Remembered (11 page)

“Miss Girard! A word with you, please.” Monsieur Baird’s voice boomed over them all.

Véronique skirted around the wall of men to see the proprietor striding toward her. He wore a severe expression, and she got the distinct impression he was unhappy with her.

“May we speak in the dining room, Miss Girard?”

Grateful for his timely rescue, she glanced at the clock on the front desk. Jake Sampson would be expecting her at the livery any time now.

“This won’t take long, I promise,” Monsieur Baird added as though reading her mind, his clipped tone persuasive. He indicated for her to follow him.

Once inside the dining room, he closed the double doors behind them. Monsieur Baird acknowledged the patrons occupying several of the tables, then guided Véronique farther to the back. “Miss Girard . . .” His voice was hushed. “Those men in there are answering the notice you posted yesterday.”

Véronique shook her head. “That can’t be. . . .” She glanced back at the closed doors, able to picture the men all too clearly in her mind’s eye. “None of them fit the description for which I advertised. I specifically requested—”

“My guess, Miss Girard, is that you listed
your
name on that advertisement.” His dark brows slowly rose over the rims of his spectacles. “Am I correct?”

Her mind raced, trying to follow the turn of his thoughts and failing to do so. She nodded in answer to his question.

“I realize this is none of my business, ma’am, and you’re free to tell me so after I’m done. But seeing as you’re quite young and might not be aware of certain things, I feel it’s my duty to step in here.”

She stiffened at his comment about her age. Always, people were making that assumption. Always, they were making decisions for her—and she was weary of it. Forcing a smile she hoped passed for pleasant, she determined to change that—starting now. “I appreciate your concern, monsieur, but I want to make it clear to you that I am capable of making decisions for myself. I have traveled all the way from Paris, France, to get to this—”

Monsieur Baird held up a hand. “Miss Girard, this has nothing to do with whether you’re capable or not. You’re a very capable young woman, I’ve no doubt about that. I also have no doubt as to why those men showed up in answer to your advertisement.” His features softened. “Willow Springs is a small town, ma’am. Word travels fast here. Everybody in this town knows who you are.”

She frowned. “But I have been here for only two days.”

“Like I said, ma’am, this is a small town and . . . I don’t mean any disrespect by this, but we don’t get many women from Paris, France, through here.” He smiled. “And you tend to make a lasting first impression, Miss Girard. But those men in there . . .” He shook his head. “They came here for all the wrong reasons. Trust me on that. And for the record, just because you’re capable of doing something, ma’am—like listing this advertisement—doesn’t necessarily mean you should.”

She wanted to object, but the truth behind his statement wouldn’t allow it.

He gave a heavy sigh. “In the end, it’s your decision. But I’ve got three daughters about your age, and I wouldn’t dare let a one of them set off anywhere with those men in there, much less up to the mountains. I’m sure if your father were here, he’d feel the same way.”

Véronique’s breath caught. A stinging sensation rose to her eyes. Monsieur Baird did not know her reason for being in Willow Springs, so there was no way he could know how much his last comment had hurt her. She lowered her face. The obvious love this man possessed for his daughters only deepened her regret over her own father’s absence from her life. The reminder of what she’d had—and lost— was keen, and razor sharp.

She cleared her throat, forcing down the rising tide of emotion. “I appreciate what you have said to me, Monsieur Baird,” she whispered. “I acted in haste and did not consider with proper care the outcome of my actions.” She glanced again at the door, dreading having to face those men again.

He trailed her gaze and then gave her an unexpected wink. “Would you mind if I took care of those rowdies in there? It would do this father’s heart a world of good.”

Relieved beyond words, Véronique wished she could hug him. But she settled for a curtsy instead and made her exit out the kitchen entrance.

She arrived at the livery later than planned, and just as she had imagined, Monsieur Sampson was busy seeing to other customers. She waited off to one side, giving him a small wave when he acknowledged her presence with a smile. Her nerves were taut, partly from all that had happened that morning, but also from anticipating what Monsieur Sampson was going to tell her.

Finally there came a moment between customers when they could speak in private.

