Abbie's Child. Linda Castle
looked up and down the notorious street and read a collection of hand-painted windows. Mulligan’s Saloon, Petrie’s Emporium and Silvio’s Billiard Parlor caught his eye. A heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder, and Will spun around.
“Taking in the local sights?” Snap Jackson asked with a grin.
“Sort of,” Willem replied.
“Whoa—somebody sure enough skinned you.” Snap gestured at Willem’s lack of beard and shorter hair and chuckled derisively. “I’m heading over to Silvio’s for a beer and a game of billiards. Want to join me?”
Beer didn’t interest Will and he’d never taken the precious time to learn billiards, but Snap seemed to know his way around pretty well. Perhaps he might stumble on some bit of news about Moira.
“Sure, why not?” Will fell into step beside the man.
The inside of Silvio’s was like every other beer hall Willem had ever seen—dark and musty with a lingering smell of stale tobacco and unwashed bodies. His stomach roiled while a new wash of unpleasant memories gained momentum. Snap ordered a mug and offered Willem one.
“No, thanks.” Willem held up his hand.
Snap shrugged and moved toward the billiard table. The green felt cover was fading in the middle and the laced leather pouches under the holes needed to be retied, but Snap grabbed a cue stick and set his beer aside without hesitation.
“Rack them up, Will.”
“I never learned to play. I’ll just watch if you don’t mind.” Willem leaned against a nearby wall and crossed his arms at his chest.
“Whatever you say.” Snap leaned his wiry torso over the edge of the table, tented his fingers on the felt and proceeded to pop the painted ivory balls into the holes. Willem had to admire the man’s finesse.
“Snap, have you been here long?” he asked when the man paused for a gulp of beer.
“Seems like forever.” He wiped beer foam from his mouth. “I come and go with the thaw and the freeze.”
“You spend much time down here, on Blaine Street, I mean?”
Snap frowned and set his beer down. “About as much as most men. You got a reason for asking?”
Willem felt like a fool asking personal questions of a stranger. He wasn’t any good at this. Paxton had told him he didn’t know how to ask questions, and now he saw it was true.
“I’m looking for a woman,” Willem said flatly.
“Just open your mouth and yell. This is the place for it.”
“No, I mean a particular woman. She has red hair and pale blue eyes, a little slip of a thing.” Willem heard the catch in his throat when he described her.
“Does this particular woman have a name?” Snap leaned on his billiard stick.
“Moira—Moira Tremain.” Willem was surprised at how much pain it caused him to say her name after all this time, after all these years.
“Your sister?”
“No. She’s my wife.”
Willem walked aimlessly while he thought of Moira. She had been a pretty vixen of a girl—impulsive as a wild fox. Her curly flame-colored hair and round blue eyes made it easy for her to wrap him around her pampered little finger. His stomach contorted when he thought of their wedding day. What should’ve been a happy beginning for the two of them had been strained and tearful.
Willem had always wanted the child they created on their wedding night, and Moira seemed to adjust to the idea. If only he had been less hotheaded, maybe he wouldn’t have scared her so. If only there hadn’t been all those ridiculous stories about ‘the Black Irish’ and his deadly temper, if only she hadn’t believed them.
If only.
The words echoed in his mind. He’d been less than understanding about her needs, and in the end she had run from him in fear. His lack of sensitivity and her tender years had cost them both dearly. For the first time Willem thought perhaps he wasn’t totally responsible for the mess he and Moira had made of their lives. Maybe his beautiful child bride did share a tiny fraction of the blame.
He stopped his soul-searching and found himself standing in front of the widow Cooprel’s boardinghouse. Willem wondered why he seemed drawn to this place like iron filings to a magnet.
Perhaps it was the boy.
He shrugged and climbed the stairs to his room for a few hours’ rest, too weary to muddle through any more puzzles or memories.
The sound of Matthew’s husky laughter woke Willem. He lay across the narrow bed with his forearm thrown over his eyes and allowed the sound to sluice over him. It was like standing under a tight dry roof and listening to sweet spring rain fall around him. It invigorated and refreshed his barren soul.
He stood and went to see what brought the child such happiness. Willem’s heart skipped two beats when he peered out the open window.
Abigail and Matthew were playing chase around a row of heavy Chinese rugs strung along a sturdy wire clothesline. Abigail had her hair loose and tied back in an old red kerchief. Willem never had imagined it would be so long. It rippled free down her back in chestnut waves that caught the sun and turned it into a prism of light. She clutched a straw broom in her hands and brandished it like a weapon. Matthew dodged around the protection of the rugs while he laughed at her mock fierceness.
Their antics brought a bittersweet joy to Willem. They were like a couple of otter pups at play. Mrs. Cooprel seemed so young and innocent while she darted and ran across the grass. He recalled her telling him Tuesday was her cleaning day. She must’ve been beating the rugs when the boy taunted her into mischief. He sighed and leaned farther out the window, relishing the innocent sight of the widow and her son. But when she suddenly dropped the broom and picked up her skirts to give chase, Willem sucked in his breath. He no longer saw innocence in Abigail Cooprel, but the flesh-and-blood woman beneath.
Her pale feet and slender ankles were bare. She curled her toes into the clover blossoms and thick grass when she paused between sprints. She hitched her skirt higher and laughed when Matthew rolled in the turf.
A hard knot formed inside Will’s belly.
Abigail Cooprel had long, coltish legs, smooth, supple and creamy as white satin. Willem felt a jolt of heat blaze through him each time her petticoats and skirt inched higher.
His sex awakened by tiny relentless degrees. His pulse quickened and thrummed deep inside his ears. A slow inferno began in his stomach, then snaked around and twined its way lower on a sizzling journey toward his throbbing groin. He felt his member harden and swell with each dull thump of his quaking heart. His long-denied libido sprang to life while he stared openmouthed at the woman below.
Abigail laughed, and the throaty sound sent Will’s long-suppressed passion roaring to life. He groaned and closed his eyes. He’d made a vow to cleave only to Moira. He’d kept that sacred marriage vow without difficulty for nearly seven years. But now he felt an ache so deep and raw and hungry it split him wide open with need for a woman—need for that woman running through the meadow grass like a woodland sprite.
What was it about this place that was turning him inside out? What was it about the widow that was making him want to abandon his beliefs, break vows and sunder promises?
Will clenched his jaw and tore himself away from the open window. He couldn’t deny the widow’s seductive lure—he just couldn’t give in to it.
He swore under his breath. Willem kept reminding himself she wasn’t very pretty…except