Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Author Note

Copyright

Abigail had the most singular urge to touch him,

to slide her palms over the contours of his body and see if he felt as hard as he looked. The idea that Willem Tremain was dangerous gained more substance with every passing moment. Suddenly she felt downright feverish and more light-headed than the time she drank too much of Lars’s dandelion wine.

Unable to stop herself, she raised her fingertips to touch the coin hung around his neck, lightly brushing against his warm, moist skin. Every inch of his body went rigid, and he sucked in his breath with a sharp hiss that made her own skin prickle in response.

“Abigail.” Her name was spoken in clear, sharp warning. She jerked her hand back in alarm and shifted her gaze to his face. An emotion unlike any she’d ever read there before burned in his eyes. His jaw was clamped so tightly, his cheek muscles were jumping in rhythmic fashion, and his mouth was drawn into an uncompromising line.

She took a step backward. Something wild and raw had glowed in his eyes, something that made her tremble…

Dear Reader,

When Abigail Cooprel suddenly comes face-to-face with a man who is the very image of her adopted son, she realizes that she will do anything to keep her child, even marry a stranger. Abbie’s Child is the second book from talented newcomer Linda Castle, whose first book, Fearless Hearts, was released during our annual March Madness promotion in 1995, to loud acclaim. Don’t miss this month’s title, and be sure to keep an eye out for her next book, The Return of Chase Cordell, coming in December.

Multigenre author Merline Lovelace can make any time period come alive, and in her new release, Lady of the Upper Kingdom, she does just that. This dramatic story of forbidden love brings together two strong-willed people as they struggle to overcome the treachery and distrust that exists between their two cultures, the Egyptian and the Greek.

The new Medieval from Catherine Archer, Velvet Touch, the sequel to her previous book, Velvet Bond, is the bittersweet story of a young nobleman who is sent by his king to arrange a marriage and settle a feud, only to fall in love with the intended bride. And three-time RITA Award winner, contemporary author Cheryl Reavis, is back this month with The Bartered Bride, the moving story of a pregnant woman who must swallow her pride and marry her sister’s widower, set in Civil War North Carolina.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you will enjoy all four Harlequin Historicals, available wherever books are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609. Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Abbie’s Child
Linda Castle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LINDA CASTLE

Linda Castle is the pseudonym of Linda L. Crockett, a third-generation native New Mexican. Linda started writing in March of 1992, and Abbie’s Child is her second book from Harlequin Historicals.

When not penning novels, Linda divides her time between being a wife, mother and grandmother. She loves speaking, and teaching what she has learned to aspiring writers. Her best advice: write from the heart.

Linda believes one of the greatest benefits she has received from writing historical novels is the mail from readers. She encourages and welcomes comments to be sent to:

Linda Castle

#18, Road 5795

Farmington, NM 87401

Please include an SASE for a reply/bookmark.

To Bill from your adoring wife and mate,

Logan, Brandon, Liann and Bill from Mom,

Matt and Will from Grammy,

Ira, Clay and Vicki from your sister,

Bob and Terrie from your mother-in-law,

Denise from your stepmother,

Babe from your daughter,

Don and Helen from your daughter-in-law,

Steve, Bonnie, Deb and Wendy

from your sister-in-law,

Mandi, from your aunt,

DA, EW, LA, AS, TB, HS, AS, RG, KV, MC, MT, LB,

CB, HW, SE, LC from a friend,

Western Writers of America from a country girl,

Land of Enchantment Romance Authors from a

New Mexico native,

Romance Writers of America from a

hopeless romantic,

Southwest Writers Workshop from

one with ink in her blood,

San Antonio Romance Authors from your

member from out West,

Margaret Marbury from a very grateful writer,

and most of all to the readers who have opened their

hearts to embrace the characters of my imagination,

Thank you.

Prologue

San Juan Mountains, Colorado

1882

Abigail clung to the sheer side of the mountain trail while another pain knifed through her taut belly. Carl was not even cold in his grave before the first agonizing contraction had gripped her. She sucked in gulps of pine-scented cold air and squeezed her eyes shut against the biting pain. When it began to ebb and flow away as the last half dozen before it, she pulled the threadbare plaid woolen shawl snug around her rounded belly and pushed forward. She rubbed her palms over her chilled arms, but felt no warmth from the action.

Night would begin to descend from the pristine snow-covered peaks to settle around her soon. She glanced at her narrow, stone-littered back trail and wondered if she had made a fatal mistake in trying to reach the closest mining camp of Guston. Carl’s and her claim had been more isolated than most—better he had said, in case they had a big strike. Now she bit her lip and wondered if she would reach the boomtown before their child was born. If the baby came on the mountain trail at night she knew full well how slim their chances of survival were. She had begged him to take her into Silverton before her pregnancy came to term, but he had laughed and assured her he was capable of birthing their child. So she was now alone, at the end of her pregnancy, and Carl would never see his baby born.

Fear spurred her forward. She doggedly placed one foot in front of the other and tried to ignore the growing terror in the mauve shadows darkening the treacherous path. She was determined that she and her baby would survive.

Abigail found herself thinking of her mother. Long-buried fears and old memories of loss returned to haunt her. She found herself suddenly terrified of dying in childbirth and leaving her child an orphan—as she and her siblings had been.

“Please don’t let me die like Ma,” she prayed softly. The image of her dying mother’s work-worn face, old too soon from bearing children only to see them die in infancy, swam before her eyes. Sweat beaded on her forehead in a clammy sheet as another contraction halted her progress. She sucked in air and placed both palms against the cool, jagged face of the mountain. Abigail leaned into the rock with the force of the pain. Sharp stones cut into her palms.

“Lord, please not here,” she moaned as the last tight ache in her abdomen began to recede. “My baby will not live if it is born here.” She heard the ragged edge of fear and defeat in her own words. The sound made her jerk up her head in shock. “It will survive. We will survive.” Her throat was stiff and tight with determination.

Abigail inhaled and forced herself forward along the precarious mountain trail toward the gold camp of Guston. She had made the trip with Carl before she got too large. She knew it was not too much farther away.

