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.
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