Daughter of Joy
Authors: Kathleen Morgan
Tags: #Fiction, #Christian, #Historical, #General, #Romance, #ebook
D
AUGHTER
of
J
OY
Other books by Kathleen Morgan
Brides of Culdee Creek Series
Daughter of Joy
Woman of Grace
Lady of Light
Child of Promise
Culdee Creek Christmas
All Good Gifts
The Christkindl’s Gift
Guardians of Gadiel Series
Giver of Roses
These Highland Hills Series
Child of the Mist
Wings of Morning
D
AUGHTER
of
J
OY
B
RIDES OF
C
ULDEE
C
REEK
• B
OOK
O
NE
KATHLEEN
MORGAN
© 1999, 2007 by Kathleen Morgan
Published by Fleming H. Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, M I 49516-6287
New paperback edition published 2007
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Morgan, Kathleen, 1950—
Daughter of joy / Kathleen Morgan.
p. cm.—(Brides of Culdee Creek: bk. 1)
ISBN 10: 0-8007-5718-1 (paper)
ISBN 978-0-8007-5718-2 (paper)
I. Title. I I. Series: Morgan, Kathleen, 1950—Brides of Culdee
Creek; bk. 1.
PS3563.08647D38 1999
813'.54—dc21 99-25264
For Beth Anne, bookseller extraordinaire,
and the dearest of friends.
You’ve always been there,
encouraging and rooting for me,
even in my darkest moments.
And for Sean … always, always, for Sean.
Daughter of Joy
wasn’t an easy book to write. The idea for this book was conceived in 1997, about a year after my youngest son died unexpectedly of cancer. It was a time when, not surprisingly, I was contemplating the direction of my life and its purpose.
Though fervent in my Christian faith when a youngster, over the years I became lukewarm at best. My son’s death brought me back to God. There are still times, even now, when all I can do is hang on to Him with all my might and be grateful for that. At other times, though, I cannot help but marvel at how far I’ve come and how blessed I am. Grieving, I think, is a lot like that—a wild, agonizing, bewildering, yet sometimes glorious ride into the deeper, more essential aspects of self and humanity. It is also, I believe, a ride with no end in sight.
So what does this have to do with
Daughter of Joy
? Writing has always been a journey for me. I strive to portray my characters as authentic human beings, using personal insights and resources to draw on the deep, basic core of my own humanity—good and bad. That, I truly believe, lends realism and heart to my writing. My own struggle with issues of grief, loss, and acceptance of God’s will, and my renewed search for a deeper, more spiritual and lasting meaning to life were all catalysts for
Daughter of Joy
.
As I wrote I found inspiration from a line in a condolence card I received: “For every joy that passes, something beautiful remains.” That poem became a beacon of hope for me, especially in those early weeks and months after my son’s death. It beckoned me ever onward in my quest to survive and, finally, to begin to heal.
I knew God’s will—and love—for me was somehow tied up in that simple little verse. I clung to it for comfort. I held it close, examining its every facet. Yet as the weeks, months, then years began to pass, I came to realize I would never fully plumb the depths of its meaning—at least not in this life. Its meaning would always lead me forward, though, providing direction for the rest of my days.
Joy … It’s a journey we all embark upon from the first moment we draw breath. We search so avidly for it. We cannot help it; it’s inherent in our nature. Yet no matter how hard we strive, our joy can never truly be complete until we find it in the Lord.
Daughter of Joy
is the story of one woman’s—and man’s—journey back to that true meaning and purpose in life. It is, in many ways, my story as well. Perhaps there are threads of your own story—and journey—woven there, too.
ABIGAIL
“Source of Joy”
Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation; and uphold me
with thy free spirit.
Psalm 51:12
The plains east of Colorado
Springs, Colorado, October 1895
Speak, L
ORD
; for thy servant heareth.
1 Samuel 3:9
I can’t help it! I’ve held my tongue as long as I dare. Please, Abby. Take a bit more time and reconsider.”
With an affectionate smile, Abigail Stanton glanced at the woman sitting beside her. Then, lightly flicking the buggy whip over the horse’s back, she urged Elsie, her sister-in-law’s Morgan mare, to quicken her lagging pace. As the horse moved out, flurries of dust swirled in the air, muting for a moment the day’s crisp, vibrant fall colors.
“I’ve hidden away long enough, Nelly.” Abby sighed. “It’s time to set aside my selfish needs and unreasoning fears. Time to venture back into the world, into life, if only with this first, most tentative of steps.”
“Well, perhaps so, ” Nelly agreed grudgingly, folding her hands primly in her lap. “There’s no rush, though, is there? No reason to accept the first position offered you?
Especially
not this one.” She rolled her eyes, her dark blond lashes fluttering in horror. “Heavens above! The tales I’ve heard about that man and his family!”
