Читать книгу Abbie's Child - Linda Castle - Страница 11

Willem paused on the second-floor landing, where he was tempted to slump into an inviting rocker by a potted fern. A one-eared ginger tom raised its head and hissed menacingly from the pillowed seat. Will backed off. The old cat yawned, and he saw a missing tooth. The cranky tabby was secure in its ability to defend its territory. Will had no desire to battle the old gladiator for a temporary seat. He turned and trudged up the last flight of stairs. By the time he reached the third floor the idea of going in search of a barber had lost all its appeal. He found the door with a neat, handmade 12 tacked on the middle.

“Mrs. Cooprel’s work, I see.” Will shook his head. “Is there anything the widow does not put a sign on?” he asked nobody in particular.

Willem unlocked the door. The room was clean and tidy—just what he had expected. A quilted spread in a double wedding ring design brought him up short at the threshold. Memories of Moira stitching a similar one assaulted him. Willem threw his valise on the bed to block out the image. He felt suffocated while he strode to the window, covered with hand-tatted white lace. He pushed the thin fabric aside and forced open the glass. Cool, clean air flooded the room. He inhaled great gulps of it and tried to clear his head of the haunting memories and guilt. Today had brought more forgotten images flitting through his head than the past six years altogether.

Willem leaned out the window and braced his forearms on the sash. Tall mountain pines, close enough to reach out and touch, spread green fronds toward the boardinghouse. A carpet of thick grass and bright clover sprinkled with columbines and daisies blanketed a large area around the house. Taut wires strung between railroad ties formed a long clothesline at one end of the verdant lawn. He could hear the noisy birds cackling inside a sturdy covered chicken coop on the other side. He looked west and saw a neat, well-ordered vegetable patch surrounded by a stake fence.

“I bet the deer and elk love the widow’s vegetables,” Willem muttered. A dish-faced Jersey cow with great solemn brown eyes looked up at him while she chewed her cud.

He scanned the grounds and located the privy. Around the side, toward a wraparound porch, a tall, fire-engine-red water pump had been installed above a trough fashioned from a massive hollowed-out tree trunk.

It had been long, bleak years since Willem had enjoyed the trappings of such ordered domesticity. The picturesque setting sent an arrow of self-condemnation and reproach shooting through him. He turned away from the window, unable to look at any more.

He shoved the valise to the floor and flopped onto the bed. The springs creaked under his weight while he adjusted his tall frame. The lumpy, narrow mattress felt as soft as a feather bed compared to the hard straw cots he’d become accustomed to since hiring the Pinkertons. He yawned and wished for a single night of peaceful sleep. As quickly, he cursed himself for the stupid fancy. Willem knew the ghosts from his past would never leave him in peace—and furthermore he knew he didn’t deserve any.

* * *

Abigail popped the last of the dinner rolls into the hot oven and rubbed her hand over her sweat-dampened fore-head. She was glad to see baking day nearly finished. The heavy coins in her pocket jingled and she found herself thinking about her newest boarder. She looked down at her own fingers and saw them trembling.

Is this how it will always be? she asked herself. Will I constantly be timid and afraid when a stranger comes to rent a room?

She thought back to the gray day of last winter, when Lars had forever changed her life—for the second time. He had come to her with a story so fantastic that at first she thought he was spinning a yarn for her amusement. But as the tears welled in the old man’s eyes, she finally faced the tiny questions that had forever nagged at her about Matthew. She forced herself to acknowledge what she knew was true.

Matthew was not her child. Not the child of her body. Abigail felt something on her cheek and wiped at it. Her fingers came away wet. She was crying again—crying for the daughter she had never known, crying for the woman who had died giving Matthew life, crying for herself.

She sniffed and squared her shoulders. There was no reason to be in such a state, she knew. Years had passed with no long-lost relative coming to claim Matthew. Why should any of that change? Yet, now each time some new boarder knocked at the door there was a moment of panic, a moment when Abigail knew today would be the day she would lose her child.

She sighed and tried to calm her nerves. Maybe she would feel better if Lars had not disappeared like a will-o’-the-wisp right after he’d confessed. She had been expecting him home any day. Surely he would not disappoint Matthew, they had attended every picnic celebration together since Matt was old enough to walk.

Abigail busied herself washing up the cups she and Mr. Tremain had used. Images of her new boarder swam before her eyes. He made her uneasy. His dark, probing eyes and manner sent shivers of dread up her spine. But why? Mr. Tremain said he had a wife, and if Abigail had inquired further, he probably would have told her he had a brood of dark-haired children, as well. He was just another man looking for a clean bed and a hot meal. There was no reason in the world this man should be any different than the others who had rented from her in six years.

She took a deep, calming breath and vowed to keep her imagination under tighter rein. Matthew was not the child of her body but he was the child of her heart, and nobody was going to show up out of the blue and take him from her. She simply had to go on as she had in the past and things would be just fine.

“Still, I’m glad that one’s got a wife,” she muttered while she rinsed the soap from the cups.

