Linda Castle - Abbie's Child

Willem sipped his coffee slowly and watched her. She was chewing her food as if it was made of sand. He found it ironic that he should bother her, when all she had to do was look at him with those aqua eyes and he felt the foundation shift beneath his feet. Willem chided himself for thinking foolish thoughts and forced himself to leave her company.

“Please tell Matthew goodbye for me and thank him again for the pie—and the good company.”

“Yes-yes, I will.”

From her chair she met his gaze, and he felt something powerful leap to life inside his chest. It was similar to the feeling he’d had when Matthew had come to his room last night, only this was primal and strong in a hot, dark way.

“Are you looking for work, Mr. Tremain?” she asked softly while he stared at her over the half-empty platters of food.

“No, I’ve already got a job. They’re not expecting me until tomorrow but I think I’ll let Otto know I made it.” He frowned and wondered why he was telling her his whole life’s story.

“Otto Mears?” Her eyes followed him when he rose from the table. He didn’t want to leave her, even though he found her company confusing and almost painful.

“Yes. I worked for him some years back when he was putting through the toll road to Silverton.” Willem felt the darkness rolling forward from the edge of his memories. That had been before Moira left, before sadness claimed their lives.

“You must be very good at what you do if you work for Mr. Mears.”

Willem shrugged. He never considered himself to be any great hand at anything special. His expertise with dynamite and powder was more an act of God and his Welsh mining heritage than any degree of skill on his part. “I never thought much about it.”

Mrs. Cooprel frowned before she looked away. He could feel the tension in the room. “I’ll give Matthew your message, Mr. Tremain. Have a pleasant day.”

Willem dodged the mule train and jumped out of the way as a twelve-foot length of rail iron nearly crushed his foot. He’d been negotiating a swarm of men, endless lengths of track and teams of surly pack animals for thirty minutes, and he still had not found Otto Mears. He’d heard the man was looking for able-bodied men to help get the train from Silverton to Red Mountain, Guston and Ironton before the first snow, but he was shocked to see the multitude clinging to the treacherous mountainside. He finally found a battered tent and stepped up to the opening.

“Hello, inside,” Will called.

“Vhat you vant?” a harsh voice snapped from inside the canvas.

“Hello, Otto.” Willem stood back and folded his hands across his chest while he waited for Otto to emerge.

“Vhat?” A small man poked his head out from under the flap and glared up at Willem. Recognition washed slowly across the wiry man’s sharp features. “So, is you. Vhen you git here?” He talked rapidly while he emerged from the tent.

“Yesterday. How are you, Otto?” Willem extended his hand and watched a smile begin in the man’s eyes and slowly descend until it finally reached Otto’s lips.

“I am goot. Now you are here you can move dat.” Otto pointed disgustedly at a rugged outcrop of rock in the direct path of an advancing ribbon of creosote-soaked ties and parallel iron.

“What’s the matter, Otto, pick and shovel not fast enough for you?”

Otto lapsed into a string of words in his native tongue. “You make joke,” he finally said with a frown. He jabbed Willem in the ribs and winked. “You still got the knack?”

“Explosives, you mean?” Willem shrugged. “I can move the rock for you.”

“Vhat kind of explosives you use for dat?” Otto stood back and squinted his eyes.

“Dynamite placed in the right spot should bring it down smooth.”

“Damn, Black Irish, you nefer change, by Sheminie! I guess you don’t vant no drink, either?”

Willem shook his head.

“Goot. I don’t haf nothing for you, anyvay. Vhy you got dat brush on your face?”

“Broke.”

“Got damn, Black Irish—you should be richer dan dat damn Midas. You don’t gamble or drink. Haf you got yourself a fancy voman? Is dat vhere your money goes?”

“No.” Willem shrugged.

“Den vhy are you alvays broke? Here—go to town, find a sheepshearer to take care of dat hair.” Otto dug deep into his pocket and pulled out some crumpled bills.

“No, I’ll wait until payday.” Will held up his hand to refuse the money.

“The hell you vill. I don’t vant my men being blown up vhen the vind blows dat mane in your damn eyes.” Otto grabbed Willem’s hand and thrust the money into it.

“I see you’re as bossy as ever, Otto,” Willem said, and shoved the money into his faded trouser pocket.

“Yah. Don’t you be forgetting who the boss is. I see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here in the morning.” Willem turned and walked away.

Otto watched Willem weave his way through the mules, burros and men wielding eighteen-pound jacks while he wondered about the mysterious Black Irish. He felt a bony hand jab him in his ribs.

“Vhat?” He felt about as patient as a surly badger this morning. “Oh, is you, Lars.”

The old man leaned over to spit a mouthful of tobacco juice on the hard rocks at his feet. “Who was that, Otto?”

“Vhat? You don’t know the Black Irish?” Otto was incredulous.

“Heard of him. Never met him,” Lars admitted.

“Vhy didn’t you say you vanted to meet the Black Irish?” Otto demanded. “I vould’ve introduced you. He’ll be back tomorrow. He’s going to blow dat damn mountain out of my vay, den ve git dis damn railroad built, by Sheminie.”

The barber wrapped a hot, steamy towel around Will’s face and patted it several times. Willem closed his eyes and allowed his ears to focus on the sounds of the bustling activity in the street outside the barber shop. He felt good after the bath, and it was a real treat to be getting his whiskers sheared. He had never tried to grow a beard in earnest, and this experience of having one had not changed his view about doing so. “How’s that feel?” The barber’s voice drifted to Will through layers of towel swathed over his face.

“Fine.” Willem thought his own reply sounded like a muffled grunt but the barber seemed to understand.

“Good. Just relax while those whiskers soften up a bit.”

Will’s chair suddenly spun around. The darkness and rotation brought a moment of panic. Willem felt his heart thud painfully in his chest while he grew more disoriented. He had the sensation of the floor buckling beneath his chair. He envisioned a great dark chasm opening up. Suddenly the hot towel was whipped from his face. The horrible falling sensation disappeared. Will sucked in a deep breath and gripped the arms of the barber chair while he waited for his pulse to return to normal.

“What do you want? Clean shave, mustache? Muttonchops are real popular with the local businessmen,” the barber suggested to Willem.

“Take it down to the hide,” Willem said when he could speak normally again.

“You’re the boss.” The barber grabbed a shaving cup and worked up a thick lather with a bristle brush. He swabbed Will’s face with all the finesse of a drunken house painter. When he gave the chair another spin, Willem saw a reflection of his froth-covered image go whirling by in the big tilted mirror on the wall. He looked like a rabid dog, all covered in foam. He nearly chuckled out loud at the ridiculous sight of himself.

When the straight edge whisked over his jaw, Willem held his breath and his humor faded away. He never had learned to act casual with a man brandishing a sharp razor at his throat. He sat stiff as a poker while the barber took swipe after swipe. Finally the man pinched Will’s nostrils together and took one quick stroke under his nose. He tow-eled Willem off and splashed a handful of what felt like horse liniment across his tingling cheeks.