Remembered (49 page)

Already Véronique prayed the Carlsons would find the grace to forgive her, and that God would provide another way to heal Lilly.

Jack discreetly reached for her hand. “It’s okay, Vernie. These are good people. They understand what it’s like to go through hard times. And I’ll be beside you when you tell the Carlsons, if you’d like.”

“
Merci beaucoup
, Jack. I would be most grateful.” She took a deep breath and gestured to the festive surroundings. “What is all of this about?”

“It’s a celebration, of our country’s independence. We do this every—”

“Fourth of July.
Oui
, I know of this. I have read of this celebration in a book from the library.” It had simply slipped her mind in the events of recent days. She caught a whiff of something decadent. Apple pie, perhaps . . . “It very much resembles our Bastille Day.”

Question shadowed his expression.

“That is the day my country celebrates the end of tyranny in France. Much as you do your freedom from Britain.” She recalled something. “Do you remember what I told you about Louis the Sixteenth?”

A smirk tipped Jack’s mouth. “He was the one with the nice house, right?”

She ignored his comment, but couldn’t completely quell her smile. “The people stormed the Bastille—a prison in Paris—and that day was the beginning of the end for King Louis, and also for his wife.” She let go of his hand and quickly slid a finger across her throat. “So we have similar histories in this respect,
non
? Fighting for our freedom?”

“
Oui
, mademoiselle.” He bowed at the waist. “And on behalf of my country, may I offer my gratitude to yours for the aid provided in our fight against King George.”

She curtsied. “You are most welcome, monsieur.” She softened her voice. “My country is grateful for the alliance we have formed with yours. We cherish it, in fact.”

Intimacy shaded his smile, telling her he’d understood the subtlety of her reference.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Speaking of alliances, I’d like to explore how we might strengthen ours, Mademoiselle Girard. If you’re open to that.”

Something stirred inside her.
Oh, this man . . .
“I would welcome those negotiations, Monsieur Brennan.”

With a lingering look, he covered her hand on his arm and drew her toward the crowd.

The first person Véronique spotted was Madame Dunston. Their eyes met and she tensed, anticipating the dress-shop owner’s reaction at seeing her again. Madame Dunston had been gracious when Véronique had visited her about the overdrawn bank draft, but perhaps she’d had time to reconsider.

Madame Dunston made her way through the crowd. “Mademoiselle Girard, I’ve been looking for you.” She gestured to the gentleman beside her. “I’d like to introduce you to my husband.”

As the woman made the introductions, Véronique noted the sincerity in Madame Dunston’s voice, absent of any trace of animosity.

Monsieur Dunston possessed a
gentil
manner that complemented his wife. “My wife tells me you’ve agreed to help her in the dress shop, Mademoiselle Girard. She’s long boasted about your talent when it comes to fashion, ma’am, so I’m pleased this has worked out. She couldn’t be happier.”

Véronique looked at Madame Dunston. Warmth and acceptance filled the woman’s expression, and it pained Véronique to realize that had the tables been turned, those were not emotions she would have demonstrated, prior to recent events. She curtsied, bowing low, feeling a depth of gratitude and humility in the gesture that she hadn’t before.

Slowly, she rose. “It is I who am indebted to your wife, Monsieur Dunston. In many ways.”

“Mademoiselle Girard!”

Véronique couldn’t locate the owner of the voice in the crowd until Jack directed her.

She couldn’t believe her eyes. “Monsieur Colby!” Excusing herself from the Dunstons, she wished it were appropriate to hug the man.

Bertram Colby grabbed her hand and bestowed a whiskered kiss.

He looked handsome with his freshly trimmed beard and ready smile. “Ma’am, you’ve come to mind so many times in past months. I’m glad to find you’re still here.” His gaze swept her up and down. “Looks like the Colorado Territory’s been treatin’ you well.”

Jack clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Glad you got back in time to join us, Colby.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. It wouldn’t be the Fourth without your show, Brennan.” His attention swung back. “So tell me, ma’am, how are things goin’ for you?”

As Véronique answered, she caught Jack mouthing that he would return in a moment. With quick glances, she followed his path, aware of people acknowledging him as he moved through the crowd. Men shook his hand, and women—single and married alike, Véronique noticed—made a point of touching his arm and thanking him for this evening.

