Remembered (30 page)

It seemed an almost frivolous thought in light of everything else, but she hoped someone—Christophe, possibly?—was tending that patch of earth, since she could not. It hurt to think of her mother’s grave being covered by weeds and thorny briars.

She squinted, able to distinguish the shadowed outline of headstones beneath the bowers of trees bordering Fountain Creek. Its churning waters issued from the heart of the great Rocky Mountains and cascaded down the narrow canyon off to her right. On their way back into town one evening Jack had explained that, years ago, the French traders had dubbed the creek
Fontaine qui Bouille
or Boiling Fountain.

Her father had been in this town—that much she knew from the postmark of his last letter to her mother. But had he walked the shores of Fountain Creek? Had he heard the ancient melody of its icy waters crashing down and tumbling over smooth rock?

Movement in the cemetery drew her eye.

She spotted someone walking through the headstones in the distance. A grown man, she guessed from his height and long gait. He paused as if searching for something, then walked to a grave and knelt down.

“You’re going to love doing this!”

At Lilly’s exclamation, Véronique redirected her attention, reluctant to look away from the man’s private vigil.

Lilly held out the reins. “It’s only fair that I teach you something in exchange for all the French lessons you’re giving me.”

“Ah . . . but we shall soon see if I am the astute learner you have proven to be. Perhaps I will disappoint you,
non
? Prove to be less than you have considered me to be.” Véronique took hold of the leather straps, struck by the harnessed power now in her control.

Feeling a touch on her arm, she looked back.

Lilly’s eyes sparkled, but with tears instead of her customary smile. Her delicate chin shook. “You are so much more astute . . . and beautiful . . . and cultured than I’ll ever hope to be. I’m so glad we’re friends, Mademoiselle Girard. And I’m so glad you came to Willow Springs.”

Taken aback at first, Véronique reached out and touched the girl’s cheek. “Ah,
ma chérie
, but you already are those things—every one of them.” She tipped Lilly’s chin and smiled. “But I am wondering . . . how can you not be aware of this?”

Lilly shook her head. “I stopped by the mercantile yesterday and there was this—” She hiccupped and sniffed.

Véronique pulled a handkerchief that had belonged to her mother from her
réticule
. An embroidered corner of the soft cloth bore the cursive initials A.E.G. She nudged it into Lilly’s hand. “Here, take this and tell me what has upset you so.”

Lilly nodded and dabbed her tears. “It’s not like this hasn’t happened before—it has.” She hesitated. “There’s this boy I’ve sort of . . . liked since I was nine. Sometimes I thought he liked me back, but I was never sure. Then yesterday morning, he was standing outside with some of his friends, and—” she winced, pressing her lips together—“I tripped as I was leaving the mercantile, and I dropped Mrs. Baird’s groceries all over the boardwalk. That’s when his friend called me . . . a name and—” Her breath caught. “Jeremy laughed. He didn’t help me. He just . . . laughed.”

A maternal instinct rose so swift and livid within Véronique that she was glad the boy was not within her reach. She pulled Lilly into a hug and stroked the back of her head. Strange how the gesture encouraged her own tears as she remembered her mother doing the same with her when she had faced similar disappointments. And how Jack had comforted her the day she’d made such a fool of herself by becoming so nervous she made herself sick.

Véronique drew back and brushed a stray lock from Lilly’s face. “I am sorry this happened to you,
ma chérie
. And as sure as I am looking into the eyes of a beautiful young woman mature beyond her years and lovely beyond words, there is a young man out there whom God is preparing only for you. This boy will love you for who you are, instead of who you are not. But you are young yet. It could be some time before this boy comes into your life.”

Lilly frowned.

“Because . . .” Véronique arched a brow. “Whomever God has chosen for you will be special, Lilly. This boy must be the equal to your traits of kindness and generosity, intellect and honor. And, in my experience, these qualities are not often found in abundance, and certainly not coupled together.” She pictured Jack, and silently ticked off the characteristics again in her mind, finding he possessed each one. How was it that no woman had ever claimed him as her own?

A tear trailed Lilly’s cheek.

