Remembered (13 page)

Jack hesitated, then dragged the chair over and straddled it.

“She wandered in here yesterday sayin’ she needed a driver and a . . . carriage.” Sampson pronounced the word as Mademoiselle Girard might have, and it drew a smile from Jack. “As if I’ve got those just sittin’ around. She’s traveled a long way from home to get here, Brennan, and convincin’ her to just turn around and sashay on back to Paris isn’t gonna be easy. Not when she’s come in search of her father.”

That got Jack’s attention. “Her father?”

“She says he came through here back in the fall of ’50. He was a trapper. Said she was just a wee thing when he left her and her mother behind. I’m afraid there’s only heartache in store for the child, even if she does find him, though chances of that happening are next to nothing. I tried to tell her, but somebody’s filled her pretty little head with the notion that if she finds the man who helped bring her into this world, she’ll find her father. But those two things don’t always go hand in hand.”

A shadow crossed Sampson’s face and Jack couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath it. Yet one thing was painfully clear to him— he’d been mistaken about Mademoiselle Girard, at least in part. And he regretted his hasty judgments. But even if he’d had this information beforehand, it wouldn’t have changed his final decision. He still stood by it, however much he sympathized with her. And he agreed with Sampson that finding her father would be next to impossible.

When men wanted to disappear, they chose this territory with good reason.

“I’ve known my share of Frenchmen through the years.” Sampson’s focus extended beyond the confines of the livery doors. “A good lot, most of ’em. They sent money back home to their families. Just tried to make a livin’ like everyone else. Once the fur market went bust, most of the trappers around here crowded into the streams with the rest of us, lookin’ for gold. Most never found so much as a nugget for their trouble.”

The jostle of passing buggies and wagons along with indistinct bits of conversation floated toward them through the open doors of the livery. Jack studied the man across from him, sensing there was more to him than he’d originally credited.

Jack leaned forward, resting his arms on the spindled back of the chair. “So did
you
ever find any gold, Mr. Sampson?”

A long moment passed. Then a gradual smile ghosted Jake Sampson’s face, and Jack wondered if he’d been given his answer.

The old man kept his attention trained ahead. “You know the trick to pannin’, don’t you, Brennan? It’s knowing when to stop. Greed’s a powerful adversary. If you give her a foothold, she’ll take back everything she’s given, and then some. Learning to be content is hard. But not learning . . . sometimes that’s even harder.”

Jack looked around the livery—a modest business to say the least. He didn’t know what to believe about whether Sampson found gold, but his gut told him the man was telling the truth. Jack smiled to himself, imagining what motivation the man might have for being rich and yet living like he wasn’t. Sampson might be a bit odd—even eccentric—but he seemed harmless enough.

“You still have my down payment for that wagon, sir, but I want you to keep it,” he added quickly. He stood and carried the chair back to the corner. “I want you to build me another one just like it, as soon as possible. And this time, there’ll be no confusion about who owns it.” He waited for Sampson’s acknowledgment, then turned to go.

“She’s lost her mother too,” Sampson said quietly behind him. Jack paused in the doorway.

“Mademoiselle Girard got real teary when she told me, so I figure it wasn’t too long ago. Maybe that’s the reason she left home when she did. Figured she didn’t have anything left to lose, or maybe nothing left to stay for.”

Bowing his head, Jack slowly exhaled. “Manipulation is a cheap form of cowardice, Mr. Sampson. I don’t respond well to it.”

“If I would’ve asked you outright, would you have said yes?” Jack looked back, and shook his head.

“Mr. Brennan, you’re the only man I know who I trust to do this.”

“With all respect, Mr. Sampson, you don’t know me.”

“I know Bertram Colby. And I know that if you’ve earned that man’s good opinion, you’re finer than most. You can argue this point with me all day long, but you’ve already proven to me you’re the right man.”

“And just how do you figure that, sir?”

Sampson rose from the crate and took a step forward. “Because after everything she offered you, you still said no.”