Then she saw them—the Carlson family—and her stomach knotted. They waved, and Véronique did likewise, while attempting to listen to Monsieur Colby’s animated conversation.

A bell clanged, and she felt a touch on her arm.

“It’s time for dinner,” Jack whispered, and relief filled her at his return. “Miss Maudie would like everyone to be seated.”

Jack led her to a table with Monsieur Colby in tow, and the gentlemen flanked her left and right.

With a cane, and some assistance from Thomas Stewartson, Miss Maudie stood and addressed the crowd. “Welcome to Casaroja, dear friends. I’m so pleased you’re able to join us for this evening’s festivities. Let me tell you how the evening will unfold.”

“Who’s that fine-lookin’ woman?”

Véronique grinned at Bertram Colby’s whispered inquiry. “That is
Miss
Maudelaine Mahoney. Everyone calls her Miss Maudie.” Véronique was certain she’d detected interest in the man’s voice. “Casaroja is her home. And she is indeed a fine woman, Monsieur Colby. It would please me greatly to make an introduction on your behalf sometime during the evening.”

“Not near as much as it would please me, ma’am.” His focus never left Miss Maudie. “I’d sure be obliged.”

After a delicious steak dinner, followed by an assortment of delectable french pastries made special by Susanna Rawlings in her bakery, the men pushed back the tables and the music began.

“May I have this dance, Vernie?”

Véronique didn’t know what to expect, but quickly discovered that Jack Brennan had done his share of dancing, and was quite good. The song ended and another tune began, more lively this time.

She glanced around at the high-stepping dance the couples around them were doing. “I do not know this dance, Jack. Perhaps we should—”

He smiled and pulled her close. “Just hang on. You’ll do fine.”

Véronique stumbled once—no chance of falling with Jack holding her tight—and within a couple of minutes, she’d memorized the steps and was laughing along with everyone else.

The next melody was slower paced, and Véronique was glad for the chance to gain her breath. Jack didn’t ask her if she wanted to continue to dance but slipped his arm about her waist and pulled her close.

As the music played, she knew she would remember every detail about this moment—the feel of his hand pressed against the small of her back, her fingers laced loosely through his, the shimmer of candlelight, the violins playing, the rustle of the evening breeze through the trees, and the knowledge that God had indeed had a plan all along. Even if it hadn’t been hers.

“Thank you, Jack,” she whispered.

His arm tightened around her and he kissed the top of her head. Bringing his mouth close to her ear, he whispered, “I got my land, Vernie.”

She drew back. “Ah!
Magnifique!
I am so happy for you, Jack. You are most deserving of this.”

“I’d like to show it to you.”

“And I would like to see it . . . as long as there are no skunks.”

“Can’t promise that, I’m afraid.”

The sound of his laughter took her back to the time she’d first heard it, when she’d seen him standing outside the hotel with Bertram Colby. She was as close to Jack as
étiquette
—and propriety—allowed, yet she wanted to be much closer.

A harmonica joined the blend of strings, and she couldn’t remember a sweeter sound—not even in the opera halls of Paris. “When will you start building the cabin you have described to me?”

“I’ve already started clearing the land.” His deep voice dropped to a whisper. “Larson Jennings is helping me. My land backs up to his. We’re going to be neighbors.”

“I am so proud of you, Jack. And of what you are doing.”

The pride that shone in her eyes was more fulfilling than Jack could have imagined.

The music came to a close, and when another fast-paced jig began, he took her hand and led her through the crowd of onlookers to a table set up by the kitchen door.

Claire Stewartson started ladling something into a cup the moment she saw them. “Might I interest you two in some cool cider?”

“Mrs. Stewartson, you read our minds.” Jack handed Véronique a full cup and spotted Jake Sampson heading toward them.

“Evening, Sampson. Glad you could make it.”

Sampson took the offered cup of cider, nodding to the ladies. “Thanks, Brennan. Took me a while to get my work done. I tell ya, I got to have someone else in that shop or I’m going to work myself to an early grave.”

Jack drained his cup. “I’ve been keeping an eye out but haven’t run across anyone yet.”

Bertram Colby approached, a most eager look on his face. “Excuse me, friends. Mademoiselle Girard . . . might I bother you to aid me with . . . what we were discussin’ at dinner?”

