Читать книгу Abbie's Child - Linda Castle - Страница 9

Guston, Colorado

July, 1888

Willem hefted his battered valise and stopped to catch his breath. He looked up at the white-shuttered rooming house, perched a good quarter mile away on the steep hillside, and grimaced.

“Whoever built this place must’ve been part mountain goat.” He sucked in a breath before he trudged on. The July sunshine was finally breaking over the dusky blue summit of the snow-capped peaks surrounding Guston. It filtered down in broken shafts through the thick growth of blue spruce and quaking aspen at the outskirts of the mining town. Willem clenched his teeth and inhaled another gulp of air.

“The air at this height lacks body,” he grumbled, and stopped to clear his head. Willem dragged off his cap and looked down at the town. A high mountain breeze ruffled his too-long hair and blew a strand over his eyes. He decided to see if there was a cheap barber available in Guston as soon as he was settled.

Guston was a pretty town, as boomtowns and gold camps went, with well-laid-out lots and thriving businesses. He watched harried activity of construction at the town’s border. Wide banners were being stretched between buildings and the harsh sound of an off-key brass band wafted up the steep incline.

“What’s the damned occasion?” he mumbled aloud. Whatever it was, he felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. If Moira was in this area, as the Pinkertons believed, she would be harder to ferret out with people milling thicker than fleas on a hound. He slapped the cap back on his head in irritation and resumed his climb up the gravelly slope. The last thing he was interested in was being around a bunch of people celebrating.

He didn’t even pause to kick the dirt from his bulky-soled shoes when he reached the boardinghouse. He opened the door wide and stepped inside. The neat-as-a-pin interior and spotless rugs laid atop gleaming wood floors halted him in his tracks. Instantly he backed out to wipe the thick dust from the toes of his shoes on the backs of his trouser legs, but not before the smell of homemade bread enveloped him. His empty belly roared to life.

This was not the usual gold-camp rooming house. Willem stood in a formal parlor, done in shades of Wedgwood blue and cream, while he waited for someone to appear. The steady thunk of a long pendulum in a massive grandfather clock ticked off the minutes while he stood alone. He moved toward a shiny desk along the back wall of the room. A neat hand-lettered sign proclaimed it to be the Registration Desk. Willem noticed the rows of key hooks attached to the wain-scoted wall behind it. Only two of them were occupied by numbered room keys. The others were vacant—an indication Otto’s opinion of the boardinghouse was shared by other miners. A tiny brass bell sat by another small card that said, Ring For Service. Willem wondered what kind of frowsy old woman ran the place. She had spent considerable time pointing out the obvious by lettering the signs.

He clenched his jaw and grabbed the bell. His wide fingers dwarfed it when he picked it up. The metal clapper had no sooner pealed against the side than he heard rapid foot-steps.

“Yes? May I help you?” A woman who was a long way from old or frowsy bustled in, while wiping her flour-covered hands on the front of a worn apron. The smell of cinnamon, apples and baker’s yeast drifted with her. Willem grimaced when his empty belly chose that particular moment to fully awaken with a loud, ill-mannered growl.

“I need a place to stay,” he grated out.

She fastened blue-green eyes on his face. He had the uncanny feeling she was sizing him up. His three-week growth of beard and dusty clothes would surely make a poor impression—but then, what difference would it make? The merchants in gold camps were interested in a man’s money, not his appearance. She puckered her eyebrows for a full minute while she swept him with an appraising gaze. He felt like a bug in a jar.

“Breakfast is at six, supper’s at seven. If you wish to have a lunch packed, you provide the tin—fifty cents extra a week. I’ll have no cigars, pipes or liquor and I don’t abide cussing. I change the sheets each Saturday. We serve dinner in the dining room at one o’clock on Sundays following church services. The room is three dollars a week.”

She flipped open a slender, bound book and pushed it toward him. Then she folded her arms, which he could see were lightly freckled below the rolled-up sleeves of her sturdy gray dress, and waited for him to sign.

“The price is highway robbery,” he snorted. “I’ll not pay it.” He folded his own arms at his chest and assumed a stance similar to her own. Will hoped the bluff would work, since he had already inquired at two other rooming houses and found them full.

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She reached out to close the book. Willem laid his massive hand over her smaller one. Her dark brows met in a surprised scowl.

“Nay,” he barked. His breath fanned out over her face and sent a soft strand of pale chestnut hair fluttering down from a crooked bun. He inhaled deeply, and the aroma of clothes starch and clean female filled his nostrils. A wave of memories crashed over him, along with Moira’s somewhat vague image. It had been a long time. Willem found himself disgusted by the prospect of having to stay here.

“There’ll be no other rooms to have in this town,” he snapped.

The woman snatched her hand from under his. “You’ll not likely find one as clean or the cooking as wholesome as you’ll find here.”

“You think a lot of yourself.” Will felt his mouth pull into a cynical grimace.

She met his gaze with steady, unblinking eyes, but he sensed she was putting on a brave front. Under her cool gaze he saw a flicker of fear. “I try to be quite honest.”

