Remembered (8 page)

Véronique closed the distance between them. “
Bonjour
, Monsieur Sampson. I come in hope of securing your assistance, sir.”

He cocked his head. A slow smile drew up the sides of his weathered cheeks. “Well, I’ll be . . .” he muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear. His eyes took on a sparkle. “Bon-jour, Madam-moselle.”

Caught off guard, Véronique chuckled at the unexpected reply and at the accent with which he butchered the words. But his familiarity with her language was encouraging. Perhaps this would go more smoothly than she’d anticipated. “
Bonjour
, Monsieur Sampson.” She gestured toward herself. “
Je m’appelle
Mademoiselle Véronique Eveline Girard.”

“Jim-a-pel Jake Sampson,” he answered, thumping his chest with pride.

His mispronunciations were endearing, and they coaxed a smile from her.
“Enchanté de faire votre connaissance, monsieur. Je cherche un chauffeur et une voiture pour me porter au—”

“Whoa there, missy.” Sampson held up a hand. “I made out somethin’ about you bein’ pleased to meet me and then something about a carriage, but I’m afraid there’s more there than I can hitch my cart to.” He leaned forward. “Can you understand what I’m sayin’ to you?” His voice rose in volume as he spoke.

She chuckled again. “Yes, Monsieur Sampson. I understand every word you are speaking.”

“Whew! Well, that’s good ’cause I only know a handful of your words, and those are a speck rusty.”

“When did you have occasion to learn my language, Monsieur Sampson?”

“Let’s see . . .” He bit his lower lip, causing the healthy growth of graying whiskers on his chin to bunch out. “That’d be some twentyodd years ago by now. We had us a lot of French trappers come through these parts back then.”

His answer evoked an unexpected response. Véronique worked to keep her hope in check. “French trappers . . .”

He nodded.

“Did you happen to know any of those men?”

“Oh sure, I knew plenty of ’em. They came through here in droves.” He crossed to a workbench on the far wall and retrieved a
maillet
before returning to the fiery pit. “Always brought plenty of business with ’em too, just jabberin’ away the likes of which you’ve never heard. You couldn’t understand but a few words.” His bushy eyebrows arched. “Well, that wouldn’t be quite true in your case. Would it, ma’am?”

His laughter rang out hearty and genuine, and she took no offense in it. Somehow the levity made her next question easier to pose. “I know it has been many years, but do you remember any of these men by name? Perhaps a man by the name of Pierre Gustave Girard?”

“Girard,” he repeated, looking at her more closely.

“He would have been through Willow Springs in the fall of 1850—perhaps earlier.”

“Back in ’50, you say?” He let out a low whistle. “That’s another lifetime ago for me. . . .”

The wistfulness clouding his features made the twenty-year span feel like a chasm she hadn’t the slightest hope of traversing.

“No, ma’am, can’t say the name Girard strikes any chord with me. But the first name is familiar soundin’ enough,” he answered, his voice lighthearted.

“
Oui
, I can understand that.” She tried to match his tone, but the pang of disappointment robbed the attempt. Had she expected to simply step off the coach and find her father waiting there for her after so many years? No, but neither had she anticipated the farreaching breadth and width of this country—the miles upon miles of land stretching east to west, as far as the eye could see. The magnitude of the task before her had grown more daunting with each mile traveled by train or coach, and she felt inadequate in comparison.

The only clue she had to her father’s whereabouts was a letter, and this tiny nothing of a town tucked in an obscure part of the world—a part she wished she’d never laid eyes on.

At the moment all she wanted was to be back in Paris, strolling down the Champs-Elysées on Christophe’s arm, by her bridge on the river Seine, or visiting her mother’s grave in Cimetière Montmartre.

From across an ocean, from the other side of the world, a familiar voice gently beckoned.
“I want you to do what I never could.”

Véronique bowed her head at the memory of her mother’s request, and at the thought that Christophe was no longer in Paris and that Paris was no longer as she remembered. Not according to the contents of Christophe’s letter she’d received in New York City upon her arrival. And not according to the newspaper accounts she’d read while there. Weeks old by the time she read them, the reports confirmed Christophe’s description of the fall of their beloved city after months of continual besiegement—the citizens of Paris starving, eating all manner of animals just to stay alive—even the rats that roamed the sewers and alleyways.

