Daughter of Joy by Kathleen Morgan

request for a long moment. “The laundry, for starters. We’ve a mess of dirty clothes that need a good washing. That should take most of today. Tomorrow will be soon enough to tackle the rest of the house, the sweeping and dusting. And the clean clothes will need ironing, the floors scrubbing—”
    Abigail laughed and held up her hand. “I think I get the idea.” She paused. “And what about Beth?”
    Conor MacKay went still. “What about her? I hired you to be cook and housekeeper.”
    “That’s not what I meant.” Abby choked back her exasperation. Considering the circumstances, she must, she supposed, make allowances for an overly protective and indulgent father. “I spoke of Beth’s lessons. Would you like me to begin those today, too?”
    He eyed her closely. “Yes, that’d be nice, if you think you’ll have the time, what with all the other work.”
    Abby smiled. “There are ways, Mr. MacKay.”
    “Well, then, I suppose it’s time to roust out Beth.” He set down his mug. “We’ll be back shortly.”
    “Bring a hearty appetite with you, ” Abigail called after him as he stalked from the kitchen. She finished laying out the fried bacon, then poured most of the grease into a strainer-topped grease keeper. Humming a tune, Abby next measured out the ingredients for flapjacks into a big, chipped, yellow pottery bowl. Behind her, the fry pan rewarmed on the cookstove. The small spoonful’s worth of bacon grease she had left in it began to sizzle and pop.
    The morning was not turning out half as badly as she had imagined it might, Abby thought contentedly. Conor MacKay had been almost cordial. So far, the breakfast preparations were going well and, from the sunbeams now streaming into the parlor, the day promised to at least be sunny, if cool. Now, if only Beth’s mood—
    The acrid scent of burning grease wrenched Abby from her pleasant musings. With a gasp, she wheeled around, flinging fat dollops of flapjack batter from the spoon into the air. Smoke billowed from the fry pan.
    Abby quickly tossed the spoon onto the table, grabbed a hand towel, and removed the smoldering pan from the stove. “Blast, but you’re the cussedest stove I’ve ever cooked on!” she muttered, carrying the pan to the sink.
    After pumping the pan full of cold water, she hurried back to the stove. Once more, Abby squatted and fiddled with the main draft regulator door hoping, at long last, she’d finally gotten the recalcitrant thing adjusted properly.
    By the time Conor and Beth entered the kitchen, Abby had four golden brown flapjacks stacked on each of their plates. “Good morning, Beth.” She graced the little girl with what she hoped was her sweetest, most welcoming smile. “Did you sleep well?”
    Beth, hair askew and dressed in yet another pair of overalls and boy’s woolen, long-sleeved undershirt, scowled darkly, mumbled some unintelligible reply, and plopped down at the table. Wasting no time, she grabbed a handful of bacon and stuffed two slices into her mouth. Then, after dousing her flapjacks with a generous amount of maple syrup, she dug in.
    Abby sent Conor an inquiring glance. He just shook his head and rolled his eyes. Beth, she realized, was none too happy with either of them this morning. Deciding it the better part of valor to avoid any direct confrontation first thing with the little girl, Abby turned back to the stove.
    She finished the remainder of the flapjacks for their breakfast and took her seat at the table. By then, the stack of flapjacks on both Beth and Conor’s plates had diminished considerably.
    Abby smiled in satisfaction. “I take it the breakfast met with your approval?” She added three flapjacks and several pieces of bacon to her own plate.
    Beth, toying now with the puddle of syrup in the middle of her plate, refused to look up. Her father, however, rocking back in his chair and savoring his second cup of coffee, did manage a bit more social grace. “It was delicious, Mrs.