Remembered

by Tamera Alexander

  “Ma’am, I realize you’re new to this country and that you’re young. You’re probably not aware of this, but there are men who would offer to escort you to these places with the sole purpose of taking advantage of . . . the isolation along the way.” His eyes grew earnest. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  Véronique nodded but didn’t speak, fearing she might interfere with what he would say next. And she sensed something else was coming. Could this quiet sense of discernment inside her be the “honesty coupled with good sense” to which Christophe had been referring? Simply knowing when to keep her mouth shut?

  “As you well know, I need that wagon in order to keep my job, ma’am. What I’m proposing is that we—”

  “The job is yours, Monsieur Brennan. If you want it.”

  His expression turned wary. “But we haven’t even discussed terms yet.”

  “I will agree to whatever terms you set.” She could hardly breathe, she was so grateful.

  “What about the other guy who was hired?”

  She worded her answer with care. “You were my first choice in drivers, Monsieur Brennan. I no longer require anyone else’s services.”

  “Would you like me to speak to him? Tell him he doesn’t have the job? Those situations can sometimes get sticky.”

  Véronique felt a tickle of humor inside her. “I have recently observed someone being relieved of employment . . . so I believe I can handle that task myself.”

  His gradual smile held surprise, and within his soft laughter lingered the sweet promise of retaliation.

  She already knew this man liked to spar, but she noticed something else. When he smiled, the reaction reached his eyes a fraction of a second before it touched his mouth. And in that slight pause— in watching his lips curve, in seeing his dimples form, in anticipating the sound of his laughter—there existed a realm she found thoroughly unnerving and intoxicating. And altogether enjoyable.

  “Now, Monsieur Brennan, we need to discuss our arrangement.” She tried to focus—not an easy task when staring at that smile of his. “First, I believe we agree on the amount of remuneration per—” Seeing his look of question, she paused. “Is there something I have missed, monsieur?”

  “I’d just appreciate you not staring at me, ma’am. I find it distracting when I’m trying to listen to you.”

  Hearing the teasing quality in his voice, she slowly faced forward. “Does this work any better for you, monsieur?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle.” Again, his soft laughter. “This is much better for me.”

  CHAPTER | THIRTEEN

  THE INFORMAL NATURE of the church service was the first thing Véronique noticed, and disliked. The informal dress of the churchgoers was second. But what struck the deepest chord within her—and that she found pleasantly unexpected—was what Pastor Carlson said, and the manner in which he said it.

  Lilly’s father didn’t come before his congregation with fancy words or with attempts to impress by lengthy oration or memorization of passage upon passage of Scripture—traditions with which she was more accustomed. He came simply, humbly, and with sincerity of heart that shone in every word.

  “God gives talents to everyone as He sees fit. He decides who gets what and how much they get. That’s what this particular passage says.”

  Hearing that, Véronique sat up a bit straighter, wishing she’d thought to unpack her Bible and bring it with her. With a furtive glance, she scanned Lilly’s open text to see if that’s what the verse truly said, while wondering whether Jack Brennan was in the audience somewhere.

  She’d looked for him as she walked the short distance from the hotel to the church, and then again before the service had started— but there was no sign of him. Thinking again of their conversation yesterday encouraged a smile. They would leave on their first trip to a mining town tomorrow morning, and she could hardly wait!

  “Now, how these talents are given may not seem fair to those of us who feel a mite less gifted in some respects. Or completely forgotten in others.”

  The pastor’s comment—aided by his dry delivery—coaxed laughter from the parishioners. Véronique glimpsed Lilly’s personality in the act and recognized the origin of the girl’s dry wit. But Lilly also favored her mother too, in looks and coloring. Véronique snuck a glance at Hannah Carlson beside her, looking forward to becoming better acquainted with the woman over the noon meal in their home.

