Daughter of Joy (27 page)

At long last, though, Abby’s fevered thoughts cooled enough for her to remember where she was. Shame filled her at her selfish betrayal of Sally. She leaned back, shoving at his chest. “Conor,” she said, her voice still so husky with longing that it surprised even her. “Conor, we can’t. Sally … your wife … upstairs.”

With a snarl of pent up frustration, Conor released her. “I don’t care if Sally’s upstairs. We can do what we want. The only people we need to please are ourselves.”

“It’s not that simple, and you know it.” Abby picked up the bowl and pressed it tightly to her, a physical symbol of the barrier she meant to raise once more between them. “Too many people depend on us.”

“Blast it, Abby! I’m sick to death of having to pretend to be so morally upright. I’m tired of meeting everyone else’s needs, and none of my own.” His smoky blue eyes burned with an anguished entreaty. “All I want is you, Abby. That’s all.”

She shut her eyes, unable to bear the sight of his pain. “That’s all I want, too,” she whispered. “But you have a wife.”

“Yet you won’t marry me if I divorce her; you won’t be my mistress if I remain wed to her; and if you stay on as just a housekeeper, I think I’ll go mad,” Conor finished in weary frustration. “So where does that leave us, Abby?”

“Nowhere, I guess.” She expelled a long breath. “But you know what’s even worse, Conor?”

“No, I
can’t
imagine anything worse,” he drawled, “but I think you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“What’s worse,” Abby said, choosing not to comment on his sarcastic rejoinder, “is your overt, continued cruelty to Sally. You persist in ignoring her, refuse to include her in the family, and she lives in constant fear that you’ll turn her out.”

“She’s tearing our lives apart,” he hissed, “and you accuse
me
of being cruel? Rather, you should wonder at my even allowing her to stay as long as I have.”

Abby cocked her head. “Why have you allowed her to stay on as long as you have?”

He gave a choked laugh, his expression transforming to one of incredulity. “Why else? For you, and only you, of course. Because I was terrified you’d think I was a heartless beast if I did otherwise, and you’d leave me.” She looked down. The bowl of sausages wavered, then blurred, and Abby realized her eyes had filled with tears. He’d done this for her, she thought, her misery all but drowning her. Had he always done everything out of love for her, and not because he was truly having a conversion of heart? If so, when had she stopped choosing to see it?

“I was afraid of that,” Abby whispered finally.

“Afraid of what?” Conor grasped her by the arms. “What?”

“That you did this just to please me, not because you saw the rightness of it, or really wanted to.”

“What does it matter why I did it?” He gave her a little shake. “The end result’s the same.”

Abby lifted tear-filled eyes. “No, it’s not, Conor. In your heart you don’t want to do it. In a sense you’ve done it out of fear and coercion. Someday you may resent me for that.”

He gave a low, harsh laugh. “I’ll risk it. It sure beats losing you.”

She stood there, an awful realization beginning to dawn. “No, Conor,” she finally said, “it doesn’t. Nothing is worth the loss of one’s conscience, or the ability to do what is right. And, though I’ve fought this decision with all my might, railing against God in the bargain, it still doesn’t change the reality of our situation.”

His grip tightened on her arms. “Abby, whatever you’re going to say—”

“I’ll say,” she cut him off softly. “You should know that by now.” Abby closed her eyes. Then, with a despairing sigh, she forced herself to utter some of the most painful words she’d ever spoken. “We can’t marry, Conor. Not now. Not under these circumstances. And I can’t stay here, either.”

“Don’t say that, Abby! I don’t want you to leave. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Desperation threaded his voice and shone in his eyes. Abby’s heart went out to him. Conor loved her, but he was still so blind. Even his love for her hadn’t been enough to open his eyes.

“Tell you what to do,” she repeated, smiling sadly. “Tell you to deny your own personhood, Conor? That has never been my intent. It would be as self-serving and destructive as my remaining here while Sally lives. You have to find your own answers to this dilemma, and find some good and honorable ones, too, or nothing else matters. Nothing.”

“So, you’ve made up your mind to leave, and nothing I can say or do will stop you.” His hands dropped from her arms. He stepped back, his features hardening, his expression shuttered. “Then go, Abby. Run away. It’s what you do best, anyway.”

