Authors: Tamera Alexander
Remembered (26 page)
A chuckle rumbled from deep inside him. His arm tightened around her shoulders. He cradled her head against his chest. “Then this was worth it.”
T
HE
P
EERLESS MINING CAMP
was a good distance higher in the mountains than Jenny’s Draw, and though it was April, a fall like coolness braced the air. They’d arrived later than Jack had estimated, a little past noon, with having to stop and clean up from Véronique’s . . . incident.
A fine sleet filtered down from the ashen clouds shrouding the highest peaks, cloaking the stands of blue spruce and towering pines until their needles shimmered in the gray light.
Jack stood just inside the open doorway of the supply building and listened as the merchant counted the payment. The old man’s gnarled fingers moved slower than Jack would have liked.
Véronique remained in the wagon, swathed in a blanket she kept tucked close beneath her chin.
They’d stopped shortly after her illness so she could rinse her skirt in the creek and freshen up. The floor of the wagon had borne the brunt of it and he’d easily set that to right with a bucket of water. He only wished he could say the same for her ransacked pride. A quick pilfer through the supplies in the wagon bed afforded him what he needed. Miners’ shirts and dungarees were standard freighting items.
Unfortunately, women’s skirts and shirtwaists were not.
He knew she had to be chilled with that damp skirt on but she’d insisted on wearing it. And the look she’d given him when he offered her a pair of miners’ dungarees was something he wouldn’t soon forget.
Miners continued to flock toward the building and were forming a lengthy queue that managed to wrap itself closely around the wagon.
So far most of the men were only looking at Véronique. One would occasionally gain the nerve to call out to her. But despite that and their obvious ogling, she somehow managed to appear at ease and in complete control. Though Jack knew quite the opposite to be true.
That morning, as they’d passed over Maynor’s Gulch, he’d spotted splintered boards and debris from what he assumed was Zimmerman’s wagon far below at the base of the canyon’s throat. Not wanting to risk Véronique’s seeing the wreckage, he had persuaded her to move closer to him in order to divert her attention. It had taken some doing, and at first she had resisted, as he’d expected. But when she’d finally moved closer and tucked herself against him, the memory of what it had been like to be a husband in the intimate sense had returned again with such force that his response to Véronique’s nearness almost made him regret his action.
Almost.
Many years had passed since he’d felt Mary’s soft female form curved into him. But that was one memory time could not erase.
The feel of Véronique pressed against him had been more stirring than he’d imagined, and he’d already spent too much time trying not to imagine it in too great of detail. The brief encounter wasn’t helping that struggle, which was why it couldn’t happen again.
Not out here, not alone like they were.
Jack took in a deep breath, held it, then slowly let it out, trying hard to think about something else.
A miner approached the wagon, his focus on Véronique, his intent on speaking to her obvious. Jack stepped through the threshold and onto the boardwalk, making his presence known. The man spotted him and slowed. The fella’s gaze went from the rifle in Jack’s hand, to Véronique, and back again. Apparently changing his mind, he wandered back through the crowd.
Jack sensed her stare and looked up, but she quickly averted her eyes.
He’d tried his best to coax her into talking when they stopped at the creek earlier. He’d even joked about what had happened. But the more he’d attempted to draw her out, the more reticent she’d become. Her responses had been polite, brief, and void of their customary sparkle.
He thought back to the morning they’d met in the washroom of the hotel. His first glance had told him she was feminine through and through. That was impossible to miss. Since then, he’d witnessed her confidence, her ability to take charge of situations and communicate her desires—she had no problem with that last one.
But what he hadn’t realized until this morning was just how much of Véronique Girard’s confidence was rooted in her maintaining that carefully manicured appearance and textbook ladylike behavior.
It was a fragile façade at best, and one destined to be shattered and reshaped if she was going to survive this territory. He had a feeling she’d give fate a fair fight at it too.
“You’re most welcome to count it yourself, Mr. Brennan.” The merchant laid the final dollar on the stack and tapped it with his forefinger, or what was left of his forefinger. “To make sure it’s all there.”