But Véronique warmed at the sparkle slowly returning to her young friend’s eyes, and she recalled what her mother had said to her when she’d had a similar altercation with a member of the opposite sex. “That moment outside the mercantile, when those boys laughed at you, does not define the young woman you are, Lilly. Who you are is defined by what you will do with this experience, and how you will act toward those boys the next time your paths cross.”

Lilly nodded, looking mildly convinced. “
Merci beaucoup
, Mademoiselle Girard.”

“
De rien
, Lilly.” She patted the girl’s back, wanting to inquire about the surgery but hesitant to bring up the subject. Especially now. She gave Lilly one last hug, then gripped the reins and squared her shoulders. “And now . . . I am ready for my first driving lesson,
non
?”

Lilly giggled and released a lever on the side of the wagon. “That may be, but as my papa might say, are the streets of Willow Springs ready for you?”

————

The patch of earth where Jack knelt was damp, and gradually the moisture sank through his pants to his knees. He remained bowed beside Jonathan McCutchens’s grave, lingering, relishing the peacefulness that embraced this hallowed spot.

He had awakened long before sunrise that morning, his room dark and still, and stretched out an arm, the space in the bed beside him feeling empty and wanting. After so many years of accepted solitude, the discovery caught him unaware. He’d finally risen and reached for his Bible, taking advantage of a few moments of unclaimed time and hoping to fill the void within him—if not the one beside him.

As the sun had risen through his open window, and the bubbling echo of Fountain Creek serenaded the dawn, he found himself praying for Véronique as she slept just across the hall from him. For her to find peace in her journey, and that her father would be a man worthy of such a daughter—if Pierre Gustave Girard was even alive after all these years.

Pulling his thoughts back to the moment, Jack reached down to the grave and scooped a fistful of dirt. He held it in his hand, then let it sift back to the earth. “‘One short sleep past, we wake eternally.” ’ He kept his voice hushed, as seemed right. “‘And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.” ’ Weeks after Mary’s passing, he had finally worked up the courage to go through her things. As he’d sorted through the books in her trunk, he’d run across a collection of sonnets tucked amid the treasured volumes she’d used in her teaching. The particular sonnet containing this verse had been underscored and the page dog-eared. In the margins of the text, she’d penned a Scripture, one he’d since written on his heart.

“Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”

It had taken years, but the sting of Mary’s and Aaron’s deaths had lessened for him. Though death had taken them, it did not hold them in its grip. It never had. Christ had seen to that.

Looking around, Jack could understand why Jonathan McCutchens had wanted to be laid to rest in this spot. Thinking about Jonathan and Annabelle McCutchens—the couple he’d met last spring on his final caravan—his appreciation for what they had endured grew. Upon Jonathan’s untimely death on the trail, Annabelle had traveled from the plains north of Denver all the way back to Willow Springs, by herself, to fulfill her husband’s wish of being buried on the banks of Fountain Creek.

In all of Jack’s travels, no other place equaled the beauty he’d discovered in these mountains nor possessed the welcome feel of this community nestled at the base of Pikes Peak. He rubbed his jaw, smiling as he thought of what else he’d found in this town, and in recalling what Jonathan McCutchens had said to him the last time they’d spoken.

“I didn’t find what I came looking for in that little town, but I discovered what I’d been missin’ all my life.”

Jack let his attention wander the jagged mountain peaks to the west. “I’m not quite sure yet, Jonathan, and I certainly didn’t come to this town looking for it, but . . . I’m thinking I just might’ve found what’s been missing for so long in my life too.”

When Hannah Carlson had extended an invitation for Sunday lunch a while earlier, he’d been tempted to accept. Especially once learning that Véronique would be there. His gaze dropped to the cross at his feet—but this particular visit had been long overdue.

For several minutes, he kept his head bowed and laid his thoughts before his Maker, who already knew every one of them even before they were on his tongue.

Sighing, he stood and headed to the mercantile to load the shipment. Hochstetler had come by the hotel before church to tell him that Miss Maudie from Casaroja wanted her supplies delivered first thing Monday morning. But Jack figured he’d use the afternoon to get a jump on a busy week, and Hochstetler said he’d leave the back entry open. Besides, he would enjoy the trip to Casaroja and looked forward to seeing how that lively little Irish lady was faring since her fall.

