Free Daughter of Joy by Kathleen Morgan Page B

one way I need a woman anymore, and there’s plenty of those just outside Grand View. You know that about as well as I, don’t you, Devlin?”
    Devlin’s brown eyes flashed in anger. “You gonna throw that in my face again?”
    For an instant, Conor glared back at him, a scathing reply on his lips. Then shame that he’d used something his cousin had shared with him in confidence against him flooded him. Devlin might ride him too hard at times, but he meant well.
    “I’m sorry.” Conor forced a quick, apologetic smile. “You just got me riled.”
    “Guess I’ll lay off then.”
    “Guess you’d better,” were Conor’s parting words before he turned and headed back to the fence posts and rolls of barbed wire.

5
    Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?
    Romans 8:35
    Later that night, Abby finished stitching the last seam in the blue calico doll dress, leaned back, and yawned. She glanced at her bedside alarm clock through the cloth hangings separating her living area from her bedroom. Half past nine. It had been a long day. If she was to be up and cooking breakfast by the time Conor MacKay came down tomorrow morning, she needed to head to bed.
    For an instant longer Abby turned back to the little dress, eyeing it critically. She had done a passable job with some of the scrap material she had brought with her. All it needed now to be finished was a quick hand hem of the long skirt, and a few touches of white cambric embroidered edging at the throat and ends of the long sleeves. It was a dress any little girl would be proud of.
    She only hoped Beth would see it that way.
    Wearily, Abby laid aside the dress, rose, and took up the oil lamp. Just then footsteps sounded outside on the little wooden platform that served as a porch. Someone paused at her door, then rapped smartly on it.
    “Who’s there?” she called out.
    A deep voice rose from the other side of the door. “It’s Conor. Conor MacKay. Could I have a few minutes of your time?”
    Abby’s mouth went dry. Whatever could he want that couldn’t wait until tomorrow? Besides, it really wasn’t proper—
    “You’re more than welcome to come back to the main house,” he cut her off in mid-thought, apparently guessing the reason for her hesitation, “if you’re so all-fired worried about propriety. Personally, I never concern myself with what others think, just as long as I know I’m doing the right thing.”
    Abby jerked open the door. Of all the smug, egotistical men she had ever had the misfortune of knowing, Conor MacKay certainly stood out above them all! “You, Mr. MacKay, are also a man ,” she said, glaring up at him, “and judged far less harshly for far greater misdeeds. So please, don’t set such low expectations upon me, expectations that are impossible for any decent human being to uphold.”
    He chuckled softly and shook his head. “Are you always so snippy by this time of night? Remind me not to approach you again after dark.”
    There was something about this man that seemed to bring out the temper in her, a temper she thought long ago mastered. If the Christian principle of charity wasn’t enough to cause shame for her fiery outburst just now, the fact that he was her employer was a sufficient reminder to curb her tongue.
    “I beg your pardon, Mr. MacKay.” Abby lowered her gaze. “That was rude of me. I guess it’s going to take me a while to understand your sense of humor.”
    “No offense taken, Mrs. Stanton. I’ve long been accused of a mean streak when it comes to picking at sore spots. And it’s quite evident what one of yours is.”
    She lifted her head, suddenly tense. “And that sore spot, Mr. MacKay?” Abby asked, poised for battle. “Pray, exactly what would that be?”
    The tall rancher grinned and, in the dim lamplight, his features took on a wolfish cast. “The preservation of your precious reputation, of