Hearing the young boy’s laughter drew Jack’s focus back, and gradually persuaded a smile.
“Bobby, I want you to meet Mr. Brennan.” Patrick looked at Jack across the table. “And this is Bobby, our youngest. Bobby, Mr. Brennan here is a real live wagon-train master.”
The boy stilled from his antics. “No foolin’?”
“No foolin’,” Jack repeated, guessing Bobby to be around seven or eight.
“There you are!” Hannah appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips. “You ran off so fast I couldn’t keep up.”
As though not hearing, Bobby raced around to Jack’s side of the table. “Will you tell me some stories, Mr. Brennan? Did you ever kill anybody?”
Hannah lightly chucked her son beneath the chin as she passed. “You mustn’t pester Mr. Brennan, Bobby. He’s our guest.” She shot Jack a look of warning. “Bobby loves hearing stories about life on the trail. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not in the least, ma’am.” Jack rested his forearms on his knees so he was closer to eye level with the boy. “Besides, what’s the good in rescuing a newborn calf from the jaws of a mountain lion if you can’t tell someone about it?”
Bobby’s jaw went slack.
Patrick rose from the table. “Well, I can see that just about does it. Not only do you have to stay for lunch, Jack. Now you have to move in with us!”
CHAPTER | FOUR
VÉRONIQUE SEARCHED THE street corner, then glanced again at the paper in her hand. Lilly Carlson’s directions to the livery—penned in block-style letters, strikingly uniform in shape and size—directed her down this particular street. But the street bore no marker declaring its name. Granted, Willow Springs wasn’t a large community, but how were newcomers expected to find their way without street markings?
After saying good-bye to Monsieur Colby, she’d located the bank with little difficulty and discovered, to her relief, that Lord Marchand had already made a sizable deposit to an account registered in her name. Ample funds were available to hire a carriage and driver, and to keep her driver employed, at least until the next deposit arrived.
Véronique looked up again and huffed at the lack of proper signs. She committed Lilly’s note to memory, and then tucked it inside her réticule. Did the people in this town déconcertant not believe in displaying placards to mark their thoroughfares?
Parasol poised in one hand, she tugged at her high-necked lace collar with the other. She would’ve sworn the sun’s rays burned stronger here. Already an April sun shone brightly overhead, chasing away the morning’s chill. Ignoring the open stares of townspeople, she summoned a confident stride and set off down the street.
She passed the mercantile, where doors stood propped open by barrels of potatoes and onions. Minutes later, she passed a men’s clothier, which she made mental note of for later—Hudson’s Haberdashery. Perhaps the gentleman inside behind the counter possessed the skills necessary to rescue her green ensemble now hanging sadly in the wardrobe back at the hotel.
A low whistle attracted her attention before she caught herself and faced forward again. A group of young men—schoolboys from the looks of them—gathered on the boardwalk outside the barbershop. Their comments were indistinct, but their laughter carried over the rumble of wagons trafficking the street.
Farther down the planked walkway, she slowed her pace and stepped closer to the front window of a shop.
Dresses hung from a wooden dowel, with obvious care having been given to their arrangement. What drew her attention first were the colors, or lack thereof. The materials all consisted of drab browns and dull grays. They looked similar to what the scullery maids at the Marchands’ home might have worn, only not nearly as nice. Hoping this wasn’t the only dress shop in town, Véronique couldn’t ignore the disturbing suspicion that it was.
The livery sat adjacent on the corner ahead, just as Lilly had described. Véronique crossed the street, careful to maneuver a path around the deposits that horses, oxen, and other animals had left in their passing. Didn’t this town have people who were responsible for the removal of such . . . occurrences? The bright royal blue of her gown was already covered with road dust; it wouldn’t do to be dragged through a pile of—
Her boot sank into something soft.
She took a quick step back, then grimaced and exhaled through her teeth. Not only was her boot covered with it, the hem of her gown was caked in the filthy waste.
She glanced around for a patch of weeds or grass in which to scrape her heeled boots, but apparently God had banished all manner of growth from this accursed scrap of earth. Trusting no one around her spoke French, she continued down the street, taking immense pleasure in expressing her opinion of this town, this territory, indeed this entire country and its inhabitants, beneath her breath.
She paused outside the open doors of the livery. Having never entered this type of establishment before and uncertain of the protocol, she chose to listen for a moment. Lilly had described the proprietor, and Véronique easily distinguished Monsieur Jake Sampson from among his customers. Now to decide what her best approach with him might be.
Men came and went, each giving her a thorough perusal as they passed. Without exception they all tipped their hats and greeted her cordially, but being the only woman in sight, Véronique wished now that she’d asked Lilly to accompany her.
Bits and pieces of Jake Sampson’s conversation with his customers floated toward her, and she soon relinquished any doubt that he was the right man to whom she should inquire about locating a driver and carriage. This man appeared to know everything about everyone in Willow Springs.
Waiting until the last customer exited, she took a deep breath and knew the moment had come.
Monsieur Sampson stood by a stone furnace a few feet away, his back to her. He pumped a lever protruding from the side—five, six times—until flames shot up through the throat of the stone structure.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Sampson.” She raised her voice to be heard over the crackle of the fire.
“Be with you in just a second,” he answered, still bent over his task. “Been a busy mornin’ and I’ve had nary a minute to even—” He saw her and fell silent.
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 unexp
ected 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, howev
er 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.
Remembered Page 6