“No, Conor.” Abby clasped the bowl to her. “This time I’d be running away if I
did
stay. Yet I still would, if it weren’t the worst thing, by far, for the both of us.”

Three days later, beneath a gray, drizzly sky, Frank Murphy and Henry Watson finished loading up the last of Abby’s belongings into the buckboard. After covering them with a black tarpaulin, they then drove the big wagon around to the front of the main house.

After the buckboard had pulled away, Abby lingered a few minutes longer, gazing around the bunkhouse that had been her home. Devoid now of all furniture and decoration, the white-washed interior looked empty and bleak. The sound of her footsteps echoed off the barren walls with a hollow, almost mournful lament. She couldn’t bear to stay there for long. It was just too sad.

After Conor’s hostile comments about Hannah four days ago, she had decided it best to take the girl and her baby with her back to the Springs. Nelly had voiced no reservations over the addition of two women and an infant to her household, and the imposition would, at any rate, be temporary. As soon as Abby could find a teaching position or some other respectable employment, she intended to rent another cottage just for her and Hannah.

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined the family she would finally build would consist of a reformed prostitute and her child. Abby had thought her family would be the more traditional kind, with a husband and children of her own. But God had other plans, she reminded herself bitterly. Once again, He’d finally taken away what had never really been hers to keep.

She shut the door, opened her big, black cotton umbrella against the gentle rain, and headed around to the front of the main house. The somber little group waiting there filled her with yet another pang. Ella clutched a red-eyed Beth. Evan stood a short ways apart, talking in hushed tones to Hannah, who held baby Jackson. And near the front door, wrapped in a woolen shawl, sat an ashen-faced Sally.

There was no sign of Conor. Somehow, that didn’t surprise Abby. She had seen the old mask, the protective barriers, slam back down that morning in the cellar. It was the only way Conor knew to steel himself against the pain. In his mind she had used, then cast him aside like all the rest.

Abby squared her shoulders, pasted on a smile, and climbed the porch steps. Closing her umbrella, she leaned it against the railing and resolutely approached Ella and Beth. As she neared, Beth pulled away and scurried around behind Ella.

For a long moment, neither said anything. Then Abby extended her hand to her friend. “Though we part, I’d like to think we’ll always remain friends. We’ve been through so much—” Her voice broke, and Abby could say no more.

Ella took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “I’d like to come and visit you in the Springs, if you think your sister-in-law won’t mind one of those awful MacKays”—she punctuated the statement with a teasing grin—“paying you a visit. We could shop a little and talk.”

“Nelly won’t mind. It’s evident from her letters that, over time she’s come to forgive Conor his shortcomings.” Abby managed a wobbly smile. “And once I find my own place, you can bring the children and stay a few days. You can come, too, Beth,” she added, peering at the girl who still stood behind Ella. “I’d especially like that.”

“I don’t think Papa would let me come,” Beth mumbled, though a sudden light of excitement and renewed joy flickered in her eyes. “He’s mad at you right now.”

“Yes, I know,” Abby agreed, tamping down the freshened swell of pain the girl’s reminder had stirred. “But I’m not mad at him, and never will be. And I still love you both.”

She squatted and extended her hands to Beth. “Can you not be mad at me, Beth? I couldn’t bear it if you were mad at me, too.”

The girl eyed her with such obvious doubt and misgiving, that Abby knew a battle of mixed loyalties waged in the child’s heart. Finally, though, Beth gave a soft cry and flung herself into Abby’s arms. She gathered the girl to her, holding her close.

For a long moment Abby stroked Beth’s clean, dark hair, hair neatly braided into two pigtails that fell well past her shoulders now. As if savoring it for all time, Abby noted her bright green hair bows, the pretty green and white gingham dress they’d last made together. She felt the change in Beth’s young body, a body growing in height, becoming more slender, and beginning to bud into womanhood.

A bittersweet pang filled Abby. Beth had, at long last, come out of her shell, and now faced life with renewed confidence and joy. She was growing up into a fine young lady and would need a woman to encourage and guide her. As much as Abby wished it, though, that woman could no longer be her.

Over Beth’s bent head, Abby’s gaze locked with Sally’s. Conor’s wife stared back at her, her eyes brimming with tears and gratitude. There was one thing more to be done, Abby realized, if both parties were willing.

