Remembered

by Tamera Alexander

  A tingling sensation started at the base of Jack’s neck. The smell of livestock didn’t bother him, yet it gradually became more difficult for him to breathe.

  He followed Starks, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides in an effort to ease his sudden tension. He looked back over his shoulder at the open doors of the barn, and felt his pulse slow.

  Starks stopped and turned. “Here she is.” He waved his hand, indicating for Jack to step forward. “Take a good, overlong look at her. See what you think.”

  At a glance, Jack realized he didn’t need an overlong look—good or otherwise—to know that this wagon would scarcely make it into town, much less survive a rugged mountain pass. His throat tightened as he became aware of the wall close at his back and of the low slant of the ceiling above him.

  Not wanting to appear disrespectful, Jack made a pretense of checking out the conveyance. “She looks like she’s been a faithful partner, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh, she was the best. Saw me through many a harvest.”

  Jack swallowed, trying not to think about Billy Blakely and what had happened the summer they—“How many years have you had her?”

  “Going on twelve now. But they don’t make wagons like this anymore . . . you can take that to the bank.”

  The nostalgic look on the rancher’s face might have drawn a smile had Jack been able to think straight. He bent down and peered at the wagon bed’s undercarriage, already knowing what he would find and needing a chance to clear his mind of the fog.

  With a sigh, he rose. He gripped the wagon for support, easing up when the sideboard gave slightly beneath his weight. “Only thing is, Mr. Starks, I need a wagon bed that’s reinforced beneath with steel and wood. So I’m afraid this won’t work for me.”

  “Well, that’s a shame.”

  Jack moved so he could view the open doors again, hating the numbing sensation thickening his temples. “But I can clearly see why you’ve kept the wagon all these years.” Wanting to make a run for it, he indicated for the older man to precede him back down the aisle. “Wagons like this get to be like old friends, don’t they, sir?”

  Starks slowed, glancing back over his shoulder. “They do at that. My missus says it’s only good for kindling, but I just can’t bring myself to break it apart, not yet.”

  Once they crossed the threshold into sunlight, Jack drew in a deep breath. The dizzy feeling faded and he began to relax. It’d been a long time since he’d had such a reaction, but confined spaces had always been uncomfortable for him. . . .

  He lifted his hat and ran a hand through his hair, then resituated the hat on his head. Sleep had kept its distance until the wee hours last night, what with his brooding over what Jake Sampson had done. The soft spot in that man’s heart, however well-intentioned, was creating a rift in Jack’s personal plans.

  Mr. Starks extended his hand, his smile undimmed. “I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for, young man. And I’m sorry to’ve wasted your morning.”

  “Not at all, sir. I appreciate your time.”

  Once astride his horse, Jack watched the aging rancher walk back toward the house. Funny how people hung onto things, even when the item’s usefulness or practicality had long since passed. While Jack knew he had faults, plenty of them, being tied to “things” wasn’t among them.

  Years of guiding families west, seeing wagons loaded beyond their capacity at the outset, only to watch those same families cast off furniture, boxes of delicate china, and trunks of fancy clothes along the way, had taught him not to become overly attached to what was staying on this side of eternity.

  Heading his mount back toward town, Jack knew the meeting with Hochstetler was inevitable. He only hoped the mercantile owner would be open to discussing alternative arrangements.

  CHAPTER | ELEVEN

  V ÉRONIQUE TACKED THE last of the notices she and Lilly had made to a board outside the telegraph office, then stepped back to view their handiwork. Lilly’s excellent penmanship rivaled every other advertisement posted, therefore drawing more attention to it.

  In phrases centered across the page, the script read:

  Citizens of Willow Springs

  Possessing information about

  Pierre Gustave Girard (born Paris, 1820)

  Or his whereabouts

  Are requested to contact

  The Baird & Smith Hotel.

  Reward offered.

