his father loved God, or that God loved him.
From that day forward, though, Conor had memorized his religion lessons until he could spout page and paragraph. He probably still could, he thought with grim irony, and with only the most minimal of promptings. His father had, at the very least, seen to that.
But, though Conor had continued to practice his faith even after his father’s death, that doctrinal knowledge had never particularly endeared him to God. After all, what had God ever done for him? Not much, Conor thought sourly, save take away nearly everyone he had ever come to love.
No, admitting to a belief in and need for God gave God power over the believer, he reminded himself as he squared his shoulders and strode into the kitchen. Placing any hope in that belief was also frustrating, humiliating, and disappointing. It was a can of worms best left undisturbed.
He certainly didn’t need some big-hearted little busybody stirring up issues long and safely buried, Conor added grimly as Abigail Stanton, dressed in a bright green calico dress that set off her dark hair perfectly, glanced up from the stove. But then he also wasn’t so sure, noting the becoming flush that reddened her cheeks as she caught sight of him, that he wanted to run off this particular, big-hearted little busybody. At least not, he quickly amended that thought, any sooner than he had any of the rest.
6
He hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives.
Luke 4:18
Abby had thought she was ready to face Conor MacKay, but one look at him as he walked into the kitchen the next morning was enough to send her carefully rehearsed speech spiraling into the cosmos. Though circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes, and his lips were drawn in a forbidding line, he was freshly shaven and dressed in his usual boots, blue denims, and a red plaid shirt that complemented his ebony hair. He looked, to Abby, strong and self-assured. He also looked like a man intent upon a mission, and determined to achieve it.
She turned back to the pan of bacon she was frying, hoping her employer would mistake the hot blood flooding her cheeks for the cookstove’s heat. As potent a temptation as Conor MacKay remained, Abby did not care to pick up where they had left off last night.
He came to stand beside her. Seconds ticked by but he said nothing, did nothing, save stare at her. Abby’s pulse quickened. The breath squeezed from her lungs, and the hand holding the fork turning the bacon began to tremble.
Anger at her cowardice filled her. Oh, blast him, she thought. He only does this to unnerve me. Abby shot him a furious glance. He looked back, a solemn, thoughtful light in his eyes.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. MacKay?” she demanded, realizing she was even more uncomfortable with him now than she had ever been before.
He opened his mouth as if to speak. Then, suddenly he shook his head. “Is the coffee ready?”
“Yes, it is.”
Taking up a dishtowel, Conor grabbed the coffeepot sitting on the back burner and carried it to the table. Abby didn’t dare peek over her shoulder. She began forking slices of crisply cooked bacon from the pan, easily envisioning his actions: placing the pot on the table’s little sunflower-shaped trivet, then walking away; the clink of pottery mugs banging together as they were being taken down from the cupboard.
“Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Stanton?”
Abby pulled the last slice of bacon from the pan and placed it on the plate. She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m about ready to begin frying the eggs. I’ll wait until I sit down to breakfast to have coffee.”
“Why don’t you put that plate of bacon in the warming oven instead”—Conor MacKay poured out first one, then another mug of coffee—“and come sit down? Breakfast can wait a few minutes. Beth’s just beginning to stir. She won’t be down for another ten or fifteen minutes. We’ve some unfinished
From that day forward, though, Conor had memorized his religion lessons until he could spout page and paragraph. He probably still could, he thought with grim irony, and with only the most minimal of promptings. His father had, at the very least, seen to that.
But, though Conor had continued to practice his faith even after his father’s death, that doctrinal knowledge had never particularly endeared him to God. After all, what had God ever done for him? Not much, Conor thought sourly, save take away nearly everyone he had ever come to love.
No, admitting to a belief in and need for God gave God power over the believer, he reminded himself as he squared his shoulders and strode into the kitchen. Placing any hope in that belief was also frustrating, humiliating, and disappointing. It was a can of worms best left undisturbed.
He certainly didn’t need some big-hearted little busybody stirring up issues long and safely buried, Conor added grimly as Abigail Stanton, dressed in a bright green calico dress that set off her dark hair perfectly, glanced up from the stove. But then he also wasn’t so sure, noting the becoming flush that reddened her cheeks as she caught sight of him, that he wanted to run off this particular, big-hearted little busybody. At least not, he quickly amended that thought, any sooner than he had any of the rest.
6
He hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives.
Luke 4:18
Abby had thought she was ready to face Conor MacKay, but one look at him as he walked into the kitchen the next morning was enough to send her carefully rehearsed speech spiraling into the cosmos. Though circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes, and his lips were drawn in a forbidding line, he was freshly shaven and dressed in his usual boots, blue denims, and a red plaid shirt that complemented his ebony hair. He looked, to Abby, strong and self-assured. He also looked like a man intent upon a mission, and determined to achieve it.
She turned back to the pan of bacon she was frying, hoping her employer would mistake the hot blood flooding her cheeks for the cookstove’s heat. As potent a temptation as Conor MacKay remained, Abby did not care to pick up where they had left off last night.
He came to stand beside her. Seconds ticked by but he said nothing, did nothing, save stare at her. Abby’s pulse quickened. The breath squeezed from her lungs, and the hand holding the fork turning the bacon began to tremble.
Anger at her cowardice filled her. Oh, blast him, she thought. He only does this to unnerve me. Abby shot him a furious glance. He looked back, a solemn, thoughtful light in his eyes.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. MacKay?” she demanded, realizing she was even more uncomfortable with him now than she had ever been before.
He opened his mouth as if to speak. Then, suddenly he shook his head. “Is the coffee ready?”
“Yes, it is.”
Taking up a dishtowel, Conor grabbed the coffeepot sitting on the back burner and carried it to the table. Abby didn’t dare peek over her shoulder. She began forking slices of crisply cooked bacon from the pan, easily envisioning his actions: placing the pot on the table’s little sunflower-shaped trivet, then walking away; the clink of pottery mugs banging together as they were being taken down from the cupboard.
“Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Stanton?”
Abby pulled the last slice of bacon from the pan and placed it on the plate. She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m about ready to begin frying the eggs. I’ll wait until I sit down to breakfast to have coffee.”
“Why don’t you put that plate of bacon in the warming oven instead”—Conor MacKay poured out first one, then another mug of coffee—“and come sit down? Breakfast can wait a few minutes. Beth’s just beginning to stir. She won’t be down for another ten or fifteen minutes. We’ve some unfinished
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