He had a way of looking at her that made tiny shivers run over her arms. She realized it was probably more her imagination than anything else, but Mr. Willem Tremain was different than other miners somehow—dark, lonely, driven in some way.

He frightened her. She shook her head and told herself she was just feeling gloomy. Matthew had been gone all day fishing and she was feeling his absence. She smiled and thought of his bright blue eyes and childish laughter.

Yes, that’s all it is. I’m just missing Matthew. She happily went about her chores—but the disturbing image of Willem Tremain’s handsome, brooding face never really left her in peace.

Choking darkness and a ton of rock crushing down upon him brought Will awake. He raked his palm over his sweatbeaded face and lay panting. He couldn’t remember where he was. Then reality flooded in. He remembered the widow’s blue-green eyes. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and slid his shoes to the floor.

Willem stretched and comprehended with profound astonishment that he had slept soundly, until just now. He frowned and puzzled over it. Then he decided it was because he’d fallen asleep in the middle of the day. Napping was a luxury a working man rarely indulged in—particularly one who had detectives on his payroll.

He shoved his bulk from the mattress and walked to the washstand. The pitcher was dry. He scowled and caught his reflection in the mirror above the stand. His eyes were hooded by dark lashes and eyebrows. His beard was thick and itched like the devil. He looked meaner than a catamount. It was easy to see why the widow found him so frightening.

He heard laughter and ribald language coming from somewhere in the yard. His curiosity beckoned him to the open window, where he leaned out to see what was going on.

A crowd of rough miners wearing heavier beards than the one he sported were stripped to their long johns at the waist. Their heavy woolen shirts flapped behind them like hen’s wings. Willem frowned and watched as a thick bar of soap was passed from one eager hand to the next. Each man put his head under the pump while one of his fellows pumped water over him. In turn they lathered themselves to a foam and repeated the process. Suds and water flowed over the edge of the trough and swirled down the rocky incline toward a flower bed of columbines. Willem was puzzled and intrigued. They appeared to be giving each other a thorough scrubbing at the hand pump. He’d never seen the like in any other gold camp. He decided to go downstairs and take a closer look at the unlikely spectacle.

Willem heard the sounds of pots and pans and Mrs. Cooprel’s humming when he crossed the parlor. It sent an odd chill through him. He stepped outside and followed the worn path to the pump. He hooked a thumb in his belt and watched their antics.

“Missus will be mighty upset if we’re late, Brawley,” a wizened man warned while water dripped from the ends of his drooping mustache.

A mountainous redhead with a beard full of soapsuds nodded solemnly. “Yep. We best hurry along. Besides, ain’t this baking day?” His brown eyes twinkled above the froth.

The remark brought hoots of approval from the men and seemed to spur them to frenzied activity. Soap and water spattered Willem in their haste. He jumped back to avoid a complete drenching while he decided this was some more of the widow Cooprel’s meddlesome handiwork.

The men rinsed and shook off the excess water like a pack of wet dogs. One or two men looked up and saw Will for the first time. They pulled up their shirts. The popping of several sets of suspenders snapping into place sounded in rapid succession. The tall, red-haired man smoothed back his dripping mane and nodded at Will.

“The widow likes her tenants clean and punctual.”

“So I see,” Willem quipped. “I’m your new neighbor.”

The red-haired miner winked. “Well, unless you boys want to be sucking on the hind teat, I suggest you get a move on.”

The group filed into the boardinghouse, leaving Willem and the man called Brawley standing at the pump. Will unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it down to his long johns. The loose shirt, still tucked in to his belt behind, slapped the backs of his thighs while he walked to the pump. He bent at the waist and stuck his unshorn head under the pump. The giant obliged by soaking him in a stream of icy water.

“Thanks for the hand.” Willem shivered. He slicked back his hair with one palm and accepted the offered soap to lather his face.

“Don’t mention it. I’m Brawley Cummins.”

Willem squinted briefly at the man before soap ran into his eyes and blinded him. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Willem Tremain.”

“Willem, I hope you don’t think I’m rude, but my watch tells me it’s seven o’clock. The widow will be dishing up about now.”

Before Willem even got his face rinsed off he heard the man tramp off. Abigail Cooprel held amazing influence over these men—or at least, her cooking did.

When Willem walked into the kitchen the room was full of the smell of wholesome food, strong lye soap, damp wool and miners. He looked around the table and saw the same men who’d been making rowdy jokes sitting demurely while Abigail Cooprel piled food on each of their plates. She smiled and offered a word to each man by name, which brought bouts of mumbling shyness and crimson cheeks to most of them. He stood in the doorway and watched, bemused by the change the woman wrought in the men who only minutes ago had been louder than braying mules.

Abigail Cooprel looked up and saw Willem watching her. Her body stiffened and she nodded. “Mr. Willem Tremain, these are the rest of my boarders.” There was a baritone murmur that rippled through the room before respectful silence fell like a stone at his feet.

“Do you have a preference of where I sit, Mrs. Cooprel?” Willem asked.

“That one is free.” She nodded in the direction of one empty chair at the far end of the table. Willem made his way around and sat down. He waited while she progressed from one plate to the next, until she finally reached him.