“Good mornin’, Mademoiselle Girard.” Jake Sampson wiped his hands on a soiled cloth, then made a show of scrutinizing her gown. He let out a low whistle. “I gotta say, ma’am, you’re ’bout the prettiest thing I’ve seen so far today. One of these years I’m gonna have to get myself over to Paris. Does everybody over there dress so fancy, the way you do?”

The question, innocent enough, brought her up short. Particularly in light of Monsieur Baird’s earlier comment about her making a “lasting first impression.” Véronique smoothed a hand over the lilac fabric, suddenly self-conscious. It was one of her plainer dresses and by far not a favorite. Yet it was a great deal finer than any other garment she’d seen anyone wearing in this town. Studying Jake Sampson’s attire, she seriously doubted whether he owned a suit or even a shirt of its equal. That realization prompted an unexpected shyness, and she looked away.

She’d lived such a privileged life in comparison to others. How could she have lived that way for so long being blind to that fact?

“
Merci beaucoup
. You are most kind, Monsieur Sampson. And I think you would very much adore the
ville
in which I was born and raised.” It was a safer answer, in light of not knowing what the recent months of war had done to her beloved city. “I offer my apologies for not being here sooner. I was delayed at the hotel but am eager to learn what you have to tell me.” She glanced about. “And to see this carriage you wrote about in your note.”

He gestured toward the back of the livery.

She turned, only to see the same oversized farm wagon she’d noticed the day before. It hosted no canopy, no plush compartment, and no seating other than the wooden bench the driver would occupy. She tried to mask her disappointment, to think of something to say that would ease the silence growing heavier by the second, and failed.

“I know it’s not what you were expectin’, ma’am, and for sure not what you’re used to. But it’ll get you where you’re wantin’ to go—I promise you that.”

The man’s tone had taken on a forced quality that caused Véronique’s face to heat. She crossed the distance to get a closer look at the conveyance, and to hide her embarrassment. The boards of the wagon bed fit flush together—no cracks for sunlight to peek through—and they were connected with thick bolts, some as thick around as her fist. Though she was unfamiliar with such construction, the careful details of Monsieur Sampson’s workmanship clearly bespoke a man who took pride in what he did.

She ran a hand over one of the rear wheels, regretting her initial reaction. “
Au contraire
, Monsieur Sampson. This is one of the most finely built wagons I have ever seen. And it will serve my purpose well.
Merci beaucoup
.”

“You’re most welcome, mademoiselle,” he said quietly. “Turns out a fella came in here yesterday and told me the very same thing, which leads to why I sent you that note. He’s new to Willow Springs but comes with high marks from a man I’ve known for years. And ’til the sun decides to start risin’ in the west, you can bet that friend’s word can be trusted.”

“Does this . . .
fella
have experience as a driver?”

A faint smile curved Monsieur Sampson’s mouth. “You’re catchin’ on real quick to our words. And yes, ma’am, this gentleman’s driven his share of wagons, all right. He’s been guidin’ folks for over thirteen years.”

Véronique considered this while wondering how to phrase her next question. Lacking savvy in business dealings, she decided to get straight to the point. “What is the price of this conveyance, monsieur?” Her hand went to her
réticule
. “I can deliver payment to you this morning.”

“That’s all fine and good, mademoiselle, and I’m sure we can agree on a price. But there’s a few things you and I need to get straight before I get you and this gentleman together. First off, I need to let you know that he doesn’t—”

“Good morning, Mr. Sampson.”

The voice coming from behind Véronique sounded vaguely familiar. And if her
intuition
was correct, she’d heard it before—through a bathroom door that very morning.

CHAPTER | EIGHT

M
R.
B
RENNAN!”
Monsieur Sampson strode toward the front of the livery, meeting the gentleman halfway. “I wasn’t expectin’ you back here quite this early.”

While she’d hoped to see the man again, Véronique hadn’t expected it to be so soon after their first encounter. She smoothed a hand over her hair and thought of how she’d looked earlier that morning. Hopefully, he would consider this an improvement.

Monsieur Brennan shook Sampson’s hand. “I was out and just thought I’d stop by to see if you’d heard anything yet.” He turned in Véronique’s direction and removed his hat. “Ma’am, it’s nice to see you again.”

