The question, innocent enough, brought her up short. Particularly in light of Monsieur Baird’s earlier comment about her making a “lasting first impression.” Véronique smoothed a hand over the lilac fabric, suddenly self-conscious. It was one of her plainer dresses and by far not a favorite. Yet it was a great deal finer than any other garment she’d seen anyone wearing in this town. Studying Jake Sampson’s attire, she seriously doubted whether he owned a suit or even a shirt of its equal. That realization prompted an unexpected shyness, and she looked away.
She’d lived such a privileged life in comparison to others. How could she have lived that way for so long being blind to that fact?
“Merci beaucoup. You are most kind, Monsieur Sampson. And I think you would very much adore the ville in which I was born and raised.” It was a safer answer, in light of not knowing what the recent months of war had done to her beloved city. “I offer my apologies for not being here sooner. I was delayed at the hotel but am eager to learn what you have to tell me.” She glanced about. “And to see this carriage you wrote about in your note.”
He gestured toward the back of the livery.
She turned, only to see the same oversized farm wagon she’d noticed the day before. It hosted no canopy, no plush compartment, and no seating other than the wooden bench the driver would occupy. She tried to mask her disappointment, to think of something to say that would ease the silence growing heavier by the second, and failed.
“I know it’s not what you were expectin’, ma’am, and for sure not what you’re used to. But it’ll get you where you’re wantin’ to go—I promise you that.”
The man’s tone had taken on a forced quality that caused Véronique’s face to heat. She crossed the distance to get a closer look at the conveyance, and to hide her embarrassment. The boards of the wagon bed fit flush together—no cracks for sunlight to peek through—and they were connected with thick bolts, some as thick around as her fist. Though she was unfamiliar with such construction, the careful details of Monsieur Sampson’s workmanship clearly bespoke a man who took pride in what he did.
She ran a hand over one of the rear wheels, regretting her initial reaction. “Au contraire, Monsieur Sampson. This is one of the most finely built wagons I have ever seen. And it will serve my purpose well. Merci beaucoup.”
“You’re most welcome, mademoiselle,” he said quietly. “Turns out a fella came in here yesterday and told me the very same thing, which leads to why I sent you that note. He’s new to Willow Springs but comes with high marks from a man I’ve known for years. And ’til the sun decides to start risin’ in the west, you can bet that friend’s word can be trusted.”
“Does this . . . fella have experience as a driver?”
A faint smile curved Monsieur Sampson’s mouth. “You’re catchin’ on real quick to our words. And yes, ma’am, this gentleman’s driven his share of wagons, all right. He’s been guidin’ folks for over thirteen years.”
Véronique considered this while wondering how to phrase her next question. Lacking savvy in business dealings, she decided to get straight to the point. “What is the price of this conveyance, monsieur?” Her hand went to her réticule. “I can deliver payment to you this morning.”
“That’s all fine and good, mademoiselle, and I’m sure we can agree on a price. But there’s a few things you and I need to get straight before I get you and this gentleman together. First off, I need to let you know that he doesn’t—”
“Good morning, Mr. Sampson.”
The voice coming from behind Véronique sounded vaguely familiar. And if her intuition was correct, she’d heard it before—through a bathroom door that very morning.
CHAPTER | EIGHT
MR. BRENNAN!” Monsieur Sampson strode toward the front of the livery, meeting the gentleman halfway. “I wasn’t expectin’ you back here quite this early.”
While she’d hoped to see the man again, Véronique hadn’t expected it to be so soon after their first encounter. She smoothed a hand over her hair and thought of how she’d looked earlier that morning. Hopefully, he would consider this an improvement.
Monsieur Brennan shook Sampson’s hand. “I was out and just thought I’d stop by to see if you’d heard anything yet.” He turned in Véronique’s direction and removed his hat. “Ma’am, it’s nice to see you again.”