Even before learning the merchant’s name, Jack had detected the trace of an accent in the man’s voice. His gut instinct nudged him to trust Bernard Rousseau, so he took the bills, folded them, and shoved them deep into his pants pocket. “I appreciate your business, Monsieur Rousseau.” He pulled the inventory list from his pocket. “These are all the items available. Might see if there’s anything else you want added for next time. Mark it and I’ll make sure it’s delivered.”
As Rousseau reviewed the list, Jack stole a glance at Véronique.
Her gaze was on him, the look on her face expectant. Since the Peerless was one of the mines that had attracted Frenchmen in the early days, according to Scoggins, anyway, Jack knew she had great hopes for discovering something about her father here.
Jack cleared his throat, knowing she was watching—and waiting for some sign of recognition from the merchant. “Could I bother you with a question, sir?” He waited for Rousseau’s attention. “How many years did you mine the Peerless before you decided to move into supplying?”
Rousseau smiled, revealing a surprising number of straight, albeit yellowed, teeth. “I mined her for my first twenty years over here, until I lost the hearing in one ear . . . along with a few other things.” He wriggled his right hand. Not only was the tip of his right forefinger missing, but his ring finger and pinkie were absent as well. “Blasting powder. Funny thing is, I still feel an ache in those fingers every once in a while.” He shrugged. “Running the supply store is easier on an old man’s body, not to mention safer. I’ve been doing this since ’63.”
Jack quickly did the math. This man came over two years before Pierre Gustave Girard. “Have you ever returned home, sir?”
A wistful look moved over the man’s face. “Only every night, in my dreams. I would give much to see the light reflecting off the river Seine one more time. Or to visit the Sainte-Chapelle at sunset” —the look in his eyes went vague as though reliving a memory—“and watch
rouge
settle across the city as evening falls.”
For Véronique’s sake, Jack prayed this man would at least have heard of her father. He briefly described the circumstances of their search for Pierre Gustave Girard. “Does he sound familiar at all, Mr. Rousseau?”
The man sighed, shaking his head. “I’m afraid that can describe a number of men I’ve known in the past, and still do. We all came with such dreams. . . .” He indicated for Jack to precede him out the door to the muddied street. “The name is common enough among my countrymen, but I can’t say I know the man you’re asking about. Many of us have passed through the Peerless. Quite a few have stayed.” Rousseau’s brow crinkled. “You’re welcome to ask around just down the road there.” He motioned. “Just past the last saloon on the right. You’ll come across a row of bunkhouses. We call it Ma Petite France. Some of the men have been here since the first blast, like I have. We came over together. But they still work the mines. If this . . . Pierre Girard is here, or if he has been through here in recent years, they’ll know it.” He glanced from Jack to the wagon.
“Très belle,”
he whispered. “You’ve got a fine-looking wife, Brennan, and it’s an honorable thing you’re doing in searching for her father. Especially after all this time.”
Jack followed the man’s admiring stare, pleased when Véronique met his gaze and offered the tiniest smile. “Actually, we’re n—”
“You’re wise not to let her out of your sight, and if I may be so bold, I’d suggest you rethink bringing her along with you in the future. Marriage isn’t necessarily a respected union in places like this. Not by some, anyway.” His expression sobered. “If anything happened to you up here, Brennan, she’d be left on her lonesome. And that wouldn’t be a desirable thing.”
Jack nodded. “I understand.”
Rousseau opened his mouth as if to say more, then firmed his lips. “I wish you both safe journey.”
Jack tilted his head slightly. “Is there . . . something else you wanted to say, Mr. Rousseau?”
His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the wagons and miners cramming the street. “Only that you ought not delay getting back down the mountain.” The older man took off his hat and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “There’ve been some . . . accidents of late.” His gaze settled on the dirt beneath his worn leather boots. “You seem like an honest man to me, Brennan, but your predecessor” —his voice lowered—“was not. Nor the fella before him. They dealt unfairly and earned a lot of enemies in this town, and others nearby.”
Jack thought of Zimmerman and of the scene he’d viewed earlier that day—plank boards and wagon wheels splintered at the bottom of the canyon. Something about the scene had bothered him then, and it struck him now what it was.