“Likewise . . . Monsieur Brennan.” Véronique offered a brief curtsy, enjoying having the
avantage
for the second time that morning. As she lifted her head, she watched a slow smile curve his mouth. It softened the strong angular lines of his face and brought out the kindness in his features. His smile captured both the mischief of a boy and the awareness of a man, and she found the effect . . . intoxicating.

“You two know each other already?” Monsieur Sampson’s attention darted between the two of them.

“We had the pleasure of meeting at the hotel this morning. Briefly.” The subtle tilt of his head made her think he was most likely reliving the details.

Véronique worked to keep her smile as subdued as his. “Monsieur Brennan left something of value behind—” her focus flickered to the telling outline in his front pocket—“and I had the opportunity to provide safekeeping for the item.”

“And it was a most arduous task for you, if I remember correctly, mademoiselle?”

“
Oui
,” she whispered, mildly impressed with Monsieur Brennan’s pronunciation. But far more with his gift at
repartie
.

After a moment, Monsieur Brennan turned back. “Mr. Sampson, I need a final answer from you, sir. I’ve got rounds to make to my vendors over the next couple of days. I need to arrange for supplies and get them inventoried and loaded. The buyer in Jenny’s Draw expects his delivery from Hochstetler no later than Monday afternoon, which means I need to leave at sunup that day.”

Jake Sampson ran a hand over his beard as though giving this news his full consideration. “That sounds like a good plan, Brennan. Yes sir, it does. Mighty thorough on your part to think things through like that.”

If Véronique interpreted Monsieur Brennan’s expression correctly, he had anticipated quite a different response. She sensed his frustration and, in part, shared it. The thread of this conversation seemed a touch frayed.

“Mr. Sampson . . .” Brennan’s posture stiffened slightly. “I need you to tell me outright—is that wagon mine or not?”

It took a moment for the question to register with her. Was the wagon
his
or not? Véronique’s attention moved between the two men as she waited for Jake Sampson to tell Mr. Brennan that the wagon was already sold. That it belonged to her, or would, as soon as she paid for it.

But he didn’t.

She stepped forward with the intent of clearing up the misunderstanding, but Monsieur Sampson’s look of warning kept her silent.

“The problem, Mr. Brennan,” Sampson said, rubbing the back of his neck, “is that I’m in a bit of a quandary here. The other person I told you about is still interested in the wagon. In fact, they’ve told me they want to buy it.”

Véronique relaxed at Monsieur Sampson’s admission, but she didn’t approve of the way he was handling the situation. Why didn’t he reveal that she was the person buying the wagon instead of acting like it was someone else? Perhaps it was customary here to spare patrons the angst and embarrassment of bidding for the same conveyance. But they were all adults. Monsieur Brennan would understand that she’d simply gotten there first.

“Did you try speaking with him?” The muscles in Monsieur Brennan’s jawline corded tight, much like Christophe’s used to do before his temper erupted. “Did you ask if they could wait until you got another one built? Timing is crucial for me, sir.”

Monsieur Brennan’s voice had deepened with resolve, but still he maintained his gentlemanly decorum, and Véronique’s estimation of his character grew immensely. Her mother had always said that the true measure of a person was best observed when dealing with adversity. And judging from the scowl on Monsieur Brennan’s face, the situation was most decidedly adverse for him at the moment.

“This person needs that wagon now too, Mr. Brennan.” Monsieur Sampson remained firm on his position, yet humble in tone. The two men were well matched in that respect. “They have a lot of traveling to do. And they need to do it before winter sets in. Some of the places they’re needin’ to get to are treacherous come first snowfall, so timing figures into things for them as much as it does for you. But I got the impression they’d be real open to workin’ a deal with you—in exchange for your services.”

At the mention of a deal, Véronique’s concern was resurrected. Why did she need Monsieur Brennan’s services? The wagon belonged to her, not him.

“In exchange for my services? They want me to haul something for them?”

Monsieur Sampson gave a half-hearted nod. “In a manner of speakin’. You’d get full use of the wagon though, whenever you want it . . . at no cost to you.”