The intensity of her contractions escalated when she topped a small aspen-covered hill where snow still clung in deep hollows and dark, shadowed crevices. The high-pitched roof of a newly built church steeple loomed ahead. She had heard a tale, many months ago upon her arrival, of the Reverend Mr. Davis. Fresh from England, he was determined to bring salvation to the mineral-rich Babylon of Colorado. The Englishman had refused to give up, even when he had been rejected by both the residents of Red Mountain and Ironton. She had dismissed the story as so much folderol, yet the newly constructed spire soared before her, a solid testimony to his perseverance. Abigail prayed the little church would be the salvation of her unborn child.

She grated her teeth against a new onslaught of pain and waddled forward. Her eyes widened in astonishment when her water broke in a great warm gush between her legs. She hastened toward the narrow rough plank door. “I want to live and protect my baby. Please, God, don’t let my baby be an orphan.”

Abigail braced herself in the unpainted doorway just before another contraction began. She slapped her palms flat against the doorjamb and gripped the newly milled wood so hard her knuckles turned white. Suddenly, thank God, the door opened. Abigail found herself looking into a pair of pale blue eyes hooded by heavy brows the color of hard winter frost. The old fellow’s ruddy complexion and leathery skin marked him as a man who spent most of his time outdoors. He didn’t look much like her idea of how an English minister would look.

“Mr. Davis?” she questioned doubtfully between pains. Abigail had heard that the preacher was a much younger man. She doubted this was the Reverend Mr. Davis at all. Before she could form another question, though, she felt the muscles of her back pinch while the pain snaked around her abdomen.

She watched the old face screw into crinkles of confusion, then the next contraction closed around her belly and removed all questions from her mind. When she gasped and clung ever tighter to the door, his eyes dropped to her belly and understanding appeared to blast across his bewildered face.

Hands more rough and gnarled than mountain stone whisked her off her feet. A shabby booted foot deftly slammed the door behind them. One kerosene lamp drove back a little of the darkness inside the church. Abigail found herself laid on a church pew and her skirts being shoved up around her damp thighs. She cringed with embarrassment for half a heartbeat, but then another pain came and the urge to push wiped any such maidenly concerns from her mind.

“Please help my baby.” She clamped her teeth together with a painful click.

The old man looked at her with compassion and embarrassment flooding his face. Then he bowed his head. She felt her drenched pantalets being torn from her body. Another pain knifed through her lower back and down her groin. Then there was a warm bulk between her thighs. One last instinctual need to push surged through her, then she slumped back. By the time she raised up on her elbows, the old man was swathing something in his coat and bustling from beside the pew. He disappeared through a narrow door on the far side of the dimly lit room.

Abigail sighed and fell back on the hard, splintery surface in total exhaustion. A wave of contentment folded over her.

Lars looked at the tiny motionless babe wrapped in his coat and felt a lump in his throat. There could be no just reason why fate had capriciously sent two pregnant women to the unfinished church this cold spring day.

He tore off a piece of cloth from his only good shirt and wrapped the lifeless child in it. The woman out there would need an explanation, but how could he provide her with one? He was tongue-tied enough when talking about the weather, or the rising price of supplies at the mercantile. How could he find the proper words to tell the woman her baby daughter was dead? There was no way he could explain to her what had transpired. How could he tell the woman her child died without taking its first breath? He cursed himself silently for being so ill equipped to handle this tragedy, while he prayed for a miracle to save them all.

The lusty wail of a healthy, hungry infant sounded in the silent church. Lars snapped his head around and stared at the crying child in the small wooden box. The poor tyke had been no sooner born than he had become an orphan. He pondered the situation and shook his head at the irony of it all.

A babe without a mother and a mother without a child.

Lars cast a sad glance over the dead woman’s body. She lay where she had breathed her last, on the plank of a half-finished church pew. He started to cover her pale bluish face with a blanket when something around her neck caught his eye. He slid his fingers under a slender gold chain and pulled it from her bodice. A strange symbol, like a Chinese dragon rearing on its hind legs, gleamed on the heavy circle of gold.

The woman in the other room called out for her child. Lars shook his head in sadness. The first poor woman had died without even uttering her own name. Now he had no hope of finding the orphaned boy-child’s next of kin. Lars bad no idea what her name was or where she came from.

The baby began to squall in earnest. The sound of the agitated mother’s voice, calling for her dead baby, sent a shiver climbing up Lars’s spine. He had to do something.

He closed his eyes and dropped to his knees beside the lifeless woman to say a prayer for her soul. Lars climbed slowly to his feet and shoved the gold necklace deep inside his trouser pocket. He took one last look at the stillborn baby and the dead woman, then he made a bold, desperate decision.

Lars picked up the robust orphan and wrapped him in the blanket he’d found earlier. He knew what he was doing was not right—but what other chance did the child have in a country full of men searching for gold and silver? There was no other choice to be made.

Abigail looked up in relief when the old man approached her. He had his eyes downcast, so she couldn’t read the expression in them, but he handled her newborn child as if it were the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

“My baby? Is it all right?” She raised up on her elbows and looked expectantly at the old man’s face.

Without a word he thrust the wiggling bundle toward her. She took the squirming baby with trembling hands and pulled back the blanket to take her first look at her babe.

“It’s a boy,” he said gruffly.

Hot, salty tears of bittersweet joy welled in her eyes. Carl would never know he had a fine, healthy son to carry on his name.

“Matthew. I’m going to call him Matthew,” she said softly as she traced a circle on his downy pink cheek with her index finger. A thick, soft cap of pale brown hair lay in curls around his head.

“Hello, Matthew Cooprel. Welcome to the world.”

When he puckered his rose-petal lips and unsquinted his eyes to stare up at her, she saw they were the color of a mountain sky. She hugged him close and uttered a prayer of thanks for a healthy baby to love and nurture. She vowed that nothing would ever come between her and this precious child.

Lars felt a sharp pang of guilt each time the woman cooed to the newborn boy. She was so pleased and happy that tears ran in small rivulets down her cheeks. The baby pursed his lips and stared at the woman with blue-eyed contentment. Lars swallowed the lump growing in his throat. The die was cast. Maybe what he was doing wasn’t right, but it was the only thing Lars could think of. This little boy deserved a chance, and God in his infinite wisdom had given him one. Lars would simply have to learn to live with the feeling that he had done something dishonest.

While he stared at the woman, another worry gripped him. Who was she? Why was she alone on the mountain? He sighed and realized that he would need to stick around and make certain the woman and the baby were provided for. Lars vowed that the first child he had ever birthed, as long as the boy was in Colorado, would grow up hale and healthy. Perhaps this would assuage a small portion of the guilt already nipping at the corners of his mind.