She leaned back and stared up at Beth. “Could you do me a very, very big favor, sweetheart? I know it might be hard, but you’ve grown up so much in the months I’ve been here that I know you’ll understand.”

Beth studied her warily. “What do you want me to do?”

“Try to be friends with Sally. What with me and Hannah leaving, she’s bound to be pretty lonely. And she’ll need some help, as weak as she gets sometimes.” Abby smiled. “Could you do that for me?”

“Papa won’t like it if I do.”

“He didn’t like a lot of things I did in the beginning, either, but he came around in time. He knew it was for the best, and he’ll see your efforts with Sally sooner or later, too, as the right and decent thing to do. Can you trust me in this, Beth, and at least try?”

“I suppose,” she agreed grudgingly. “But only for you. I still don’t like her.”

Abby climbed to her feet. “Give Sally a chance, Beth. You might be pleasantly surprised if you do.” She stroked Beth’s face, then kissed her.

Next, she made her way to where Sally sat, her frail body bundled against the chill of the day in the thick shawl and warm clothes. The woman looked up as Abby approached. She lifted a skeletal, shaking hand to her.

“Good-bye, Abigail,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry to see you go.”

Abby knelt beside her chair and took her hand. “And I’m sorry to leave, but it must be done. You’re Conor’s wife. You two need the time to work through your differences. My presence here is an obstacle to that.”

“It’s still not fair, Abigail.” Sally sighed and looked away. “Not fair to you … or Conor.”

“It may not seem so now,” Abby said, “but in time …”

The other woman turned back to her. “Yes, in time, I hope it will be so. It’s my dearest wish.”

“And mine.” Abby rose.

Sally released her hand. “Pray for us, Abigail. We’ll need it.”

How ironic, Abby thought, that when prayers were needed most of all, there were no prayers left in her, no desire to speak to God. But she kept that secret anguish to herself. Sally carried a heavy enough burden of guilt. She forced a smile and what seemed, at that moment, an even bigger lie. “I will,” Abby choked out the promise. “I will.”

21

For a small moment have I forsaken thee; but with great mercies will I gather thee.

Isaiah 54:7

Conor paced the length of his bedroom, his anger and confusion churning chaotically within. Outside, Abby was leaving. Abby … the light and joy of his life.

He should have known it would come to this. Only a fool failed to face and accept life’s harsh truths. Yet, for a short while again, he’d dared let himself hope and dream. Dared … and failed … as only the greatest of fools could do.

There was nothing more to be done, though. Now, all that was left him was to pick up the shattered pieces of his heart and go on.

He had no other choice. People depended on him. People like Beth, Evan, and now, it seemed, even Sally.

Conor smiled grimly. One dream, at least, had come true. His family was complete again. His wife and children were all back under one roof. His ranch was safe, as Culdee Creek slowly but surely rose once more from its recent debt. To some people’s way of thinking, things were actually looking up.

No, on second thought, he was not as bereft as he had first imagined. All he had lost was a woman. All he had lost was his heart.

“Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them and pray; and the disciples rebuked them. But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

From his seat near the open study window, Conor heard the voice of his daughter reading from the Bible out on the front porch. He looked up from his ledger and frowned. He had thought that once Abby was gone the Bible study and readings would end. But now it seemed that Sally had picked up where Abby had left off.

He heard a creak of reed and wood joints as Sally leaned back in the wicker rocker. “That’s enough, Beth, dear,” she said. “That passage is so rich with meaning I could meditate on it for hours.”

“It
is
a pretty story,” Beth replied. “It reminds me of when I first met Abby, and what she said to me, the day she first came to Culdee Creek.”

“What did she say, dear?” Sally’s voice brightened with apparent interest.

“She said that in the eyes of God I’m precious and glorious.” As she continued speaking, Beth’s voice seemed to soften in fond recollection. “It kind of goes along with this”—Conor imagined her pointing to a verse on the page—“where Jesus says that children are such of the kingdom of heaven. He wouldn’t have said that, would He, unless we are precious and glorious to Him?”

“No, He wouldn’t,” Sally assured her. “Abigail was right.”

Another long pause ensued, long enough this time for Conor to rise and quietly look out from behind the heavy drapes. Not more than ten feet away, Beth sat on a stool before Sally, her head lowered, her little shoulders silently shaking. At the sight of his weeping daughter, Conor’s gut clenched.

