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
MR. SAMPSON, 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.”
“Yes, sir, you could say that.” Jack gestured to a bucket of water. “Do you mind?” At Sampson’s nod, he filled the ladle and slaked his thirst, speaking in between drinks. “I’ll be running the freight service up to the mining towns around here for Hochstetler at the mercantile.”
Mild surprise skittered across Sampson’s wizened features. “Minin’ towns . . . You don’t say. I thought some crook by the name of Zimmerman was doin’ that.”
Jack smiled at the none-too-subtle insinuation. So far not one thing he’d heard about Zimmerman had been complimentary. Made him wonder why Hochstetler had kept the guy on. Jack only hoped his predecessor’s widespread reputation wouldn’t cast a shadow on him, and he planned on working hard to make sure it didn’t. “He did, until he got hurt recently, and then the job came open. I was already looking for work in this area, and Bertram Colby knew it. I had told him where to reach me if anything came open, and he wired me about it. I applied for the job right away.” Jack returned the ladle to the bucket. “Hochstetler took me on sight unseen. Colby put in a good word for me, and I know that’s what did the trick.”
“Colby’s a good man. We go way back together. If you’re a friend of his, Brennan, you’re already one of mine.” Sampson considered him for a moment. “You from around these parts?”
“No, sir. I’m originally from Missouri, but I’ve spent the last several years guiding wagon parties, bringing out new families to fill up all this open space.” Something about the way the older man stared at him made Jack wonder if he had something else on his mind. So far Sampson had seemed like a pretty straightforward character. Jack decided to let it play out, give Sampson time to bring up whatever else might be brewing up there.
Jack motioned down the street in the direction of the mercantile. “Hochstetler told me about another couple of storekeepers in the area who are looking to expand their trade. I’ll head over and see them this afternoon. I need to leave Monday morning with a full load.”
“I might be interested in doin’ that, too,” Sampson offered. “Let you sell some of my stuff. For the right price, of course.”
So that was it. The old man wanted a piece of the pie. “Judging from the quality of your work, Mr. Sampson, I’d welcome whatever you’d like to sell. I’ll buy certain kinds of inventory outright and other kinds on consignment, with an agreement that items ordered are ready on the days I’m back in town. I’ll also take orders from the miners and work out an agreeable schedule for delivery on your end. Sound fair enough?”
Sampson gave him a calculating look. “How often will you be runnin’ up and down the mountain, would you say?”
“I’m figuring at least twice a week. Maybe three times, depending on the distance to the towns and what the weather’s like.”
“You be travelin’ alone, Brennan?”
What was this old codger up to? Was he hinting at wanting to go along? Jack ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, working hard to hide his grin. “Is there somethin’ else you’re wanting to ask me, Mr. Sampson? If so, I’d prefer you went ahead and asked me outright. I’ll always deal with you that way, sir—straightforward. My word is binding. I’ll do what I say I’ll do, and I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”
A grin split the old wheelwright’s face. “That’s exactly the kinda man I pegged you for, Brennan.” The grin died a hasty death. “Which is why I hate to have to tell you this.”
Jack felt a weight drop into the pit of his stomach.
“I had an interested party come by here earlier today askin’ about this wagon. Real vocal about needin’ it. Willin’ to pay cash for it on the spot too.”
Jack worked to keep the frustration from his voice. “But this is my wagon. I put a deposit down on it. I sent you the designs, you built it custom for me, just like you said a minute ago.”
“I know, I know. That’s what makes this so all-fired hard for me to say. . . .”
Jack pulled a wad of bills from his shirt pocket and silently counted. “I have the other half of the payment right here. It’s yours.” He held out the money. “Mr. Sampson, I need this job, which means I need this wagon.” A regular farm wagon wouldn’t withstand the load of goods he needed to haul, much less be able to cover the punishing terrain.
Jack took a calming breath, trying to figure out where Sampson was going with this. His thoughts skidded to a halt. “If it’s more money you want . . .” He sighed and studied the dirt beneath his boots. He’d invested a sizable amount just to get the wagon and a team of horses. He needed the remainder to cover supplies and inventory, not to mention finding a place to live. He’d hoped to visit the land and title office to see what property might be available. “Listen, Mr. Sampson . . . guiding wagons for thirteen years didn’t make me a rich man. You and I had a deal, and in my book the integrity of a man’s word is as binding as any contract, written or otherwise.”
“Oh, I don’t want more money, Mr. Brennan. No, no . . .” Sampson shook his head. “I wouldn’t take one penny more than what we agreed on. It’s just that . . . we also agreed to a delivery date.”