  Simple. To the point. Listing the year of birth had actually been Lilly’s idea, in order to give people an idea of how old a man her father would be. Offering a reward had been Véronique’s. Commoners responded more heartily when given a monetary incentive—at least that’s what Christophe always said.

  She headed back toward the hotel, keeping her attention on the path before her. She had no desire for a recurrence of what she’d stepped in on the way to her first visit with Monsieur Sampson.

  Besides the four men who answered her advertisement yesterday morning, who had been entirely unsuited to the task—and Monsieur Brennan, who had been entirely closed minded to the task—she’d received no other indications of interest. But the day was young, and the notices she’d posted yesterday and this morning were sure to draw interest from emerging Saturday shoppers.

  Véronique rounded the corner. Spotting the hotel up ahead, she slowed her pace. A queasiness expanded in the pit of her stomach.

  A group of men—she counted twenty at least—were gathered outside in the street in front of the hotel. She moved to one side of the boardwalk, watching. It couldn’t be . . .

  After a moment, Monsieur Baird emerged from the hotel and made a path through the group. He climbed atop a barrel and nailed a piece of paper to a post. No sooner did he get down than disgruntled shouts rose from the onlookers.

  Véronique pressed close inside an angled nook of a shop doorway. Hearing the men’s comments from where she stood, she quickly gathered what they were there for. Thinking of the other notices she’d posted, the sick feeling in her midsection expanded to a dull throb. Monsieur and Madame Baird would be furieux with her for causing such a—

  She jumped at the touch on her arm.

  “Mademoiselle Girard! I’ve been looking for you!”

  Lilly Carlson stood close beside her, her expression a mixture of expectancy and remorse. She motioned for Véronique to follow. “You’ve created quite a stir back at the hotel, Mademoiselle Girard. Or should I say, our advertisement did. Mr. Baird sent me to find you before you came back and got caught in that mess.”

  “Merci,” Véronique whispered, managing a tremulous smile. “Thank you for saving me that embarrassment.”

  Young Lilly led the way in the opposite direction down the planked walkway. Véronique couldn’t help but notice the girl’s limp was more exaggerated than before.

  Lilly glanced back as they neared the corner. “They’ve been there for the past hour, waiting for you. Mr. Baird said there’s not an upright one in the bunch.” She gestured to her right. “Just to be safe, we’ll cut down this way and then go up the other street. We can use the hotel’s back entrance. Where were you, by the way? You were already gone by the time I got there this morning.”

  “I was . . . posting the notices regarding my father.” Véronique cringed even as she said it, knowing now that she should have checked with Monsieur Baird before doing so. She glanced behind them. “Monsieur and Madame Baird are angry with me, non?”

  Lilly’s eyes widened. “No, Mademoiselle Girard, they’re not angry at all, I promise. I explained to Mr.—”

  They paused to allow a woman and little girl entrance into a shop. Véronique tipped her head back to read the shingle above the door: Susanna’s Bakery and Confections. The treats in the window tempted her appetite and reminded her that breakfast had long since passed.

  “I explained to Mr. Baird,” Lilly continued, “that I encouraged you to write that notice and that neither of us ever thought of something like this happening.”

  �
��And how did Monsieur Baird respond to this explanation of yours?”

  Lilly paused on the boardwalk. Her expression grew unusually serious. “He said that if we were going to take part in a man’s world then we needed to learn to think like men.”

  Véronique’s mouth slipped open. She couldn’t believe kind Monsieur Baird would utter such a thing. Then she noticed the firm lines of Lilly’s mouth begin to twitch.

  “I’m only joking, Mademoiselle Girard!” Lilly laughed. “He said to tell you not to worry for one minute, but for us to please resist posting any more notices.” She leaned closer. “At least until after he’s cleared the lobby of men.”

  Relieved, Véronique smiled and nudged Lilly’s shoulder. “I am still needing to learn when I can believe what you say and when you are playing with me.”

  “My papa would say that if my mouth is moving, you’d better beware!” She smiled. “But this does mean we probably need to go around and collect the notices we posted.”

