sodbusters—farmers—tryin’ to make a go of it in the Rockies. They had some dynamite and nobody told them that they shouldn’t bring it inside. Near the fire.”
“Oh, no.”
He nodded ruefully. “Yeah. The whole cabin went up. Only reason I wasn’t killed, too, was on account of me playin’ out by the woodpile.”
“How did you survive?”
“A miner heard the noise and could tell the difference between a planned blast and an accidental one. When he got to the homestead, he found me buck naked, covered in ash, and messin’ around with a coffin-handled bowie knife. Since my folks were dead and there wasn’t anything to show who I was or what my name might be, he named me.”
Her food was now completely untouched as she stared at him. He couldn’t decide if he liked having her look at him, or if it was like staring right at the sun. “I was wondering how a man could be named Coffin.”
“I’ve gotten a few jokes over the years, but once folks get to know me, the undertaker gags stop.”
“And what did the miner do with you after he found you?”
“He raised me.” He smiled sadly, thinking about his old friend. “He called himself Jake Gold, but his real name was Ya’akov Goldberg.”
“That sounds Jewish,” she observed.
He immediately tensed. “You got a problem with that?”
Her eyes rounded again. “My grandmother was Jewish, my father’s mother. Sarah Speigelman.” Her expression darkened, a surprisingly fierce thing. “Some people stopped speaking to my grandfather after he married her, but he said they were fools.” She looked down at her plate, toying with her food. “I was sorry when she died. She was a beautiful woman.”
He said, “ Punkt vi ir ,” Like you , surprising himself, both at the compliment and his language choice.
But she was more surprised. “ Ir redt yidish ?”
“ A kleyn bisl .” A little .
The expression on her face was comically astounded but very pleased. He’d completely ambushed her, a thought which gave him no small pleasure. They were both a little different from expectations, and he liked it. It gave him, for the first time in a long while, the feeling of belonging, but belonging to a small, select group—their separate club apart from everyone else.
“A cowboy raised by a Jewish miner,” she marveled, her eyes warm as her fingertips touched the rim of her glass. “What a marvelous story.”
He shrugged. “It makes a good tale, but the life was hard. Jake mined his whole life, waitin’ for the big score, but it never came.” He took a deep drink, and marveled at the feel of wine on his tongue. “This is great stuff.” He admired the dark red liquid, holding it up to the light. “I ain’t used to such a fine vintage. Usually what passes for wine in Colorado could take rust off a wagon wheel.”
She laughed. “We’re much more refined here. We use our wine for cleaning tarnished silver.” Will laughed, too. After playing with her food a bit more, she asked, “When did Mr. Gold die?”
“Six months ago.” He looked down at his plate. “I’ve seen a lot of death in my years, and I’d grown almost used to it, but sometimes it catches a body hard. That’s what happened when Jake died.” He looked up and saw not pity in her eyes, but empathy. He’d never told anyone how he felt about Jake dying, but he knew that Lady Xavier was exactly the person who would understand and not poke fun.
“I felt as though a horse had kicked me in the chest, and even now I can’t quite catch my breath, thinkin’ about old Jake.”
“You loved him.”
Those were words Will didn’t speak, but he felt it just the same. “The alter bocher loved America but missed his home in Krakow. He told me he’d been squirrelin’ his catch away and gave me the key to a safety deposit box at a bank in Denver. I found ten thousand dollars there.”
She
“Oh, no.”
He nodded ruefully. “Yeah. The whole cabin went up. Only reason I wasn’t killed, too, was on account of me playin’ out by the woodpile.”
“How did you survive?”
“A miner heard the noise and could tell the difference between a planned blast and an accidental one. When he got to the homestead, he found me buck naked, covered in ash, and messin’ around with a coffin-handled bowie knife. Since my folks were dead and there wasn’t anything to show who I was or what my name might be, he named me.”
Her food was now completely untouched as she stared at him. He couldn’t decide if he liked having her look at him, or if it was like staring right at the sun. “I was wondering how a man could be named Coffin.”
“I’ve gotten a few jokes over the years, but once folks get to know me, the undertaker gags stop.”
“And what did the miner do with you after he found you?”
“He raised me.” He smiled sadly, thinking about his old friend. “He called himself Jake Gold, but his real name was Ya’akov Goldberg.”
“That sounds Jewish,” she observed.
He immediately tensed. “You got a problem with that?”
Her eyes rounded again. “My grandmother was Jewish, my father’s mother. Sarah Speigelman.” Her expression darkened, a surprisingly fierce thing. “Some people stopped speaking to my grandfather after he married her, but he said they were fools.” She looked down at her plate, toying with her food. “I was sorry when she died. She was a beautiful woman.”
He said, “ Punkt vi ir ,” Like you , surprising himself, both at the compliment and his language choice.
But she was more surprised. “ Ir redt yidish ?”
“ A kleyn bisl .” A little .
The expression on her face was comically astounded but very pleased. He’d completely ambushed her, a thought which gave him no small pleasure. They were both a little different from expectations, and he liked it. It gave him, for the first time in a long while, the feeling of belonging, but belonging to a small, select group—their separate club apart from everyone else.
“A cowboy raised by a Jewish miner,” she marveled, her eyes warm as her fingertips touched the rim of her glass. “What a marvelous story.”
He shrugged. “It makes a good tale, but the life was hard. Jake mined his whole life, waitin’ for the big score, but it never came.” He took a deep drink, and marveled at the feel of wine on his tongue. “This is great stuff.” He admired the dark red liquid, holding it up to the light. “I ain’t used to such a fine vintage. Usually what passes for wine in Colorado could take rust off a wagon wheel.”
She laughed. “We’re much more refined here. We use our wine for cleaning tarnished silver.” Will laughed, too. After playing with her food a bit more, she asked, “When did Mr. Gold die?”
“Six months ago.” He looked down at his plate. “I’ve seen a lot of death in my years, and I’d grown almost used to it, but sometimes it catches a body hard. That’s what happened when Jake died.” He looked up and saw not pity in her eyes, but empathy. He’d never told anyone how he felt about Jake dying, but he knew that Lady Xavier was exactly the person who would understand and not poke fun.
“I felt as though a horse had kicked me in the chest, and even now I can’t quite catch my breath, thinkin’ about old Jake.”
“You loved him.”
Those were words Will didn’t speak, but he felt it just the same. “The alter bocher loved America but missed his home in Krakow. He told me he’d been squirrelin’ his catch away and gave me the key to a safety deposit box at a bank in Denver. I found ten thousand dollars there.”
She
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