“I haven’t ‘accepted’ anything yet, ” Abby murmured in gentle correction, flicking the buggy whip once again, as Elsie veered toward a succulent patch of grass growing along the roadside in a protected cranny of rocks. “This is only an interview. We must both first decide if we even suit each other.”
“He’s a heathen, Abby! He never even sets foot inside church!” Warming to her tale, Nelly clenched her fist and pounded her knee in emphasis. “Why, it’s said his wife hated him so much she ran away, leaving behind her young son. Then, no sooner was she out the door, he took in an Indian squaw and had a half-breed daughter. To top it off, just this past spring, the man’s son ran away. Seems he couldn’t stomach his father either.”
“Let’s not forgot to add, ” Abby offered with a wry grin and chuckle, all the while keeping her gaze riveted on the road ahead, “that none of his former housekeepers have ever lasted more than six months. And that Conor MacKay is reputedly the most unpleasant, evil-tempered man in these parts.”
“Well, those
are
the rumors about him.” Nelly turned in the buggy seat more fully to face her. “Besides, what of all your fine plans? What of Thomas’s mission for penniless outcasts? Just because your husband is gone doesn’t mean you have to turn your back on all his hopes and dreams. You used to be so certain the mission was God’s will for you. Isn’t it still?”
Just then the right buggy wheel hit a large rock in the road. The conveyance bounced into the air, then slammed down again, unseating Nelly. With a squawk, she grabbed for the arm rest and shoved her black straw hat—which had slid down to cover her eyes—back firmly on her head.
“Well,
isn’t
it?” she stubbornly prodded through gritted teeth, resettling herself more securely on the seat. “You’ve suffered greatly in the loss of your husband and son, Abby, but surely the Lord hasn’t changed His mind or His plans for you.”
Abby blinked back a stinging swell of tears. Hasn’t He? she thought bitterly, but said nothing. Nelly had her best interests at heart, but she really didn’t need to hear this right now.
It was frightening enough, riding out here to meet some man about whom she’d only heard the worst tales. To pile on agonizing memories and haunting, unresolved questions was almost more than Abby could bear. As it was, her whole world had turned topsy-turvy. For a long while now, she had been going through the motions of living. Living … only because she must.
But no one wanted to hear that, much less deal with all its unpleasant ramifications. People tried, God bless them, and Nelly most of all. But someone’s personal tragedy was too hard for others to face day after day. Abby couldn’t blame them. The loss of two loved ones within one year was more than anyone would ever wish to endure.
Nonetheless, Abby reminded herself, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she must get by the best way she knew how. Get by, and deal with the present moment—which currently entailed surviving the next hour or so.
“I don’t know much of anything anymore, Nelly, ” Abby finally replied, at a loss for anything better to say. “I’m not sure what God has in store for me.”
The answer seemed to satisfy—or at least temporarily confound—her sister-in-law into silence. As they drove along, heading ever northeast and away from the Rockies and Colorado Springs, the tall log gates topped by a sign proclaiming the main road to Culdee Creek Ranch appeared at the top of the hill. On all sides, thick stands of dried grass swayed in the wind. Hidden somewhere in the grass, meadowlarks sang.
It was a beautiful, Indian summer day. Still, Abby felt as if she viewed it from afar. It was a fear that visited her more and more of late, the fear that she’d never be able to feel or experience life and living fully ever again.
She hesitated, reluctant to belabor a subject that had become a sore point in her and her late husband’s relationship. It was time, though, that Nelly begin to understand. “If the truth be told, ” Abby forced herself to say, “the mission was always Thomas’s idea, not mine. I acquiesced to his plans because he was my husband, and it seemed so important to him.”
“Then build the mission now as a tribute to him.” Nelly’s voice went hoarse with emotion. “Do it for my br-brother.” She looked away, blinking furiously.
Distressed that she’d been the cause of another’s pain, Abby pulled back gently on the reins. Traces jingled and leather creaked as the Morgan mare slowed, then came to a halt. Abby turned to her sister-in-law, and took one of her hands in hers.
“Ah, Nelly, Nelly.” She patted her hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or lead you to believe I don’t still love Thomas. Truly, I haven’t given up on the idea of his mission. I just need time to sort things out, to heal. Meanwhile, I have to support myself, not to mention save some money to build the mission. Until I do, any talk of fulfilling Thomas’s plans is pointless.”
Nelly drew an embroidered lace handkerchief from her skirt pocket, dabbed daintily at her eyes, then blew and wiped her nose. “True enough, ” she admitted huskily, giving Abby’s hand a squeeze. “Until then, though, you could move in with us to save costs, and take another, far more appropriate job in the Springs.”
Nelly cocked her head. “You’ve changed in the past year, you know? You’ve grown more headstrong, more rebellious. What you used to accept so meekly and obediently as God’s will, when Thomas lived, you now …”
Her voice faded, and she shook her head. “I’m digressing, I suppose. What I mean to say”—Nelly inhaled a deep breath and forged on—“is that this crazy plan of yours seems like an attempt to run away from your commitments and responsibilities to yourself, to others and, even, to God.”
