Abbie's Child

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 a small boy waiting for Father Christmas to arrive.

“Matthew is late, again,” Mrs. Cooprel said with a sigh. She sat down in one of the two remaining empty chairs. They were at the opposite end of the table, as far from Willem as possible. After a momentary pause she began to serve herself.

Willem cast a quick glance around the table and picked up a fat brown dinner roll. Ten men turned to stare at him in stupefied horror.

Mrs. Cooprel smiled patiently. “We say grace, Mr. Tremain.”

He dropped the bread as if it had burned him. For the life of him, he couldn’t prevent the advance of heat across his face. He watched the miners duck their heads, and he did likewise. What was it about this widow that made a man feel like a snot-nosed kid? He felt as if he’d stepped into some sort of bottomless pit where his old life flashed by like a runaway locomotive. Abigail’s clear voice invoked a blessing upon the men and her home, while he tried to tamp down his embarrassment.

Willem mumbled a hasty “Amen” just as the door opened behind him. Cool air rushed in. Will turned in his chair to see a panting boy, barefoot and encased from head to toe in loamy mud. The bedraggled child dropped a fishing pole at the back door and stuck a battered, shapeless hat on a peg halfway up the wall.

“Matthew, you are late.” Mrs. Cooprel fastened a stern look on the boy. Willem almost squirmed in his own chair. He felt an instant kinship with the child. Only moments ago he had felt the same icy sting of disapproval, he thought.

“I know, Mama. I’m sorry. But I stopped to get these for you.” Matthew thrust a wilting bouquet of purple columbines and crushed daisies toward Abigail. “And I caught these.” He proudly held up a piece of twine holding two glistening rainbow trout. The widow’s face melted into a beaming smile. She accepted the flowers with mist-filled eyes.

“Oh, Matthew, these are truly fine.” She raised her head and her eyes swept the table. “Aren’t they fine, gentlemen?”

Willem found himself wearing a grin. Damned if he could figure out how he’d got pulled into this drama and why he wasn’t wolfing down the savory meat, potatoes and carrots on his plate, but he sat there watching the little boy with rapt attention. While he stared at the dirty-faced boy he pain-fully acknowledged his own deep, abiding hunger to know his child.

“I’ll get these into a jar of water and put them on the table for us all to look at. Now you go wash up.” Abigail’s voice had the mellow quality of a mother cat purring to its kitten while she rose from the table.

The child nodded his untidy head and scampered off, dropping the fish to the floor on his way. Abigail stared at them as if a gold nugget had just been deposited at her feet.

“Don’t you bother. I’ll get them, Missus.” Brawley scooted his chair out and stood.

Mrs. Cooprel looked at him absently and smiled. Her face was almost angelic in its maternal happiness.

“Thank you, Brawley.” She turned and went to the cup-board by the water pump. She finally found a jar to her liking and filled it with water before she arranged the flowers in its mouth. They were wilted and broken, and dirt still clung to the roots in clumps, but she treated the gift as if it were the dandiest bouquet of posies a woman ever received. She placed them in the center of the long table and sighed contentedly.

“The lad needs a man’s firm hand but he’s comin’ along…He even cleaned the fish himself this time, ma’am. I told him he should do that last week. Guess he’s finally listenin’.” Brawley put the fish in a pan of water.

If the widow noticed the man’s remark she gave no indication. When she was settled back in her chair one of the men at the table took a bite—finally—and Willem seized the opportunity to spear a plump chunk of meat. He popped it into his mouth and savored the taste of venison.

The patter of running feet announced Matthew’s return. The boy darted in, still buttoning a clean shirt. His wet hair lay in curly waves around his wide forehead. Willem felt his jaw go slack. His fork froze in midair while he stared.

“Now you look like my little boy and not some ragamuffin.” She rubbed her fingers through the child’s clean, wet hair. When she patted the empty chair next to her own the boy plopped down. Several of the miners complimented him on the size of his fish. The child took it all with reserved humility.

“Who is this young man?” Will’s voice sounded hollow and stiff.

Abigail looked up and smiled proudly. “This is my son, Matthew Cooprel.”

Willem felt a tightness in his chest when Matthew turned and smiled at him. His eyes were a piercing sky blue—they made Will’s gut twist with pain for the child he longed to find.

“Matthew, this is our newest boarder, Mr. Willem Tremain.”

