Remembered (19 page)

Jack checked his pocket watch. She’d been gone twenty-seven minutes and counting. He released the brake. “Do you have any idea what you’ve gotten me into, Sampson?”

“Actually, I think I do. You’re where about every other man in this town would give his eyeteeth to be.” The livery owner sauntered toward the wagon, making a show of looking down the boardwalk. “But if my memory serves, you said no to this deal the day I offered it to you . . . didn’t you?”

Hearing levity in the man’s voice, Jack heard truth in it too. “Have you started my wagon yet, sir?”

“It’s at the top of my list, son. I’ll have it done in no time.”

Jack smiled but gave him a look that said he was serious.

Sampson finally nodded. Then he patted a crate in the wagon bed. “You think you’ll sell all this stuff? Zimmerman sometimes came back from Jenny’s Draw with half a wagonload.”

“My goal is to come back empty. I paid Hochstetler outright for it all. He’d been carrying the inventory on his books, holding the job for me.” Jack fingered the reins, considering what he’d done. “Call it an act of faith on my part.”

Footsteps sounded behind them.

“Well, I’ll be—” Jake Sampson chuckled.

Jack turned on the bench seat and couldn’t decide whether what he saw coming toward him was an improvement or not.

When Mademoiselle Girard reached the wagon, her cheeks were flushed. Strands of hair fell loose around her face. She gripped the side of the cargo bed, her breath coming in short gasps. “I am . . . still on time . . .
oui
?”

He couldn’t believe it. Draped in brown homespun from the top of her pretty little neck to the toe of her fancy pointy-heeled boots, Véronique Girard was still stunning.

And selling his load of cargo was suddenly the far lesser of his concerns.

Jack reset the brake and climbed down from the wagon. “Yes, ma’am, you’re on time. Barely.” The crinkle in her brow made him smile. “You did well, Mademoiselle Girard.”

“The dress shop was not open yet, but when I knocked on her door . . . repeatedly” —she held up a hand as though signaling to catch her breath—“the shopkeeper granted me entrance . . . and was quite helpful once I explained to her the nature of our travels.” She finished tucking her hair into place, minus a curl or two teasing her temples.

“I’ll say you did well, ma’am,” Sampson commented, tossing Jack an exaggerated wink over her head. “Mr. Brennan doesn’t have a thing to worry about now.”

Ignoring him, Jack offered her his hand. “If you’re ready, mademoiselle, we need to get on the road.” He assisted her up to the buckboard, then climbed up beside her. “Did you remember to bring a jacket? It gets cold up there.”

“
Oui
, my
jaquette
is in my bag.” She situated herself, then smoothed a hand over her bodice and her skirt. “Madame Dunston, the shopkeeper, invited me to return later this week. She said she would alter the shirtwaist and skirt to fit better.”

Trying not to dwell on whether that was even possible, Jack chose not to comment and flicked the reins, hearing Sampson’s laughter behind them.

CHAPTER | FIFTEEN

G
LANCING BESIDE HER,
Véronique drew strength from watching Jack Brennan handle the wagon—his experienced hands holding the reins, the way he read the rocky path ahead and expertly maneuvered the team around potential pitfalls. Even the way he spoke to the horses—his deep voice soothing and instilled with confidence—had a calming effect on her.

Still, she kept a tight grip on the bench seat and concentrated on not looking at the sheer drop off to her right. Why she hadn’t anticipated this part of the journey, she didn’t know.

Jack pointed up the road. “According to the drawings, there’s a place up ahead where the road gets pretty tight. I might need you to watch the wheels on your side for me, just to make sure we’re okay.”

She shivered at the thought, and her stomach went cold even as her body flushed hot. She managed a brief nod, thankful for the chill in the air.

“Are you cold, mademoiselle? Do you want your jacket?”

She shook her head and worked to keep her voice even. “
Non
, I am well,
merci
.”

Despite this unforeseen portion of their trip, one thing had become clear in the three hours since they’d left Willow Springs— if God had chosen to linger over any portion of His creation during the seven days He formed the earth, she was quite certain He had devoted at least one leisurely afternoon to these mountains alone. There was a rawness to their beauty, but coupled with that splendor lingered an ever-present reminder of their power. And that awareness only grew more profound the higher the road twisted and climbed as it hugged the mountain.