CHAPTER | TEN

L
ATER THAT EVENING,
Véronique stood a safe distance from the open window in her room and watched the sun swath the mountains in a cloak of crimson and gold. How small and insignificant she felt in comparison. And how isolated and alone.

Examining her melancholy, she easily traced its root—Monsieur Brennan’s refusal of her offer earlier that day. She still couldn’t believe it—even after the offer of more money, he’d remained firm.

Though she hadn’t seen him at the hotel again, she assumed that he was a guest, or at least had been, based on his having left his shirt in the washroom. She tried to think of something else she could propose that might persuade him to reconsider. But the somber finality lining his expression earlier told her that her efforts would be wasted.

The hollowness stemming from his rebuff was not easily set aside. How foolish she’d been to pin her hopes so quickly on one man. Surely God had not brought her all this way only to leave her now, but it was beginning to feel as though He’d done just that.

A cool evening breeze rustled the curtains.

Billows of whitish-gray clouds stretched across the western horizon, one atop the other. Wave upon fluffy wave crested, reflecting the last vestiges of light until the sky resembled an ocean churning to meet the shore. Deep within her subconscious, she remembered the rocking motion of the ship that had ferried her across the Atlantic, so far from home. Véronique closed her eyes and recalled the tangy brine of the ocean. She could almost taste the salt spray on her lips and feel the unsettling queasiness in her stomach from the constant pitching and swaying.

She blinked to dispel that last unpleasant memory.

How were Lord and Lady Descantes faring? Were they still in this country? Were their girls practicing the English they’d learned while under her tutelage? She picked up the vellum-bound book on the table beside her—
Le Comte de Monte Cristo
—and turned it in her hands, recalling how much Lord and Lady Descantes’ daughters had relished the tale.

As fond as she was of the story by Alexandre Dumas, it held no appeal this evening. She placed the book back on the table.

Men’s voices drifted in from outside in the hallway.

She paused, listening. Then startled at the knock on her door.

Opening it, she found Monsieur Baird waiting on the other side, and heard the door to the room opposite hers in the hallway latch closed.

“Good evening, Miss Girard.” Monsieur Baird stood a good distance back from the entryway. “I’ve come to retrieve your dinner tray, if you’re finished.”

Glad for the company, however brief, she nodded. “
Oui
, I am.
Merci
. And may I send my compliments to your chef?” She retrieved the tray and handed it to him. “The meals I have enjoyed in your hotel have been the most palatable I have experienced while in your country.”

His expression warmed. “I’ll be sure and pass those kind words along to my wife. She’ll smile at hearing them, ma’am. Thank you.”

Another thought sprang to mind. “I also wish to compliment you on your hotel staff, Monsieur Baird. Miss Carlson is a most exceptional employee, especially for one so youthful.”

“Why yes, ma’am, she is. And we’re happy to have her.” Monsieur Baird glanced at the tray. “This’ll save her a trip up those stairs again tonight, which is always a good thing this late in the day.”

Véronique was surprised to hear the girl was still working at this hour. “The stairs are a challenge for her?” She phrased it more like a question and less like the truth she already knew, not wanting to cast a disparaging light on the girl.

He nodded. “More so in recent days, but you’d never know it from Lilly’s attitude. She just plugs right along, never complains about anything. She’s always been that way. Which makes me hurt all the more when I think of what’s ahead of her.” He blinked. Looking away, he cleared his throat. “But she’s as fine as they come. So’s her family. Well . . . I’ll say good-night, ma’am. Hope you rest well.”

“
Bonsoir
, Monsieur Baird, and I wish you the same.” Véronique closed the door and leaned against it, wondering about the proprietor’s comment about Lilly’s future and if it had to do with the brace on her leg. Had Lilly been born with the impediment? Or was it the result of a recent accident? The girl compensated for it extremely well, which in Véronique’s mind ruled out a more recent occurrence.

