Remembered (6 page)

She moved closer to the window, careful not to get
too
close, and gave the shutters a push to allow the cool breeze greater entrance. That was one thing she’d quickly come to appreciate about this Colorado Territory—no matter how warm midday grew with the coming spring, the evenings summoned a welcome cool. She breathed in and detected a sweetness on the air—a pleasant fragrance, yet unfamiliar.

Then she heard it again. . . . Laughter so rich and deep that the mere sound of it persuaded a smile.

Considering the direction from which it came, she guessed Monsieur Colby and his friend were still standing just outside on the boardwalk, two stories below. She gauged the distance to the window.

White lace curtains fluttered in the breeze, bidding silent invitation—either that or issuing a dare. She hesitated, trying not to think about how the floor beneath her feet projected from the building, supported only by a corbel beneath. But the need to be in control, to prove that she could do something of her own volition, momentarily outweighed her fears.

She forced one foot in front of the other.

For centuries, buildings in Paris had been built with oriel windows, so the architectural design wasn’t new to her. She simply tried to avoid them, making an extra effort to do so when they were open, like now.

She braced her hands on either side of the window.
It’s only three stories. It’s only three stories
. The phrase played like a silent mantra in her head.

Quick breaths accompanied the pounding in her chest as the sides of the window inched past her peripheral view. Finally, her midsection made contact with the sill. She gritted her teeth and ignored a shiver as the street below moved into view.

Closing her eyes, she gathered the last of her nerve and leaned forward. A swimming sensation caused her to tighten her hold on the wood framing. She waited for it to pass, and gradually opened her eyes.

Monsieur Colby and his friend were indeed standing where they had been, below her window, as she’d guessed. Street traffic had thinned as afternoon made way for evening.

Her body flushed hot, then cold.
I can do this. . . .

One street over, a woman at the mercantile swept the boardwalk while a young boy scrubbed the front windows. A bubbling creek carved its way down the mountains, skirting the edge of town, and a white steeple rose in the distance. She couldn’t be certain at this distance, but what appeared to be a graveyard lay alongside the length of the churchyard. Lilly had been right, this window provided an excellent vantage point from which to view Willow Springs.

A flush of lightheadedness made her head swim, and a faint whirring began in the far corners of her mind.

Rouge
tinted the western horizon, an
azur
sky offsetting the reddish hue. The mountains glowed in the late afternoon sun, giving the appearance that someone had lit a candle deep within them.

With every thump of her heart, the whirring inside her head grew louder.
“Breathe, Véronique, breathe. . . .”
Her mother’s voice rushed toward her from years long past.

Véronique gulped in air and tried to push herself back inside. But her arms refused the command. She teetered. The town of Willow Springs started to spin, and everything became a blur.

CHAPTER | THREE

H
ER BREATH LEFT IN A RUSH
. Véronique felt herself falling. But in the wrong direction.

“Mademoiselle Girard!”

Arms came about her waist and pulled her backward.

“Mademoiselle Girard!”

A hard jolt to her backside helped clear the fog in her head, and gulped breaths discouraged the whirring. Véronique blinked several times, aware now of being sprawled on the floor, with someone close beside her.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

The panic in Lilly’s voice unleashed a barrage of emotions. Véronique’s throat tightened. She massaged her pounding temples, touched by the girl’s concern but also warm with embarrassment. “
Oui
, I am fine. Though I am most grateful you came when you did.”

Lilly’s arm loosened about her waist even as she hastily repositioned her skirt over her legs. But not before Véronique saw the brace extending up the girl’s calf and thigh.

Lilly hesitated, and then motioned to the window. “If I might be so bold, Mademoiselle Girard . . . what were you trying to do over there just now?”

“I think I was trying to look out the window.” Véronique shrugged, the order of events still sketchy in her mind. Slowly, the memory of the man’s laughter resurfaced. “You were correct, Lilly. This room does provide a nice view. It’s—” she paused, wanting to get the phrasing right—“a mite easy on the eyes.”

Lilly glanced from her to the window and back again. “Well, I’m not too proud to say that you about scared me to death, ma’am. I knocked, you didn’t answer, and I came in to find you hanging out the window.”