Véronique chanced another look over the side of the wagon. The road ended a mere foot from the wheel before plunging into a canyon of churning water below. Fogginess crept in behind her eyes.

She closed them tight and concentrated on breathing—in and out, in and out, slow and deep—all the while wishing Monsieur Sampson had built this wagon with a roof and windows, and curtains she could pull closed around her.

“You all right, ma’am?”

Jack Brennan’s voice drew her back. She opened her eyes and found him staring. “
Oui
, I am well,
merci. . . .
” She swallowed and forced a smile, then followed his attention to her white-knuckled grip on the bench seat between them.

“I know that look, ma’am. And I wouldn’t call it ‘well.” ’

For some reason, she did not want to admit her fear. She already knew his, but that was different. Hers seemed so . . . silly in the face of all this man had likely encountered in his lifetime. She got the distinct impression that he viewed her as inexperienced and helpless, and that alone was enough to spur her to let go of the seat—almost.

She loosened her grip.

He maneuvered the wagon around a large rock in the road before looking back. “Heights.”

She kept her focus ahead.

“You’re afraid of heights. That’s all right, ma’am.” He paused, and she could feel him watching her. “That’s nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

She winced slightly. “That is nothing of which to be ashamed.”

“Pardon me?”

She ignored the glint of humor in his eyes. “I have noticed, monsieur, that on occasion you phrase your sentences in an incorrect manner, according to the rules of your language.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” His attention returned to the road.

“It is not an offensive thing.” She shrugged, watching how easily he held the reins. “It matters not to me. I only point it out because I thought you might want to know it.”

“You’re big into the rules, huh?”

“Pardonnez-moi?”

“The rules.” His eyes narrowed the slightest bit, still focused ahead. “You’re big into doing things the way others say they should be done. I mean, I’m fine with that—it doesn’t matter to me. I just thought I’d point it out, in case you wanted to know.”

“Are you having fun with me, Monsieur Brennan?”

His laughter was instantaneous and full. “I think the phrase you’re looking for, Mademoiselle Girard, is ‘Are you making fun of me?” ’ He pulled back on the reins. “And no, ma’am . . . I’m not.”

He motioned past her.

She turned and saw they were stopped alongside the road, at a place where the water from the bubbling creek she’d seen earlier had found haven in a protected cove. Not a whisper of wind moved through the trees. The surface of the water, tranquil and motionless, reflected the mountain reigning above it in amazing detail.

“Très belle,”
she whispered, and for the first time in months she sensed the faintest nudge to reach for a pencil or brush to capture the beauty before her. She remembered the feel of each instrument in her hand, the way they fit into the curve of her fingers and palm, becoming an extension of who she was.

Then she remembered—the gift had been removed; she was certain. And as quickly as the urge had come, it faded.

Her gaze trailed the edge of the placid pool back in the direction they’d come, and suddenly her insides coiled tight. The section of road they’d just traveled seemed impossibly narrow for this size wagon.

“Monsieur Brennan, you were making fun of me just now, were you not? To tempt my thoughts away from the steepness of the ledge.”

His answer registered first in his eyes. “You rescued me once, mademoiselle. I just figured I’d return the favor.”

The thoughtfulness of his gesture touched her. “That was most generous of you.” She smiled, unexpected mischief zesting her relief. “Although, I must say . . . I believe my
technique
of rescue was somewhat kinder than your own,
non
?”

“That may be, ma’am.” His voice was surprisingly soft. “But since taking hold of your hand back there wasn’t exactly an option, I think my way was safer . . . for many reasons.”

She found herself staring at the delayed smile moving across his face. “Ah . . . much like the situation with my gown.”

He held her gaze for a beat longer, then broke the connection. “Yes, ma’am, something like that.” He jumped down and waited to assist her.

She liked the way he held her when he helped her down. Firmly, gently, yet his hands didn’t linger overlong about her waist as other men’s often did. She thought again of how he’d referred to her earlier that morning.
“. . . their reaction at seeing a woman like you . . .”
A woman like her. He hadn’t said lady, or even young woman, but woman. Appreciation for his observance bloomed inside her.