  “But this distribution of talents, whatever the measure, is in exact accordance with God’s eternal plan for each of us.” Pastor Carlson moved from behind the orator’s stand. His look grew surprisingly sheepish. “We must take care in how we esteem each other’s talents, and be mindful to not elevate one gift over the other. I’ve often looked at people and coveted their talents. Or I’ve coveted the ease with which they seem to acquire and wield them. How God uses their talents—and blesses them—oftentimes far exceeds what He’s done in my own life. And I’ve struggled with jealousy, and I’ve wondered” — his brow furrowed—“why them, and not me?”

  Véronique could hardly believe he’d made such a public admittance. She pilfered a hasty look on either side of her to gauge Hannah and Lilly’s reactions. But they didn’t seem the least surprised or offended. Quite the contrary. Quiet pride shone in their expressions.

  “At those times I try and remember that I haven’t walked that person’s road. It may well be that I haven’t endured the crucible they’ve had to experience, and perhaps that’s the reason they shine with such strength and luster. They’ve been through the fire, so to speak, where I’ve gone untouched by the flame. Something else to recall—and this is harder—is that I’m not competing with that person. God has simply gifted us for different purposes.”

  Véronique’s thoughts went to the work of a fellow artist in Paris whom she greatly admired and with whom she’d attended the same studio. Berthe Morisot’s talent was nothing short of brilliant, even if the more traditional instructors’ opinions differed. Berthe’s carefully composed, brightly hued canvases possessed a transcendent quality. Her delicate dabs of color and contrasting uses of light were techniques that Véronique hoped to incorporate more fully into her own painting some day, if that time ever came.

  Pastor Carlson met her gaze, and Véronique wondered if he’d intended his last words for her. Surely not. They didn’t even know one another.

  Yet, hadn’t she coveted Berthe’s talent on more than one occasion? Hadn’t she asked God why Berthe had been invited to join an esteemed group of painters, while she had not?

  Pastor Carlson shook his head. “While I may desire another’s giftedness, I do not desire the shaping they’ve undergone from the Potter’s hand. And I hardly envy the countless hours spent upon the Potter’s wheel which is what may very well be what allows them to possess such giftedness in the first place.”

  He left the upper platform area and moved closer to the assembly. Véronique also considered this a bit odd.

  “When we endure hardship and pain—when life doesn’t turn out the way we thought it should—what do we do? Do we blame God? Think Him cruel and unfair?” He nodded, and Véronique saw others nodding in agreement with him. “I confess, that’s exactly what I’ve thought on occasion.”

  He looked down briefly. When he raised his head, his expression had grown more thoughtful. “Recently, an individual crossed my path and I was stunned at how God has used some horrible things that happened in this person’s life to shape him for the better and, in turn, to bless so many.”

  The pastor’s gaze settled on someone a few rows behind Véronique, and it was all she could do not to turn around and attempt to locate the focus of his attention. But decorum demanded she not.

  “He made a conscious decision to allow God to turn all that hurt into something good. Certain talents, perhaps nonexistent before the trial, or maybe waiting to be unearthed by it, now command respect from a huge number of people. This person has impacted no telling how many lives through the
years. I so admire how he made a deliberate choice to let God turn his losses into gain. First for others, and ultimately for him in the long run.”

  Véronique found herself caught off guard when Pastor Carlson asked the assembly to stand and sing. Sermons back home went on for at least an hour—most times twice that. Yet this one seemed hardly begun. She didn’t know the words to the song, or the tune itself, so she listened, mulling over what she heard.

  She couldn’t help but wonder who it was sitting somewhere behind her who had endured such trials and had come through it with such strength and luster. She would like to know such a person.

  ————

  Jack slowed the mare from its canter and reined in at the top of the ridge, unprepared for the scene spread before him. He’d followed the main road leading out of Willow Springs for a good half hour, and had begun to think he’d passed the turnoff to Casaroja, the ranch where he was buying his hitching team. Hochstetler had said he couldn’t miss the place—and the man had been right.

  Taking in the view, Jack briefly wondered why Jake Sampson hadn’t directed him here to look for a wagon. Then he thought better of it. Jake Sampson had had an agenda, after all. Turns out, Sampson could be right persuasive when he set his mind to it.