Lars wondered how he would be able to persuade the lady to allow a perfect stranger to become part of their lives. Whatever it took, he was obligated by guilt and responsibility—he had to do it.

Chapter One

Guston, Colorado

July, 1888

Willem hefted his battered valise and stopped to catch his breath. He looked up at the white-shuttered rooming house, perched a good quarter mile away on the steep hillside, and grimaced.

“Whoever built this place must’ve been part mountain goat.” He sucked in a breath before he trudged on. The July sunshine was finally breaking over the dusky blue summit of the snow-capped peaks surrounding Guston. It filtered down in broken shafts through the thick growth of blue spruce and quaking aspen at the outskirts of the mining town. Willem clenched his teeth and inhaled another gulp of air.

“The air at this height lacks body,” he grumbled, and stopped to clear his head. Willem dragged off his cap and looked down at the town. A high mountain breeze ruffled his too-long hair and blew a strand over his eyes. He decided to see if there was a cheap barber available in Guston as soon as he was settled.

Guston was a pretty town, as boomtowns and gold camps went, with well-laid-out lots and thriving businesses. He watched harried activity of construction at the town’s border. Wide banners were being stretched between buildings and the harsh sound of an off-key brass band wafted up the steep incline.

“What’s the damned occasion?” he mumbled aloud. Whatever it was, he felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. If Moira was in this area, as the Pinkertons believed, she would be harder to ferret out with people milling thicker than fleas on a hound. He slapped the cap back on his head in irritation and resumed his climb up the gravelly slope. The last thing he was interested in was being around a bunch of people celebrating.

He didn’t even pause to kick the dirt from his bulky-soled shoes when he reached the boardinghouse. He opened the door wide and stepped inside. The neat-as-a-pin interior and spotless rugs laid atop gleaming wood floors halted him in his tracks. Instantly he backed out to wipe the thick dust from the toes of his shoes on the backs of his trouser legs, but not before the smell of homemade bread enveloped him. His empty belly roared to life.

This was not the usual gold-camp rooming house. Willem stood in a formal parlor, done in shades of Wedgwood blue and cream, while he waited for someone to appear. The steady thunk of a long pendulum in a massive grandfather clock ticked off the minutes while he stood alone. He moved toward a shiny desk along the back wall of the room. A neat hand-lettered sign proclaimed it to be the Registration Desk. Willem noticed the rows of key hooks attached to the wain-scoted wall behind it. Only two of them were occupied by numbered room keys. The others were vacant—an indication Otto’s opinion of the boardinghouse was shared by other miners. A tiny brass bell sat by another small card that said, Ring For Service. Willem wondered what kind of frowsy old woman ran the place. She had spent considerable time pointing out the obvious by lettering the signs.

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.

“Now that you have sampled my cooking, I suppose I should introduce myself.” Their eyes met, and he clearly saw the chill of apprehension in hers.

She was the one who now rubbed her palms across her flour-dusted apron. She thrust her hand toward Willem. He shoved the last piece of roll in his mouth and grasped her clean fingers with his sticky ones.

Abigail craned her neck to look up at him. He was over-large and lean beneath the rough clothes. His jaw was covered with dark hair only a shade paler than the long strands peeking from under his immigrant’s cap. Only his eyes were unusual. They were blue—and held a raw hunger that sent a frisson of apprehension snaking through Abigail. She wasn’t sure why, but the man’s eyes made a knot in the middle of her stomach.

“I am Abigail Cooprel. The widow Cooprel. Welcome to Guston, Colorado, Mr. Tremain.”

Chapter Two

“Pleased to meet you,” Willem managed to say around the mouthful of roll. No sooner had he touched her hand than Mrs. Cooprel sucked in a deep breath and snatched it away. He frowned at her undisguised concern, then he wondered why he gave it a second thought, why it should even matter to him.

“Oh, my bread!” She grabbed two thick squares of burlap stuffed to plump proportions and flung open the door of a big black cast-iron stove. A blast of heat filled the kitchen along with the smell of fresh bread. Willem saw beads of sweat appear on her forehead.

“Can I help?” It was a stupid question, but he felt like a slackard, sitting idle while the woman whirled busily around the room.

“If you could put those cooling racks on the table…it would be a great help.” She nodded in the direction of three large wire stands leaning against a wall.

“These?” Willem asked as he picked them up. He felt increasingly awkward floundering in the woman’s domain.

She pulled a golden-domed loaf as long as his forearm from the darkness of the oven and turned toward him. Willem thought he’d surely died and gone to heaven when the fragrance filled the room. The beast in his belly awakened with a deep growl. Willem groaned and laid the racks on a scrubbed pine table more than ten feet long.

With a deft maneuver of her wrist she dumped the bread out of the hot pan and returned to retrieve another pan from the oven.

“This is where we take our meals,” Abigail told him while she lined up a dozen steaming loaves to cool. When she dumped the last loaf on the rack she shoved the oven door closed with a backward kick of her high-buttoned shoe. Then she brought a huge scarred wooden bowl to a thick chopping block in the middle of the kitchen. She removed the flour sack that covered it and dumped out the lump of soft, swollen dough. Her fist hit the fluffy center with a dull whoosh.

“Here in the kitchen?” With fascinated interest Willem watched her pound and manipulate the dough.

“Yes. Only Sunday dinner is taken in the dining room. I don’t have room for all my tenants in there.” She looked up. “Most of the men who room here spend Saturday night and most of Sunday on Blaine Street,” she explained with a definite pucker of her brows.

Willem shook his head in confusion. “I’m new in Guston. I don’t know of Blaine Street.”

“Blaine Street is the sporting section of Guston.” Abigail smiled blandly. “Women of easy virtue, gambling and Lord only knows what else are available there. I’m sure you’ll find it soon enough.”

“I doubt it.” Willem had little interest in the topic—or the widow’s hasty opinion of his moral beliefs.

He watched her divide the dough into clover-shaped balls and dip them in melted butter. She lined up row after row of ivory dough on a wide metal sheet and popped them into the waiting oven.

“Aren’t you a sporting man, Mr. Tremain?” she asked abruptly.

