Remembered

by Tamera Alexander

  Miss Maudie repeated the blessing in a whisper. “I remember passin’ through Kilkenny when I was but a young lass.” She raised her head again. “There was a—”

  Stewartson held up a hand. “Okay, enough talking for now.” Concern softened his expression. “I need you to lie still, ma’am, and save your breath. Doc Hadley’s going to want an explanation once he finds out you’ve been climbing those stairs alone.”

  Miss Maudie frowned, but Jack caught her subtle wink seconds later and shook his head. Despite her present condition, he didn’t have any trouble imagining this woman in charge of Casaroja, and would’ve welcomed her on any one of his caravans through the years.

  As Stewartson started to gently run a hand over Miss Maudie’s left leg, Jack knelt and pointed discreetly to her right shin, wanting to spare her the additional pain of having the injury touched.

  With a quiet apology, Stewartson eased the woman’s skirt to midcalf to reveal the protrusion. He gently touched her right foot. “Miss Maudie, looks like you’ve got a break on this side, ma’am. Right near the middle of your shin.”

  “Well, that explains it.” She sighed. “I heard somethin’ like the crack of a whip when I went down. Flames shot up my leg good and hot.”

  Claire rose, looking at her husband. “I’ll send for Doc Hadley.”

  “Oh, I wish we didn’t have to be doin’ that.” As Claire left the room, a frown shadowed the elderly woman’s pale complexion. “He’ll use the opportunity to give me yet another tongue-lashin’ about how I’m no longer a young lass.”

  Jack admired the woman’s spunk. “It’s not a clean break, ma’am, but I’ve seen this before. Hopefully it won’t take too long to heal.”

  She smiled up at him. “And should we be addin’ doctorin’ to that list of your professions, Mr. Brennan?”

  He briefly ducked his head, turning his hat in his hands. “Not hardly, ma’am. But when you’re out in the middle of nowhere, sometimes doctors are scarce. I’ve managed to learn a few things along the way.”

  Her gaze held discernment. “I’m thinkin’ you’d be a good man to have around, Mr. Brennan. You wouldn’t be interested in settlin’ down and workin’ on a little ranch I know of, would you, now?”

  “I appreciate the offer, Miss Mahoney. Looking at the setup you’ve got here, it’s mighty tempting. But I’ve obligations to fulfill. And to be honest, I’m getting a mite restless for the trail again, and to see those mountains of yours up close.”

  He imagined accompanying Mademoiselle Véronique Girard through those mountains to the various mining towns—most of which were still uncharted territory for him—and while the image of her sitting beside him on the wagon seat wasn’t altogether unpleasant, he couldn’t help but wish she possessed a bit more of Miss Maudie’s spunk, and a little less fancy. He had his doubts about how well she’d fare under such primitive conditions. Then again, she’d proven him wrong before, so it wouldn’t be the first time.

  He’d seen her at church earlier that morning, sitting between Hannah Carlson and the young girl he’d seen at the mercantile. Who turned out to be the Carlsons’ daughter, Lilly. She was a younger version of her mother, and he wondered how he’d missed their physical resemblance the day before in the mercantile. Of course, his mind had been on other things that particular afternoon.

  When Pastor Carlson secretly singled him out during the sermon, and said those kind things about him, the certainty of God’s presence in Jack’s life had moved over him to a degree he’d not remembered before. Or perhaps he’d just never experienced such a strong emotional reaction to the knowledge. Whichever, it had been both an uncomfortable experience for him and one that he welcomed to happen again.

  As Jack helped Stewartson move Miss Maudie to the bedroom located around the corner, the reality of being responsible for someone else again began to weigh on him. The burden he’d carried in moving families west for thirteen years was one he’d gratefully laid aside last fall with his final trip to Oregon. Now it rested squarely on his shoulders again, and none too lightly this time. Especially when considering how disappointing Véronique Girard’s search for her father could be. What if she never found the man? Or what if she found him and the man she discovered wasn’t the father she expected?

  Or worse still, what if Pierre Gustave Girard—like many of the foreign trappers he’d known or heard about—left his wife and daughter behind in Paris all those years ago with the intention of never being found?

  CHAPTER | FOURTEEN

  FOR THE THIRD TIME, Véronique stopped on the boardwalk and set the tapestry bag down with a thud. Twilight hovered over the awakening town of Willow Springs, and her labored breathing sounded harsh against the quiet hush of early morning.

  The leather strap of the valise wouldn’t stay latched, which made the bag more difficult to carry, especially considering its weight. Monsieur Brennan had said this would be a day-trip, so she’d brought only the essentials.

  By his calculations, they would reach the mining town of Jenny’s Draw shortly after noon. If their journey went as discussed, they would sell their load of supplies to a storeowner by the name of Scoggins and would inquire of him about local miners with the purpose of gaining any information about her father. Then they would head back down the mountain to return to Willow Springs before nightfall. The way Monsieur Brennan had laid it out made it sound quite routine, but Véronique couldn’t help but feel a rush of tempered excitement.

  Finally, the real search for her father would begin.