“I’ll take the room,” he grumbled. Willem picked up the pen from the marble stand and with his thumb flipped open the silver filigree lid on the glass ink bottle. He scrawled his name in haste while he tried to banish the image of anxiety he had seen in the woman’s eyes. “You have a banker’s heart and a banker’s soul, ma’am.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry you think so. I’m a businesswoman pure and simple. I don’t cheat my customers, and I expect them not to cheat me. The rent in advance, if you please.” She held out a shaky hand. He saw a dusting of flour in the tracery of fine lines across her palm.

Willem scowled. This woman’s miserly ways were going to eat up most of his pocket money. Between her and the Pinkertons he’d be working for Otto Mears until he was too bent and broken to swing a pickax or had vision enough left to light a fuse on a stick of dynamite. He clenched his jaw against the anger and futility that flooded over him.

He dug deep into his pockets. He’d be lucky if he could afford supper after this, much less a haircut. His stomach growled when he placed the coins in her palm. Eating was becoming a luxury—one he indulged in less frequently as his search for Moira stretched on and he’d been compelled to hire the Pinkertons.

She accepted the money and pulled the open ledger toward her to read his name aloud.

“Well, Mr. Willem Tremain, since you’re now a paying guest, would you like to sample some of my cooking? You can judge for yourself whether it’s worth the price.”

He looked at her suspiciously and wondered if he’d have to mortgage his soul for the privilege.

She chuckled. A deep, throaty sound filled his ears. It sent odd sensations careening around his shoulders and down his body. Willem decided the effects of hunger and the thin air at this unholy altitude were addling his judgment.

“It’s on the house, Mr. Tremain,” she added dryly.

He felt heat flood his face above the thick growth of his beard. She had so easily interpreted his thoughts on the subject it caught him unaware. He coughed and tried to hide his embarrassment.

“I’d like that,” he finally managed to grate out.

He looked up at her and saw her swipe at the strand of loose hair near her face. Her hand left a large smudge of flour on her nose. He had the silly urge to reach up and wipe it away, but he stopped short. Nonetheless, he could not tear his eyes away from the blemish on her skin. He unconsciously rubbed the side of his own nose while he studied her face. There was a fine smattering of freckles on her aquiline nose and across her heat-flushed cheeks. He continued to stare while he absently wiped the nonexistent flour from his own face.

“What is it?” Her voice broke the spell he’d woven around himself.

Again he felt fire rise under the three-week stubble along his jaw. “Your—nose,” he said haltingly.

“What?” Both eyebrows shot upward toward a heart shaped hairline.

“You…have flour on your nose.” He extended his hand toward her face, halted abruptly, then pulled it back. Finally his hand shot out to brush it away. Her eyes widened in shock—or was it fear? Willem realized he’d overstepped the bounds of propriety.

“I’m sorry.” He wondered if he was coming undone; this impulsiveness was not like him.

She was looking at him with genuine amazement and perhaps some trepidation.

“Think nothing of it.” She shot one more half-suspicious look at him. He could see wariness in the stiff set of her shoulders. “If you want something to eat, come into the kitchen,” she said tightly.

Willem bent his tall body to pick up his valise, feeling dazed and bewildered. He was sure it must be a combination of fatigue and hunger.

“Leave it. Nobody will bother it.” She waved her hand and indicated he should follow her.

He obediently left his valise, containing his every earthly possession, sitting unguarded on the Chinese patterned rug in front of the desk. Willem followed the swish and sway of the woman’s dress into a room of surprisingly large proportions. The smell of spices and yeast sent his empty gut into noisy protest again.

“Here, try one of these.” She thrust a chipped china plate, heaped with golden-crusted spirals, toward him. Each roll was larger than his own doubled fist and slathered in butter and honey.

Willem wiped his palm down the front of his trousers and picked one up. He sniffed the rich aroma before he took a bite. The roll melted in his mouth. A blending of sweet cinnamon and the heady, robust taste of yeast bread trickled down the back of his throat.

“Good?” She expectantly raised her brows.

“Mmm.” He allowed himself to savor the taste, ignoring the sound of his too-empty stomach demanding more. He’d not had the means to pay the Pinkertons and eat, too, so Willem had done what was most important to his survival. He’d gone without food for two days on his journey to Guston.

“Now that you have sampled my cooking, I suppose I should introduce myself.” Their eyes met, and he clearly saw the chill of apprehension in hers.

She was the one who now rubbed her palms across her flour-dusted apron. She thrust her hand toward Willem. He shoved the last piece of roll in his mouth and grasped her clean fingers with his sticky ones.

Abigail craned her neck to look up at him. He was over-large and lean beneath the rough clothes. His jaw was covered with dark hair only a shade paler than the long strands peeking from under his immigrant’s cap. Only his eyes were unusual. They were blue—and held a raw hunger that sent a frisson of apprehension snaking through Abigail. She wasn’t sure why, but the man’s eyes made a knot in the middle of her stomach.

“I am Abigail Cooprel. The widow Cooprel. Welcome to Guston, Colorado, Mr. Tremain.”