Abbie's Child. Linda Castle

       Chapter Two

      “Pleased to meet you,” Willem managed to say around the mouthful of roll. No sooner had he touched her hand than Mrs. Cooprel sucked in a deep breath and snatched it away. He frowned at her undisguised concern, then he wondered why he gave it a second thought, why it should even matter to him.

      “Oh, my bread!” She grabbed two thick squares of burlap stuffed to plump proportions and flung open the door of a big black cast-iron stove. A blast of heat filled the kitchen along with the smell of fresh bread. Willem saw beads of sweat appear on her forehead.

      “Can I help?” It was a stupid question, but he felt like a slackard, sitting idle while the woman whirled busily around the room.

      “If you could put those cooling racks on the table…it would be a great help.” She nodded in the direction of three large wire stands leaning against a wall.

      “These?” Willem asked as he picked them up. He felt increasingly awkward floundering in the woman’s domain.

      She pulled a golden-domed loaf as long as his forearm from the darkness of the oven and turned toward him. Willem thought he’d surely died and gone to heaven when the fragrance filled the room. The beast in his belly awakened with a deep growl. Willem groaned and laid the racks on a scrubbed pine table more than ten feet long.

      With a deft maneuver of her wrist she dumped the bread out of the hot pan and returned to retrieve another pan from the oven.

      “This is where we take our meals,” Abigail told him while she lined up a dozen steaming loaves to cool. When she dumped the last loaf on the rack she shoved the oven door closed with a backward kick of her high-buttoned shoe. Then she brought a huge scarred wooden bowl to a thick chopping block in the middle of the kitchen. She removed the flour sack that covered it and dumped out the lump of soft, swollen dough. Her fist hit the fluffy center with a dull whoosh.

      “Here in the kitchen?” With fascinated interest Willem watched her pound and manipulate the dough.

      “Yes. Only Sunday dinner is taken in the dining room. I don’t have room for all my tenants in there.” She looked up. “Most of the men who room here spend Saturday night and most of Sunday on Blaine Street,” she explained with a definite pucker of her brows.

      Willem shook his head in confusion. “I’m new in Guston. I don’t know of Blaine Street.”

      “Blaine Street is the sporting section of Guston.” Abigail smiled blandly. “Women of easy virtue, gambling and Lord only knows what else are available there. I’m sure you’ll find it soon enough.”

      “I doubt it.” Willem had little interest in the topic—or the widow’s hasty opinion of his moral beliefs.

      He watched her divide the dough into clover-shaped balls and dip them in melted butter. She lined up row after row of ivory dough on a wide metal sheet and popped them into the waiting oven.

      “Aren’t you a sporting man, Mr. Tremain?” she asked abruptly.

      “No, I’m not.” Willem told himself the woman needed to ask such questions to assure her own peace of mind, and he tried not to take offense. “You’ll not have cause to worry on that account, Mrs. Cooprel. I don’t gamble—you’ll get your rents on time.”

      She looked up and studied his face for a long moment. He caught a glint of disquiet, or perhaps it was fright, in her eyes. She dropped heavy lashes to shut out his scrutiny.

      “Then you’re welcome to have Sunday dinner with us in the dining room,” she offered haltingly.

      Mrs. Cooprel spread out another section of dough. She spooned cooked apple slices, cinnamon and a generous portion of butter into the center and began to roll up the dough.

      Willem leaned against the hand pump and watched her. He didn’t know why he lingered here. Maybe it was the warm atmosphere of the kitchen or the homey smells or the fact that his belly was scraping against his backbone that made him wait like a hungry cur needing a handout.

      “You are welcome to try more of those.” Abigail nodded toward the plump cinnamon rolls in a manner that made him wonder if she had read his mind.

      “This is my regular baking day. I always make more than we need.” She seemed torn between the urge to feed him and her obvious desire for him to leave.

      “Thanks.” Willem took another plump roll and relished each delectable bite. The widow was a kind, meddlesome sort, he decided while he ate the roll. He regretted his earlier comment about her greed.

      She placed the plank of whatever she had just created into a greased pan. He saw her glance at him curiously from time to time.

      “Are you a single man, Mr. Tremain?”

      The abrupt question surprised him, but he again told himself the widow would have a need to protect her reputation. He forced himself to treat the question as casually as it had been asked.

      “No. I have a wife.” He continued to nibble on the roll while he watched her. It might’ve been his imagination but he could have sworn that the widow Cooprel visibly relaxed when she learned his marital status. That puzzled and intrigued him.

      She placed the pan aside and covered it with a clean flour sack. Then she poured coffee into two blue-speckled cups and sat down at the long harvest table.

      “Join me?” she asked, with her eyebrows lifting into slender arches. Again Willem had the feeling she had taken more interest in him since she’d learned he was not single-just the opposite of what he would have expected from a widow. Every unmarried female this side of Denver was looking for a husband. Any sort of husband.

      Willem stepped away from the hand pump where he’d been leaning and pulled out a chair opposite the widow, then sat down and took a sip of the hot liquid. The coffee was fresh and strong. Exactly the way he liked it and very seldom had.

      “After tasting your cooking I imagine you have men lined up at your door with offers of marriage,” Willem said wryly.

      “I have no desire to remarry.” She shoved the cinnamon rolls closer. “It’s nice to see a man with a healthy appetite. Makes all the work worthwhile.” She sipped her coffee and watched him over the rim of her cup. Will ignored her effort to redirect the conversation.

      “Ever? You’re a young woman to be making such a permanent decision.”

      “Perhaps, but I know my own mind.” She concentrated on her cup, and he knew the subject was closed.

      He searched for a less personal topic to take up the deafening silence in the room. The woman was certainly different. She had a cool reserve about her, and a protective veil seemed to shield her blue eyes.

      “You do this every week?” Will told himself he should leave, but he found himself trying to keep the conversation going.

      She looked up warily, took a deep breath and nodded.

      “Yes. Monday is baking day. Tuesday is cleaning and Wednesday is laundry.” She sipped her coffee and flicked a gaze over his road-weary and travel-stained clothes. “I’m sorry I don’t do washing for my guests, but there is a fine Chinese laundry right next to the barber and bathhouse on Eureka Street.”

      Willem chuckled at the none-too-subtle hint. The sound surprised him. He tried to remember how long it had been since he’d heard the sound of his own laughter, but he couldn’t recall it.

      “Mrs. Cooprel, it has been a while since I had an opportunity to enjoy a bath or clean clothes. I thank you for pointing