  Every step of her journey had brought her closer to this moment, and she found it exhilarating to finally be fulfilling her promise to her mother—and to herself.

  She stretched her back and shoulders, and eyed the bag at her feet. It had been on the tip of her tongue Saturday to ask Monsieur Brennan to pick her up at the hotel this morning, but he’d beat her to it and suggested she be at the livery at dawn. With things so recently smoothed over between them, she hadn’t wanted to cause any further ripples.

  But carrying her own bagage was not something to which she was accustomed. And she was paying him seven dollars a day.

  Dawn’s pale fingers spread a wash of rouge across the sky, snuffing out stars and telling her it was time to get moving again. She knelt and stuffed the contents of the bag farther down inside, then stretched the leather strap as far as it would go. But still it failed to reach the hook.

  So she grasped the handles and hefted it against her chest, feeling less like a lady and more like a workhorse, despite the blue silk gown she wore.

  It was an older ensemble—one that Francette Marchand had left behind upon her marriage years ago, and one well suited for travel. Véronique didn’t mind if it became soiled. The gown was serviceable but not overly exquisite. It displayed slightly more décolletage than she was comfortable with so she’d stayed up last night adding a piece of ivory lace for modesty’s sake. At the very least, she wanted to look presentable for the occasion. The mining town they would visit today might hold a clue about her father, or her father himself.

  The boardwalk was quiet except for a few shopkeepers arriving to ready their stores. Across the street, a woman entered the dress shop and closed the door behind her. Farther down, a man unlocked the door to the land and titles office. Véronique had promised Monsieur Brennan she would arrive on time, so she plodded onward, satchel clutched against her chest.

  Being delayed on their first trip together would not be the way to start this partnership.

  One-handed, she gave her jacket a hasty tug and ran a hand over her hair. From necessity, she’d learned to fix her own hair months ago, but she still missed the elaborate coiffures of her former station in life. The way a woman presented herself in public spoke volumes about her character and self-worth, not to mention her social standing.

  A thought flitted past, leaving a tickle in its wake.

  She should open a second dress shop in Willow Springs—give the women of the town an alternative
to the drab, monotonous selections she’d seen hanging in the store window down the street. She could design fashionable Parisian ensembles and hire seamstresses to sew the creations under her supervision. Though the idea wasn’t without merit, it held more humor than practicality. Still, it lightened her step as she continued down the street.

  She rounded the corner and all thoughts fled. Gasping, she came to an abrupt halt. She could scarcely believe what she saw.

  Percherons!

  Two of the enormous horses were harnessed to the wagon in front of the livery. Magnificent animals. Black as night and thickly built, all muscle and sinew and strength. She hadn’t seen the breed since she’d departed Europe, but she easily recalled the first time she saw them as a young girl. It was her youngest memory of being with both of her parents, and of them as a family.

  She had sat atop her father’s shoulders, with her mother tucked close beside him, smiling up at her. Festive decorations and music floated overhead, and tempting aromas of fresh-baked bread and meaty sausages beckoned. She had something in her hand—a halfeaten pâtisserie perhaps. The memory of trumpet blasts and cheering embellished the recollection, as did that of uniformed soldiers riding past on horses that seemed fashioned for men at least twice their size. A parade in the streets of Paris, most likely. But for what occasion, she couldn’t be certain.

  Her father had adored horses—she did remember that much. While too poor to own Percherons himself, he had often taken jobs at liveries and stables, assisting with their care and training—this from her mother’s shared memories.

  Véronique slowly opened her eyes, unaware until that moment that she’d closed them. She focused on the horses harnessed to the wagon, the memory thick and vivid around her. One thought in particular loomed especially close, and she wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her before.

  When she was young, her mother had spoken constantly about her father, about his return, reading a letter or two to her at night, and telling tales about things the three of them had done together. What Véronique couldn’t pinpoint, what she couldn’t remember, was when that had stopped. And why.

  But stopped it had, and most abruptly if her memory served.

  She blinked to clear her cobwebbed memory and noticed Monsieur Brennan by the wagon. He was securing stacks of boxes and crates in the back with ropes and netting. Jake Sampson assisted from the opposite side.

  Where had Monsieur Brennan found such a pair of horses? Assuming he had arranged for them. And did he know they originated from France? If not, she could tell him the history.

  Véronique knew the precise moment Monsieur Jack Brennan spotted her.

  He halted from his task, rope in hand, and from the slight downward tilt of his chin, he was giving her a thorough perusal.

  She couldn’t see the exact details of his face in the pale light, yet a blush heated hers at his unexpected attention. But it pleased her to think he approved.

  “Bonjour, messieurs.” She didn’t dare attempt a curtsy with the sachel in her arms, but gratefully deposited the bag by the wagon.

  Jake Sampson blew out a low whistle and gave his beard a good stroking. “Well, if you’re not the prettiest thing I’ve seen yet today. What a way to start my week, ma’am.” His brow rose. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

  “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Sampson.” She smiled, appreciating his reaction. But what drew her greater attention, and concern, was the dark look Jack Brennan gave the man right before he threw a scowl in her direction.