“
Oui
, Monsieur Colby.” A mischievous smile turned her mouth as she handed Jack her cup. “I would be honored. Gentlemen, Mrs. Stewartson, if you will excuse us,
s’il vous plaît
.”

Jack watched her lead Colby through the fray, certain the two were up to no good. The demand for cider increased, so he and Sampson stepped to the side. “Sampson, I want to thank you for the good word you put in for me with Clayton. Whatever you said to him worked.”

Sampson raised a brow. “You got your land?”

“Yes, sir, I did. Still can’t believe it.” He accepted Sampson’s vigorous handshake. “I’ve already started clearing it off. Got a neighbor helping me with it.”

A gleam slid into Sampson’s eyes. The older man winked. “So that means you’ll be stayin’ around these parts, I take it? Gettin’ settled down?”

Jack shook his head, smiling. “First things first there, my friend.” He peered over the crowd and spotted Véronique and Bertram Colby . . . talking with Miss Maudie. Uh oh . . . what was that woman up to?

“So, Brennan, you have plans to start buildin’ soon?”

“Yes, sir, I’d like to have at least a couple of rooms done before winter. I’ve got designs drawn for a cabin and have the perfect spot picked out. It’s beautiful land. Best in these parts, in my opinion.”

Sampson lifted his cup in a cheer. “With Fountain Creek runnin’ through it, there’s little doubt.”

“Yes, sir. I feel privileged to have gotten it. My thanks to you again.”

Then it hit him—he didn’t remember telling Jake Sampson where the land he bid on was located. But Clayton probably had when he’d gathered the reference. Still, Jack’s curiosity was more than a little piqued.

“And you don’t owe me a bit of thanks, Brennan. Clayton never paid me a visit. Guess it was Bertram Colby’s good word that did the trick.”

Jack stared into his empty cup and, every few seconds, snuck looks beside him as Sampson watched the crowd.

It couldn’t be . . .

He recalled the day in the livery when Sampson had first told him about Véronique. The man had alluded to gold prospecting in years past, and when Jack had questioned him about it, Sampson had given measured answers. Looking at Jake Sampson, Jack was hard-pressed to see anything other than a very talented wheelwright and a livery owner. But still he wondered. . . .

He decided to test the waters. “I’ve already met one of my neighbors. He’s helping me clear the land, like I said. Maybe you’ve met him before. Do you know the families in that area?”

Sampson continued to watch the couples dancing.

“I said maybe you’ve met him before, Sampson.”

“I heard what you said, son.” Sampson tipped his cup back and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then he turned, a sage look in his eyes.

Jack held his stare. “You sold me that land . . . didn’t you, sir?” he whispered. “You’re the owner Clayton told me about.”

Sampson frowned, and it almost looked convincing. “What on earth are you talkin’ about?”

“I never told you where my land was located, Sampson. Yet you knew about Fountain Creek.”

The man looked away, scoffing. “I hate to tell you, but half the land around here has Fountain Creek floatin’ through it. You said your land was the best in these parts.” He shrugged. “What else am I to assume?”

That wasn’t true. And in his gut, Jack knew Sampson was hiding something. “I’ll keep it to myself—I give you my word.” He lowered his voice. “All I’d like to do is to thank the person who sold me the land, that’s all. I’ve dreamed of having land like that for years. I’m not asking you to tell me why you did it, or why you don’t want anyone else to know.”

Saying nothing, Sampson turned back to watching the crowd.

Jack spotted Miss Maudie motioning to him from across the way. He started to question Sampson again, but stopped himself. The man must’ve had his reasons for wanting to remain anonymous, or he wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to cover his trail. First with Larson and Kathryn Jennings when they bought back their land a couple of years ago, as Larson had described, and now with him. And
if
Sampson was the man, Jack had already accomplished his goal by giving him his thanks.

“Listen, Sampson,” he said softly, regretting having raised the subject in the first place, “just so we’re clear, I won’t mention this again to you, or anyone else. You have my word.” He started to walk away.

“You remember what I said about being contented, Brennan?”

The unexpected question brought Jack back around. He gauged his answer carefully. “Yes, sir. You said that learning to be content is hard. But that not learning . . . sometimes that’s even harder.”