Véronique considered the two of them on the floor and could barely stifle a giggle. What must this girl think of her?

A gradual smile softened Lilly’s shock. “I take it you don’t do well with heights, ma’am. Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve put you in a room on the first floor instead.”

“
Non, non
. I do not wish to move. I like this room very much.” Summoning an air of nonchalance she’d mastered years ago in defense against Christophe’s tireless wit, she shrugged again. “Heights are not that bothersome to me . . . as long as I do not look down.”

————

The boardwalk, deserted an hour earlier when they’d first entered the dining room for breakfast, now teemed with morning shoppers. “Monsieur Colby, I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me. You have been most kind and attentive.” Véronique opened her
réticule
to retrieve the bills, hoping he wouldn’t argue the point.

They’d met for breakfast at the hotel. The pancakes, cooked thin and crisp around the edges and served with jam to spread between, reminded her of
crêpes
back home, and the sausages had been plump and delicious. She’d also enjoyed a restful night’s sleep, thanks to Lilly having drawn a warm bath for her, followed by the late meal she’d shared afterward with Monsieur Colby. She’d half expected his friend might join them but she hadn’t seen the man since Lilly had come to her rescue.

She held out the money. “
S’il vous plaît
, Monsieur Colby, I would like you to have this as a token of my gratitude for your services. You have worked most diligently on my behalf.”

“No, ma’am. I’m not takin’ that.” He took a step back. “That French fella, Descantes” —his pronunciation prompted Véronique to smile—“he already paid me exactly what I agreed to at the outset, and I’m not takin’ a penny more. Wouldn’t be right. Anyway, I’d hardly call what I did for you real work. It was more like a vacation, what with the railroad comin’ clear into Denver now and the stagecoach runnin’ the rest of the way. I didn’t do any real guidin’—not like I used to. As I see it,” he added, throwing in a wink, “my main job was to make sure the menfolk left you alone. And I’ll admit, I had my hands full on that count.”

Realizing she was fighting a losing battle, Véronique acquiesced and tucked the bills back inside her
réticule
. It had been awkward at first, traveling with a strange man in a foreign country. But she’d grown accustomed to Bertram Colby’s gentle manner and attentiveness, his always knowing what to do and where to go next. She would miss him.

She’d been disappointed upon learning at their outset in New York City that he wouldn’t be able to continue in her employ beyond Willow Springs. From her brief glimpse of this small town, she gathered that finding a driver with a suitable carriage to take her to the neighboring mining communities would prove to be a more difficult task than she’d imagined.

He tipped his hat. “The last weeks have been a pleasure, ma’am, and I hope you enjoy your stay here. Be sure and take in some of the hot springs if you have a chance. They’re mighty nice and have healing powers, some say. I hear there’s a fancy hotel openin’ soon in a town not too far from here just so folks can come, rest up, and soak for a while.”

Seeing the exuberance in his expression nipped at Véronique’s conscience. She had not lied to Monsieur Colby, but neither had she been completely open with him about why she was in this country. He believed her to be on a pleasure trip and she hadn’t corrected the misassumption. “
Merci beaucoup
. The hot springs. I will attempt to see that attraction during my stay.”

Twice she’d been tempted to tell him her real reason, and twice she’d held back. She’d not confided in him, and apparently neither had her benefactors. She’d overheard Lord Descantes conversing with Monsieur Colby in New York City and had also been briefed on the letter penned by Lord Marchand to him. In short, the letter declared that someone of great personal import to Lord Marchand needed safe passage to the town of Willow Springs and that Monsieur Colby was to see to her every need in the course of travel. The amount Lord Marchand paid Colby was listed in the missive, and her former employer had compensated him well—demonstrating the same generous nature he’d shown her.

“I don’t know what France is like, ma’am. But this is mighty pretty country out here. I think you’ll like it. The people in this town are good and honest . . . for the most part. You remember everything I told you, you hear?” His expression reflected concern. “ ’Specially about some of the men.”

She smiled. “
Oui
, I will do my best.” Though she knew it would be impossible for her to remember everything, given the way the dear man liked to talk.

