Daughter of Joy (12 page)

“It’s a deal.”

He held out his hand, and Abby shook it before gathering up her skirts. “I’d better not tarry. I’ve a ham baking in the oven, and potatoes simmering on the stove. Though Mr. MacKay agreed to keep an eye on Old Bess while I was at church, I’m sure he’ll be expecting his Sunday dinner soon.”

Devlin laughed. “I honestly doubt Conor yet knows what to expect from you, Abby. But then, it’s good to keep him a bit off balance. Good for his heart,
and
his head.”

Abby shot him an uncertain glance, then turned and headed up the porch steps. Devlin MacKay, she decided, was no more above matchmaking than was his wife. Best she ignore both of their attempts as well as she could. There was no sense fanning the flames.

Neither Conor nor Beth was anywhere to be found. She hurried to the kitchen, checked and basted the ham—which was cooking nicely—and added a cup of water to the pot of potatoes. The apple cobbler for dessert was cooling on the table, while the dish of glazed carrots baked alongside the ham.

Dinner would be ready in another half hour. Just enough time, Abby decided, to return to her bunkhouse and freshen up.

As she neared her little dwelling she noticed the door slightly ajar. Frowning in puzzlement, Abby stepped up onto the small porch.

The sound of her footsteps striking the wooden deck must have startled whoever was inside. There was an audible gasp, then a sharp clatter as something hit the floor. Abby shoved open the door.

Beside one of her open trunks stood Beth, her eyes wide, her mouth moving in soundless terror. In one hand, she clutched the doll’s dress Abby had made. Her other hand was fisted and pressed to her breast. At her feet lay an overturned silver frame that held Abby’s daguerreotype of Joshua as a baby.

For a moment she surveyed the scene, myriad responses darting through her mind. Finally, she settled on the most obvious. “What are you doing in here, Beth?”

The little girl swallowed hard and held up the doll dress. “I-I just came for this. You said it was mine.”

“Yes,” Abby replied slowly, “that I did. I didn’t mean for you to come in here without my permission, though. Just as I respect your privacy, I also expect you to respect mine. What would your father think? How would he feel if he knew you’d come in here?”

Beth paled. Her eyes filled with tears. “You’ll tell him, won’t you? You’d like nothing better than to get me in trouble.” She threw down the little dress. “I should’ve known better than to trust you or take any presents from you. It was a trap, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it?
“

Abby closed the door and walked over to her. “A trap? Whatever are you talking about?”

“You want to make me look bad to my papa, so as to make you look good. You don’t care about me. All you want is to impress my papa and win him over, just like”—the youngster choked on a sob—“that mean, nasty Maudie !”

“Beth, Beth.” Abby removed her jacket and laid it aside. Pulling over a stool, she motioned for Beth to sit on it. The girl sullenly complied, and Abby took her own seat in the nearby rocking chair.

She leaned forward and rested her forearms on her skirt-covered thighs. “I don’t care a fig whether I impress your father or not. I do the best I can for the both of you, and hope that it’s enough. And I don’t want to make you look bad. On the contrary, I want us to be friends. That’s why I made the doll dress for you.”

Tears trickled down the little girl’s cheeks. Angrily, she swiped them away. “Then let me take it and leave.”

“You’re free to leave.” Abby sat back. “But you don’t have to. Now that I’m here, why don’t you stay and visit a few minutes? Just the next time, ask me if you want to come in here, okay?”

Beth grimaced and rose. “Okay.” She squatted, picking up the daguerreotype. “Who’s this?” She offered it to Abby. “Your little boy?”

“Yes. His name was Joshua.” Tenderly, Abby accepted the daguerreotype and placed it back on the table beside the pictures of Joshua taken on his fifth birthday, and that of Thomas and her on their wedding day. “He was a little over six months old when this was taken.”

“Papa said he died of a fever. Did you love him very much, beings as how he was a boy and all?”

Startled, Abby stared in puzzlement. “Don’t you like boys?”

She shrugged. “Well, my papa’s all right, and Cousin Devlin, and most of the hands. But I can’t say as how I cared much for any of the boys at school.”