“No, I’m not.” Willem told himself the woman needed to ask such questions to assure her own peace of mind, and he tried not to take offense. “You’ll not have cause to worry on that account, Mrs. Cooprel. I don’t gamble—you’ll get your rents on time.”

She looked up and studied his face for a long moment. He caught a glint of disquiet, or perhaps it was fright, in her eyes. She dropped heavy lashes to shut out his scrutiny.

“Then you’re welcome to have Sunday dinner with us in the dining room,” she offered haltingly.

Mrs. Cooprel spread out another section of dough. She spooned cooked apple slices, cinnamon and a generous portion of butter into the center and began to roll up the dough.

Willem leaned against the hand pump and watched her. He didn’t know why he lingered here. Maybe it was the warm atmosphere of the kitchen or the homey smells or the fact that his belly was scraping against his backbone that made him wait like a hungry cur needing a handout.

“You are welcome to try more of those.” Abigail nodded toward the plump cinnamon rolls in a manner that made him wonder if she had read his mind.

“This is my regular baking day. I always make more than we need.” She seemed torn between the urge to feed him and her obvious desire for him to leave.

“Thanks.” Willem took another plump roll and relished each delectable bite. The widow was a kind, meddlesome sort, he decided while he ate the roll. He regretted his earlier comment about her greed.

She placed the plank of whatever she had just created into a greased pan. He saw her glance at him curiously from time to time.

“Are you a single man, Mr. Tremain?”

The abrupt question surprised him, but he again told himself the widow would have a need to protect her reputation. He forced himself to treat the question as casually as it had been asked.

“No. I have a wife.” He continued to nibble on the roll while he watched her. It might’ve been his imagination but he could have sworn that the widow Cooprel visibly relaxed when she learned his marital status. That puzzled and intrigued him.

She placed the pan aside and covered it with a clean flour sack. Then she poured coffee into two blue-speckled cups and sat down at the long harvest table.

“Join me?” she asked, with her eyebrows lifting into slender arches. Again Willem had the feeling she had taken more interest in him since she’d learned he was not single-just the opposite of what he would have expected from a widow. Every unmarried female this side of Denver was looking for a husband. Any sort of husband.

Willem stepped away from the hand pump where he’d been leaning and pulled out a chair opposite the widow, then sat down and took a sip of the hot liquid. The coffee was fresh and strong. Exactly the way he liked it and very seldom had.

“After tasting your cooking I imagine you have men lined up at your door with offers of marriage,” Willem said wryly.

“I have no desire to remarry.” She shoved the cinnamon rolls closer. “It’s nice to see a man with a healthy appetite. Makes all the work worthwhile.” She sipped her coffee and watched him over the rim of her cup. Will ignored her effort to redirect the conversation.

“Ever? You’re a young woman to be making such a permanent decision.”

“Perhaps, but I know my own mind.” She concentrated on her cup, and he knew the subject was closed.

He searched for a less personal topic to take up the deafening silence in the room. The woman was certainly different. She had a cool reserve about her, and a protective veil seemed to shield her blue eyes.

“You do this every week?” Will told himself he should leave, but he found himself trying to keep the conversation going.

She looked up warily, took a deep breath and nodded.

“Yes. Monday is baking day. Tuesday is cleaning and Wednesday is laundry.” She sipped her coffee and flicked a gaze over his road-weary and travel-stained clothes. “I’m sorry I don’t do washing for my guests, but there is a fine Chinese laundry right next to the barber and bathhouse on Eureka Street.”

Willem chuckled at the none-too-subtle hint. The sound surprised him. He tried to remember how long it had been since he’d heard the sound of his own laughter, but he couldn’t recall it.

“Mrs. Cooprel, it has been a while since I had an opportunity to enjoy a bath or clean clothes. I thank you for pointing me in the right direction.” He saw himself through her eyes and felt more uncomfortable for it.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Tremain. I only meant—” She ducked her head, and he saw a light wash of color on her cheeks. A long fringe of lashes, sun lightened at the tips, brushed across her high, smooth cheekbones. “I’ve been here so long I’ve begun to pick up some peculiarities in my habits. I think it must come from spending so much time in the company of men. Your gender is more open and honest than mine, and sometimes I forget my manners. Please forgive me.”

“How long have you been here?” He wondered if she might have been here long enough to know something about Moira.

“My husband brought me to Colorado in 1881.” Abigail stiffened.

“Gold?” He took a sip of coffee.

“At first I thought it was, but now when I look back I think Carl had a longing for adventure, not a thirst for gold.” She ran her index finger around the rim of the cup.

“How did he die, if you don’t mind me asking?” Willem was mentally counting the years in his head. The time could be about right—Moira’s trail had taken him in three different directions, but when he hired the Pinkertons a year ago, they managed to track Moira here. Then she vanished without a trace. Looking through the gold camps around Silverton, the Pinkertons had spent every cent Willem could earn. Willem had finally decided to have a look for himself. He could not give up the quest.

“It’s been a long time since Carl died. I don’t mind talking about it anymore. There was a cave-in at our claim. Carl and the mule were killed instantly.” She drained her cup and rose from the chair. “I don’t want to be rude, Mr. Tremain, but I have the evening meal to prepare.”

She said the words lightly enough but Willem knew very well she wanted him out of her kitchen where she would not feel obliged to entertain him. He brushed crumbs from the cinnamon roll off the front of his woolen shirt and forced himself to smile.

“Thank you for the coffee and rolls. Which room is mine?” he asked when she plunked both their cups into a metal washtub and grabbed the hand pump. The dry, sucking sound of the pump drawing water made an answer impossible for a moment. He waited patiently until water streamed from the spout. When the pan was full she turned to Willem.

“You will be in room number twelve. It’s on the third floor. I hope you don’t mind the stairs.”

“No, that will be just fine.” Willem lingered in the door-way for a moment. “There seems to be a lot of activity in town…is there something special going on?”

“Yes. We are celebrating Colorado’s anniversary of a dozen years of statehood.”

“A dozen years?” he asked. “That’s an unusual number of years to celebrate.”

“We Gustonians never miss any excuse to have a picnic. Summers are short here—we take our pleasures when we can. We have a town band and there will be fireworks this year.”

“I see. Thank you for the coffee—and everything, Mrs. Cooprel.” Willem turned and left the huge sunny kitchen. He picked up his valise, grabbed the key labeled 12 from the hook on the wall and strode toward the staircase. The news of a shindig did little to lift his flagging spirits.

