Remembered (48 page)

“‘. . . die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.” ’

At the sound of Jack’s voice behind her, tears threatened. Unsure of whether he knew yet about what had happened to her, but knowing how quickly gossip traveled in a small community, she couldn’t look at him.

“Would you like to continue?” He moved closer.

She closed her eyes at the tenderness in his voice. “
Non
. . . I would rather hear you.”

Jack came alongside her, and she listened as he quoted the rest of the sonnet. The words took on new life in the deep timbre of his voice, and she remembered something he’d said to her a while back. She waited as he finished.

“‘One short sleep past, we wake eternally.” ’ Jack paused and took her hand. “‘And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.” ’

She stared at their clasped hands. “When first we met, I asked you if you had ever lost someone close to you. You did not answer me then. But I think you did just now. Who was it that you lost?”

The muscles in his jaw tensed. His hand tightened around hers. “My wife, and my son.”

CHAPTER | FORTY

J
ACK’S WORDS HUNG
in the air, and each second he waited for Véronique to respond, they grew heavier.

Moments ago, as he’d passed the church on his way from town out to Casaroja, he’d glimpsed a woman in the cemetery. At first, he hadn’t recognized her. But something had caused him to slow down. Seeing the purposeful grace with which she moved, watching how she brushed the hair from her face, he’d known.

This was definitely one place he’d not considered looking for her.

His gaze settled on the grave at their feet, and the freshly pulled stack of weeds piled to one side. He gathered she’d been the one to clear it off. Why she’d done it, he wasn’t certain. But he suspected it had something to do with her mother. Or maybe her father.

Véronique wore her mining-town homespun instead of her customary finery, and after his conversation moments ago with Mrs. Rawlings at the bakery, he understood why.

Imagining the scene playing out at the crowded store on Saturday morning as Mrs. Rawlings had described it, and knowing how it must have affected Véronique, he’d wanted to march over to the mercantile and throttle Mrs. Hochstetler—the old battle-ax. Though the woman had reason to be frustrated, the way she’d chosen to handle the situation seemed intentionally vicious and meanspirited.

And from the woundedness he’d sensed in Véronique when he first walked up, Mrs. Hochstetler had apparently accomplished her goal.

If only Véronique would look at him.

Wondering where to begin, and how to tell her that he knew, Jack opened his mouth—then promptly closed it when she lifted his hand to her lips.

Véronique kissed the back of his hand—once, twice—then pressed his scarred palm against the dampness of her cheek.

Emotions buried deep inside him rose unexpectedly, and Jack struggled to keep them in check. No words she could have spoken would have affected him more deeply.

After a moment, she lowered their hands but didn’t relinquish her hold. “How long ago was this for you?”

“Fifteen years.” The rush of the creek behind them filled the silence. “And another lifetime,” he whispered. “I’ve been on the verge of telling you so many times before, but . . . just never did.”

“I would like to know about them both,
s’il vous plaît
. If you are willing to share with me. . . .”

Warmth spread through him at her concern. Even with all she’d endured herself, her thoughts were for him. “I’m more than willing, Véronique.” He wiped the tears from her cheeks, believing more than ever that what he had planned this evening at Casaroja would help lift her spirits. If only he could get her out there. “But would you mind if we continued this conversation in the wagon?” He winced, realizing that wasn’t the smoothest of transitions. “Remember, Miss Maudie is expecting us, and I’ve got a delivery to make.”

“Always it is this way with you, Monsieur Brennan.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Must we be traveling together every minute?”

He heard the tease in her voice but saw the weariness in her expression. “Not every minute, no ma’am. But right now I’ve got a feisty little Irish lady who’s waiting for her goods. And I know she’d love to see you too.”

At her nod, Jack slipped an arm around her waist and they walked back to the wagon.

As he drove the familiar road to Casaroja, he told her about Mary and Aaron, their life together, the day of the accident, and about his life since then. “So I spent the next thirteen years guiding other families west. Trying to move on with my life while learning to accept what had happened.”

She sat wordless beside him for the longest time. “How is it, Jack, that you can quote John Donne?”