“Why, Beth, dear,” Sally cried, struggling to shove herself up in her chair, “whatever is the matter? Was it something I said?”

“No.” Beth looked up, her cheeks streaked with tears. “I mean, you didn’t say anything to hurt my feelings. I was just thinking about how much I disliked you when you first came. Then, when Abby left because of you …”

“And now, Beth?” Sally’s hands fisted in the blanket covering her legs. “How do you feel about me now?”

The girl swiped away her tears. “Now, I don’t know. Papa’s still so sad. But I’ve tried to be friends with you because Abby asked me to and … and I almost think I’m beginning to like you.”

Listening to his daughter’s halting confession, Conor’s fatherly concern transformed into rage. Blast Abby, he thought. Even now, over a month since she had left, her influence over Beth was still strong. He had been right to deny Ella’s request to take Beth with her, when she had left for her first trip to the Springs to visit Abby. He had agonized over what was the better recourse—to cut Beth off from Abby completely in order to hasten the healing of that loss, or to allow her to visit from time to time, and gradually wean her away. Now, he was glad that he had decided on the first of the two choices.

“Well, I definitely like you.” Sally’s voice sounded strangely tight. “And I’m grateful for Abigail’s kindness in asking you to be friends with me.” She paused. “Why don’t we write her a nice thank you letter? I’m sure she’d love to hear from us. We can tell her what we’ve been doing and all about the ranch.”

“Oh, yes, let’s do.” Beth nodded eagerly. “Maybe we can even dry and press a few flowers from her flowerbeds to send her!”

“Of course. What a w-wonderful—” Suddenly, Sally began to cough. One bout of coughing led to another, until finally her whole body shook and she was gasping for breath.

Beth stood there, staring at her in wide-eyed horror. Then, with a cry, the girl turned and ran into the house.

“Papa! Papa, come quick!”

Conor strode to the study door. She met him there.

“It-it’s Sally,” Beth screamed in terror. “She’s choking, and I-I don’t know how to help her.”

Conor turned her around and took her by the arm. In the end, there’d be nothing anyone could do to help Sally, but no good was served pointing that out just now. “Come on,” he said quietly. “We’ll see what we can do.”

By the time they reached her, Sally was slumped over and wheezing for air. Conor quickly righted her in her chair. “What do you need?” he asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

Sally, her face ashen and perspiring, her lips blue, gestured weakly toward the glass of water on a nearby table. “W-water,” she gasped.

“Beth,” he ordered tersely. “Bring the glass of water.”

Conor soon had the glass at Sally’s lips. She sipped slowly, swallowing carefully. Bit by bit, the fluid seemed to soothe the wracking cough. Her color returned. At long last she handed the glass back to Beth.

“Th-thank you, d-dear.” Sally managed a wan smile. Beth peered down at her, her youthful brow puckered in worry. “Are you all right?”

The blond woman nodded. “Yes.” She met Conor’s piercing gaze. “If … if it w-wouldn’t be too much trouble, though, I-I’d like to go upstairs now.”

Irritation filled Conor. Though Sally had begun to require increasing assistance negotiating the stairs, in the past month, Evan and Beth had seen to those needs. Now, though, he was trapped. Evan had volunteered to drive Ella to the Springs, and the hands were busy. Conor knew he could hardly justify calling one of them up to the house for such a trivial thing, especially one he could quickly and easily see to himself.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Just put your arms around my neck then, and I’ll carry you.”

“I couldn’t impose,” Sally’s pallor was now replaced by a rosy blush. “Give me a moment to regain my strength. Then I can lean on Beth.”

“After that coughing spell,” Conor snapped, his irritation growing, “you’ll need a half day or so to recover. Don’t argue with me. I’ve neither the time nor patience.”

Sally bit her lip and obediently wrapped her arms about his neck. He stooped, slid one arm beneath her legs, the other behind her back, then straightened. She weighed next to nothing.

Conor swung around and stalked to the front door, Beth following in his wake. Sally said nothing. As they moved through the house, however, she sighed wearily and lowered her head to rest on his shoulder.