“They were mean to you?”

Beth’s expression clouded. “Yeah, they were mean.” Her lips tightened. “But then, so were most of the girls, too.”

“If I’d been your teacher, I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

The girl lifted her gaze to meet Abby’s. “Mr. Sullivan wasn’t about to go up against a whole mess of parents just for me. Papa tried his best. Even went to the school board, but everyone backed Mr. Sullivan. So Papa told them what he thought of them, then pulled me out of school.”

Beth grinned. “Wish I’d been there to hear it. Cousin Devlin told me there was a mess of shouting, and a whole lot of red faces by the time Papa was done.”

Compassion filled Abby. No wonder the little girl thought she wasn’t worth anything. Her teacher, classmates, and the entire school board had all but told her so.

But at least her father had defended her. Abby’s opinion of Conor MacKay rose a few extra notches.

Abby was tempted to ask Beth what had happened to her at school, then thought better of it. To pry into something so personal at this stage of their relationship might well do even more damage.

She managed a taut smile. “I’m glad your papa was there for you. He loves you very much.”

Beth nodded solemnly, her little chin lifting in proud agreement. “Yes, he does.”

“Well,”—Abby shoved out of the rocking chair and stood—“I need to get back to the kitchen and our Sunday dinner. Would you like to look around, see my sewing machine, and some of the other books I brought for your lessons before we leave?” She gestured broadly to the room.

The little girl climbed to her feet. “What’s that?” She walked to the fabrics draped over the rope dividing the room.

“Cloth I bought to make clothes and curtains and other things.” Abby joined her. “See”—she fingered one piece of cloth—“this pretty green-flowered fabric is calico, and this is a fine plaid gingham, and this”—she moved down a few feet—“is a lace stripe novelty gingham. I also have a delightful maroon challis.” She pointed to a richly printed, tightly woven cotton material. “I was planning to make this into a lady’s evening costume.”

She sighed. “But that was a few years ago, before my husband died. Now there’s little point in such fripperies.”

“Why’s that?” Beth reached out and stroked the smooth fabric. “Aren’t you allowed to go dancing?”

Abby shook her head. “It’s not about being allowed or not allowed, Beth. I’m just not interested in dancing anymore.”

“My papa can dance, you know? My grandpa, his papa, taught him all sorts of Scottish Highland steps. Our ancestors came from Scotland, you know.”

The image of the stoic Conor MacKay, dressed in a tartan like the man in the painting in the parlor, made Abby grin. “Now that would be a sight to behold. Maybe you can talk your papa into doing a Highland dance for Thanksgiving.”

“I don’t think so. He doesn’t dance anymore, either.” Beth’s statement, as simply couched as it was, stabbed into Abby’s heart. Misfortune and personal choice had pushed Conor MacKay to the very fringes of life. They had thrown up walls to separate him from others. But the man he once was, and the man he was still capable of being, Abby sensed, was still there beneath it all.

It was there in his love and devotion to his daughter, in his friendship with his cousin and his wife, and in the pride and hard work he put into Culdee Creek. She even caught occasional glimpses of it in his interactions with her. Conor MacKay might be hard, angry, and unyielding at times, but he also strove to be fair and rewarded true effort.

Yet, like herself, Conor MacKay didn’t dance anymore. Dance again he would, though, Abby vowed. Dance with joy, with wild and holy abandon. It would be her gift to him, if she gave him nothing more. And his dancing would be a gift to her, too.

“Well, Beth,”—Abby began to lead the little girl to the door—“if we can’t get him to dance for Thanksgiving, then sometime soon. One way or another, I think it’s very important that your papa dance again.”

“It went rather well, wouldn’t you say?” Ella asked Abby as they cleaned up after the Thanksgiving meal. “The hands ate like there was no tomorrow, Conor actually smiled a time or two, and even Beth was on her best behavior. Yes,” she said smugly, half to herself, “I’d say just about everything is finally beginning to go well.”

Abby busied herself fixing up a plate for Brody Gerard, the new hand hired just two days ago. He had missed the meal because of an imported, prize Hereford cow about to deliver. “Do say?”