Chapter Four

Willem blinked and forced himself to nod at Matthew in greeting. The boy smiled politely before he turned his attention to the food Abigail was piling on his plate. Matthew occupied himself answering his mother’s many questions about his fish. The rest of the men had lapsed into their own private conversations, leaving Willem to his own company. He found himself straining to hear the widow and her boy.

“How did you land such big fish, darling?” Willem saw the veil of reserve evaporate from her eyes. Mrs. Cooprel laughed, and for the first time he saw the real woman beneath the cool shell.

“Mama, you should’ve seen it.” Matthew paused long enough to shove some food into his mouth. He chased it with a gulp of milk. He wiped the white mustache with his napkin before he continued in a rush of words. “One was so big it pulled me down the bank!”

Abigail smiled indulgently and raised one eyebrow, but she didn’t comment. She watched Matthew from under her thick fringe of lashes. The boy frowned and wrinkled his nose, obviously considering some weighty problem.

“Well, he almost pulled me in. I did slip and fall in the mud while I was trying to get him out of the water,” Matthew admitted sheepishly.

They both laughed. Willem felt his chest constrict. No matter how much he might wish for this bright, healthy child to somehow be his own, he knew he was not—and it cut him to the marrow.

Willem ducked his head and tried to quell the over-whelming depression filling his insides. It had been foolish of him to hope, after all these years, that he could walk into Guston and miraculously find the child he’d never even seen—a child the Pinkerton men had not been able to locate in over a year, even though they had used all their resources and every cent Will could supply to them. He snorted at his cockeyed thinking and tore a piece of bread apart.

Seeing Mrs. Cooprel with her son made him realize how deep his feeling of loss ran. Willem found himself wondering how many similar conversations he had missed out on over the past six years. He shoved another forkful of food into his mouth, but it had lost all its flavor. Willem brooded silently and scolded himself for his foolishness. Matthew laughed and Will raised his head. He watched Abigail and her son while the pain of old scars and lingering regret gripped him in an ever-tightening fist.

Matthew was a fine-knit lad. Wild brown curls framed a face tanned and lightly freckled. He had a glow of health and happiness and blue eyes that twinkled with mischief each time the child answered a curious miner’s question. It was easy to see he was well liked by them all, but it appeared to Will that the boy kept himself somewhat apart from them. Brawley Cummins tried to draw Matthew into conversation several times, only to receive short “yes” or “no” answers.

Willem brooded in silence. He felt distanced from the group of men at the table. Certainly not the first time he’d experienced such a feeling of isolation; he’d spent most of his adult life alone, particularly since Moira had left him. But seeing Matthew Cooprel brought his loneliness into crystalline perspective. It was like watching the widow and her small son from behind a pane of window glass. He could see glowing family happiness, witness its magic, but he could never touch it. The unhealed ache in his soul began to bleed like a fresh wound. He didn’t think he could stand to watch the blissful scene another minute without crying out in agony.

Willem stood so suddenly the legs of his chair scraped harshly against the wooden floor. Twelve pairs of eyes locked on him in question.

“Excuse me,” he grated out. Willem heard restrained anger and pain in his own voice. He forced himself to fold his napkin into a neat square before he strode from the room.

“Do you think we said something wrong?” Abigail asked softly when she heard his heavy tread on the stairs.

“Willem Tremain!” Mac Jordan exclaimed so loudly every head snapped around in his direction.

Brawley frowned. “What in tarnation are you shoutin’ about? The man’s not here anymore, dunderhead.” He glanced at Abigail and shook his head. Mac rolled his eyes at Brawley and wiped the napkin across his bushy, sunstreaked beard.

“I know that. I knew I’d heard the name before…I’ve been sitting here trying to place it. Now I know why it seemed so familiar. You know who that man is?” Mac swept the miners’ faces with an excited glance. They shook their heads and waited for the explanation.

“That’s Willem Tremain—the Black Irish.” Mac leaned back in his chair, eminently satisfied with his knowledge. The miners murmured among themselves. Abigail saw them glance toward the doorway, where Willem had so recently departed, with something like awe and respect shining in their eyes.

“Who or what is the Black Irish?” Abigail asked. She frequently found the miners’ conversations difficult to fathom, and this time was no exception.