Jack felt the invisible knife in his gut twist a half turn.
“And when that date passed by, well, I thin
k I might’ve gotten the impression you weren’t interested anymore. One thing leadin’ to another, I think I might’ve given that other party the notion that the wagon was available.”
“You think you might’ve?” At Sampson’s noncommittal shrug, Jack exhaled through clenched teeth and put the money away. “Tell you what, if you’ll let me know how to get in touch with this guy, I’ll see if I can work something out with him. Maybe he’s not in as much of a hurry as I am. You could even use my drawings again and build him the same rig.”
Sampson stroked his beard. “We could do it that way, but I got the feelin’ that time figured into it for this other person too. Tell you what . . . I think it might be better if I get in touch with them instead, under the circumstances.” The old man wriggled his gray brows. “I can be mighty persuasive when I put my whole self into it.”
Begrudgingly, Jack made his way back to the Baird and Smith Hotel, hoping Sampson’s persuasive talents would work better on the other fella than they’d worked on him.
By the time Véronique met Lilly for lunch, it was half past one. The outdoor restaurant Lilly chose had a dozen or so tables dotting a rare patch of shade beneath the bower of an aging tree. Seeing the blue and white checkered tablecloths fluttering in the breeze, listening to the low hum of conversation and occasional laughter, catching the sweet scent of a pipe, Véronique closed her eyes and, for a moment, was carried back to a street café near the Musée du Louvre.
But only for a moment.
Seeing this place deepened her longing for home—especially when reliving the outcome of her recent meeting with Monsieur Jake Sampson.
But she wasn’t about to give up. She’d come too far to simply abandonner her plans at the first major obstacle. Drivers with carriages for hire were plentiful in Paris. Not so here, it would seem. But as Christophe had once told her—referring to certain members of parliament around the time when final votes were being cast—money was a powerful motivator. Lord Marchand had been overly generous with her, therefore allowing her to be the same with others.
Surely there existed in Willow Springs one honorable man who would be willing to take her offer and escort her to these towns.
“Do you not like your food?” Lilly leaned closer, her voice low. “I can order something else, if you want.”
Véronique blinked, then peered down at the untouched beef still occupying half of her plate. “Brisket” is what Lilly had called it, but the glistening slab of meat slathered in a brownish sauce Véronique could not identify held no appeal, despite Lilly’s compliments to the restaurateur. “I am certain it is delicious. I . . . simply do not have much hunger at the moment.” As if on cue, her stomach growled. Véronique cleared her throat in hopes of covering the sound.
Lilly stopped chewing. The telling lift of her brow indicated she hadn’t found the lie convincing, yet the smile immediately following said it was already forgiven. “I can tell something’s wrong, Mademoiselle Girard. I don’t know what it is, but I’d like to help if I can.”
Véronique smoothed the napkin on her lap, considering just how much to tell Lilly. The girl was so young, yet displayed such maturity for her—
Something from the corner of Véronique’s vision caught her attention. A man crossing the street directly in front of the establishment.
She recognized him instantly, and even with the scowl he bore, the display of kindness she’d witnessed from him toward Monsieur Colby the night before couldn’t be erased from her memory. His determined stride would have easily counted for three of her own, and she followed his progress until he rounded the corner out of sight. She eased back in her chair, staring in the direction he’d gone. What would ignite such anger in a man whose laughter so easily persuaded a smile?
“Mademoiselle Girard?”
Lilly’s voice drew her attention back yet again. Seeing concern in the girl’s expression, Véronique felt instant regret. “Je suis désolée, Lilly. I was somewhere else for a moment.”
Lilly repeated the unfamiliar phrase, her pronunciation near perfect. “That means ‘I’m sorry’?”
Nodding, Véronique glanced down at her lap. “My compliments on how swiftly you learn, but . . .” She sighed. “I fear I am not good company at the moment. My meeting with Monsieur Sampson at the livery did not bring the resolution I sought.”
Lilly paused between bites. “He couldn’t recommend a driver to you?”
Wouldn’t was more like it, but Véronique didn’t wish to disparage the older gentleman to Lilly. His motives—however uninvited and misplaced—appeared to have been rooted in her best interest. “He knew of no drivers currently seeking employment. But he did offer me the sale of a wagon.” She summoned a smile. “Unfortunately, my skill in the art of driving is what you would call . . .”
