Linda Castle - Abbie's Child

“Holy Moses!” Willem sucked in his breath. “What the blue blazes is that?” He leapt from the barber chair.

“Bay rum, sir,” the barber replied cheerfully. He took a step back and regarded Willem with a smile.

“Makes me smell like a damned French whore.” Willem dug into his pocket and paid the man.

Will stepped out into the street and watched the marching band stomp toward him. The sound of their pitiful playing grated on his nerves. He decided to get as far away from the caterwauling as possible, and set off at a good clip in the opposite direction, not caring where it would lead him as long as it was quiet. Willem walked until he could no longer hear the skrill of horns or thump of the drum. He looked overhead and spotted a street sign.

“So this is Blaine Street.” Willem knew the Pinkertons had checked every brothel between Animas City and Denver looking for Moira. He also knew they’d never find her in a bawdy house. Moira had barely tolerated his attentions. No, she would not have sold her body to men. Still, he’d never given up hope that he might someday turn a corner and simply find her standing there. After so many rebuffs, he had stopped wanting her years ago, but he could not put aside feelings about the mother of his child or his convictions about the sanctity of marriage. It ate at him day and night. And finally, finding his child and bringing it up properly—in a home with both mother and father—had become his obsession.

The image of Matthew Cooprel’s face swam before his eyes. The boy was the kind of son any man would be proud to call his own. Willem stood there staring blankly at the sign while a new thought dawned. What if Moira had given the baby to someone else to raise? A cold chill raced up his back at the thought. She had been so young, and he had frightened her with his black temper. Maybe she had run away out of fear and fostered the baby out. The new and disturbing suspicion would have to be explored. If she had done that and left the area, it would account for the Pinkerton’s inability to find her. He’d have to talk it over with Paxton Kane when he arrived on Monday.

Willem looked up and down the notorious street and read a collection of hand-painted windows. Mulligan’s Saloon, Petrie’s Emporium and Silvio’s Billiard Parlor caught his eye. A heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder, and Will spun around.

“Taking in the local sights?” Snap Jackson asked with a grin.

“Sort of,” Willem replied.

“Whoa—somebody sure enough skinned you.” Snap gestured at Willem’s lack of beard and shorter hair and chuckled derisively. “I’m heading over to Silvio’s for a beer and a game of billiards. Want to join me?”

Beer didn’t interest Will and he’d never taken the precious time to learn billiards, but Snap seemed to know his way around pretty well. Perhaps he might stumble on some bit of news about Moira.

“Sure, why not?” Will fell into step beside the man.

The inside of Silvio’s was like every other beer hall Willem had ever seen—dark and musty with a lingering smell of stale tobacco and unwashed bodies. His stomach roiled while a new wash of unpleasant memories gained momentum. Snap ordered a mug and offered Willem one.

“No, thanks.” Willem held up his hand.

Snap shrugged and moved toward the billiard table. The green felt cover was fading in the middle and the laced leather pouches under the holes needed to be retied, but Snap grabbed a cue stick and set his beer aside without hesitation.

“Rack them up, Will.”

“I never learned to play. I’ll just watch if you don’t mind.” Willem leaned against a nearby wall and crossed his arms at his chest.

“Whatever you say.” Snap leaned his wiry torso over the edge of the table, tented his fingers on the felt and proceeded to pop the painted ivory balls into the holes. Willem had to admire the man’s finesse.

“Snap, have you been here long?” he asked when the man paused for a gulp of beer.

“Seems like forever.” He wiped beer foam from his mouth. “I come and go with the thaw and the freeze.”

“You spend much time down here, on Blaine Street, I mean?”

Snap frowned and set his beer down. “About as much as most men. You got a reason for asking?”

Willem felt like a fool asking personal questions of a stranger. He wasn’t any good at this. Paxton had told him he didn’t know how to ask questions, and now he saw it was true.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Willem said flatly.

“Just open your mouth and yell. This is the place for it.”

“No, I mean a particular woman. She has red hair and pale blue eyes, a little slip of a thing.” Willem heard the catch in his throat when he described her.

“Does this particular woman have a name?” Snap leaned on his billiard stick.

“Moira—Moira Tremain.” Willem was surprised at how much pain it caused him to say her name after all this time, after all these years.

“Your sister?”

“No. She’s my wife.”

Willem walked aimlessly while he thought of Moira. She had been a pretty vixen of a girl—impulsive as a wild fox. Her curly flame-colored hair and round blue eyes made it easy for her to wrap him around her pampered little finger. His stomach contorted when he thought of their wedding day. What should’ve been a happy beginning for the two of them had been strained and tearful.

Willem had always wanted the child they created on their wedding night, and Moira seemed to adjust to the idea. If only he had been less hotheaded, maybe he wouldn’t have scared her so. If only there hadn’t been all those ridiculous stories about ‘the Black Irish’ and his deadly temper, if only she hadn’t believed them.

If only.

The words echoed in his mind. He’d been less than understanding about her needs, and in the end she had run from him in fear. His lack of sensitivity and her tender years had cost them both dearly. For the first time Willem thought perhaps he wasn’t totally responsible for the mess he and Moira had made of their lives. Maybe his beautiful child bride did share a tiny fraction of the blame.

He stopped his soul-searching and found himself standing in front of the widow Cooprel’s boardinghouse. Willem wondered why he seemed drawn to this place like iron filings to a magnet.

Perhaps it was the boy.

He shrugged and climbed the stairs to his room for a few hours’ rest, too weary to muddle through any more puzzles or memories.

The sound of Matthew’s husky laughter woke Willem. He lay across the narrow bed with his forearm thrown over his eyes and allowed the sound to sluice over him. It was like standing under a tight dry roof and listening to sweet spring rain fall around him. It invigorated and refreshed his barren soul.

He stood and went to see what brought the child such happiness. Willem’s heart skipped two beats when he peered out the open window.

Abigail and Matthew were playing chase around a row of heavy Chinese rugs strung along a sturdy wire clothesline. Abigail had her hair loose and tied back in an old red kerchief. Willem never had imagined it would be so long. It rippled free down her back in chestnut waves that caught the sun and turned it into a prism of light. She clutched a straw broom in her hands and brandished it like a weapon. Matthew dodged around the protection of the rugs while he laughed at her mock fierceness.

Their antics brought a bittersweet joy to Willem. They were like a couple of otter pups at play. Mrs. Cooprel seemed so young and innocent while she darted and ran across the grass. He recalled her telling him Tuesday was her cleaning day. She must’ve been beating the rugs when the boy taunted her into mischief. He sighed and leaned farther out the window, relishing the innocent sight of the widow and her son. But when she suddenly dropped the broom and picked up her skirts to give chase, Willem sucked in his breath. He no longer saw innocence in Abigail Cooprel, but the flesh-and-blood woman beneath.