He gripped the banister with more force than necessary when he thought of how many years he’d been searching in vain for Moira.

If you’ve learned anything these years, you great fool, have you not at least learned a little patience? He shook his head in amazement at his repeated failings and went in search of his room.

Chapter Three

Willem paused on the second-floor landing, where he was tempted to slump into an inviting rocker by a potted fern. A one-eared ginger tom raised its head and hissed menacingly from the pillowed seat. Will backed off. The old cat yawned, and he saw a missing tooth. The cranky tabby was secure in its ability to defend its territory. Will had no desire to battle the old gladiator for a temporary seat. He turned and trudged up the last flight of stairs. By the time he reached the third floor the idea of going in search of a barber had lost all its appeal. He found the door with a neat, handmade 12 tacked on the middle.

“Mrs. Cooprel’s work, I see.” Will shook his head. “Is there anything the widow does not put a sign on?” he asked nobody in particular.

Willem unlocked the door. The room was clean and tidy—just what he had expected. A quilted spread in a double wedding ring design brought him up short at the threshold. Memories of Moira stitching a similar one assaulted him. Willem threw his valise on the bed to block out the image. He felt suffocated while he strode to the window, covered with hand-tatted white lace. He pushed the thin fabric aside and forced open the glass. Cool, clean air flooded the room. He inhaled great gulps of it and tried to clear his head of the haunting memories and guilt. Today had brought more forgotten images flitting through his head than the past six years altogether.

Willem leaned out the window and braced his forearms on the sash. Tall mountain pines, close enough to reach out and touch, spread green fronds toward the boardinghouse. A carpet of thick grass and bright clover sprinkled with columbines and daisies blanketed a large area around the house. Taut wires strung between railroad ties formed a long clothesline at one end of the verdant lawn. He could hear the noisy birds cackling inside a sturdy covered chicken coop on the other side. He looked west and saw a neat, well-ordered vegetable patch surrounded by a stake fence.

“I bet the deer and elk love the widow’s vegetables,” Willem muttered. A dish-faced Jersey cow with great solemn brown eyes looked up at him while she chewed her cud.

He scanned the grounds and located the privy. Around the side, toward a wraparound porch, a tall, fire-engine-red water pump had been installed above a trough fashioned from a massive hollowed-out tree trunk.

It had been long, bleak years since Willem had enjoyed the trappings of such ordered domesticity. The picturesque setting sent an arrow of self-condemnation and reproach shooting through him. He turned away from the window, unable to look at any more.

He shoved the valise to the floor and flopped onto the bed. The springs creaked under his weight while he adjusted his tall frame. The lumpy, narrow mattress felt as soft as a feather bed compared to the hard straw cots he’d become accustomed to since hiring the Pinkertons. He yawned and wished for a single night of peaceful sleep. As quickly, he cursed himself for the stupid fancy. Willem knew the ghosts from his past would never leave him in peace—and furthermore he knew he didn’t deserve any.

* * *

Abigail popped the last of the dinner rolls into the hot oven and rubbed her hand over her sweat-dampened fore-head. She was glad to see baking day nearly finished. The heavy coins in her pocket jingled and she found herself thinking about her newest boarder. She looked down at her own fingers and saw them trembling.

Is this how it will always be? she asked herself. Will I constantly be timid and afraid when a stranger comes to rent a room?

She thought back to the gray day of last winter, when Lars had forever changed her life—for the second time. He had come to her with a story so fantastic that at first she thought he was spinning a yarn for her amusement. But as the tears welled in the old man’s eyes, she finally faced the tiny questions that had forever nagged at her about Matthew. She forced herself to acknowledge what she knew was true.

Matthew was not her child. Not the child of her body. Abigail felt something on her cheek and wiped at it. Her fingers came away wet. She was crying again—crying for the daughter she had never known, crying for the woman who had died giving Matthew life, crying for herself.

She sniffed and squared her shoulders. There was no reason to be in such a state, she knew. Years had passed with no long-lost relative coming to claim Matthew. Why should any of that change? Yet, now each time some new boarder knocked at the door there was a moment of panic, a moment when Abigail knew today would be the day she would lose her child.

She sighed and tried to calm her nerves. Maybe she would feel better if Lars had not disappeared like a will-o’-the-wisp right after he’d confessed. She had been expecting him home any day. Surely he would not disappoint Matthew, they had attended every picnic celebration together since Matt was old enough to walk.

Abigail busied herself washing up the cups she and Mr. Tremain had used. Images of her new boarder swam before her eyes. He made her uneasy. His dark, probing eyes and manner sent shivers of dread up her spine. But why? Mr. Tremain said he had a wife, and if Abigail had inquired further, he probably would have told her he had a brood of dark-haired children, as well. He was just another man looking for a clean bed and a hot meal. There was no reason in the world this man should be any different than the others who had rented from her in six years.

She took a deep, calming breath and vowed to keep her imagination under tighter rein. Matthew was not the child of her body but he was the child of her heart, and nobody was going to show up out of the blue and take him from her. She simply had to go on as she had in the past and things would be just fine.

“Still, I’m glad that one’s got a wife,” she muttered while she rinsed the soap from the cups.

He had a way of looking at her that made tiny shivers run over her arms. She realized it was probably more her imagination than anything else, but Mr. Willem Tremain was different than other miners somehow—dark, lonely, driven in some way.

He frightened her. She shook her head and told herself she was just feeling gloomy. Matthew had been gone all day fishing and she was feeling his absence. She smiled and thought of his bright blue eyes and childish laughter.

Yes, that’s all it is. I’m just missing Matthew. She happily went about her chores—but the disturbing image of Willem Tremain’s handsome, brooding face never really left her in peace.

Choking darkness and a ton of rock crushing down upon him brought Will awake. He raked his palm over his sweatbeaded face and lay panting. He couldn’t remember where he was. Then reality flooded in. He remembered the widow’s blue-green eyes. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and slid his shoes to the floor.

Willem stretched and comprehended with profound astonishment that he had slept soundly, until just now. He frowned and puzzled over it. Then he decided it was because he’d fallen asleep in the middle of the day. Napping was a luxury a working man rarely indulged in—particularly one who had detectives on his payroll.