Abby went very still, then released Nelly’s hand. She turned back to the mare, who had taken the liberty of edging her way once more toward the side of the road and the grass growing there. Clucking at her, Abby signaled the animal forward. With an indignant snort and irritated flick of her ears, Elsie reluctantly resumed a brisk trot.
Abby stared straight ahead as she turned the mare off the main road toward Culdee Creek’s gate. Frustration welled in her. Would no one ever allow her the chance to do what
she
wanted, what she needed?
“Well, maybe I am, ” Abby finally admitted. “But who doesn’t have more of a right? There are just too many memories in Colorado Springs. I need time to get away from it all … to sort everything out. To find some peace, some acceptance.”
And, she silently added, to find something I’m beginning to think I’ve been too long denied—myself.
“Yes, you of all people have that right, ” Nelly replied, “save for one thing.”
“And that one thing would be?” Abby demanded tautly. Ah, she thought in rising irritation, would Nelly
never
let things be?
“Does anyone ever have the right to run away and shirk her duties to God?”
The thinly stretched thread of Abby’s patience snapped. “I’m
not
running away from God!” she cried. “I’d never do that. Never! If anything, I’m running
toward
Him.”
Nelly turned in her seat and fixed her gaze on the distant horizon. “Are you really, Abby?” she asked softly. “I wonder if you’re able to face the truth or even see things clearly.”
Abby clenched the reins, the stiff, unyielding leather cutting into her palms. She choked back scathing words, knowing that whatever she said would soon be regretted. Nelly meant well, but she just didn’t understand.
Lips tight, faces pale, the two women topped the hill and headed down the other side in an uncomfortable, tension-fraught silence. A vast panorama of rolling, autumn-browned grasslands spread before them while behind them and far to the west, Pikes Peak, its summit lightly dusted with snow, gleamed against its backdrop in the cloudless sky. Situated in a small valley flanked on the north by a hillside studded with Ponderosa pines and on the southeast by a cottonwood-lined creek that flowed down to a large pond was an impressive, twostory wooden ranch house, painted white and trimmed with dark green.
Several outbuildings of various sizes sat a short distance away. Farther off from the main buildings were two tall, wooden, dark green barns built on high rock and mortar foundations. Two corrals, a pigpen, and a storage cellar adjoined the barns. Hereford cattle grazed lazily in the barbed-wire-enclosed pastures stretching as far as the eye could see.
“I’m sorry if my words hurt you, Abby, ” Nelly finally said, doggedly returning to the subject at hand. “You know I’d never have said it if I didn’t love you. But are you certain this”—her gesture took in the land and buildings that lay before them—“is the answer?”
Fleetingly, Abby closed her eyes, then opened them again. “No, Nelly, I’m not, ” was her simple, heartfelt reply. “But at least it’s a start. One way or another, I cannot hope to know God’s will until I begin to search … and listen.”
Conor MacKay saw the buggy pass through the gate, and head down the long hill leading to the house. He twisted free the last potato clinging to the plant he had uprooted, tossed the dirt-encrusted tuber into the full basket, and rose. “Come along, Beth.” He glanced down at his nine-year-old daughter. “Mrs. Stanton’s here. It wouldn’t hurt either of us to clean up a bit.”
The girl dusted off her dungarees and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “What does it matter how we look, Papa? She’s just another snoopy old lady who won’t like us. And, even if she stays on for a while, she won’t last long. None of them do.”
“Be that as it may”—Conor took his daughter by the arm, and led her through the rows of rapidly fading potato plants and withered squash vines—“you haven’t quite mastered the art of cooking, cleaning, or washing clothes yet. So, until you do …”
Beth gave a snort. “I don’t care if I
ever
learn how to cook, clean, or wash! I’m never getting married. Why should I, Papa?”
His daughter’s words sent a sharp stab of pain through Conor’s heart. He didn’t expect anything more for himself—not anymore—but he’d hoped Beth might someday find a kind man to care for her. Even at thirty-five, with likely a passel of good years still left in him, Conor knew someday his daughter would have to make it on her own. After all, now that Evan had run out on them, it looked like Culdee Creek would one day belong to her. When that day finally came, she’d need a good man at her side.
Shading his eyes against the early afternoon sun, Conor could just make out the faces of the two women heading toward them. Both were modestly dressed in pinstriped, long-sleeved, shirtwaist blouses and long, dark skirts, their hair covered by equally dark straw hats. Squinting hard, he could see that the one driving the buggy had dark brown hair and the one sitting beside her was blond.
Prim and proper, he thought, their faces and bodies protected from the harsh, unforgiving sun of the high plains and Rocky Mountain foothills. Conor smiled grimly. If this Mrs. Stanton decided to stay on, she’d soon have to discard that feminine ideal of fine white skin and smooth hands. This was a working ranch.