Daughter of Joy (Brides of Culdee Creek Book #1)

Kathleen Morgan

Description

These classic historical romance novels are getting a new look for the next generation of readers. But the wonderful stories remain the same, as touching and fresh as they were when first published.Praise for the Brides of Culdee Creek series:"A poignant love story that will remain with the reader long after the book is closed."--Lori Copeland, author of the Brides of the West series"A beautiful story of redemptive love. . . . A memorable read."--Robin Lee Hatcher, author of Catching Katie"A spectacular new series."--Library JournalPraise for Kathleen Morgan:"Kathleen Morgan writes with deep emotion and feeling."--Reader to Reader"A marvelous storyteller."--Romantic Times"Kathleen Morgan is a phenomenal writer!"--The Talisman

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2007
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781441217257
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

© 1999, 2007 by Kathleen Morgan
Published by Revell a division of Baker Publishing Group P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287 www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2014
Ebook corrections 04.22.2015, 07.11.2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-1725-7
For Beth Anne, bookseller extraordinaire, and the dearest of friends. You’ve always been there, encouraging and rooting for me, even in my darkest moments.
And for Sean . . . always, always, for Sean.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
A Word from the Author
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
Sneak Peek of Book Two
About the Author
Other Books by Kathleen Morgan
Back Ad
Back Cover
A Word from the Author
Daughter of Joy wasn’t an easy book to write. The idea for this book was conceived in 1997, about a year after my youngest son died unexpectedly of cancer. It was a time when, not surprisingly, I was contemplating the direction of my life and its purpose.
Though fervent in my Christian faith when a youngster, over the years I became lukewarm at best. My son’s death brought me back to God. There are still times, even now, when all I can do is hang on to Him with all my might and be grateful for that. At other times, though, I cannot help but marvel at how far I’ve come and how blessed I am. Grieving, I think, is a lot like that—a wild, agonizing, bewildering, yet sometimes glorious ride into the deeper, more essential aspects of self and humanity. It is also, I believe, a ride with no end in sight.
So what does this have to do with Daughter of Joy ? Writing has always been a journey for me. I strive to portray my characters as authentic human beings, using personal insights and resources to draw on the deep, basic core of my own humanity—good and bad. That, I truly believe, lends realism and heart to my writing. My own struggle with issues of grief, loss, and acceptance of God’s will, and my renewed search for a deeper, more spiritual and lasting meaning to life were all catalysts for Daughter of Joy .
As I wrote I found inspiration from a line in a condolence card I received: “For every joy that passes, something beautiful remains.” That poem became a beacon of hope for me, especially in those early weeks and months after my son’s death. It beckoned me ever onward in my quest to survive and, finally, to begin to heal.
I knew God’s will—and love—for me was somehow tied up in that simple little verse. I clung to it for comfort. I held it close, examining its every facet. Yet as the weeks, months, then years began to pass, I came to realize I would never fully plumb the depths of its meaning—at least not in this life. Its meaning would always lead me forward, though, providing direction for the rest of my days.
Joy . . . It’s a journey we all embark upon from the first moment we draw breath. We search so avidly for it. We cannot help it; it’s inherent in our nature. Yet no matter how hard we strive, our joy can never truly be complete until we find it in the Lord.
Daughter of Joy is the story of one woman’s—and man’s—journey back to that true meaning and purpose in life. It is, in many ways, my story as well. Perhaps there are threads of your own story—and journey—woven there, too.
ABIGAIL “Source of Joy”
Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation; and uphold me with thy free spirit.
Psalm 51:12
1 The plains east of Colorado Springs, Colorado, October 1895
Speak, L ORD ; for thy servant heareth.
1 Samuel 3:9
I can’t help it! I’ve held my tongue as long as I dare. Please, Abby. Take a bit more time and reconsider.”
With an affectionate smile, Abigail Stanton glanced at the woman sitting beside her. Then, lightly flicking the buggy whip over the horse’s back, she urged Elsie, her sister-in-law’s Morgan mare, to quicken her lagging pace. As the horse moved out, flurries of dust swirled in the air, muting for a moment the day’s crisp, vibrant fall colors.
“I’ve hidden away long enough, Nelly.” Abby sighed. “It’s time to set aside my selfish needs and unreasoning fears. Time to venture back into the world, into life, if only with this first, most tentative of steps.”
