Daughter of Joy (2 page)

As dire as the need was for a cook and housekeeper, Conor wasn’t looking forward to this meeting. He was tired of flighty, undependable women, too. But Beth was too young to run a house, or cook and clean up after him and his ranch hands. If the truth be told, Conor didn’t know if his proud, headstrong daughter would ever be ready, or if he’d have the heart to make her do so when the time came. She’d already been through more than any girl her age should ever have to endure.

They reached the steps leading to the main house’s long, covered front porch. Conor paused there. “Go inside, Beth”—he motioned toward the front door—“and at least wash your hands and face, and comb your hair.”

“What about you, Papa?” Beth cocked her head. “You could stand a good wash-up and shave yourself.”

“The horse trough will do for me. Mrs. Stanton might as well get it clear right off that there are no fine gentlemen at Culdee Creek.”

Beth reluctantly obeyed and disappeared into the house.

Conor lingered a moment before heading toward the long, hollowed-out pine log to the right of the house. As much as he hated the idea of taking on yet another interfering, prim and proper housekeeper, the truth was he needed one desperately. Indeed, if he’d been a Godfearing man, he’d be lifting a fervent prayer right about now for a good, hard-working, kind-hearted woman. But those sort of women were few and far between. And he was hardly a God-fearing man.

The MacKay house was bigger and better built than Abby expected. Cleaner, no. Luxuriously furnished, no. But certainly more than adequate.

The parlor was large. The well-equipped kitchen had a big, six-hole cast iron cookstove, a kitchen pitcher pump at the sink, two tall cupboards, and a large wooden table set with eight chairs. Next to the kitchen was a spacious dining room. On the other side of the parlor sat a room Abby guessed had once been a less formal living room, but now appeared to serve as a study.

The second floor held three bedrooms. Above them, up a smaller, steeper staircase, lay the attic. There was also a cellar below the kitchen. The back door off the kitchen led to a smaller version of the covered porch at the front of the house. About fifty feet to the right of the smallest and closest of the bunkhouses, which sat behind at a short distance from the main house, lay a good-sized vegetable garden.

“Well, Mrs. Stanton, you’ve had the grand tour, ” Conor MacKay’s deep voice vibrated behind her. “Does the setup suit your fancy?”

At the sardonic edge to his words, Abby wheeled around, nearly knocking Nelly off the back porch’s top step. She grabbed her sister-in-law’s arm. “Well, of course it does, Mr. MacKay, ” she choked out, mortified he’d all but read her mind. “You’ve a beautiful spread. You must be very proud.”

Culdee Creek’s owner arched a dark brow. “Indeed, ” he drawled. “A place this size takes a lot of hard work. Are you up to hard work, Mrs. Stanton?”

Some of the tales Abby had heard about Conor MacKay had been right. He was cold and condescending. Yet—Abby could feel her cheeks flushing—he was also a most attractive man.

Easily topping six feet in height, the ebony-haired rancher carried himself with the athletic, effortless grace of a cougar. His body was trim, his shoulders wide, his muscles sleek and toned. He dressed simply, in faded blue denims, scuffed black boots, and a long-sleeved, worn, blue chambray shirt rolled up to the elbows. His skin was tanned, his beard-shadowed jaw strong, and his nose straight.

He was nothing more, though, Abby reminded herself sharply, unsettled by the instant attraction she felt for him, than many other men she’d met before. Still, the reluctant admission of his unusual appeal unnerved her. Perhaps it was his eyes, smoky-blue and piercingly assessing. Perhaps it was that skeptical twist to the corner of his mouth. Or perhaps it was just the way he stood there, one hip cocked, a thumb hooked casually in his front pant’s pocket.

Was it all just some arrogant facade, she wondered, purposely intended to intimidate? Or did his manner mask something darker and more threatening—as threatening as some of the tales whispered about him? At the consideration, Abby shivered.

“Come, come, Mrs. Stanton.” Conor’s voice, tinged now with irritation, plucked at Abby’s consciousness. “It isn’t that difficult to admit, is it? Surely you must realize you’d never suit us if you aren’t used to hard work?”