He didn’t remember seeing any remnants of supplies scattered among the debris. Perhaps some of the miners had scavenged them. Rescuing Zimmerman from his ledge had to have been difficult, but that canyon wall was a sheer drop-off of at least three hundred feet on all sides. It would have been near impossible for anyone to retrieve the supplies after the fact.
Jack shifted his weight. “Why would someone hold a grudge against me for something Zimmerman did?”
Rousseau looked at him pointedly. “Sometimes the only thing revenge needs is a target, Mr. Brennan. It doesn’t care who’s to blame. Now the two of you had best be on—” A sudden cough hit him. The spasm seemed to deepen, and Rousseau clutched his chest until he regained his breath.
Jack recognized the phlegmy sound. Lung congestion was familiar among old-timers in the mining camps. “I appreciate your advice, sir.” He extended his hand. “We’ll stop by Ma Petite France, then promptly be on our way.”
Jack returned to the wagon, aware of Véronique’s keen attention every step of the way. He climbed to the bench seat beside her.
“We’re going to head on down the road a ways. Rousseau said that—” “Rousseau?” She looked from him to the man standing in the doorway.
“He came over a couple of years before your father did. I’m guessing, but I think he’s probably about your father’s age.”
“But, he looks so . . . old.”
Jack nodded, having thought the same thing. “Mining’s hard work. It tends to age a man before his time.”
If it doesn’t kill him first
.
He guided the wagon through the hordes of men lined up for supplies—and no doubt a look at Véronique—then followed Rousseau’s directions down the street to the cluster of bunkhouses.
One hour and countless inquiries later, Ma Petite France had offered up no clue to Pierre Gustave Girard’s whereabouts. If the oldtimers’ testimonies were accurate—and for some reason, Jack believed they were—Pierre Girard had never worked at the Peerless. But Jack had watched, stunned, as Véronique was transformed.
She conversed with the miners in their native tongue, laughing and speaking to them of Paris and their homeland—at least that’s the gist he got from the few familiar words he caught. She listened attentively to their stories and occasionally translated for him, telling him they shared with her about their families left behind, or family members buried shortly after their arrival in this new country.
Most of the miners seemed respectful enough, but Jack stayed close by her side, allowing his presence to stake his claim. From the distance the miners maintained, they got his meaning, even if Véronique was oblivious to it.
Back in the wagon, he and Véronique headed toward the main thoroughfare. She was quiet beside him, but he sensed a renewal within her, and a lightness that hadn’t been present before.
Then he remembered.
He guided the team in the direction of the supply building. “I forgot to collect the inventory list from Rousseau.” After angling the wagon adjacent to the building, he reined in and set the brake. “I won’t be but a minute.” He hopped down, tempted to remind her again about not speaking to anyone in his absence. But being aware of her sensitivity to his being in
her
employ, and not wanting to alter her current mood, he quelled that impulse. He’d had enough theatrics for one day.
Véronique watched Jack disappear inside the building. She’d wanted to accompany him, but he hadn’t asked. So neither had she. She took in the dismal view of the town from where she sat in the wagon.
How could anyone live in such a place? Why would they choose to? Something caught her attention—a rundown shack across the street. Constructed of gray clapboard and leaning slightly to one side, it squatted in the mud and muck and held no appeal whatsoever— save for the sign tacked above its door.
It read simply
Crêperie
.
She wasn’t so much hungry in her stomach as she was hungry in her heart. For a taste of home. The miners in Ma Petite France had proven to be a gentlemanly group, putting her at ease. More so than she’d ever thought she would be in such a place.
Hesitating, she glanced at the supply building and saw Jack inside speaking to Monsieur Rousseau. She looked back at the shack. It would only take her a moment, and she could keep Jack in her view the entire time.
She climbed down from the wagon, ignoring with a practiced air the looks and comments from miners as she crossed the street. The inside of the rudimentary
crêperie
looked no better than its outer shell. But the aromas wafting from a back room enticed her with memories of Paris, and warm crepes she and her mother had often purchased from a street
vendeur
near the Musée du Louvre.