Linda Castle - Abbie's Child

He clenched his jaw and grabbed the bell. His wide fingers dwarfed it when he picked it up. The metal clapper had no sooner pealed against the side than he heard rapid foot-steps.

“Yes? May I help you?” A woman who was a long way from old or frowsy bustled in, while wiping her flour-covered hands on the front of a worn apron. The smell of cinnamon, apples and baker’s yeast drifted with her. Willem grimaced when his empty belly chose that particular moment to fully awaken with a loud, ill-mannered growl.

“I need a place to stay,” he grated out.

She fastened blue-green eyes on his face. He had the uncanny feeling she was sizing him up. His three-week growth of beard and dusty clothes would surely make a poor impression—but then, what difference would it make? The merchants in gold camps were interested in a man’s money, not his appearance. She puckered her eyebrows for a full minute while she swept him with an appraising gaze. He felt like a bug in a jar.

“Breakfast is at six, supper’s at seven. If you wish to have a lunch packed, you provide the tin—fifty cents extra a week. I’ll have no cigars, pipes or liquor and I don’t abide cussing. I change the sheets each Saturday. We serve dinner in the dining room at one o’clock on Sundays following church services. The room is three dollars a week.”

She flipped open a slender, bound book and pushed it toward him. Then she folded her arms, which he could see were lightly freckled below the rolled-up sleeves of her sturdy gray dress, and waited for him to sign.

“The price is highway robbery,” he snorted. “I’ll not pay it.” He folded his own arms at his chest and assumed a stance similar to her own. Will hoped the bluff would work, since he had already inquired at two other rooming houses and found them full.

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She reached out to close the book. Willem laid his massive hand over her smaller one. Her dark brows met in a surprised scowl.

“Nay,” he barked. His breath fanned out over her face and sent a soft strand of pale chestnut hair fluttering down from a crooked bun. He inhaled deeply, and the aroma of clothes starch and clean female filled his nostrils. A wave of memories crashed over him, along with Moira’s somewhat vague image. It had been a long time. Willem found himself disgusted by the prospect of having to stay here.

“There’ll be no other rooms to have in this town,” he snapped.

The woman snatched her hand from under his. “You’ll not likely find one as clean or the cooking as wholesome as you’ll find here.”

“You think a lot of yourself.” Will felt his mouth pull into a cynical grimace.

She met his gaze with steady, unblinking eyes, but he sensed she was putting on a brave front. Under her cool gaze he saw a flicker of fear. “I try to be quite honest.”

“I’ll take the room,” he grumbled. Willem picked up the pen from the marble stand and with his thumb flipped open the silver filigree lid on the glass ink bottle. He scrawled his name in haste while he tried to banish the image of anxiety he had seen in the woman’s eyes. “You have a banker’s heart and a banker’s soul, ma’am.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry you think so. I’m a businesswoman pure and simple. I don’t cheat my customers, and I expect them not to cheat me. The rent in advance, if you please.” She held out a shaky hand. He saw a dusting of flour in the tracery of fine lines across her palm.

Willem scowled. This woman’s miserly ways were going to eat up most of his pocket money. Between her and the Pinkertons he’d be working for Otto Mears until he was too bent and broken to swing a pickax or had vision enough left to light a fuse on a stick of dynamite. He clenched his jaw against the anger and futility that flooded over him.

He dug deep into his pockets. He’d be lucky if he could afford supper after this, much less a haircut. His stomach growled when he placed the coins in her palm. Eating was becoming a luxury—one he indulged in less frequently as his search for Moira stretched on and he’d been compelled to hire the Pinkertons.

She accepted the money and pulled the open ledger toward her to read his name aloud.

“Well, Mr. Willem Tremain, since you’re now a paying guest, would you like to sample some of my cooking? You can judge for yourself whether it’s worth the price.”

He looked at her suspiciously and wondered if he’d have to mortgage his soul for the privilege.

She chuckled. A deep, throaty sound filled his ears. It sent odd sensations careening around his shoulders and down his body. Willem decided the effects of hunger and the thin air at this unholy altitude were addling his judgment.

“It’s on the house, Mr. Tremain,” she added dryly.

He felt heat flood his face above the thick growth of his beard. She had so easily interpreted his thoughts on the subject it caught him unaware. He coughed and tried to hide his embarrassment.

“I’d like that,” he finally managed to grate out.

He looked up at her and saw her swipe at the strand of loose hair near her face. Her hand left a large smudge of flour on her nose. He had the silly urge to reach up and wipe it away, but he stopped short. Nonetheless, he could not tear his eyes away from the blemish on her skin. He unconsciously rubbed the side of his own nose while he studied her face. There was a fine smattering of freckles on her aquiline nose and across her heat-flushed cheeks. He continued to stare while he absently wiped the nonexistent flour from his own face.

“What is it?” Her voice broke the spell he’d woven around himself.

Again he felt fire rise under the three-week stubble along his jaw. “Your—nose,” he said haltingly.

“What?” Both eyebrows shot upward toward a heart shaped hairline.

“You…have flour on your nose.” He extended his hand toward her face, halted abruptly, then pulled it back. Finally his hand shot out to brush it away. Her eyes widened in shock—or was it fear? Willem realized he’d overstepped the bounds of propriety.

“I’m sorry.” He wondered if he was coming undone; this impulsiveness was not like him.

She was looking at him with genuine amazement and perhaps some trepidation.

“Think nothing of it.” She shot one more half-suspicious look at him. He could see wariness in the stiff set of her shoulders. “If you want something to eat, come into the kitchen,” she said tightly.

Willem bent his tall body to pick up his valise, feeling dazed and bewildered. He was sure it must be a combination of fatigue and hunger.

“Leave it. Nobody will bother it.” She waved her hand and indicated he should follow her.

He obediently left his valise, containing his every earthly possession, sitting unguarded on the Chinese patterned rug in front of the desk. Willem followed the swish and sway of the woman’s dress into a room of surprisingly large proportions. The smell of spices and yeast sent his empty gut into noisy protest again.

“Here, try one of these.” She thrust a chipped china plate, heaped with golden-crusted spirals, toward him. Each roll was larger than his own doubled fist and slathered in butter and honey.

Willem wiped his palm down the front of his trousers and picked one up. He sniffed the rich aroma before he took a bite. The roll melted in his mouth. A blending of sweet cinnamon and the heady, robust taste of yeast bread trickled down the back of his throat.

“Good?” She expectantly raised her brows.

“Mmm.” He allowed himself to savor the taste, ignoring the sound of his too-empty stomach demanding more. He’d not had the means to pay the Pinkertons and eat, too, so Willem had done what was most important to his survival. He’d gone without food for two days on his journey to Guston.