At the action, a wild riot of unbidden—and definitely unwanted—emotions assailed Conor. Memories flashed through his mind—memories of another time when he’d carried Sally up to their bedroom. Memories of a beauteous girl, laughing and loving and merry. Memories of her singing and playing the piano for him during the long, dark winter nights.

Startled by his strong recollections, as he reached the stairs and began to climb them, Conor glanced down at Sally. She was not beautiful anymore. Her hair was coarse and lackluster, her skin sallow, her body little more than a rack of bones. Still, he could see signs of the woman she had once been. A feeling akin to pity flared in his breast before he recognized it and fiercely quashed it.

No, never again will I permit such softer emotions for her, Conor angrily reminded himself. Not for one who was long ago the cause of such terrible pain, and the cause of even more now. She deserves this and more.

They reached her room. Conor looked to his daughter. “Open the door and turn down her bed, will you, girl?”

“Of course, Papa.”

Wordlessly, he propped his wife against several pillows to help her breathe, and pulled up the blanket to cover her. As he turned to go, however, she touched his arm.

Eyes narrowed, Conor halted. “Yes?”

“Send Beth away,” Sally whispered, her eyes dark with entreaty, “but you stay. I want … need … to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing I care to say to you—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she quickly cut him off. “Just listen. Please.”

From the doorway, Beth watched them. Conor knew if he denied Sally just now, Beth might well question the reasons for his refusal. Question them … and him.

As he hesitated, snatches of another conversation drifted back to him, taunting Conor with vague recollections of a happier time. An image of Abby, her eyes bright with conviction, gazing up at him from her seat at the kitchen table, slowly filled his mind’s eye.

“Beth needs you to set the example of how one should deal with life, Mr. MacKay,”
he heard Abby telling him once again.
“It is your example that she’ll follow the rest of her days …”

Conor expelled a long, frustrated breath. For Beth’s sake, and for no other reason, he’d stay and let Sally speak her peace once and for all.

Conor gestured to Beth. “Get on with you, girl. I’ll be down shortly.”

Something flickered in his daughter’s eyes—understanding? approval? Then she wheeled about and left the room. Conor closed the door behind her, pulled over a chair, and set it by the bed. With a weary sigh, he sat.

“Have at it, Sally. What are you so all-fired eager to say?”

“I’d like to talk about forgiveness.”

“Well, and isn’t that an interesting subject? Are we going to talk about my forgiving you, or you forgiving me?”

She met his mocking glance with a calm, steady one of her own. “I was thinking more of God’s forgiveness.”

Conor went very still. “What does God have to do with this?” he demanded. “I thought this was between you and me.”

“You used to be a godly man, Conor.” Sally fingered the edge of the blanket. “If I recall, you were far more devout than me.” She looked up. “Was I the cause of your turning from the Lord?”

He had no intention of allowing the conversation to turn to him, and he definitely would not permit Sally to probe into his heart. “What does it matter?” he snarled, glaring at her. “What’s done is done.”

“No, it’s not done.” Sally clenched the blanket edge in her hands. “The Lord is ever willing to gather you back to Him, Conor. He’s forgiven me, taken me back.”

He gave a disparaging laugh. “You go right ahead and think that, Sally. Personally, though, after all the people you’ve hurt, I seriously doubt God has forgiven you.”

“Oh, Conor, don’t limit the Lord with your own shallow perceptions of Him. Don’t assign Him a level of compassion equal only to yours,” she moaned. “God is a God full of compassion, and gracious and longsuffering, and plenteous in mercy and truth.”

“I didn’t agree to stay just to endure your preaching at me, Sally,” Conor said through gritted teeth. “If that’s all you have to say, it’s time I was going.”

“No!” she cried, when he made a move to rise. “Please don’t leave. I know I’m going about this all wrong, but I just want you to understand why I came back.”

“I know why you came back. You had nowhere else to go.”

“I came back because it was the right thing to do, Conor.” High color flushed her cheeks, and her eyes shone brightly. “I came back not only for me, and my peace of mind, but for you as well. Though you may love another woman now, the wounds I inflicted still fester, eating away at you. I came back because I wanted to heal those wounds and help you be whole again.”

Conor leaned forward, his body rigid with barely contained fury. “On the contrary,” he drawled silkily. “When you came back you destroyed any hope I had of ever being whole again. You drove away the one woman who could’ve ever helped me.”