  They spent the next hour doing just that before heading back in the direction of the hotel. Véronique glanced at Lilly walking beside her. It was good to have a friend—however much younger—here in this place, especially since she’d been missing Christophe.

  She hadn’t heard from him since receiving his letters upon her arrival in New York City. She determined then to write him again this week. But was he still in Brussels? Or had he returned to Paris with Lord Marchand and his famille? She decided it would be best to post the letter to the Marchand family address, entrusting that their grand home still stood unharmed.

  “If you’re not busy tomorrow” —Lilly yanked a notice down from a post by the dry goods store—“my parents would like you to join us for lunch after church. They’re eager to meet you.”

  Véronique paused to offer a deep curtsy. “I am most pleased to accept your invitation, Mademoiselle Carlson. And I look forward to meeting your famille.”

  Lilly grinned. “Would you teach me how to do that, please?”

  Realizing what she meant, Véronique looked down, thinking of the girl’s brace. Just as quickly, she drew her gaze upward, not having meant to stare. “You want me to . . . teach you how to curtsy?”

  Lilly nodded. “It looks so pretty when you do it.” As she held Véronique’s attention, awareness moved into her eyes. “If I bend my leg just right, I don’t think my brace will get in the way. I’ve got real good balance too. Even Doc Hadley says so.”

  Véronique felt her face heat and her heartstrings pull taut. “Je suis désolée, Lilly. I did not mean to imply that—”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ve lived in Willow Springs for a long time.” She shrugged. “Everybody knows.”

  That answered one of Véronique’s questions. “You compensate for it very well, ma chérie.”

  Lilly dipped her head. Her smile faded, but only a bit. “I’ve had a long time to learn.”

  Véronique lifted her chin. “I will teach you how to curtsy, Lilly Carlson. And I will teach you my language, if that would please you.”

  The girl’s violet eyes took on a sheen. “That would please me very much, Mademoiselle Girard. Merci beaucoup.”

  “And we will get started today, but first . . .” Véronique looked up. “May we visit this establishment for a moment?”

  “The mercantile?” Lilly shrugged. “Sure. I’ll check with Mrs. Hochstetler inside—she and her husband are the owners—to see if she has anything to be delivered to the hotel. That’ll save the Bairds a trip over here.”

  Véronique worked to imitate the serious expression Lilly had fooled her with earlier. “Lilly, you are a sweet and kind girl, but I would encourage you, ma chérie, to be more considerate of others in your life.” Véronique slowly let her smile bloom and tapped her chest. “Namely . . . moi!”

  Content at seeing Lilly’s wide-eyed grin, she hurried inside.

  ————

  Riding by the hotel on his way to the mercantile, Jack couldn’t resist a quick glance up to the third-story bay window. It was open, but he didn’t see any sign of her.

  Parts of what Jake Sampson had told him yesterday replayed in his mind. Mademoiselle Girard’s father had been through Willow Springs roughly twenty years ago, and she had been a little girl when her father had left Paris. He quickly did the math. That would make her around twenty-two, twenty-three at the most, if he had the dates right. Older than he’d originally guessed, but not by much.

  Movement drew his eye—something fluttering in the breeze near the front door of the hotel. The piece of paper wasn’t tacked along with others on the door, but was affixed to a front post, making it more noticeable. He didn’t remember it being there earlier that morning. Curiosity got the better of him and he retraced his steps.

  The paper curled in the breeze. Jack gripped a bottom corner so he could read it. Then he read it aloud a second time, unbelieving. “‘The position of driver for Mademoiselle Girard has been filled. No further applications required.” ’

  He immediately recalled the two surly-looking men who had stopped by the livery yesterday, the ones who had given Mademoiselle Girard a thorough perusal. He didn’t have to guess long at their intentions if they were the ones she’d hired.

  Jack couldn’t imagine a young woman like Mademoiselle Girard being in their company here in town, much less out there on her lonesome. She was far too young and naïve to be traveling with men of such shallow character. Men like that wouldn’t hesitate in the least to—

  He shuddered to think of all that could go wrong.