He smiled and lowered his head briefly. “That would be Mary’s doing. After she died, I found a book of sonnets in her trunk. Parts of that one had been underlined, many times. And gradually, I guess I just took it to heart.”

“I also have that sonnet written on my heart. It was my mother’s favorite, and I read it to her countless times.” She gave a soft sigh. “But only now have I begun to understand its meaning.”

“It took me some time too.”

“Sometimes . . . it takes the better part of a life,
non
?”

Hearing the still-fresh grief in her voice, he took hold of her hand on the seat between them and remembered the day he’d spoken those same words to her. He slowly wove his fingers between hers, enjoying the privilege.

A warm breeze stirred the golden-gray stalks of prairie grasses growing on either side of the road, and Jack found himself counting the fence posts as they passed—and praying for her. He’d reached twenty-two when she broke the silence.

“Jack, I need to say something to you.”

He slowed the wagon but she shook her head. “
Non
, please keep going on your way. I prefer it.”

What she preferred, he knew, was not having him looking at her—something
he
preferred to do every chance he got. Yet he understood her request and gave the reins a gentle flick.

“Vernie, before you say anything else I need to tell you that I know about what happened at the mercantile on Saturday.” He glimpsed the question in her eyes. “I stopped by the bakery in town earlier to pick up the—to pick up something to eat, and Mrs. Rawlings told me. My only question is . . . why didn’t you seek me out this morning, to tell me?”

She looked at him as though his question were absurd. “I did not seek you out for the same reason you were not pleased to learn that I overheard your encounter with Monsieur Hochstetler. That is not too difficult to understand,
non
?”

He actually felt himself blush at her straightforward answer, and yet not a trace of sarcasm shaded her tone. Telling the truth was the same as breathing to this woman. He couldn’t hide his smile. “If I remember correctly, I believe the word
touché
would be appropriate here.”

“
Oui
, I have heard it used that way in this country.” She smiled briefly, and gently withdrew her hand from his. “Saturday at the mercantile was a most unpleasant experience. However . . . what happened following the confrontation with Madame Hochstetler was far more painful to me.”

Protectiveness rose within him but he kept silent. Obviously Mrs. Rawlings had not been privy to this part of the story.

“After I left the mercantile, I went to see Monsieur Gunter at the bank. My account with his depository is severely overdrawn, and there will be no more deposits issuing from France.” She bowed her head, and let out a deep breath. “But the worst news . . . is that Lord Marchand, my former employer, has passed away. I do not know the details, but I am certain to get a letter from Christophe eventually. At least I am hoping for one.”

She stared ahead as she continued, and Jack sensed each word exacting a cost. The hollowness in her voice reminded him of the loss he’d experienced after Mary and Aaron’s deaths—as though he’d been set adrift without hope of finding anchor.

He quickly put two and two together. From his earlier conversation with Lilly, he surmised that Véronique hadn’t yet told the Carlsons about her change in financial status. That had to be weighing on her something fierce.

The turnoff to Casaroja came sooner than anticipated, and he pulled back on the reins to negotiate the corner.

“I attempted to give Monsieur Gunter what cash I had remaining, but he would not take it.” Her laugh came out hollow. “It was not nearly enough to cover the drafts I have written. He and I are meeting on Thursday to discuss what is to be done. As he encouraged, I have spoken to all the vendors except for Madame Hochstetler, and Lilly and her parents. I cannot fathom how great their disappointment will be. Both in the change of circumstance—” She paused. “And in me,” she added in a rough whisper.

He searched for something to say, but nothing measured up. In the distance, at least twenty wagons were parked around the main house and along the pasture fencing. Wondering if Véronique had noticed, he stole a look beside him to find her gaze confined to her lap.

He stopped the wagon prematurely and set the brake.

That drew her attention.

He moved closer. “I know this makes little difference now, Véronique, but . . . I wish I’d been there with you when you got this news. About Lord Marchand, and about the money.”

Her lips trembled. She reached up and touched the side of his face. “Would you have shot Monsieur Gunter for me, Jack? Like you threatened the miners?” She bit her lower lip, but the tiniest smirk still slipped past. “Or perhaps Madame Hochstetler instead, which would be my preference.”