“Never found a barber, I see.” She cocked an eyebrow and honored him with a sunny grin. He could see no malice in her face, only good-natured humor. It did strike him as odd that she was much friendlier and relaxed in the company of these miners than she’d been earlier with him alone. Then he realized that she probably felt safe by virtue of numbers.

“Actually, the bed looked too good to pass up. I fell asleep.” He tried to return her grin but found himself oddly distracted by the clean, womanly scent of her standing so near him.

“Does anyone have the time?” Mrs. Cooprel looked from one burly face to the next.

Brawley Cummins stood and pulled his watch from his pant pocket. Using his thumbnail, he snapped open the face. “It is four minutes past seven, Missus.”

Willem saw the men turn to stare expectantly at the back door. Each one looked for the world like a small boy waiting for Father Christmas to arrive.

“Matthew is late, again,” Mrs. Cooprel said with a sigh. She sat down in one of the two remaining empty chairs. They were at the opposite end of the table, as far from Willem as possible. After a momentary pause she began to serve herself.

Willem cast a quick glance around the table and picked up a fat brown dinner roll. Ten men turned to stare at him in stupefied horror.

Mrs. Cooprel smiled patiently. “We say grace, Mr. Tremain.”

He dropped the bread as if it had burned him. For the life of him, he couldn’t prevent the advance of heat across his face. He watched the miners duck their heads, and he did likewise. What was it about this widow that made a man feel like a snot-nosed kid? He felt as if he’d stepped into some sort of bottomless pit where his old life flashed by like a runaway locomotive. Abigail’s clear voice invoked a blessing upon the men and her home, while he tried to tamp down his embarrassment.

Willem mumbled a hasty “Amen” just as the door opened behind him. Cool air rushed in. Will turned in his chair to see a panting boy, barefoot and encased from head to toe in loamy mud. The bedraggled child dropped a fishing pole at the back door and stuck a battered, shapeless hat on a peg halfway up the wall.

“Matthew, you are late.” Mrs. Cooprel fastened a stern look on the boy. Willem almost squirmed in his own chair. He felt an instant kinship with the child. Only moments ago he had felt the same icy sting of disapproval, he thought.

“I know, Mama. I’m sorry. But I stopped to get these for you.” Matthew thrust a wilting bouquet of purple columbines and crushed daisies toward Abigail. “And I caught these.” He proudly held up a piece of twine holding two glistening rainbow trout. The widow’s face melted into a beaming smile. She accepted the flowers with mist-filled eyes.

“Oh, Matthew, these are truly fine.” She raised her head and her eyes swept the table. “Aren’t they fine, gentlemen?”

Willem found himself wearing a grin. Damned if he could figure out how he’d got pulled into this drama and why he wasn’t wolfing down the savory meat, potatoes and carrots on his plate, but he sat there watching the little boy with rapt attention. While he stared at the dirty-faced boy he pain-fully acknowledged his own deep, abiding hunger to know his child.

“I’ll get these into a jar of water and put them on the table for us all to look at. Now you go wash up.” Abigail’s voice had the mellow quality of a mother cat purring to its kitten while she rose from the table.

The child nodded his untidy head and scampered off, dropping the fish to the floor on his way. Abigail stared at them as if a gold nugget had just been deposited at her feet.

“Don’t you bother. I’ll get them, Missus.” Brawley scooted his chair out and stood.

Mrs. Cooprel looked at him absently and smiled. Her face was almost angelic in its maternal happiness.

“Thank you, Brawley.” She turned and went to the cup-board by the water pump. She finally found a jar to her liking and filled it with water before she arranged the flowers in its mouth. They were wilted and broken, and dirt still clung to the roots in clumps, but she treated the gift as if it were the dandiest bouquet of posies a woman ever received. She placed them in the center of the long table and sighed contentedly.

“The lad needs a man’s firm hand but he’s comin’ along…He even cleaned the fish himself this time, ma’am. I told him he should do that last week. Guess he’s finally listenin’.” Brawley put the fish in a pan of water.

If the widow noticed the man’s remark she gave no indication. When she was settled back in her chair one of the men at the table took a bite—finally—and Willem seized the opportunity to spear a plump chunk of meat. He popped it into his mouth and savored the taste of venison.

The patter of running feet announced Matthew’s return. The boy darted in, still buttoning a clean shirt. His wet hair lay in curly waves around his wide forehead. Willem felt his jaw go slack. His fork froze in midair while he stared.

“Now you look like my little boy and not some ragamuffin.” She rubbed her fingers through the child’s clean, wet hair. When she patted the empty chair next to her own the boy plopped down. Several of the miners complimented him on the size of his fish. The child took it all with reserved humility.

“Who is this young man?” Will’s voice sounded hollow and stiff.

Abigail looked up and smiled proudly. “This is my son, Matthew Cooprel.”

Willem felt a tightness in his chest when Matthew turned and smiled at him. His eyes were a piercing sky blue—they made Will’s gut twist with pain for the child he longed to find.

“Matthew, this is our newest boarder, Mr. Willem Tremain.”