Linda Castle - Abbie's Child

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.