Abbie's Child. Linda Castle
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