All of these thoughts wove together to form a cord that snapped taut inside her—bringing her reality to the forefront. She had no other place to go, no one else to whom she could turn.

She lifted her gaze and grew embarrassed at discovering Monsieur Sampson patiently watching her. She took a deep breath and gathered her composure.

“Have I said something to upset you, Miss Girard? If I have, I humbly ask for your pardon, ma’am.”

If she wasn’t mistaken, Jake Sampson’s demeanor had changed ever so slightly. He possessed a
gentil
quality she had not attributed to him before. “Not at all, Monsieur Sampson.” She cleared her throat. “But I do have something to inquire of you. Something that is most important to me.”

He remained silent, watchful.

“I am in need of a driver to escort me to neighboring towns in this area. I am willing to pay for the gentleman’s services, of course. And if he does not own a suitable carriage, I can afford to pay for that as well.”

“A driver, you say.” He laid aside the
maillet
. “You mean like a man for hire to take you places?”

“
Oui
, a man for hire. Someone to drive the carriage.”

His brow knit, whether from his frown or the smile that followed, she couldn’t be certain. “Someone to drive the carriage, huh?”

“
Oui
,” she answered again, this time with less confidence. Why did he keep repeating everything she said?

“I’m afraid I don’t know of any men lookin’ for a job like that at present, and I’m fresh out of carriages. But if it’s a wagon you need, you’ve come to the right place. I’ve got one in the back there, ready to go. It’s a freighter, made to order. Fella paid half up front and was supposed to pick it up a week ago, but he hasn’t showed. Haven’t heard from him either.” He gave her a discerning look. “How are you at handlin’ a team, ma’am?”

“A team?”

“Of horses, ma’am. Do you know anything about drivin’ a wagon?”

“Ah . . .” Véronique found herself unable to maintain Monsieur Sampson’s gaze. “
Oui
, of course. I have had that
expérience
.” If she counted that one time with Christophe when they’d been riding in the carriage and he’d momentarily handed her the reins. They’d been eleven at the time, if she remembered correctly.

Question lingered in Monsieur Sampson’s features. “Why don’t you just take the stage, miss? That’s a lot easier, not to mention safer and cheaper.”

“I have studied this option at length, and the stage route does not encompass where I need to travel.” While passing through Denver with Monsieur Bertram Colby, she’d visited a surveyor’s office and had procured a list of mining towns in the area surrounding Willow Springs. According to the map, the communities dotting the landscape didn’t appear to be far from each other. She wasn’t experienced in map reading but had calculated with relative confidence that the mining operations could be visited in short order.

“And just where are you needin’ to go, miss?”

The manner in which he posed the question gave her the impression she was losing his favor, and that was something she could definitely not afford. “I desire to visit your neighboring mining communities, Monsieur Sampson, and I am willing to pay the driver a most
generous
wage.”

“Yes, ma’am, I got the generous wage part just fine. But these mining
communities
. . .” He said the last word pointedly, as though it were a question itself. “I don’t know what information you’re workin’ off of but there are no mining
communities
around here—not civilized places where a young woman like yourself ought to be travelin’. No, ma’am.” He shook his head. “They’re rough and dirty and uncivilized, and I’d hardly call them neighborly. The only drivers that trek up to those camps are rascals who I wouldn’t want you goin’ with. Not even with me along ridin’ shotgun, much less on your lonesome. They’d take advantage of your tender age, and even young as you are I think you’re old enough to know what I’m referrin’ to.” His expression said what his words only hinted at.

Véronique felt her face heat, due in part to the topic of conversation but also at being cast, yet again, as a woman much younger than her actual age. All her life, other people had made decisions for her, and she’d let them, having no choice in the matter. But in past months she had discovered that she did have choices. She liked that difference and wasn’t about to surrender it willingly.

“So under the circumstances . . .” Sampson paused. His eyes narrowed for a slight instant. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with what you’re askin’ of me. Not and do it in good conscience.
Je suis désolé
, Mademoiselle Girard,” he added, the pronunciation of his apology near faultless.

