Abbie's Child. Linda Castle
babe wrapped in his coat and felt a lump in his throat. There could be no just reason why fate had capriciously sent two pregnant women to the unfinished church this cold spring day.
He tore off a piece of cloth from his only good shirt and wrapped the lifeless child in it. The woman out there would need an explanation, but how could he provide her with one? He was tongue-tied enough when talking about the weather, or the rising price of supplies at the mercantile. How could he find the proper words to tell the woman her baby daughter was dead? There was no way he could explain to her what had transpired. How could he tell the woman her child died without taking its first breath? He cursed himself silently for being so ill equipped to handle this tragedy, while he prayed for a miracle to save them all.
The lusty wail of a healthy, hungry infant sounded in the silent church. Lars snapped his head around and stared at the crying child in the small wooden box. The poor tyke had been no sooner born than he had become an orphan. He pondered the situation and shook his head at the irony of it all.
A babe without a mother and a mother without a child.
Lars cast a sad glance over the dead woman’s body. She lay where she had breathed her last, on the plank of a half-finished church pew. He started to cover her pale bluish face with a blanket when something around her neck caught his eye. He slid his fingers under a slender gold chain and pulled it from her bodice. A strange symbol, like a Chinese dragon rearing on its hind legs, gleamed on the heavy circle of gold.
The woman in the other room called out for her child. Lars shook his head in sadness. The first poor woman had died without even uttering her own name. Now he had no hope of finding the orphaned boy-child’s next of kin. Lars bad no idea what her name was or where she came from.
The baby began to squall in earnest. The sound of the agitated mother’s voice, calling for her dead baby, sent a shiver climbing up Lars’s spine. He had to do something.
He closed his eyes and dropped to his knees beside the lifeless woman to say a prayer for her soul. Lars climbed slowly to his feet and shoved the gold necklace deep inside his trouser pocket. He took one last look at the stillborn baby and the dead woman, then he made a bold, desperate decision.
Lars picked up the robust orphan and wrapped him in the blanket he’d found earlier. He knew what he was doing was not right—but what other chance did the child have in a country full of men searching for gold and silver? There was no other choice to be made.
Abigail looked up in relief when the old man approached her. He had his eyes downcast, so she couldn’t read the expression in them, but he handled her newborn child as if it were the most fragile and precious thing in the world.
“My baby? Is it all right?” She raised up on her elbows and looked expectantly at the old man’s face.
Without a word he thrust the wiggling bundle toward her. She took the squirming baby with trembling hands and pulled back the blanket to take her first look at her babe.
“It’s a boy,” he said gruffly.
Hot, salty tears of bittersweet joy welled in her eyes. Carl would never know he had a fine, healthy son to carry on his name.
“Matthew. I’m going to call him Matthew,” she said softly as she traced a circle on his downy pink cheek with her index finger. A thick, soft cap of pale brown hair lay in curls around his head.
“Hello, Matthew Cooprel. Welcome to the world.”
When he puckered his rose-petal lips and unsquinted his eyes to stare up at her, she saw they were the color of a mountain sky. She hugged him close and uttered a prayer of thanks for a healthy baby to love and nurture. She vowed that nothing would ever come between her and this precious child.
Lars felt a sharp pang of guilt each time the woman cooed to the newborn boy. She was so pleased and happy that tears ran in small rivulets down her cheeks. The baby pursed his lips and stared at the woman with blue-eyed contentment. Lars swallowed the lump growing in his throat. The die was cast. Maybe what he was doing wasn’t right, but it was the only thing Lars could think of. This little boy deserved a chance, and God in his infinite wisdom had given him one. Lars would simply have to learn to live with the feeling that he had done something dishonest.
While he stared at the woman, another worry gripped him. Who was she? Why was she alone on the mountain? He sighed and realized that he would need to stick around and make certain the woman and the baby were provided for. Lars vowed that the first child he had ever birthed, as long as the boy was in Colorado, would grow up hale and healthy. Perhaps this would assuage a small portion of the guilt already nipping at the corners of his mind.
Lars wondered how he would be able to persuade the lady to allow a perfect stranger to become part of their lives. Whatever it took, he was obligated by guilt and responsibility—he had to do it.
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?