He couldn’t help but stare at her mouth, and the image of Madame Hochstetler actually helped to curb his foremost desire at the moment. “Don’t put such tempting thoughts in my head, woman.”

Her eyes sparkled, but only for a moment. “Since all of this has happened, I have been given the opportunity to look more closely at myself, Jack.” She shook her head. “And I have not liked what I have seen.”

“That’s where we’re different, then, ma’am. Because I like what I see very much.”

She bowed her head. “I was raised in a wealthy home, with privilege and opportunity not belonging to me by birth but by chance. Yet somewhere along the way, I lost sight of what I was, and I began thinking that all of that was mine. That I was deserving of it. In a way, it is ironic.” She closed her eyes, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “All my life, I have been a servant . . . and yet I have never possessed a servant’s heart.”

Jack’s chest ached as he watched the fullness of that realization move over her. She bowed her head, and a soft moan from somewhere deep inside worked its way up. He cradled her cheek, patient for her to look at him. When she finally did, he leaned close. “That might have been true in some sense before, Vernie. But it’s not true of the woman I’m looking at now.”

She took a quick breath and worked at forming a smile. “Must you persist with the use of that name?” Her lips parted and she looked at his mouth with clear intent.

Needing to ease the tension of the moment—not to mention his own—Jack drew back a fraction. “You’re not about to be sick on me again, are you?”

His mouth went dry at the look in her eyes.

“
Non
, Jack. Rather, I am thinking what it would be like to kiss you again.”

He could’ve fallen flat off the wagon right then and felt no pain. He actually had to swallow in order to speak again. “Is . . . is that so, Mademoiselle Girard.”

“It is quite so, Monsieur Brennan.”

She moved closer, and Jack did nothing to dissuade her this time. She seemed set on taking the lead, and he let her. Her kiss was tentative at first, her lips brushing against his until he encouraged her the slightest bit.

Her hands moved from his shoulders to the back of his neck, and she tilted her head into his kiss.

After a moment, Jack gradually grew mindful again of where he was. Caring so much for the woman in his arms, he took her gently by the shoulders. “Véronique,” he whispered against her mouth.

She opened her eyes but didn’t move.
“Oui?”

Still able to taste her, Jack thanked God again for His foresight in creating the feminine gender. And this beautiful woman in particular.

She drew back slightly, as though reading his thoughts, a twinkle lighting her eyes. “Do we need to . . . be getting back on the road?”

Did the woman remember every single thing he’d ever said? Jack shook his head, enjoying her smile. It boded well for the evening ahead. “Yes, ma’am. We most certainly do.”

CHAPTER | FORTY - ONE

J
ACK’S HAND BRUSHED
against hers as they walked from the wagon toward the far side of Miss Maudie’s home. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and Véronique smiled to herself, thinking back to moments earlier. There was so much more to Jack Brennan than she had first imagined, and still more she wanted to know.

She tried to imagine what sort of woman his wife, Mary, had been, and which parent little Aaron had resembled. Or had Jack’s son been a blend of them both? Learning about Jack’s previous marriage didn’t change her feelings for him. Discovering what he’d been through, knowing what he’d lost—and yet witnessing what kind of man he was now—only made her appreciate him all the more.

They rounded the corner, and Véronique came to a halt.

Her mouth slipped open. When they’d first driven up, she’d heard faint laughter and the thrum of conversation, and figured there was a gathering—the number of wagons told her that. But she’d never expected this! Casaroja had been transformed!

Glittering cut-out stars crafted of red, white, and blue paper hung from boughs of trees, and streamers of similar colors adorned everything imaginable—from hitching posts to corral fences to clotheslines. Royal blue tablecloths covered long plank wood tables, and candles were arranged at intervals, waiting to be lit. And the number of people!

The entire population of Willow Springs looked to be in attendance. Which made Véronique want to turn and run—especially when she thought of facing Pastor and Hannah Carlson, and Lilly, and of having to explain what had happened. In light of that, asking pardon from Mrs. Hochstetler no longer seemed a great issue.