Véronique couldn’t find the words to respond. He’d flatly refused her request, but he’d done it in such a caring manner she couldn’t hold him in contempt. So why did her jaw ache so badly? And what was this heat stirring in the center of her chest and spiraling up into her throat? She could scarcely breathe because of it. Monsieur Sampson’s concern for her, however sincere, didn’t change her reasons for being there or her determination to see this journey through. Apparently she hadn’t made that clear enough.

“Monsieur Sampson, I spent over a month on a ship crossing the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, caring for four sick children and their
mère
while I myself was ill on more than one occasion. Followed by riding in a train, where I either suffocated from the closed air or choked from cinders and ash blowing in my face. After that
extrême
pleasure, I was stuffed into a coach with five other passengers and jostled for miles in order to get to . . . this place. I have invested much in my journey to stand here before you now.” She hiccupped a breath. Her whole body trembled. “And yet you tell me you are intentionally refusing to provide me aid? Might I ask why?”

Fisting her hands at her sides, she waited for him to answer, her words playing back in her mind. Never had she spoken to anyone like this before, much less a stranger and a man as kind as Monsieur Sampson seemed to be.

She bowed her head and kept her attention focused on the caked hem of her skirt. Might Christophe have been right? Was she stronger than she once considered herself to be? But if this behavior could be defined as stronger, should she truly desire such a thing? She fully expected Monsieur Sampson’s response to match the
ferveur
of her own, and with good cause. She had spoken out of turn, and to a much older gentleman—no matter that her rank would have far exceeded his in France.

But when she lifted her chin, she saw only kindness and compassion in his eyes.

“When did you last see your father, Mademoiselle Girard?” he asked after a long moment, his voice barely audible over the low crackle of the fire.

Her chin trembled. She couldn’t answer.

“Or have you ever seen him?”

She blinked and tears slipped free. “He left for the Americas when I was but a child.”

“So he was a trapper.”

She nodded. “Before he turned to mining. He was supposed to send for us, my mother and me.”

Silence settled between them, unencumbered, as though they’d spoken to one another like this many times before. Something within her told her she could trust Jake Sampson, and she chose to listen to that voice.

“But your father never sent for you, did he. . . . And now you’re here, some twenty years later, hoping to find him.” Monsieur Sampson’s focus flickered past her to the open doors. “Is your mother here with you?”

Oui, in every way but one
. She shook her head, her throat tightening. “I left my mother in France,” she whispered. “In Cimetière Montmartre.”

CHAPTER | FIVE

M
R.
S
AMPSON, YOU CERTAINLY
do fine work, sir.” Having just come from lunch with the Carlsons, Jack knelt to survey the undercarriage of the wagon. Reinforcements of wood and steel crisscrossed the breadth and width of the extra deep wagon bed, enabling the conveyance to withstand even the heaviest loads he would demand of it.

He ran a hand along the lower curve of the back wheel and checked the spokes.
Flawless
. “Bertram Colby recommended you highly, Mr. Sampson. He said you were this territory’s finest wheelwright.” He stood slowly, waiting until he had Sampson’s full attention. “But I think he was off on that estimation.” He hesitated only a second. “This is the finest built freight wagon I’ve
ever
seen. And I’ve traveled about every mile of trail west of the Mississippi, so I’ve seen a slew of them.”

Jake Sampson laughed as though the opportunity might not come around again. “Well, it wouldn’t do for me to argue with that, now, would it, Brennan? I can’t be takin’ all the credit though. I was just followin’ your instructions, after all.” Sampson pulled the checkered bandanna from around his neck and wiped the layer of sweat from his brow. “You made the drawings real specific like. I’ve still got ’em over there on the bench if you want ’em back.”

“What do I need those for? I’ve got the real thing now.” Jack extended his hand. “Thank you for having it ready for me, and I apologize for being a few days late on picking it up. I made an extra stop in Idaho I hadn’t planned on.”

“I was only startin’ to wonder about you. Real worry hadn’t set in quite yet.” The old man’s eyes squinted when he grinned, and his handshake was as solid as his workmanship. “I built this buggy to take just about any grief you wanna give it. But one thing I don’t know yet is where you’re plannin’ on takin’ it. You must have some heavy loads and rough country in your sights, son.”