“Likewise . . . Monsieur Brennan.” Véronique offered a brief curtsy, enjoying having the avantage for the second time that morning. As she lifted her head, she watched a slow smile curve his mouth. It softened the strong angular lines of his face and brought out the kindness in his features. His smile captured both the mischief of a boy and the awareness of a man, and she found the effect . . . intoxicating.
“You two know each other already?” Monsieur Sampson’s attention darted between the two of them.
“We had the pleasure of meeting at the hotel this morning. Briefly.” The subtle tilt of his head made her think he was most likely reliving the details.
Véronique worked to keep her smile as subdued as his. “Monsieur Brennan left something of value behind—” her focus flickered to the telling outline in his front pocket—“and I had the opportunity to provide safekeeping for the item.”
“And it was a most arduous task for you, if I remember correctly, mademoiselle?”
“Oui,” she whispered, mildly impressed with Monsieur Brennan’s pronunciation. But far more with his gift at repartie.
After a moment, Monsieur Brennan turned back. “Mr. Sampson, I need a final answer from you, sir. I’ve got rounds to make to my vendors over the next couple of days. I need to arrange for supplies and get them inventoried and loaded. The buyer in Jenny’s Draw expects his delivery from Hochstetler no later than Monday afternoon, which means I need to leave at sunup that day.”
Jake Sampson ran a hand over his beard as though giving this news his full consideration. “That sounds like a good plan, Brennan. Yes sir, it does. Mighty thorough on your part to think things through like that.”
If Véronique interpreted Monsieur Brennan’s expression correctly, he had anticipated quite a different response. She sensed his frustration and, in part, shared it. The thread of this conversation seemed a touch frayed.
“Mr. Sampson . . .” Brennan’s posture stiffened slightly. “I need you to tell me outright—is that wagon mine or not?”
It took a moment for the question to register with her. Was the wagon his or not? Véronique’s attention moved between the two men as she waited for Jake Sampson to tell Mr. Brennan that the wagon was already sold. That it belonged to her, or would, as soon as she paid for it.
But he didn’t.
She stepped forward with the intent of clearing up the misunderstanding, but Monsieur Sampson’s look of warning kept her silent.
“The problem, Mr. Brennan,” Sampson said, rubbing the back of his neck, “is that I’m in a bit of a quandary here. The other person I told you about is still interested in the wagon. In fact, they’ve told me they want to buy it.”
Véronique relaxed at Monsieur Sampson’s admission, but she didn’t approve of the way he was handling the situation. Why didn’t he reveal that she was the person buying the wagon instead of acting like it was someone else? Perhaps it was customary here to spare patrons the angst and embarrassment of bidding for the same conveyance. But they were all adults. Monsieur Brennan would understand that she’d simply gotten there first.
“Did you try speaking with him?” The muscles in Monsieur Brennan’s jawline corded tight, much like Christophe’s used to do before his temper erupted. “Did you ask if they could wait until you got another one built? Timing is crucial for me, sir.”
Monsieur Brennan’s voice had deepened with resolve, but still he maintained his gentlemanly decorum, and Véronique’s estimation of his character grew immensely. Her mother had always said that the true measure of a person was best observed when dealing with adversity. And judging from the scowl on Monsieur Brennan’s face, the si
tuation was most decidedly adverse for him at the moment.
“This person needs that wagon now too, Mr. Brennan.” Monsieur Sampson remained firm on his position, yet humble in tone. The two men were well matched in that respect. “They have a lot of traveling to do. And they need to do it before winter sets in. Some of the places they’re needin’ to get to are treacherous come first snowfall, so timing figures into things for them as much as it does for you. But I got the impression they’d be real open to workin’ a deal with you—in exchange for your services.”
At the mention of a deal, Véronique’s concern was resurrected. Why did she need Monsieur Brennan’s services? The wagon belonged to her, not him.
“In exchange for my services? They want me to haul something for them?”
Monsieur Sampson gave a half-hearted nod. “In a manner of speakin’. You’d get full use of the wagon though, whenever you want it . . . at no cost to you.”
