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“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 (#ulink_6833e0ee-af7f-53ae-8b2a-190a1f2b2ee4)
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.