  Situated on a gently rising bluff, Casaroja’s two-story red-brick residence was as grand as any Jack had ever seen. Massive white columns, glistening in the afternoon sun, supported a second-story porch that ran the length of the front of the house.

  Cattle dotted the field to the north, and at a quick glance Jack estimated the herd to be at least three thousand head. Mares grazed at leisure in the field to the south, with a few foals bounding about, still testing their wobbly legs.

  Jack nudged his mount down the fence-lined path leading to the main house. Ranch hands working in the fields acknowledged him as he passed, and he couldn’t help but wonder what manner of gentleman had amassed this estate. Imagine all the good a man could accomplish with this as his resource.

  He counted four structures with corrals off to the side and guided his mount to the one closest to the two-story house. The stable’s construction and freshly painted wood lent it a considerably newer appearance than the others.

  He dismounted and looped the reins around a post.

  “Jack Brennan?”

  Jack looked up to see a man approaching. “That’s me . . . and you’re Stewartson?”

  The man extended his hand. “Yes, sir—Thomas Stewartson. Welcome to Casaroja. Glad you found your way out here.”

  Jack appreciated the man’s firm grip. Taking in his surroundings, he blew out an exaggerated breath. “You’ve got yourself a nice little setup out here.”

  Stewartson chuckled, trailing Jack’s gaze. “Yes, sir, we do. I’ve had the privilege of working here since the ranch started back in ’60. You won’t find any finer horseflesh in the territory.”

  Jack nodded toward the north fields. “And looks like your herd isn’t too shabby either.”

  Quiet pride shone in the man’s expression. “Miss Maudelaine Mahoney won’t accept anything less than the best. From her employees or her animals.”

  Jack hesitated, thinking he’d misunderstood, but Stewartson’s revealing grin said he hadn’t. “You’re telling me a . . . woman built all this?”

  Stewartson indicated the main house. “Miss Mahoney runs Casaroja now. Has for the past three years. But everybody around here calls her Miss Maudie. It was her nephew, Donlyn MacGregor, who actually started the place. He’s . . . not with us anymore.”

  Regret shadowed Stewartson’s eyes, and Jack paused for a second, aware of the hesitancy in the man’s tone and thinking he was going to say something more. “Well,” Jack finally said, “Miss Mahoney is doing a fine job—with a little help from you, I’m sure.”

  “And many others, I assure you.” Stewartson gestured toward the barn closest to them. “I’ve picked out two of our finest horses for you, Brennan. Percherons. We had eight of them delivered this past week, as a matter of fact. First of their breed to come to Casaroja, and to this part of the country. Finest workhorses I’ve ever seen. Originally from France, they tell me.”

  “From France, you say.” The humor of this coincidence wasn’t lost on Jack. Won’t Mademoiselle Girard love this. . . .

  Stewartson nodded. “Smart animals too—amenable, good tempered. And energetic to boot. The pair is well matched in height and size for pulling.”

  “I’m eager to see them. But first . . .” Jack had to ask the question, regardless of having already agreed to work for Mademoiselle Girard. “You don’t happen to have any freight wagons available, do you?”

  “We’ve got lots of freight wagons. But if by available you mean for sale, then I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” Stewartson frowned. “I was under the impression you already had a wagon, Brennan.”

  Jack smiled to himself. “I do. I was just checking.”

  Stewartson motioned for him to follow. “I’ll show you these first, and then I’d encourage you to ride out and look at the rest of the herd too, if you’re—”

  “Thomas!”

  Stewartson turned in the direction of the shrill voice, and Jack followed suit.

  A woman rushed down the back stairs of the main house and ran toward them, the screen door slamming behind her. “Thomas, it’s Miss Maudie. She’s taken a fall!”

  Stewartson immediately started for the house. “Brennan,” he called back over his shoulder, “you go on ahead and—”

  “If I can be of help, I’m willing.”

  At the man’s nod, Jack shadowed his steps.