Hearing that, Véronique readied an objection. How was her driver supposed to escort her to mining towns while her wagon was at Monsieur Brennan’s constant beck and call? “Excusez-moi, messieurs. I must interrupt—”
“And you’ll get all this, Mr. Brennan,” Sampson continued, his tone unusually firm, “in exchange for allowin’ this person to ride along with you on your trips from time to time.”
Poised to argue, Véronique felt an imaginary veil being yanked away. She gradually let out the breath she was holding and turned to look at Monsieur Brennan. He was the driver to whom Jake Sampson had referred earlier? The one with all the experience, who came so highly recommended?
With that discovery, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. God had provided a driver to see her journey to its fruition.
A renewed sense of hope took hold inside. From Bertram Colby’s reaction to seeing Monsieur Brennan the other night, she had already guessed him to be an honorable man. He was exactly the type of man she needed to provide her safe passage to the mining towns where she could locate her father, Pierre Gustave Girard. The man her mother had loved in life and to whom she had remained faithful unto death.
Véronique felt it again—the same rising tide of emotion she’d experienced when speaking with Monsieur Baird at the hotel that morning. Only now she knew what it was . . . the fledgling love of a child. Like a tender green shoot, it sprouted from a root in dry and sterile ground somewhere deep inside her—the love for a man she couldn’t remember, and a father she might still never know.
Her gaze slowly trailed to the wagon, then back to Monsieur Brennan. She’d never been astute at bargaining, but this was one négociation she was determined not to lose.
CHAPTER | NINE
J ACK WASN’T CERTAIN he’d heard the woman correctly. Through a haze of lingering frustration and anger, he looked down at her.“You want me to be your what, ma’am?” “My driver, monsieur. I will compensate you well and will allow you use of my wagon when you are not escorting me on my journeys.”
“Escorting you on your journeys?”
She nodded, her smile leaving no doubt that she considered her offer acceptable, if not overly generous, and that the deal between them had been struck.
The woman could not have been more mistaken.
“Ma’am . . . mademoiselle,” he corrected, making sure he had the livery owner’s attention, “I don’t know what you and Mr. Sampson have cooked up between you, but if you think I’m going to agree to the two of us traveling up in the mountains together, going to mining towns, of all places . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “I wish to inform you as gently as possible . . . that you are mistaken.”
Frankly, he couldn’t believe Jake Sampson would even propose such a thing, much less be party to it. He would’ve thought the older gentleman had more respect—first for this young woman’s reputation, and second for his being a normal red-blooded male.
Jack had to admit . . . if he’d considered this lady pretty before, he had been wrong. She was captivating.
Her smile faded. Confusion clouded her features.
The sudden change tugged at his sense of honor, until he realized it was his sense of honor that wouldn’t allow him to agree to such a cockeyed plan.
“Mademoiselle—” Jack hesitated, realizing he didn’t know the woman’s name. From the awareness in her eyes, he guessed she was thinking the very same thing.
He could already tell she would be a handful to travel with. Not that he was going to—he wasn’t—but he’d seen his share of female travelers through the years. At the outset of a journey, he could pretty well peg which women would adjust to the hardships and make the trip fine, which ones would have more of a problem adapting, and which ones would most likely be the death of him along the way.
She offered a curtsy befitting an emperor’s court, gracefully sweeping her skirt to one side. “Je m’appelle—” she rose slowly, her smile radiant—“Mademoiselle Véronique Evelyn Girard.”
Oh, this woman was definitely part of the latter group. Jack couldn’t help but smile at that thought, then immediately feared she would misconstrue his reaction.
If the rekindled hope in her expression could serve as evidence, she’d done just that. “I am certain, monsieur, that we can come to some type of arrangement that will be agreeable to you. Your associates speak most highly of you, and your experience in being a driver is extensive, non?”