She crossed to the
armoire
and withdrew her nightgown. She’d spent the afternoon unpacking, a task that had busied her thoughts for a short time at least. The modest
armoire
didn’t accommodate half of her dresses, and the rest lay arranged over a wingback chair, awaiting a proper brushing. After pulling the floral curtains framing the open bay window closed, she undressed.

The silk of her nightgown provided scant warmth. She crawled between the cool sheets and pulled the quilt up over her body. Though the room was not extremely chilly, she shivered. Tired but not ready for sleep, she reached for John Donne’s
Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions
. The pages fell open at the exact spot she sought.

Her gaze went to the underlined portion. “‘No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.” ’

She paused and reread the sentence again, silently. Slipping past the window, aided by night’s quiet, the distant gurgling of what she assumed to be Fountain Creek serenaded the silence.

After a moment, she continued. “‘If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” ’

Reading Donne’s familiar prose, being reminded that he considered no person truly isolated, or ever completely alone, helped ease the aloneness she felt. And she wondered . . . Did Donne have the slightest knowledge that the words he’d breathed life into so long ago would continue on long after his own heart had beat its last? She liked to think that he did.

“Mademoiselle Girard, I am honored that you would entrust me with your safety, but this arrangement is simply unsuitable, for more reasons than I care to number. . . .”

The words from earlier that day pushed their way into her thoughts with frustrating clarity, as did the memory of Monsieur Brennan’s determined attitude. If only she could think of something that might sway his opinion. On further thought, Monsieur Brennan did not strike her as the type of man who could be easily swayed.

She placed the book on the bed table and, with a soft breath, blew out the oil lamp, then curled onto her side. But for a sliver of moonglow cast across the foot of the bed, darkness bathed the room.

She drew up her legs, wishing for a fire in the darkened hearth, or at least for the bed warmer she’d always found tucked between her sheets in the Marchand household on chilly nights. She cradled an arm beneath her pillow. The bed warmer had always been present when needed, so she’d never questioned how it had gotten there.

But who had warmed the coals for her bed all those years?

As she assisted Francette Marchand in preparing for bed, her own adjoining chamber had been made ready. Servants’ faces came to mind but none of their names, of course. They had been house servants, after all, not a companion to a family member, as she had been.

Shivering, Véronique pressed her face deeper into her pillow, surprised at the knot forming in her throat, and at the unexpected desire to convey her appreciation to whomever had faithfully seen her bed warmed for so many years, without a slightest word of thanks from her.

————

“Sure, I’ve got a wagon you might be interested in, Mr. Brennan. It’s in the back of the barn there. Haven’t used it in a while myself, but you’re welcome to look at it.”

Jack followed the rancher inside the barn, mindful to shorten his stride in deference to the older gentleman’s arthritic gait.

Following the fiasco at the livery with Mademoiselle Girard yesterday, he’d spent the previous afternoon scouring Willow Springs for another suitable wagon. And this morning had him following his last possible lead. But from the barn’s state of disrepair, Jack was none too hopeful. If this didn’t pan out, he owed Hochstetler a visit at the mercantile—and that was one visit he did not want to make.

Starks led the way down a hay-strewn aisle that was flanked on either side by empty, low-ceilinged stalls. Sunlight grew dim the farther back they went and the air more stale, thick with dust and the tang of days-old manure.

A tingling sensation started at the base of Jack’s neck. The smell of livestock didn’t bother him, yet it gradually became more difficult for him to breathe.

He followed Starks, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides in an effort to ease his sudden tension. He looked back over his shoulder at the open doors of the barn, and felt his pulse slow.

Starks stopped and turned. “Here she is.” He waved his hand, indicating for Jack to step forward. “Take a good, overlong look at her. See what you think.”

At a glance, Jack realized he didn’t need an overlong look—good or otherwise—to know that this wagon would scarcely make it into town, much less survive a rugged mountain pass. His throat tightened as he became aware of the wall close at his back and of the low slant of the ceiling above him.

Not wanting to appear disrespectful, Jack made a pretense of checking out the conveyance. “She looks like she’s been a faithful partner, that’s for sure.”