He shoved his bulk from the mattress and walked to the washstand. The pitcher was dry. He scowled and caught his reflection in the mirror above the stand. His eyes were hooded by dark lashes and eyebrows. His beard was thick and itched like the devil. He looked meaner than a catamount. It was easy to see why the widow found him so frightening.

He heard laughter and ribald language coming from somewhere in the yard. His curiosity beckoned him to the open window, where he leaned out to see what was going on.

A crowd of rough miners wearing heavier beards than the one he sported were stripped to their long johns at the waist. Their heavy woolen shirts flapped behind them like hen’s wings. Willem frowned and watched as a thick bar of soap was passed from one eager hand to the next. Each man put his head under the pump while one of his fellows pumped water over him. In turn they lathered themselves to a foam and repeated the process. Suds and water flowed over the edge of the trough and swirled down the rocky incline toward a flower bed of columbines. Willem was puzzled and intrigued. They appeared to be giving each other a thorough scrubbing at the hand pump. He’d never seen the like in any other gold camp. He decided to go downstairs and take a closer look at the unlikely spectacle.

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.

“Sure.” Willem had to bend nearly double to be able to lean close enough to Matthew. The boy smelled of milk, clean clothes and fresh air. The scent brought desolate hunger racing through Willem’s belly again while he stared at Matthew’s perfect, small teeth.

Matthew stuck a finger in his mouth. By really concentrating Willem detected the almost imperceptible movement of the front tooth in question.

“Thee?” Matthew asked with his finger still between his lips.

Willem leaned back in his chair and tried to keep from laughing aloud. “Yes, I see.” He found himself relaxing a bit. “It should be coming out soon.”

Matthew seemed inordinately pleased with Willem’s assessment. The boy grinned wider and wiped his moist finger across his pant leg.

“Uncle Lars says when you lose all your baby teeth you’re not a baby anymore.”

“Are you in a hurry to grow up?” Willem finally popped the thick bite of pie in his mouth. It was delicious. He enjoyed a feast for all his senses as dark corners of his shuttered mind awakened. It was nice to have Matthew tell him about things that mattered to little boys. He found himself wondering if his own son or daughter felt this way about pie and loose teeth and growing up.

“Oh, yes. I want to grow up and be a miner—just like my papa was.”

Willem frowned and sipped some coffee. Matthew’s words sent the hair on the back of his neck bristling. The child was a comfort but at the same time he made Will strangely uneasy. He realized with a jolt that he felt a strange sensitivity and awareness to the boy—an odd connection of some sort—but he dismissed it as more of his bleak desire to find his own child.

“Has your mama told you stories about your papa?” Willem heard himself ask.

“Lots. He was a miner but he died before I was born.” Matthew did a small half bounce on the bed and stared at Willem with round bright eyes. Intelligence and too much natural curiosity burned in those crystal blue depths.

“Are you really the Black Irish?” Matthew blurted out.

Willem felt the hot coffee and pie halt halfway down his gullet. The darkness of old scars and bitter memories crept toward him.

“You don’t look black to me,” Matthew added helpfully while he squinted at Will’s face. His child’s voice and candor drove a small part of the gloom from Willem’s tortured mind.

“Nor am I Irish,” Will quipped dryly. He found himself smiling, even though he hated that name as much as he hated what it represented in his haunted past.

“Well, are you him? Why do they call you that?” The boy stared at Willem and frowned.

“Some fool gave me the name a long time ago. I don’t think he knew Welsh and Irish are not the same,” Willem mused.

“Couldn’t he see you weren’t black? Was something wrong with his eyes? Maybe he’d been hurt and couldn’t see real good.” The boy tilted his head and peered up at Willem for a long time. Then he crinkled his nose and bounced again. “Nope, you’re not black at all.”

Willem laughed aloud. The child’s logic followed a path straight as a lodestone to the truth.

“He called me black because of my black rages and devil’s temper, Matthew. I did terrible things when I was angry. I frightened people. I made a promise I would never raise my voice in anger again, but it was too late to change some bad things that had already happened.” Willem had never admitted that to anyone before. It was a strange feeling to say it aloud.

“Oh.” The boy accepted the answer without question. He sat quietly, fidgeting only every other minute while Willem finished the pie and drank the coffee. Then he bounded off the bed to pick up the empty plate and cup.

“I’ll take those to Mama,” the boy said. “Mama has a rule that nobody eats in their room, but she let me bring this up. I like you, Mr. Tremain. You are going to be my friend,” Matthew declared before he scampered out the door and down the stairs.

Willem found himself grasping the doorjamb for support for several minutes after Matthew left. He hadn’t been a friend to anyone—not even himself—for a very long while.

Chapter Five

Willem woke to the heavy tread of work boots descending the stairs. He had slept fitfully, visited by his long-dead companions and the black dread that enveloped him each night. He dressed by the pale light of dawn and left his room.

Before he had passed the one-eared ginger tom stretched out on the second floor landing, the smell of home cooking had his mouth watering. When he entered the kitchen he found piles of fluffy flapjacks, small crocks of fresh butter and urns of syrup lined up on the enormous table. Stacks of steaming biscuits waited beside a huge blue crock bowl of thick, rich, cream gravy. Fat patties of fried sausage and thick slices of bacon covered a blue patterned platter. The smell of newly ground coffee beans lingered in the air. His empty belly growled like a roused bear.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Cooprel said. “How was your first night?” She was filling lunch tins with crocks and jars and gingham-cloth-covered things, which whetted Will’s appetite even more than the sight of her bountiful breakfast table.

“Passable.” He felt an odd tingle up his back.

She turned to him with her eyebrows pinched together. From her concerned expression he guessed he had not provided her with the answer she expected. He felt obliged to explain and irritated that her concern could have such a profound effect on him.

“Nothing’s wrong with the room, I’m just not much of a sleeper. I wanted to thank you for the pie and coffee last night.” Willem found it damned hard to spit out his thanks while her eyes probed his face.

“It was really Matthew’s idea,” she said tightly. “He seems to like you.” Willem heard undisguised disapproval in her voice before she turned and began to whisk around the room like a butterfly in a flower garden. She managed to juggle several tasks at once with no problem. The miners’ eyes followed her movements. It was plain they all thought Mrs. Cooprel sat somewhere near the left hand of God.

“Matthew is a bright boy,” Willem said for no reason he could think of.