  The blur of possibilities running through his mind suddenly fell away, and a single thought rose to the surface. After he spoke with Mr. Hochstetler at the mercantile, he would head back to the livery and speak with Mr. Sampson about this new development. Surely Sampson could talk some sense into the woman—regardless of her already having made her decision.

  Thinking of her setting off into the mountains with men like that was almost enough to change his mind about accepting her offer— almost.

  The mercantile was crowded. Jack waited in line, hat in hand, with others at the front counter. Finally his turn came. He assumed the woman behind the counter was the owner’s wife but wasn’t certain. “Is Mr. Hochstetler in? I’d like to speak with him, please.”

  The woman gave an exasperated sigh and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “My husband’s in back.”

  “Would you kindly tell him Jack Brennan is here? I need to speak with him about a business matter.”

  She stared, unmoving. “I’ll go get him for you, but it’ll take him a few minutes. We’re busy. It is Saturday, you know.”

  Mildly surprised at her sour disposition, Jack nodded as she walked away. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” He had a hard time putting this woman with the kindly man he’d met a few days ago. In past years, he’d met a lot of families, and he’d seen his share of mismatched couples. People married for a variety of reasons, some reasons bearing a wiser and more lasting foundation than others.

  He picked up a jar from an arrangement on the counter. His marriage had been short, and unexpectedly brief, but it had been a good one. Marriage was something in his past now, and he was at peace with that. He tilted the jar to read the label.

  C.O. Bigelow Apothecaries of New York.

  On a whim, he laid his hat on the counter and unscrewed the lid. He took a whiff, and his reaction surprised him. The scent painted a picture so vivid in his mind he doubted an artist could have done better. Prairie grasses, young and tender, bowing in the breeze beneath a simmering summer sun. He closed his eyes and he was there again, on the prairie—with land spanning out in all directions as far as he could see, wagon canvases gleaming so white in the early morning sun that it hurt his eyes to look overlong. And the excited chatter of families drifting over the plains as they pushed west to homes waiting to be built and dreams waiting to be discovered. A pang tightened his chest, knowing those days were past for him.

  He opened his eyes a
nd took a quick look around, making sure no one was watching him. Then he peered into the jar, feeling more than a little foolish that a silly concoction could evoke such emotion. He read the ingredients. Lemon oil and extracts—

  “Are you planning on purchasing that?”

  His head came up.

  Mrs. Hochstetler had returned, and based on her scowl, her mood had further deteriorated—if that were possible.

  He screwed the lid back into place, the tangy scent of the lotion lingering, like the power of the memory. He didn’t need this. There was no good reason for him to buy it. “Yes, ma’am, I believe I will.”

  Though the woman’s smile was an improvement, it wasn’t enough to overcome the harshness of her features. “That just arrived from New York City, sir. I think it’s going to be one of our most popularselling items. That’ll be a dollar, please.”

  A dollar! That would buy almost eight pounds of coffee, for pete’s sake! Begrudgingly, Jack handed over the money, doubting the woman’s prognostication one hundred percent.

  “I’ll go wrap this up for you, sir. And my husband will be right out.”

  Mrs. Hochstetler returned minutes later. Still brooding over his impulsive purchase, Jack was relieved to see her husband close on her heels.

  “Brennan, it’s good to see you again. I was in the back taking inventory of your supplies. They’re all ready to go.” Hochstetler motioned him off to the side, away from the crowd. “I’ve got a full load for your first trip, and I’m eager to get it sold.”

  Explaining his predicament was going to be harder than Jack imagined. “I . . . I’m afraid there’s been a change in plans, Mr. Hochstetler. Something’s happened, and I’m not going to be able to leave on Monday.” Jack laid out the turn of events, without identifying the buyer of the wagon by name. Hochstetler’s expression darkened by the second, telling Jack this might not turn out as he’d hoped.