Daughter of Joy by Kathleen Morgan

course. A pointless pastime, to my way of thinking, considering my good name was trampled in the mud long ago. You, however, are apparently still clinging for dear life to yours.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with trying to maintain a good name,” she said in her defense. “I’m sure there was a time when the name MacKay was one to be proud of, one that stirred respect in the hearts of all. And it could be again, if you’d take a bit more care with people.”
    Conor’s grin faded. His eyes went dark, and his jaw tightened. “What would you know of the MacKay name and whatever it meant to folks in these parts? Have a care, Mrs. Stanton. Don’t venture where you’ve no right to go.”
    He spoke true, Abby thought ruefully. Nothing was served in poking and prodding at a man like Conor MacKay.
    Abby squared her shoulders. “You came here for a reason, and it was hardly one concerning my reputation, Mr. MacKay.”
    He took a step closer. Abby had a strange sense of being engulfed by a mysterious, dark threat. A shiver coursed through her.
    She refused, however, to back away. Fists clenched, she forced herself to gaze steadily up at him, awaiting his reply.
    “Can I come in?” he asked. “I’d rather not talk standing outside.”
    Abby hesitated, then shrugged off her qualms. She was an adult; she’d been a married woman. Surely she could deal with the likes of Conor MacKay. Besides, this bunkhouse was as much his as was any other building on the property.
    “I’ve no intention of ravishing you, Mrs. Stanton. I thought I made that clear the day of your interview.”
    His blunt words wrenched Abby back from her thoughts. She felt ashamed. For all his intimidating ways and lack of tact, Conor MacKay had never been less than a gentleman.
    “So you did, Mr. MacKay. So you did.” Abby stepped aside and motioned him in. “Please forgive the mess.” She gestured vaguely around the room. “It’ll take a while longer to settle in, I’m afraid.”
    He glanced about him, his sharp gaze taking in the treadle-driven sewing machine, rocking chair, and open trunk still full of skirts, dresses, blouses, and neatly folded piles of white cotton chemises, petticoats, underdrawers, and an assortment of long, black and white cotton stockings. Just beyond the colorful swatches of fabric—that Abby intended eventually to turn into dresses—now hanging across the rope dividing the room, her white muslin nightgown could be seen, laid out across her downturned, brass bed.
    Abby’s face flooded with heat. She scooted around Conor MacKay and quickly flipped the lid of her trunk closed. Next, she hurried across the room to pull down the fabric turned back to reveal her bedchamber.
    “Please, Mr. MacKay.” With a curt, embarrassed motion, Abby indicated the table with its single chair. “Please, take a seat.”
    “No, you take the seat, Mrs. Stanton.” His expression was inscrutable. “I’ll just pull over the rocking chair, if that’s all right with you.”
    Somehow his presence made the room seem suddenly close and stifling. Abby nodded and took the seat. By the time, though, that Conor MacKay had settled in the rocking chair he’d carried over to place before her, she’d managed to snatch back the scattered remnants of her composure.
    “Well, Mr. MacKay,” Abby began, compelled by the need to get the visit over and done with, “I don’t mean to appear rude, but it is getting rather late. What did you want to talk about?”
    He crossed his leg, balancing the ankle of one booted foot on his other knee, and began to rock, slowly and methodically. As the seconds ticked by he studied her until Abby thought she’d scream.
    Conor could tell he was making her nervous. He continued to stare, intent on building the tension, unnerving her. It would drive home his point, when he chose to make it.
    His gaze slid over her face, noting her sweet mouth, the high color that swept her cheekbones, the tender curve of her neck. Once more