CHAPTER | TWENTY - FIVE

V
ÉRONIQUE PAUSED MIDSTEP
in the doorway of the bedroom, her attention fixed on the frail woman in the bed. She hoped Lilly was right and that their hostess wouldn’t mind a

E´ stranger visiting as she recuperated.

Lilly leaned down and kissed the woman’s cheek. “Mama sent along something for you, Miss Maudie. And I’ll give you one guess as to what it is.”

“There’ll be no need for guessin’, Lilly dear. Your mother knows my favorites and never disappoints.” The older woman tilted her head, squinting. “Now, who did you bring with you there? A new friend, I hope?”

As Lilly made the introductions, Véronique approached the bed.

The woman’s subtle air of regality, coupled with the way her face lit when she smiled, brought back memories of her mother, right before the illness had claimed firmer hold. An unwelcome wave of
déja` vu
swept through her.

She curtsied at the appropriate time and was about to respond when, from a corner window, she glimpsed a wagon heading up the road toward the house. A rush of excitement accompanied her when she recognized the driver.

“Well, if that’s not a tellin’ expression, Miss Girard, my Irish eyes are failin’ me for sure.”

Véronique’s face heated at the older woman’s comment and at having been caught not paying respectful attention. She curtsied a second time, cautious in meeting the woman’s discerning gaze. “My sincerest apologies, Miss Maudie. I fear I was—”

“Momentarily distracted? Yes, I can see that.” Miss Maudie’s smile deepened. She craned her neck to peer out the window, and her brow slowly furrowed. “And I can easily see why, my dear. I’ve met that gentleman, and if I were thirty years younger, I’d not let you have him without a fight. Though with the pretty French package I see before me . . .” She made a tsking noise with her tongue. “I would’ve hardly stood a chance even then.”

Véronique laughed softly, feeling an instant bond with the woman.

“Véronique, it’s a pleasure indeed.” Miss Maudie reached for the bell on the night table and rang it twice. “I’ve known my share of Frenchmen, to be sure. But it’s a rare treasure to meet a lass of your heritage.”

The woman who had allowed them entrance when they arrived appeared in the doorway. “Are you and your guests ready for tea, ma’am?”

“Yes, indeed we are, Claire. Thank you. We’ll take it in here, dear.”

“Tea and Lilly’s mother’s oatmeal muffins coming right up!”

“Now, to the both of you” —Miss Maudie patted the bed—“sit down here and tell an old woman what’s happenin’ in the world outside these walls. That ol’ Doc Hadley trussed my leg up so good and tight I can hardly be movin’ it.” Her covert wink said she was only half serious. “I feel like a hen ready for the oven, and I’m as bored as a spud in the mud.”

“Mademoiselle Girard is the one with all the interesting stories.” Lilly nodded her way. “So she should go first. She just arrived from Paris, after all. And she’s been visiting some mining towns in the mountains.” She widened her eyes, encouraging Véronique to tell more.

“I would hardly label most of my stories as interesting. But a few of them have been rather exciting. . . .” Véronique looked pointedly out the window. “And they involve a certain gentleman who just arrived.”

Miss Maudie tried to push herself up, and more from reflex than forethought, Véronique adjusted the pillows behind her back.

“Why, thank you, dear. Now . . . do tell me everything.” Miss Maudie’s countenance brightened with anticipation. “And don’t leave out any details, startin’ with when you left your homeland, to when you first set foot in Willow Springs, and then to those mountain treks of yours.” A wistful expression swept her face. “It’s been ever so long since I’ve seen our mountains up close. I miss them so. And” —she raised a forefinger and offered a look befitting the most venerable teacher—“lest you be forgettin’, I want a full account of your time with your gentleman friend too. And not to worry, dear. Whatever you say, Lilly and I will keep locked up tighter than a drum!”

————

Jack finished unloading the supplies and sat down on the back steps to enjoy a glass of water and a slice of warm blueberry pie, courtesy of Claire Stewartson. From the wagon parked out front, and the occasional laughter he heard coming from inside, he figured Miss Maudie was entertaining guests.

“Well, that disappeared in a hurry.” Mrs. Stewartson pushed open the screen door. “How about seconds?”

Standing, Jack hesitated, not wanting to appear greedy.