“Yes, he is.” Mrs. Cooprel turned her full attention back to filling the lunch pails, so Will looked for an empty chair. The same chair he had occupied last night was vacant, so he settled into it and poured himself coffee. He saw the men filling their plates and wondered if the formality of grace would be repeated at breakfast. He helped himself to biscuits and gravy while he observed the group. Not wishing to embarrass himself with another social blunder, he waited until he saw Snap and Brawley each shove a forkful of syrup-covered flapjacks into their mouths before he picked up his own fork and began to eat.

Abigail rubbed her hands on her apron and sighed. “There they are, gentlemen.” She nodded toward the shiny tins lined up on a long plank against one wall. She poured herself a mug of coffee and sat down.

“Matthew is a slugabed this mornin’,” Brawley commented with a grunt.

Mrs. Cooprel’s face took on the same expressionless quality Willem had witnessed last night. He was curious about the woman and knew he shouldn’t be. His thoughts should be only of Moira and his child.

“He was worn out, Brawley,” she said tightly. “A growing boy needs his rest.”

“Missus.” Brawley’s voice cracked. He frowned at the sniggers erupting down the length of the table and gulped some coffee. Abigail ducked her head and Willem could’ve sworn she was giggling. Brawley cleared his throat and tried again. “I was wondering if you and the lad would consider sharin’ lunch with me at the picnic? I could partner up with the boy for the games—that way he’d be sure to win this year.” Brawley gulped more coffee when he finished, as if speaking had made his mouth go dry.

Willem saw the other men at the table look up. Each face was slack-jawed with suspense, or maybe it was alarm—he didn’t know which. Abigail flicked a quick glance over them from under her long fringe of lashes. Willem was sure he saw her frown when she looked back at Brawley.

“That’s very kind of you, Brawley, but I’ve already made other plans.”

If she had hit him with a skillet the man couldn’t have looked more stricken. His great, wide shoulders seemed to slump.

“I see,” Brawley said. A wash of red crept up his face from beneath his beard and climbed until it met his fiery hair.

“I’m expecting Lars to be back by then. You’ll have to ask Matthew about the games yourself, but I expect he’ll want to be Lars’s partner again this year.” Abigail smiled and began to fill a plate for herself. Willem saw the light twinkle in her aquamarine eyes. Every bearded face along the table flowered into a smug smile of satisfaction—except for Brawley.

Willem was beginning to figure out the widow. She made sure she kept herself surrounded by many men and no one single man. He could see it was a constant source of irritation to Brawley.

Willem frowned. He felt his curiosity whetted about the mysterious Lars. Matthew’s face had softened with affection when he’d spoken of his uncle the night before.

“The sun is climbing. I best be off to the Bonnet. Thanks for the grub, Missus.” Snap Jackson stood and pulled on his shapeless hat. One by one the men rose and trooped from the kitchen. Only Brawley and Will remained. After a few minutes Brawley shot Willem a dark glance before he, too, grabbed his hat.

“Some of us have a job to be at,” he snarled before he left the kitchen. Willem heard the front door close with a thud.

“It appears you and I are the only ones who don’t have to be someplace special, Mrs. Cooprel,” Willem said across the long expanse of table. He saw color creep into her cheeks and knew he’d found the right of it. She was a woman who could hold her own in a crowd of the roughest men, but alone with only one man she was shy and uncertain of herself.

“Yes—yes, we do,” she choked out. “But Matthew is upstairs.” A shadow of fear flitted through her eyes.

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.

“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.”

Chapter Six

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.

Her pale feet and slender ankles were bare. She curled her toes into the clover blossoms and thick grass when she paused between sprints. She hitched her skirt higher and laughed when Matthew rolled in the turf.

A hard knot formed inside Will’s belly.

Abigail Cooprel had long, coltish legs, smooth, supple and creamy as white satin. Willem felt a jolt of heat blaze through him each time her petticoats and skirt inched higher.

His sex awakened by tiny relentless degrees. His pulse quickened and thrummed deep inside his ears. A slow inferno began in his stomach, then snaked around and twined its way lower on a sizzling journey toward his throbbing groin. He felt his member harden and swell with each dull thump of his quaking heart. His long-denied libido sprang to life while he stared openmouthed at the woman below.

Abigail laughed, and the throaty sound sent Will’s long-suppressed passion roaring to life. He groaned and closed his eyes. He’d made a vow to cleave only to Moira. He’d kept that sacred marriage vow without difficulty for nearly seven years. But now he felt an ache so deep and raw and hungry it split him wide open with need for a woman—need for that woman running through the meadow grass like a woodland sprite.

What was it about this place that was turning him inside out? What was it about the widow that was making him want to abandon his beliefs, break vows and sunder promises?

Will clenched his jaw and tore himself away from the open window. He couldn’t deny the widow’s seductive lure—he just couldn’t give in to it.

He swore under his breath. Willem kept reminding himself she wasn’t very pretty…except for her eyes…and that thick mane of hair…and legs smoother than alabaster. Except for those few attributes she was quite plain. If only he could convince the burning between his legs of it.

Willem paced his room while his blood ran hot and thick in his veins. After long hours of torture, the sound of rough miners’ voices finally wafted up the stairs. He felt he could face the widow without making a fool of himself as long as the other miners were around.

Willem splashed cold water on his face and slicked back his hair. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and saw himself anew. A spark of life was in his eyes, an ember that hadn’t burned there for years. It had been missing since he’d walked into his empty house and found a note pinned beside the empty cradle. The inner fire of his soul had been numb since his search for Moira and the baby had begun.

He took a deep breath and ran his palm over his short, wet hair. The widow had awakened the man inside him, while Matthew had begun to thaw the broken heart of a long-denied father. Since viewing Abigail earlier, all the parts of his body were waking in the bargain. The realization sent a tiny shiver of astonishment through him.

The sound of Abigail’s husky laughter arrested him when he entered the bright kitchen. She had her back to him, but turned and met his gaze when he scraped the legs of his chair across the floor. A strange energy arced across the room between them. Will felt as if his skin was shrinking around his bones. A tight tingling sensation prickled along his scalp. He struggled to master the unfamiliar sensations of pure, white-hot lust surging through him.

He wanted her. Could she see it?