Stung by his patronizing tone, Abby squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Of course I realize that. I’d never have wasted either your time, or mine, if I was afraid of a little work.”

MacKay gave a snort—whether of scorn or disbelief, Abby couldn’t tell—and signaled for them to reenter the house. “Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” he asked. “In the meantime, why don’t we retire to the parlor where we can finish discussing the job particulars, and you can meet my daughter. I gathered from your letter that you’ve had some teaching experience. I must admit I find that particular aspect of your talents most appealing, ” he said as he led the two women back inside. “My Beth’s temperament has never suited a schoolhouse situation, so a great deal of her education of late has been taught by me …”

“‘Never suited a schoolhouse,’ indeed, ” Nelly hissed in Abby’s ear as they went inside. “If her attitude is anything like her father’s, I’d wager she was thrown out of school.”

Oh, Lord, if Mr. MacKay overhears, Abby thought as she made a hasty motion to silence Nelly.

A quick glance at the tall rancher at first revealed no sign he had noted Nelly’s comment. Relieved, Abby felt the tension ease. Then she noticed the sardonic quirk once more tightening the corner of his mouth. Nelly’s words had struck home.

There was something about his smile, however, frozen and automatic as it appeared, that plucked at her. Was there more to this man than the forbidding exterior he presented?

Yet this wasn’t some replacement for Thomas’s mission for penniless outcasts, Abby reminded herself sternly. This was only a job, a temporary respite and way station before she resumed the true journey of her life. All she wanted was to take care of herself for a change, pull back a bit, and lick her wounds.

But was such a retreat possible? Certainly Nelly didn’t think so, and Abby had to admit to her own doubts, as well. Yet where was the harm in trying? Surely no one would be hurt, or even really care, when she finally decided to leave.

Distracted and now troubled, Abby followed Nelly toward an overstuffed, rosewood trimmed, blue-and-green velvet settee. The parlor, she noted, forcing herself to look about her, was, like the rest of the house, adequately decorated and comfortably furnished.

A fine Turkish rug covered most of the hardwood floor. Two dark leather armchairs were nestled around the moss rock and pine fireplace. Over the mantel hung a portrait of a distinguished older Scottish gentleman, dressed in a blue, green, and black tartan kilt, a baskethilted sword hanging at his side. Heavy, dark blue oriental tapestry curtains swayed languorously at the open windows, and a massive, carved oak combination bookcase and cupboard stood against the far wall. As an added complement to the fine decor, a thick layer of dust coated all the furniture.

While the two women settled themselves, Conor excused himself and went upstairs to fetch Beth. He found her sitting on her bed playing with her doll. A cursory examination revealed that, though she had washed her face and hands and combed her hair, the effort had been quick and half-hearted.

“Am I all right, Papa?” his daughter asked, noting his frown.

“Barely.” Conor motioned for her to come with him.

Beth set aside her doll and climbed off the bed. “Well, you don’t look much better.” She eyed him from head to toe.

“Maybe not.” He scowled and rubbed his beardstubbled jaw. “But I’m still your father, and you’re beginning to get a little too uppity for your britches.”

For an instant Beth’s expression clouded, and Conor feared she might break into tears. Then, with an injured sniff and head held high, she flounced by him. “Well then, ” she said, “maybe I should just save my uppity britches for our guests.”

Misgiving filling him, he watched her stride down the hall to the stairs. “I just bet you will, ” he muttered under his breath.

An impulse to call her back struck him, but Conor swiftly quashed it. When it came to Beth, Mrs. Stanton might as well know what she was up against from the start. He had already tried to discourage the woman himself with his less-than-friendly attitude. There was no sense in presenting a false front now.

Conor caught up with his daughter just as she reached the parlor door. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he guided her to stand before Abby. “Mrs. Stanton, this is my daughter, Elizabeth.”

A chubby, dark-skinned and brown-eyed girl, her face still streaked with dirt, glared at Abby. Ever so briefly, Abby scanned the girl’s hair, hair that was little more than a thick, black, unruly mop, chopped off rather clumsily at the shoulders.