Jack supposed that what he’d dedicated the past thirteen years of his life to could be summed up as a kind of “driving.” But the way she said it made his past profession seem far less a contribution to mankind than he would have liked. And he’d always hoped to leave something of a lasting legacy. But that was his pride talking, and he knew it. “Mademoiselle Girard, I am honored that you would entrust me with your safety, but this arrangement is simply unsuitable, for more reasons than I care to number.”
She frowned. “You do not know the entire arrangement, as I have not told you what your compensation will be. And yet you find it unsuitable?”
Jack acknowledged the two men entering the livery just then, not missing the object of their stares or what manner of men they were. Another customer wandered in after them. “When I said unsuitable, I wasn’t referring to—”
“I have in mind to pay you seven dollars for each day that you escort me to these neighboring communities.” She opened her reticule. “I have monies with me now and can pay several days in avance, if that is your wish.”
“Ma’am, please” —Jack moved to shield the stack of bills from view—“put your money away. It’s not safe to flaunt cash in public like that.” As if the woman herself wasn’t enough of a temptation. . . .
“I was not flaunting my money, Monsieur Brennan.” Offense cooled her tone, as well as those brown eyes. “I was demonstrating that I am capable of providing remuneration for your services.”
Jack hesitated before answering. Seems no matter what he said, he said the wrong thing. “That fact was never in question, ma’am. I was only trying to protect your interests, not . . . correct some social blunder.”
She nodded, pursing her lips. “You mean a faux pas.”
He stared for a second. “Pardon me?”
“A faux pas is a blunder of some sort. It refers to either an action or an utterance, and can be made in public or in a personal setting.”
Already familiar with the meaning, Jack allowed her to go on dissecting the word limb by limb as he kept a close eye on the two men nearby. Jake Sampson was assisting the other customer, but Jack instinctively knew the livery owner had eyes in the back of his head.
“But the word” —she squinted as if trying to recall something— “in the sense you wielded it, Monsieur Brennan, denotes making a mistake through stupidity or carelessness or ignorance.”
In addition to being captivating, the woman must’ve had one whopping dictionary as a child. Her expression mirrored such pride that Jack almost hated to burst her bubble—almost. “You’ve missed the point entirely, Mademoiselle Girard. I was
explaining to you that when I asked you not to flaunt your money, my motives were rooted in trying to protect you. I was not accusing you of having committed some . . . faux pas, as you called it.”
“Oui, but . . .” She pulled some kind of book from her reticule and began flipping through the pages. She stopped, her eyes widening. “Ah . . . the word flaunt means ‘to display in a pretentious or disregarding manner.” ’ She tilted the page in his direction, her finger moving along as she read aloud. “‘To obtrude oneself to public notice, or to treat contemptuously.” ’ She snapped the book shut, both her smile and manner demure beyond question. “Of those listed behaviors, monsieur, I was quite innocent. That is why I felt the obligation to—”
Jack held up his hand, and would’ve gladly waved a white flag if he’d had one. “Perhaps I should have chosen a different word, mademoiselle.”
“Ah,” she said again, punctuating the air with a dainty forefinger. “Words carry very specific meanings, non? Which is why you must be more careful in your choice of them.”
Some fairly choice words for her came to mind at the moment, but Jack kept them to himself. He might’ve enjoyed her innocent observations under different circumstances, but as he caught a glimpse of his wagon—correction, her wagon—he could only think about what this mishap was going to cost him, both in time and money.
He would visit the other vendors in town this afternoon, see if any of them happened to have a freight wagon available for lease—even short term. If not, he’d be forced to visit the mercantile and advise Mr. Hochstetler that there would be a delay in the scheduled pickups and deliveries—something he wanted to avoid if at all possible.
Years of living like a nomad had taught him to remain flexible, to exercise eyes of faith in seeing beyond the crisis at the moment. In the whole scheme of things, not being able to purchase this particular wagon wasn’t that big of a setback. It wasn’t the loss of someone he loved, or of someone who had been entrusted to his care. Now, if only he could convince Mr. Hochstetler at the mercantile to see things that way.
Remembered Page 9