Unable to find the exact word she desired, Véronique reached into her réticule and withdrew a tiny volume entitled Grammar and Proper Usage of the English Language. At times she still fumbled for the correct English word. And on occasion, her native tongue crept into conversation, especially if the words were similar in the two languages.
She flipped the dog-eared pages, scanning as she went. “Ah! My driving skills are what you would call . . . deficient.”
Lilly grinned, but Véronique could see the wheels turning behind those violet eyes. She had yet to confide in Lilly about her reasons for being in Willow Springs. Lilly had assumed, as had Monsieur Bertram Colby, that she was here on an excursion for pleasure with plans to visit the surrounding countryside. What a ludicrous thought—that someone would travel all the way from Paris, France, for a pleasure trip here.
Véronique made mental note of the new word and put the book away. She gave thought to telling Lilly the truth, knowing how farfetched her reason for coming to America sounded. But she also battled the recurring thought that, even though she’d been a petite fille at the time, perhaps she was somehow to blame for her father’s never returning to Paris. Her mother had repeatedly assured her that was not the case, but the doubt lingered.
Setting her misgivings aside, Véronique decided to confide in her new friend. And beginning with her mother’s last wish, she shared the entire story, feeling her burden lift considerably as the details unfolded.
Lilly listened, never interrupting. She finally blew out an exaggerated breath. “That’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard, Mademoiselle Girard. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through to get here.”
“Oui, the past months have been difficult, but the most arduous portion of my journey still awaits. Yet I feel as though already I have reached an impasse.”
“Something we could try . . .” Lilly leaned forward, using her fork to help make her point. “Is to list an advertisement for a driver at the post office. My papa’s done that before. Mr. Brantley has a bulletin board where people post notices for services or supplies they want or need. We could also tack some signs up around town. And we could put your father’s name on there . . . to see if anyone remembers him.”
Véronique’s mood brightened with the suggestions. “Merci, Lilly, those are wonderful ideas!”
Lilly scrunched her nose. “Only thing is, I think Mr. Brantley charges five cents for each item you post on his wall.”
Véronique waved the comment away. “Is your post office open at this hour?”
“Sure. But first . . .” Lilly’s gaze dropped briefly to Véronique’s plate. “I’d really like it if you’d try Mrs. Hudson’s creamed potatoes.”
“Thank you, but—”
“They’re delicious . . . I promise.”
The lilt of Lilly’s sweet voice coaxed Véronique to take one cautious bite. Then another. The whipped potatoes tasted of fresh cream and butter, light and smooth, with not a lump to be found. “Très délicieuse.” Enduring a look of triumph from young Lilly, Véronique finished the entire serving.
But as they rose, she threw a parting glance of disapproval at the untouched brisket on her plate.
> If someone forced her to name one good thing about this territory, without question Véronique would have to answer . . . the sunsets. Pausing outside the boardwalk of the hotel that evening, she lingered for several moments, memorizing the hues of orange and lavande as they hovered like a vapor over the mountain peaks.
As the sun sank lower, the mingled shades grew paler, spilling down among the canyons and ravines with languid grace until finally the colors gathered among the clefts and crevices in pools of dusky violet and gray. Watching the magnificent display, she felt a rare moment of concession. Silently, she acknowledged that while Paris was still most beautiful in her memory, this was one exhibition her beloved city could not claim.
Her mind went to the trunk in her hotel room that contained her canvases and paints. Christophe had insisted she bring them. The trunk remained securely fastened, the leather straps still cinched taut by Christophe’s hand. In her state of mind while packing to leave Paris, she hadn’t wanted to bring the items. And her differing opinion had spawned a disagreement between her and Christophe on their last afternoon together.
“You have been given a gift, ma petite, and there will come a time when you will want these again. If you leave them here, I fear their ill fate will be secured.”
She took the rolled canvases from him and laid them aside. “I have no further need of these, Christophe. We both know what low opinion Monsieur Touvliér has of my talent. I’m fooling myself to think I could ever—”
“You are fooling yourself, Véronique, to believe one person’s word over the passion you feel inside when you cradle the brush in your hand. Or when you capture a piece of time and history in your perspective and make it your own.” He shook his head, his voice softening. “Do not so hastily discard a dream for one man’s opinion, ma petite. After all, for whatever else he may be, Monsieur Touvliér is just that . . . one man.”
Véronique doubted whether the painting supplies had fared well in the journey overseas, or in this arid clime. She hadn’t attempted to paint in over a year, but she had tried her hand at sketching a few weeks back.
Remembered Page 7