“He’s a bloody damned celebrity,” Tom Cuthbert blurted out. “Sorry, ma’am.” He apologized hastily when she gave him a scathing glance. If Matthew noticed the profanity he did not acknowledge it, thank goodness. Lately she’d been worrying more and more that he would pick up the rough manners and profane speech so common in Guston. She told herself it was silly to fret, but a part of her wondered if leaving wouldn’t be the best thing, especially since Lars had revealed the secret of Matthew’s parentage. She shook the thought from her mind and forced herself to listen to Tom.

“Tell me,” Abigail demanded. She rose from her chair and brought the large speckled coffeepot to the table. Each man filled his cup before he passed it along to the next waiting pair of hands. Tom paused until she was seated again.

“I heard about him when I was in Leadville. He’s a wizard with explosives and fearless as a grizzly, they say. The Black Irish can blow the face off a mountainside and find gold or silver or even copper without breaking a hard sweat.” His voice rang with admiration. “Or so I hear.” Tom took a sip of hot coffee.

“He can single-jack all day without tiring, but I heard he won’t go down hole for love nor money,” Skipper McClain said dryly. Several other men nodded and murmured in agreement.

“Why is that?” Abigail found her curiosity whetted. It was interesting that her boarders seemed to be very well versed on the man they called the Black Irish, yet none of them had any firsthand information.

“There’s more’n one story about why he hates underground. One tale is that he killed a man down hole,” Skipper said.

Abigail shifted nervously. There was something about Willem Tremain that made the hair on her arms stand on end and her mouth go dry.

“Do you believe that?” she heard herself asking. She had seen many men come and go and fancied herself to be a better judge of character than to have taken a killer into her house—or so she hoped. She told herself this latest case of nerves was simply a delayed reaction to the truth about Matthew.

Skipper shrugged his wiry shoulders. He fingered his long mustache thoughtfully. “I heard he went down-hole skunked from a night with bawdy women, and botched a blast.”

“Yep—killed an entire crew,” Snap Jackson supplied authoritatively.

Abigail sipped her coffee and wondered which story might be true. There was something unsettling about the man.

“All I’ve heard, Missus, is that the man works like twelve devils and is always broke as a Methodist parson. The story I hear is that he’s never been seen in the company of—” Skipper McClain rubbed his bushy eyebrows thoughtfully and glanced at Matthew “—of women of easy virtue, and he takes risks with dynamite no sane man would.”

“I heard there’s only one man alive that knows the truth about the Black Irish and what happened—Sennen Mulgrew,” Mac Jordan said.

“Didn’t he die back in seventy-nine?” Snap asked.

“Naw, he’s still alive, and the story I heard is that only he and the Black Irish came out of that hole you all been talking about. Yep, the only man, ‘sides the Irish himself, that knows the truth is Sennen Mulgrew.” Mac nodded and rubbed his long mustache thoughtfully. A pensive silence settled around the table.

Abigail saw her son sneak a sideways glance toward the men. He squirmed in his seat and she realized he’d been soaking up every word of gossip about her tenant. She felt a wash of shame.

“Well, I suppose whatever the truth, the man’s past is his own business,” Abigail said. There were nods of agreement around the table. Matthew smiled at her before he wiped his milk mustache.

“How about some apple pie?” She tousled his thick hair. He nodded. Abigail glanced around the table and saw the men grinning beneath their thick covering of facial hair. There was little difference between the gleam in their eyes or Matthew’s. The offer of dessert brought the same enthusiasm from them, whether they were six or sixty. She shook her head in amazement. There were times when she felt like the mother of ten overgrown street urchins and not the mother of one small child.

By the time she brought three fat pies to the table, it had been cleared and the plates were in a tub of water. Matthew’s brows pinched together in a frown and he worried his bottom lip.

“Mama?”

“Yes?” He glanced at the men before he continued. She knew Matthew hated to bring up anything he considered remotely private in front of the miners. He took a deep breath and focused on her face. She knew he was doing his best to shut the men out of his mind.

“Do you suppose Mr. Tremain is lonely up there?” Matthew rolled his eyes toward the ceiling above his head.

“I don’t know, honey. Why do you ask?” Abigail studied her son with wonder. He was one surprise after another and she thanked God every day for such a remarkable child. If he was concerned enough to bring up the topic in front of the men, and perhaps risk a ribbing, it must be weighing heavily on him.