Just then Beth, dressed in a warm coat, knit cap, and mittens sauntered in. Both women paused in their conversation.

“Hi,” the little girl offered, never breaking stride.

“And ‘hi’ to you, too. Going out to work off some of that big turkey dinner, are you?” Ella asked with a smile.

“Nothing better to do.” Beth tossed the reply over her shoulder as she paused at the back door. “All the men folk are doing is talking about cattle prices, and it sure is boring.”

“Well, have fun outside then.”

“I will.” Beth walked out the back door.

“Yes, I
do
say.” Ella turned back to Abby and immediately picked up the thread of their interrupted conversation. “Why, Conor hardly flinched at all when I insisted we say grace. That’s a big improvement for him.”

Though Abby couldn’t help thinking there’d have been more than a flinch if she’d been the one to suggest such a thing, she didn’t voice the opinion. Ella was as puffed up and proud as a hen who had laid her first egg. It would hardly be kind to burst that egg over so tiny and insignificant a detail.

She added a big scoop of mashed potatoes to the plate of stuffing, green beans, and thick slices of turkey, then poured a ladleful of gravy over it all. After covering the food with a pie pan to protect it, she placed it in a big basket already filled with silverware, two buttered rolls wrapped in a cloth napkin, a slice of pumpkin pie, and a mug of cider.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes.” Abby threw a warm shawl over her shoulders, then carefully slipped the basket onto one arm. “I feel sorry for Mr. Gerard having to sit in a drafty barn with a cow, while the rest of us are snug and warm, stuffing ourselves on a Thanksgiving feast.”

Ella scowled. “It can only do him good, cocky young buck that he is. If I’d been Devlin, I’d never have hired him. That Brody Gerard isn’t a decent sort. You watch yourself, Abby.”

Abby laughed. “Oh, Ella, he can’t be
that
bad.”

“And how many times have you talked to him? None, I’d bet, or you wouldn’t say that. In fact,” Ella added, “let me fetch Devlin from the parlor. He hired him. He can take him his supper.”

“No.” Abby shook her head firmly, and strode to the door. “Let the men relax and savor their full bellies. I’ll be back before Devlin could even get up from his chair and stretch out his kinks.”

A raw wind, gusting down from churning grey clouds in the north, engulfed her in its frosty grip. Abby tugged the shawl up over her head, hunched her shoulders against the cold, and quickened her pace to the barn.

As she walked, she smiled to herself in amusement. Ella could get so protective at times. She only wondered if that protectiveness truly extended to her, or if Ella also meant to protect what she imagined to be Conor’s interests. After all, though Abby had not actually spoken to the man since his arrival, she hadn’t failed to notice Brody Gerard’s striking good looks as he worked around the ranch. He was sure to have left more than a few broken hearts in his wake.

After the chill, blustery wind, the barn provided a relative warmth. Abby inhaled the pungent odor of animals and the sweet fragrance of cured hay, then closed the small door set to the side of the larger main door. She headed across the barn’s great interior to the stall illuminated by a kerosene lantern. The Hereford had delivered. The newborn calf, even then, was struggling to its spindly, unsteady little legs.

Brody Gerard glanced up from where he stood, leaning on the wooden stall rails. His handsome, swarthy countenance brightened. “Come bearing gifts, Mrs. Stanton?” He sniffed the air. “Smells like a turkey dinner. But I can’t decide what I like better, the meal, or the perfume of the beautiful woman bearing it.”

“Considering I don’t go in for such artifices as bottled scents, Mr. Gerard, I’d say it’d better be your supper.” She slid the basket off her arm and held it out to him.

He took the basket from her and placed it on the ground beside him. Before Abby could bid him farewell and turn to leave, however, Brody straightened and took a quick step toward her. His hand snaked out toward her, and he grasped her by the wrist.

“Mrs. Stanton,” he said, his voice low and seductively deep, “won’t you stay and keep me company while I eat? After all, everyone else has had the pleasure of your presence for the past few hours. It’s only fair that I be treated in a like manner.”