“Mr. Tremain.” Abigail swallowed hard. She gripped the bowl in her hands until her fingers turned white. Her blue-green eyes pierced his heart with the look she gave him. “My word, but it’s nice to see a man without all that hair covering his face.” She blushed.

Willem knew she regretted her words the instant they left her lips. It gave him a warm, fluttering feeling to hear her compliment him. She dropped her eyes and moved toward the table. Why this woman was so determined to keep herself locked away, he couldn’t fathom. He found himself pleased that she noticed his appearance and more pleased that she said so. It was an odd thing, this growing need for her to treat him with a little more kindness or interest than she showed the other men in her house. He found himself wondering if each one of them felt the same way he did, and on the heels of the thought came a ripple of envy for those who’d known her longer than himself.

Fantasies of her long legs wrapped around his waist hammered at Will. “I saw you earlier—when you and Matthew were beating rugs.” He didn’t know why he said it, but there was something powerful gnawing at him, making him push her into a corner. He had a desire to make her aware of the effect she had upon him.

Abigail looked up in wide-eyed amazement. Fear, or something like it, flickered through her eyes. He knew she was remembering her unguarded moments at play with Matthew. “I hope we didn’t disturb you,” she finally managed to stammer.

“Not at all.” Willem felt eyes upon his back. He turned and found the miners staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and downright shock in their eyes. Brawley wore a frown so deep Willem thought the light might leave the room in fear of his black countenance. Only Matthew grinned at Will with something akin to friendship shining in his eyes. It made his stomach twist, the way the boy looked at him.

He glanced up and found the widow staring at him and the boy. Confusion and hostility were written on her face.

Abigail frowned and willed her hands to stop shaking. The man had a way of—unsettling her. She glanced at him and Matthew again. There was something different about Willem Tremain. Even Matthew sensed it—she could see it shining in his eyes. She watched her son admire the man and she felt a pang of something suspiciously like jealousy ripple through her. In all the years she’d run the boardinghouse Matthew had never made the slightest effort to get friendly with a boarder. The way he warmed up to Willem Tremain frightened her. And the way her stomach knotted up when Will’s piercing eyes focused on her made the uneasiness worse. This man made her apprehensive in a way she could not understand.

He wasn’t tame—he wasn’t even house-gentle, not this one. He looked up at her again and she felt a tingling sensation bridge the empty space between them. This one could be dangerous to her in some unfathomable way…She saw banked fires smoldering in his probing sapphire eyes and knew he was a threat to her happiness.

She had to keep him away from her and Matthew, she had to ignore the way he made her feel,

Abigail brought a bowl of potatoes to the table and Will inhaled the scent of lemon oil, fresh air and sunshine clinging to the lopsided bun of hair trying to tumble down her back. The memory of her pale legs pumping rhythmically while she ran made him squirm on the hard wooden chair. She accidentally brushed him with her forearm and he felt a hot zing radiate from the point of contact. He heard her sharp intake of breath before she moved away. She was afraid of him. He could see it in the trembling hands and stiff movements of her slender body.

Mrs. Cooprel sat at the far end of the table and glanced up only once. She was quieter than last night, and he saw her brows crinkled into a tight frown. Brawley leaned over and said something to her and she looked up. Her gaze locked with Will’s across the length of the table. She licked her lips, and another wave of heat flowed through his blood. She lowered her lashes and avoided his eyes after that. He wondered if she had any notion of what her tremulous mouth was doing to his insides.

Will brought food to his mouth, chewed and swallowed, but he couldn’t have identified the menu if his soul had depended upon it. By the time Abigail brought a still-bubbling peach cobbler to the table, he was in full rut.

Abigail gripped the pan more tightly and told herself to stop acting like a green girl. She realized her uncharacteristic silence was making her unease more obvious each passing moment. She searched her mind for some safe topic to speak to Willem Tremain about.

“I would’ve cleaned your room today, Mr. Tremain, but when I peeked in you were sleeping,” she said tautly when she served him.

Willem met her shy gaze, and the playful woman he’d witnessed earlier shimmered before him, like a half-remembered dream. The thought of Mrs. Cooprel in his bedroom—alone—with him sent a burning lancet of need through his loins. He wished he’d not been asleep when she entered his room…He quickly chastised himself. After all he was a married man.

“I’m sorry if I inconvenienced you by not letting you know, Mrs. Cooprel. I usually don’t fall asleep so easily.”

“I—I only mentioned it because I told you about my schedule, Mr. Tremain.” A crimson flush climbed her cheeks. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t giving you the service I promised.”

Her stammering words sent his temperature rising. She had stumbled over words that made his blood boil with double meaning. He knew she felt his passion, which had to be why she acted so nervous around him. He didn’t want to frighten her—never wanted to frighten any woman ever again—yet it was obvious she was afraid. Will searched for some way to make her understand she didn’t have to fear him. No matter how desperately he burned for her he would never make a move in her direction. He had promised himself to Moira till death parted them. And even though she had chosen to flee from him, he still believed in those vows.

“Mrs. Cooprel?”

“Yes, Mr. Tremain?” Her voice was soft. She looked at him like a trapped doe before dropping her lashes over eyes gone wide and luminous.

“Would you please call me Will?” He felt the same charged energy surround him and prayed she could not sense it. He fairly rocked from the impact. He watched her bottom lip tremble. When she glanced up at him he caught the alarm in her blue-green eyes.

“If—if you wish.” She swallowed hard.

He hoped she would understand he meant her no harm. He would never violate his promise, no matter what. Willem heard her sharp intake of breath. He saw her knuckles blanch while she held the pan of cobbler between them like a wall of protection from his lust. Watching Abigail confirmed his suspicion—she flitted among the men in her house like a little ruby-throated hummingbird, but got close to none of them.

“And may I call you—Abigail?” He stumbled over her name and it left a taste of sweet forbidden fruit in his mouth. He saw her glance once at Matthew’s expectant face. Something like pain filled her eyes in that moment.

“Certainly, Mr. Tremain—I mean Willem—that would be only fair,” she finally said in a tight voice. She glanced at him one last time, and he was sure he saw resentment and fear controlling every constricted line bracketing her mouth.

He instantly regretted what he’d asked of her. It had not made her fear him less—in fact, it seemed she trembled more—and he could feel the hostility growing between them. Willem sighed in frustration. Instead of worrying about Abigail Cooprel he should be concentrating on finding Moira and his child. He would do well to remember that.