“If I was up there all alone and everyone else was down here laughing and talking, I think I would be lonely,” Matthew explained.

A snort from Brawley made Abigail’s jaw clench in annoyance. The man was beginning to rankle with his unwanted interference. If he had not been one of her regulars, coming season after season since she first opened the boardinghouse, she would have been fearful of his interest in Matthew. But she gathered his motives were directed not at Matthew but at her. She hoped he would soon realize she had no interest in him as a stepfather for Matthew and certainly not as a husband for herself. Abigail’s heart over-flowed with love for Matthew alone. She had no room in her life for anyone else—not now, not ever.

“What would you like to do about Mr. Tremain?”

“If it was me up there, I’d like it a lot if someone brought me some pie.” Matthew swallowed hard. Abigail knew he was asking for her permission.

“Then perhaps you should,” she was surprised to hear herself say.

“Even though it’s against the rules to have food in the rooms?” The boy’s eyes widened in wonder.

“I think we can bend the rules a bit this time—since you feel so strongly about it.” She looked up at the miners. They were all wearing puzzled expressions but they remained silent.

“I’d like that.” Matthew finished his milk, wiped his mouth and stood. Abigail cut a generous portion of pie and poured a fresh cup of coffee.

“Can you manage?” she asked. The boy balanced a plate in one small hand and the hot brew in the other. He looked up at her with exasperation written across his young face.

“Mama, I’m not a baby anymore.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She smiled behind her hand and resisted the urge to deposit a kiss on his head. He had recently, in his most serious fashion, asked her to refrain from doing things like kissing him in front of the men. He said it made him feel like a baby—and the miners were not reserved about teasing him. It was the only area where she could exert no proper influence over the rowdy men. Abigail watched Matthew’s straight back disappear through the doorway.

“He’s growing into a fine boy, Missus,” Snap said softly.

“Yes, he is,” Abigail agreed.

Willem had lit the lamp on the small chest in his room. Now he stood like a statue, unable to move. He kept telling himself the new sensations he was experiencing were the result of too little rest and food, but he was beginning to wonder.

One moment he ached with longing for a son like Matthew Cooprel, and then he felt so annoyed that he couldn’t remain in the same room with the boy. His actions and feelings were at odds with each other. He ran his hand through his long hair and worried he might be coming apart at the seams. A soft tapping at the bottom of his door brought his head up with a snap.

“Who is it?” he growled.

“Matthew Cooprel, sir,” a small voice on the other side announced.

Willem felt the vise around his heart tighten. He crossed the room and opened the door. The boy was holding a piece of pie big enough to feed three people and a steaming cup of coffee. He grinned when he realized the boy had knocked with his bare foot.

“I brought you something.” Matthew craned his neck to look up into Willem’s face.

When he took the hot coffee from him Willem tried not to grin at the serious expression on Matthew’s face. A part of him wanted to make the child laugh again, to hear the sound. He saw relief soften the freckled features when he liberated the boy from the burden of the pie plate.

“What is this? Apple pie?” Willem held the golden wedge under his nose while he inhaled with great relish. It was a bittersweet triumph when the boy’s face broke into a pleased grin.

“I thought you might be lonely,” Matthew said honestly.

His innocent words sent a shaft of cold iron plunging through Willem’s chest. God, yes, he was lonely—bitterly lonely. So lonely he couldn’t even sit at the table and eat while the widow and her son talked. He finally admitted that was why he had behaved so strangely since he’d walked into this place. The sights, sounds and smells of this home had awakened things inside him, hungry hurting things he had forced to lie dormant for over six years.

“That was real kind of you, Matthew.” Will heard the husky catch in his words. “Would you like to sit with me awhile?”

Matthew nodded and launched his body toward the narrow bed. He landed in the middle with a plop. The springs groaned, while the covers disengaged themselves around the edges and furled upward toward the middle. He sat cross-legged and stared like an eager pup at Willem. Will folded himself into the solitary chair and put the coffee on the wooden chest beside him. He cut a forkful of pie.

“I have a loose tooth—do you wanna see?” Matthew asked.

Willem blinked and looked at the boy. He felt an odd ripple of emotion while the child seared him with his clear blue eyes. The small body in the center of the narrow bed resonated with life and energy. Willem couldn’t help but grin at the child’s generous offer.