He’d often warned her about “scoundrels” as they’d traveled together, but apparently he was not familiar with the ways of French men. She could hardly imagine the men here being any bolder when it came to their advances on women. Growing up with Christophe as her closest friend had made her
privilégiée
to insights that might have otherwise remained hidden.

He had been the first to disclose to her the pivotal nature of a man’s thoughts, revealing how varied they were from a woman’s. Through Christophe’s detailed discernments, she’d learned that the two sexes approached situations, as well as relationships, quite differently. That bit of knowledge had proven beneficial on more than one occasion.

“A grown woman out here on her own is one thing, Miss Girard. But bein’ as young as you are . . . Well, miss, that’s another. You best watch yourself at every turn.”

“I will do that. I promise,” she answered, knowing he considered her much younger than her thirty-one years. But since it wasn’t proper to discuss a woman’s age—nor was it important to sway his opinion in this regard—she let it pass. “I wish you all the best as you continue with your responsibilities in Denver, Monsieur Colby, and I hope our paths will cross again.”

“I’ll be back through here in a couple months or so, ma’am. I’ll be sure and look you up, if you’re still here. To see how you’re farin’.”

“I will look forward to that rendezvous.” She curtsied. “And I will also look forward to seeing how you are . . . farin’.” She tried to pronounce the word as he had, and failed miserably. But the attempt earned her a grin.

Watching Monsieur Colby walk away proved more difficult than she had imagined, and Véronique busied her thoughts with the tasks at hand. She needed to visit the town’s depository that morning to ascertain her financial standing, which was based solely on whether Lord Marchand’s funds had been deposited as he’d promised her before she left Paris. Then she would visit the town’s livery to inquire about hiring a driver and a carriage.

But one thing she feared was certain—the likelihood of finding an escort as capable and honorable as Bertram Colby seemed a dwindling hope.

————

“How kind of you to hand deliver her letter to us, Mr. Brennan.” Hannah Carlson lifted the lid from the Dutch oven on the stovetop and gave the contents a stir. “And definitely beyond the call of duty.”

“My pleasure to do it, ma’am.” Jack savored the aromas as he watched Mrs. Carlson slide a skillet of corn bread into the oven. Home-cooked meals were a rarity for him.

So far, everything Annabelle had told him about Patrick and Hannah Carlson was proving to be true. He’d instantly felt at home and could see why Annabelle had spoken of them with such fondness. When they’d invited him to stay for lunch, he’d gladly accepted. It delayed his trip to the town’s livery to speak with a Mr. Jake Sampson about the wagon he’d ordered, but the day was young.

“Mrs. McCutchens and her—” Jack caught himself. “I’m sorry, I should say Mrs.
Taylor
now. She and her husband send their best to you both. And, Pastor” —he glanced across the table at Patrick Carlson—“Matthew sent a special message for you. He said to tell you that he wished the two of you could have another one of your . . . ‘front porch interviews,’ if that makes any sense.”

Patrick shook his head, a thoughtful smile surfacing. “It does indeed. Matthew Taylor’s a good man.”

“I always had a certain feeling about Annabelle and Matthew,” Hannah said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Especially after we got that one letter. Remember, Patrick? Annabelle penned it while they were traveling to catch up with your group last summer, Mr. Brennan. She wrote to reassure us that she and Matthew ‘hadn’t killed each other yet.” ’ She laughed softly. “And that’s when we knew.”

Pastor Carlson shook his head. “No, that’s when
you
knew, Hannah. I still didn’t trust him.”

The pastor’s tone was teasing, but Jack sensed a smidgen of truth in it, and he understood. He’d had reservations about Matthew Taylor the first time they’d met on the northern plains, when Matthew and Annabelle rendezvoused with his group heading west. But Matthew had quickly proven him wrong, for which Jack was thankful. After everything Mrs. Taylor had been through—losing her husband, Jonathan, so early in their marriage and so unexpectedly—she deserved some happiness.

And that she’d found it with Jonathan’s younger brother just seemed right somehow.

Mrs. Carlson returned to the table with a fresh pot of coffee. “Lunch will be ready in just a few minutes. By chance, Mr. Brennan, did you see Matthew and Annabelle’s daughter while you were there?” She glanced at his empty cup with a raised brow.