“Would you be so kind as to retrieve my
bagage
, Monsieur Brennan?”

He lifted her satchel from the back and set it beside her. “What on earth do you have in there? Bricks?”

“You said to bring the essentials, Monsieur Brennan, and that is exactly what I did.”

He nodded, but his expression communicated his doubt. “Another hour, ma’am, and we’ll be to Jenny’s Draw. I’ll go see to the horses while you eat some lunch.”

Lunch
. She just now remembered that he’d told her to bring along something to eat. She’d been so intent on bringing extra items, her brushes and combs, her mirror and her books, that she’d forgotten about food.

“You
did
bring a lunch . . . mademoiselle?”

If there had been anything edible in her
valise
, be it the stalest bread crumb left over from the voyage across the Atlantic, she would have answered yes and fended off the ensuing guilt—anything to avoid looking foolish in this man’s eyes.

She shook her head, expecting a labored sigh.

“That’s all right. I asked Mrs. Baird to fix me a lunch last night, and I’m sure there’s more than enough. That woman’s idea of a meal is more like a buffet. Check the burlap sack beneath the seat.”

Speechless, she watched him go, knowing again that God had delivered Jack Brennan into her life to help her at this point in her journey. She looked up ahead to where the road folded back into the mountain and thought about Jenny’s Draw and the many mining camps dotting these mountains.

God had seen fit to answer her prayers pertaining to one man. Now if He would only see fit to answer her prayers concerning a second.

The acrid scent of burning coal reached them before Jenny’s Draw came into view. Jack got an occasional whiff of something else, and finally decided it was either rotting garbage or human waste. He’d never been to Jenny’s Draw, yet he’d been to enough mining towns in Idaho and California to know what to expect.

Mademoiselle Girard had grown unusually quiet beside him, and he was tempted to turn the wagon around and head back. But knowing he had a job to do, and that she wouldn’t let him turn around if he tried, he guided the horses on around the curve. He’d made a mistake in bringing her, and didn’t plan on letting her out of his sight.

Makeshift buildings, a scant arm’s length from each other, lined the solitary thoroughfare that comprised the mining town. The road was muddy from melted snows, and layered in muck and manure.

What few houses he saw were constructed of clapboard and odd pieces of lumber, and looked as though a stiff wind would seal their unquestionable fate. Tents squatted close behind the structures, one after the other, situated to take advantage of the scant shelter the buildings might provide from the north wind. He counted three saloons, and they weren’t yet halfway down the street.

A blast sounded, ricocheting off the walls of the canyon.

Mademoiselle Girard jumped beside him.

Jack instinctively reached out and covered her hand on the seat between them. Realizing what he’d done, he started to pull back, surprised when she clutched his hand tighter.

Smoke rose over the buildings on the far side of town, and a piercing whistle split the afternoon.

Her grip tightened again. “What is that announcing?”

“Changing of the shifts.” Which meant the street would soon be overrun with men. What timing . . . Best get their business conducted and be on their way.

He spotted a building that had steel bars fortressing the front windows. It was the largest establishment on the street, and he guessed it might belong to Scoggins. Guiding the wagon in that direction, his attention was drawn to a larger tent set off to the right. Women stood out front, all scantily clad and doing their best to entice would-be clients to join them inside. From the looks of things, their tactics were working.

Up ahead, groups of miners gathered in the road. In unison, they turned and spotted the wagon. Cheers went up and pistol shots rang out, echoing off the mountains and thundering back again. Jack would’ve liked to think their celebration was in response to his cargo and had nothing to do with the woman who sat beside him, but he had a feeling it might be both.

“You stay in the wagon, Mademoiselle Girard. And don’t speak to any of the men, no matter what they say to you. I’ll do the talking, like we agreed. And I’ll inquire about your father. Do you understand?” When she didn’t answer, he looked beside him to make sure she was listening. From personal experience, he knew how naïve she could be. Either that or thickheaded. His gut told him it was the former, but he wasn’t quite ready to rule out the other.