Her clothing wasn’t much better, certainly not proper attire for a young lady. Instead of a dress, Elizabeth wore a stained, well-worn boy’s wool undershirt, dirty blue canvas overalls, and a pair of mud-caked boots.

If she dared take on this position, Abby realized with a sick, sinking feeling, she definitely had her work cut out for her. A temporary respite and way station, indeed!

She extended her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Elizabeth. How are you?”

The girl studied her outstretched hand as if it were a loathsome thing, then met her gaze once more. “How am I?” Her tone was mocking. “Well, let’s see. I go by Beth, not Elizabeth, my mother was an Indian who never married my father, and I can’t say I’m all that pleased to meet you.”

Beside her, Nelly gave a horrified gasp. Conor heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. Abby’s gaze, however, after skittering off that of her host’s, returned immediately to the girl. Dear Lord, she thought, the barely contained panic that had threatened all day perilously close to breaking free, how am I supposed to respond to that?

Unbidden, a verse from Isaiah filled her mind.
You are precious in my eyes and glorious …
A sudden surge of compassion flooded Abby.

The girl … Beth … was so used to rejection that she had learned to reject first, rather than risk being rejected. She was using defiance to shield her vulnerability. There was yet more, far more, Abby sensed, smoldering just beneath the pain burning in Beth’s eyes. For now, though, it was sufficient to deal with the present.

“In the minds of some misguided people”—Abby withdrew her proffered hand and placed it back in her lap—“you may seem all those things. In the eyes of God, however, you are precious and glorious. And that, I think, is all that truly matters.”

Beth’s eyes widened in surprise. Then they narrowed. “My last teacher, just before he threw me out of school, said I was incorrigible.”

“Did he indeed?” Abby smiled. “Well, in my experience, I’ve found some of the most interesting and creative people are incorrigible. Sometimes they just need a little extra love and understanding.”

At that, Beth turned beet red. Her lips clamped and she went silent. Conor’s hand tightened on his daughter’s shoulder. For a long moment he, too, was quiet.

What was this woman about? Conor wondered. Anyone else would’ve sputtered indignantly, then immediately reprimanded Beth for her lack of manners. But all Abigail Stanton did was quote Scripture and turn the other cheek. And, instead of trading insults, the woman had transformed Beth’s self-deprecations into positive attributes.

“Girl, I think you owe Mrs. Stanton an apology.”

Beth glanced up over her shoulder at him. “Must I, Papa?”

“Yes.”

She turned back to Abigail Stanton, scowled, then pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stanton.”

Abigail nodded. “It’s all right, Beth. No harm done.”

“Get on with you now.” Conor gave his daughter a little shove. “We grown ups have more talking to do.”

He watched her leave. Then, refusing to apologize for his daughter, he forced himself to resume discussion of the business at hand. He wasn’t a man given, after all, to asking for anyone’s forgiveness. He’d no intention of starting now.

“There’s still the matter of payment for your services.” Conor pulled over one of the armchairs and took a seat in front of them. “I can offer room and board, plus thirty-five dollars a month in salary. For that you cook all our meals and two meals a day for the hands, plus clean this house, launder my and Beth’s clothes, and tutor her in her lessons. You’ll get one day off a month, once you’ve completed a full month’s work.”

Abigail Stanton’s eyes widened. “That would be quite sufficient, Mr. MacKay. In fact, your offer is most generous.” She paused. “The … er … bedroom arrangements. Where exactly would I be sleeping?”

Conor’s mouth twisted. Here it comes, he thought. A melodramatic display of lady-like vapors and soft cries of outrage.

“The generous salary doesn’t entail any extra services, such as warming my bed, Mrs. Stanton.” When her friend gasped loudly, and she flushed fire red, he managed a taut smile. “Forgive my bluntness—a trait you’ll have to learn to live with if you take this position—but I see no point in jeopardizing a strictly business arrangement. Especially, ” he added dryly, “when there are plenty of women to be had for such needs, if and when the urge strikes me.”