself that I can manage it. The running away, I mean.”

Even as the words left her mouth, Abby wished she could’ve called them back. If the sudden, heavy silence that settled between them wasn’t confirmation enough of her tactless mistake, the shocked expression on Ella’s face most certainly was. This time, however, the shrill whistle of steam escaping the teapot provided Abby with a convenient excuse to busy herself. “Excuse me.” She hurried to retrieve the teapot.

In silence Abby filled the tea strainer with tealeaves, placed it over Ella’s mug, and carefully poured the boiling water over the leaves. Once Ella’s mug was full, she repeated the procedure for her own mug. At long last, though, Abby ran out of excuses to avoid her guest’s now concerned, if compassionate scrutiny.

“You’re the first decent woman Conor has hired, ” Ella finally said, “and now you’re telling me this job means nothing to you? That you intend to waltz in and out of their lives without a by-your-leave?”

Abby flushed. She gripped her mug between both hands, staring down into its amber depths. “It seemed like the best thing for me at the time. When I first considered the position, I mean.” She lifted an agonized gaze. “It was mean and selfish, I know, but I just wanted …” Tears clogged her throat and, for a long moment, Abby couldn’t speak. “I wanted to be left alone, with no emotional demands placed on me.

“I couldn’t do that in Colorado Springs. There were too many memories. And my sister-in-law, Nelly Burgess, just won’t let me be. She means well, mind you, but …”

With a soft sound of sympathy, Ella reached over and took Abby’s hand. Crushed now between the table and her mother’s bosom, Baby Mary squirmed and grumbled until Ella finally leaned back. “Maybe it’s for the best that you are here, ” she said, never breaking her gaze. “Maybe it’s meant to be, that you were sent to Culdee Creek, rather than to a household that doesn’t need you as badly as this one does. And maybe it’s time that you, too, begin to fill the lovesick hole inside of you.”

Abby frowned in puzzlement. Then, as realization dawned as to the possible meaning of Ella’s words, her cheeks flamed hot. “If you think I came here in the hopes of snaring a husband—”

“No, that’s not what I mean at all, Abby.” Ella laughed ruefully and shook her head. “Sometimes people can help each other. And who can better understand pain, loneliness, and confusion than someone who’s experienced it themself?”

When Abby didn’t respond, Ella sighed. “It was that way for Devlin and me. I met him about six months after I’d been widowed. It was at an Episcopal Church social in Grand View. He was so kind and patient with me, and it didn’t hurt a bit”—she grinned—“that he was one of the best looking men around. As I got to know Devlin better, though, I discovered he had his dark side. The bottle.”

Ella’s admission shocked Abby. She’d met Devlin MacKay yesterday when he’d stopped by briefly, while she was moving in, to introduce himself and welcome her to Culdee Creek. Even at that first meeting, she’d had to agree that he was indeed—after Conor MacKay, of course—one of the best looking men around.

Though nearly as tall as his boss, Culdee Creek’s foreman carried a few more pounds of muscled bulk. His face was craggier, his nose had been broken, and his hands were broad, with short fingers. A working man’s hands, her father would have said.

Devlin MacKay’s eyes were a rich, warm brown, his gaze open and friendly. His dark brown hair was thick and wavy. A long, lush mustache graced his upper lip, dipping well past the corners of his mouth. It lent him, Abby had to admit, a certain look not unlike some desperado. But, as soon as he threw back his head and laughed, the sinister impression was immediately dispelled.

Charming desperado that he might seem, Devlin was a far less intimidating man than Conor MacKay could ever hope to be.

“What did you do? About his drinking, I mean?” Abby prodded, Ella’s startling revelation stirring her interest.

“He’d just lost his father, Conor’s father’s younger brother. I tried to be there for him, to listen and care. I guess, in the end, we helped each other. As we fell in love, we both found the strength to overcome most of our failings. Overcome them for the sake of the other.”

“I’m happy for you, ” Abby muttered, suddenly and unaccountably jealous. If only Thomas had been willing to do that for her—a pat on the hand and chaste kiss on the cheek weren’t always what a wife needed most from a husband, especially when times got rough. “It doesn’t work that way for all of us, though.”

“It doesn’t always work for us, either.” Ella looked down at her mug and began to swirl its contents. “Devlin and I have our problems. He still drinks sometimes when things between us go sour.” She lifted her gaze. “But I know he loves me, and he keeps trying. I have to love him back for that. Love him, and trust that everything will eventually be as it’s meant to be.”

A deep sadness darkened Ella’s brown eyes. Yet intermingled with that was a peace and joy. Her new friend had had her share of pain and suffering, Abby realized, but she hadn’t let it defeat her, or send her running. It hadn’t shriveled her soul.

Shame flooded Abby. She had lost much, in the death of her son and husband. She’d lost family, a sense of her place and purpose on this earth, and all her hopes and dreams for the future. The very underpinnings of her life had been wrenched from beneath her. But these weren’t reasons to give up. These weren’t reasons, but still the way back sometimes seemed next to impossible.

Abby took a deep draught of her cooled tea. The brew was strong and aromatic, tasting of lavender and rich black tealeaves. From across the table, little Mary gurgled happily, then smacked her lips.

Once more that sharp, bittersweet pain lanced through her. Unbidden, a scene flashed across her mind—of newly born baby Joshua, so sweet, so soft, so warm and cuddly!

With an effort, Abby looked up. “I’m trying, Ella, ” she said, her words low but impassioned. “I want to do right by Beth and Mr. MacKay. I want to do right by myself, too. It’s just that I don’t know which path to take, or how to journey anymore.”

“Give it time, Abby, and trust in the Lord.”

She managed a sad, tremulous smile. “Ah, yes. The Lord. He’s always with me.”

“Yes, He is. Trust in Him, and never stop loving. Do that no matter what, even if you can’t manage anything else right now.”

Once more, Abby’s eyes filled with tears. Though Ella spoke the words now to comfort her, she also knew Ella believed them with all her heart. Believed them, and lived them in her own life, through all the times of happiness and sorrow.

The realization comforted Abby, stirred a tiny spark of hope. Surely if Ella could endure, so could she.

Trust … and never stop loving.

“I’ll try, Ella, ” Abby whispered. “I’ll try.”

As directed by her father, later that afternoon Beth came down to begin her lessons. Clutching a tattered, cloth doll, she flung herself into one of the kitchen chairs and glowered at Abby from across the table. “I’m here because Papa told me to come, ” she poutingly informed her, “but you can’t make me learn.”

Abby looked up from one of Conor MacKay’s shirts she was ironing. So far, the day had been windy but reasonably warm. The first load of laundry she had hung out by mid-morning, though still damp, was now dry enough to iron.

Her gaze snagged on the dirty doll with the formless, ragged sack dress. How much Beth was like that little doll, she thought. Wide-eyed, disheveled, and hungry for love yet so disagreeable in manner and appearance.

“No, Beth, I can’t make you do anything, ” Abby agreed softly. “Your papa, though, wishes for you to do your lessons, and I’m most willing to teach you.”

“I don’t like you!”

Abby set the iron back on the stove to reheat, then walked around the ironing board and took a seat opposite Beth at the table. Resting her arms on the clothcovered surface, she met the girl’s hostile glare. “Believe me, Beth. I quite understand that.”

Abby’s heart went out to the child. It must be so hard to accept a stranger into the house, gradually come to accept her, only to have her leave. Surely someone as young as she was could only interpret that, after a time, as a personal rejection.