Daughter of Joy Read Online Free PDF

we certainly do.”

    The impending snow held off long enough for them to reach Culdee Creek, and transfer Abby’s belongings into the bunkhouse. Two ranch hands—one tall, lanky, and in his mid-fifties, who introduced himself as Frank Murphy, and his younger, shorter, and more heavily muscled compatriot named Henry Watson—unloaded the furniture and leather trunks. Two other hands, whose names Abby quickly discovered were Wendell Chapman and Jonah Goldman, worked to reassemble Abby’s iron and brass bed—the bed Thomas had given her as a wedding present. The men came and went, carrying in the sewing machine, then dresser, rocking chair, and little side table. With the assistance of Ella MacKay, the wife of Culdee Creek’s foreman who was also Conor MacKay’s cousin, Abby directed where things were to go.
    Conor MacKay had seen to the refurbishing of the small bunkhouse. A fresh coat of paint had recently been applied inside and out—green with white trim on the exterior, and whitewashed walls within. The two small windows had been scrubbed until the glass panes sparkled. The floors had been swept, and all the cobwebs whisked away.
    Someone had even started a fire in the small, potbellied wood stove. Despite the frequent opening of the door as the men came and went, the little stove heated the one-room building well. Abby glanced about her and smiled. It was a small, snugly built dwelling. With the stove’s help, she should keep plenty warm this winter.
    “We can string a rope across the back half of the bunkhouse, ” Ella offered at one point, eyeing the room critically, “and hang some fabric. That way, you can have a private area for your bedroom and a sitting room in front.” Ella, a thin, red-haired, freckle-faced woman in her early forties, seemed delighted to have another woman to talk to.
    “That sounds wonderful.” Abby smiled back.
    “Do you have any children?” Abby asked, at a sudden loss for anything else to say in the uncomfortable silence that frequently falls between two strangers.
    Ella threw back her head and laughed. “Oh my, yes. I’ve two youngsters—Devlin Jr., who’s four, and Mary, who’s one. I lost my first husband—the Lord bless and keep him—to a blizzard when I was thirty. Didn’t marry Devlin Sr. until six years later. The children have been such a gift, considering my age.” She cocked her head, her expression suddenly solemn. “I heard about how your man died, but not much about your boy, save that the diphtheria took him. How old was he?”
    Abby’s smile faded. “Five. Joshua was five.”
    “I hope you don’t mind me asking.” Ella walked over and put her hand on Abby’s arm. “Being a mother and all, I was curious, and trying to get much information out of Conor is like squeezing blood from a turnip.”
    “No, I don’t mind.” Abby’s mouth quirked wryly. “And I can well imagine getting Mr. MacKay to do anything must be difficult.”
    Ella grinned. “Oh, he’s not so bad. When it comes to people, Conor’s just a very cautious man. He doesn’t trust most of them, you know.”
    “I gathered that.”
    “But when he does get to know you”—Ella pulled a set of bed sheets from an open trunk and shook them out—“there’s no more generous, loyal friend to be had. The things he’s done for my Devlin and me … well, it boggles the mind.”
    Though Ella’s glowing description of Conor MacKay was a bit hard for Abby to believe, it was reassuring nonetheless. Perhaps her new employer wasn’t as bad as he made himself out to be.
    “Here, ”—Abby motioned to the bed sheets—“give me those. You needn’t trouble yourself making my bed. I can make it and put everything away later.”
    Ella clutched the bed sheets to her protectively. “And what’s to keep us from finishing up in here?”
    Abby looked out the window. Already, the day was slipping rapidly toward dusk. The first big, fat flakes of snow were beginning to fall. “I don’t know