“Well, perhaps so,” Nelly agreed grudgingly, folding her hands primly in her lap. “There’s no rush, though, is there? No reason to accept the first position offered you? Especially not this one.” She rolled her eyes, her dark blond lashes fluttering in horror. “Heavens above! The tales I’ve heard about that man and his family!”
“I haven’t ‘accepted’ anything yet,” Abby murmured in gentle correction, flicking the buggy whip once again, as Elsie veered toward a succulent patch of grass growing along the roadside in a protected cranny of rocks. “This is only an interview. We must both first decide if we even suit each other.”
“He’s a heathen, Abby! He never even sets foot inside church!” Warming to her tale, Nelly clenched her fist and pounded her knee in emphasis. “Why, it’s said his wife hated him so much she ran away, leaving behind her young son. Then, no sooner was she out the door, he took in an Indian squaw and had a half-breed daughter. To top it off, just this past spring, the man’s son ran away. Seems he couldn’t stomach his father either.”
“Let’s not forgot to add,” Abby offered with a wry grin and chuckle, all the while keeping her gaze riveted on the road ahead, “that none of his former housekeepers have ever lasted more than six months. And that Conor MacKay is reputedly the most unpleasant, evil-tempered man in these parts.”
“Well, those are the rumors about him.” Nelly turned in the buggy seat more fully to face her. “Besides, what of all your fine plans? What of Thomas’s mission for penniless outcasts? Just because your husband is gone doesn’t mean you have to turn your back on all his hopes and dreams. You used to be so certain the mission was God’s will for you. Isn’t it still?”
Just then the right buggy wheel hit a large rock in the road. The conveyance bounced into the air, then slammed down again, unseating Nelly. With a squawk, she grabbed for the arm rest and shoved her black straw hat—which had slid down to cover her eyes—back firmly on her head.
“Well, isn’t it?” she stubbornly prodded through gritted teeth, resettling herself more securely on the seat. “You’ve suffered greatly in the loss of your husband and son, Abby, but surely the Lord hasn’t changed His mind or His plans for you.”
Abby blinked back a stinging swell of tears. Hasn’t He? she thought bitterly, but said nothing. Nelly had her best interests at heart, but she really didn’t need to hear this right now.
It was frightening enough, riding out here to meet some man about whom she’d only heard the worst tales. To pile on agonizing memories and haunting, unresolved questions was almost more than Abby could bear. As it was, her whole world had turned topsy-turvy. For a long while now, she had been going through the motions of living. Living . . . only because she must.
But no one wanted to hear that, much less deal with all its unpleasant ramifications. People tried, God bless them, and Nelly most of all. But someone’s personal tragedy was too hard for others to face day after day. Abby couldn’t blame them. The loss of two loved ones within one year was more than anyone would ever wish to endure.
Nonetheless, Abby reminded herself, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she must get by the best way she knew how. Get by, and deal with the present moment—which currently entailed surviving the next hour or so.
“I don’t know much of anything anymore, Nelly,” Abby finally replied, at a loss for anything better to say. “I’m not sure what God has in store for me.”
The answer seemed to satisfy—or at least temporarily confound—her sister-in-law into silence. As they drove along, heading ever northeast and away from the Rockies and Colorado Springs, the tall log gates topped by a sign proclaiming the main road to Culdee Creek Ranch appeared at the top of the hill. On all sides, thick stands of dried grass swayed in the wind. Hidden somewhere in the grass, meadowlarks sang.
It was a beautiful, Indian summer day. Still, Abby felt as if she viewed it from afar. It was a fear that visited her more and more of late, the fear that she’d never be able to feel or experience life and living fully ever again.
She hesitated, reluctant to belabor a subject that had become a sore point in her and her late husband’s relationship. It was time, though, that Nelly begin to understand. “If the truth be told,” Abby forced herself to say, “the mission was always Thomas’s idea, not mine. I acquiesced to his plans because he was my husband, and it seemed so important to him.”
“Then build the mission now as a tribute to him.” Nelly’s voice went hoarse with emotion. “Do it for my br-brother.” She looked away, blinking furiously.
Distressed that she’d been the cause of another’s pain, Abby pulled back gently on the reins. Traces jingled and leather creaked as the Morgan mare slowed, then came to a halt. Abby turned to her sister-in-law, and took one of her hands in hers.
“Ah, Nelly, Nelly.” She patted her hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or lead you to believe I don’t still love Thomas. Truly, I haven’t given up on the idea of his mission. I just need time to sort things out, to heal. Meanwhile, I have to support myself, not to mention save some money to build the mission. Until I do, any talk of fulfilling Thomas’s plans is pointless.”
Nelly drew an embroidered lace handkerchie