  They climbed the back stairs and entered the house through the kitchen. The young woman gave Jack a brief nod, and then clutched at Stewartson’s arm. “I found her at the base of the staircase, Thomas. I don’t know how far she fell, but she says it hurts her to move.” The woman cut a path around a large rectangular table and down an unusually wide hallway. “She tried to get up, stubborn woman, but I told her to stay put until I got you.”

  Jack followed after them, noticing the fine furniture perfectly arranged beneath painted canvases of distinguished-looking men and women.

  “I’ve told her not to take the stairs alone, what with the dizzy spells she’s had recently.”

  “It’s all right, honey, we’ll see to her. She’s ’bout as tough as they come. Mr. Brennan—” Stewartson glanced behind him—“this is my wife, Claire. She manages the kitchen here at Casaroja.”

  Remembering his hat, Jack slipped it off. “Ma’am.”

  Claire looked back at him, tears filling her eyes. She offered a weak smile.

  Jack rounded the corner behind the couple and spotted the elderly woman slumped at the base of the stairs. Her eyes were closed. His gaze quickly ascended the lofty staircase, and he prayed Claire Stewartson was right in her hope that the woman hadn’t fallen all the way down.

  Claire knelt and arranged the woman’s skirt over her lower legs. But not before Jack spotted the slight protrusion in Miss Maudie’s right shin, just beneath the skin.

  “Miss Maudie, Thomas is here.” Claire tenderly brushed a shock of white hair from the older woman’s forehead. “We’re going to take care of you, so don’t you fret.”

  Beads of perspiration glistened on the woman’s brow. Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again. “Oh . . . I’m not frettin’, dear. But I am—” she winced and drew in a quick breath—“hurtin’ just a wee bit. If the room would cease its spinnin’, I’d be the better for it.”

  “Where exactly does it hurt?” Claire asked.

  “At this very moment . . . I’d have to say everywhere.” Miss Maudie sighed, a shallow smile momentarily eclipsing her frown.

  Jack kept his distance, not wanting to frighten the woman with a stranger’s presence. Though, despite her frail appearance and delicate Irish lilt, he sensed that Miss Maudelaine Mahoney was not a woman easily alarmed—by anything.

  Already kneeling over her, Stewartson leaned c
lose to her face. “Miss Maudie, I need to check for broken bones, ma’am.” Though he voiced it like a statement, the echo of a silent question lingered in his tone.

  “That’ll be fine by me, Thomas. As long as that pretty wife of yours won’t be gettin’ jealous over it.”

  With a subdued laugh, Claire pressed the older woman’s hand between hers. “I’ve always known you had an eye for my husband, Miss Maudie.”

  Miss Maudie’s gaze briefly connected with the younger woman’s, and a look of endearment passed between them. Then Miss Maudie’s focus shifted. She squinted as though not seeing clearly. “Who’s that there?”

  Stewartson motioned Jack forward. “This is Jack Brennan.” He started a slow examination of the woman’s arms and shoulders. “The gentleman who’s buying the Percherons.”

  Miss Maudie lifted her head slightly. “Ah . . . the wagon master turned freighter.”

  Jack moved into her line of vision, smiling at how she’d summarized his career so succinctly—reminded him of someone else who’d done that in recent days. . . . “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m sorry about your accident.”

  She eased her head back onto the plush rug. “I am too, Mr. Brennan. That’s a fine surname you bear. Would you be knowin’ what area your people were from?”

  “They hailed from Kilkenny, ma’am,” he answered, slipping easily into the thick Irish brogue of his grandparents. “Me great-grandfather came over in 1789. Brought with him his beautiful bride and their three wee bairns. Triplets they were.” He winked. “And holy terrors, the lot of them, if family tales hold true.”

  A smile bloomed across Miss Maudie’s face. She chuckled. “What a blessin’ to hear a bit of my homeland in the deep timbre of a man’s voice. Where are your people livin’ now?”

  “My brothers and sisters live in Missouri, ma’am. The rest of the family is scattered back East.”

  “And your folks?”

  Jack’s smile grew more subdued. “I laid my folks to rest about ten years ago—God rest their souls.”