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle Girard.” For the first time, Jack Brennan’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Are you ready for our journey today?”

  His friendly tone belied his serious expression. And beneath his simple inquiry lurked another question, but its meaning remained hidden to her. “Oui, and I have great anticipation for it. Do you not as well, Monsieur Brennan?”

  Wordless, he returned to his task of securing the ties.

  Confused by his behavior, Véronique decided to try a different tactic. “Did you purchase the horses yourself, Monsieur Brennan? You may not be aware, but they are Perch—”

  “I asked you to be here, ready to go, at dawn, mademoiselle.” He glanced upward. “It’s dawn.” He looked back at her. “But you’re not ready.”

  Véronique stared, not knowing how to respond. She felt as if she were addressing a different man, not the Jack Brennan with whom she had become acquainted, with whom she had planned this trip. Perhaps he’d had time to reflect on the transaction with the wagon or his employment being terminated in her presence. Maybe he was brooding. Christophe used to have a very similar expression when his plans had been thwarted. Regardless, she decided not to let Jack Brennan’s ill temper rule the situation.

  “Oui, it is dawn, Monsieur Brennan, and . . . voila`! I am here, as you can see. And I am on time as promised.” No thanks to him for making her carry her own bagage.

  Jack Brennan gave the rope in his hand a firm tug.

  Véronique glanced at Jake Sampson for help, but the man kept his distance, saying nothing. She’d had such hopes for today. Why was Jack Brennan ruining it with a surly attitude?

  She pointed to her valise. “Here is my bagage, Monsieur Brennan. Would you be so kind as to load it for me?”

  “Why?” He didn’t turn. “You won’t be going.”

  Anger heated her instantly. She stepped closer. “Excusez-moi? Why will I not be going?” She waited for him to face her.

  He didn’t.

  If a servant had spoken to her and treated her in such a manner in Paris, Lord Marchand would have dismissed the fool out of hand. However, under the circumstances, she didn’t have that luxury. “I do not know the reason for your behavior, Monsieur Brennan. You are being most . . .” What was the word? She thought of the book in her réticule. Her brows rose. “Obtuse!”

  He scoffed and shook his head. “If I’m being obtuse, ma’am, then you’re being—” his gaze swept her from head to foot, then back again in a slow, appraising fashion—“ridiculous.”

  Véronique felt her mouth slip open.

  “Mademoiselle Girard, I expressly asked you on Saturday to wear something suitable for where we’re going. And this is what you choose?”

  Véronique instantly put a hand to her bodice, pressing the lace to her chest. Her face burned with embarrassment. Then a second thought told her she had nothing of which to be ashamed—the lace she’d chosen was of a very fine weave. “My gown is completely modest, Monsieur Brennan. You have no right to—”

  He moved within inches of her. “I’m not commenting on your gown’s modesty, Mademoiselle Girard.” His gaze dropped for the briefest of seconds. His voice lowered as he spoke. “Although that term could be open for discussion depending on how we’re each using the word.”

  With their difference in heights, she had to tip her head back to see him properly. She kept her palm firmly planted over the piece of lace—which seemed as though it had shrunk by half. “My gown is modest, sir, in that it observes the proprieties of decency and good taste as are becoming of a lady in society.”

  He nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. But we’re not headed to society, ma’am. Where we’re going, your dress will draw attention to you in a manner that will be most unwelcome. And that makes what you’re wearing for this particular occasion . . . immodest, in my opinion. These mining towns—” He gave a sharp chuckle, then murmured something she couldn’t hear. “We’ve already been through this. . . .” He raked a hand through his hair.

  When he looked at her again, the harshness in his expression took her aback.

  “The men in these towns won’t have seen a real lady in months, ma’am. And their reaction at seeing a woman like you is not something I’m looking forward to dealing with. Do I need to make myself plainer than that, mademoiselle? I don’t care to, but I will if it will help you understand the situation.”

  Véronique’s defensiveness receded in light of his plainspoken concerns. She slo
wly lowered her hand. She didn’t wholly agree, but thanks to what she’d learned from Christophe, she conceded that Jack Brennan was probably more knowledgeable about this than she. Yet her problem was not solved. “All of the dresses I own are” —she glanced down—“similar to this one. Except different colors.”

  A loud snort sounded from the other side of the wagon, and they both turned.

  A grin plastered Jake Sampson’s face. “I don’t think changin’ the color’s gonna help you none, missy.” He chuckled. “You agree, Brennan?”

  A look passed between Monsieur Brennan and Jake Sampson which Véronique did not comprend. But from the censure in Monsieur Brennan’s eyes, he clearly did not share the other man’s humor.

  Brennan glanced at the dusty blue sky overhead. “Mademoiselle Girard, we should already be gone by now.”

  “I will not be left behind, Monsieur Brennan!” She pulled a map from her réticule, resisting the urge to smack him in the chest with it. “There are forty-five mining towns in this area in which my father could be residing. I must visit these places before winter comes. And need I remind you . . .” She looked pointedly at the wagon, then back at him.

  His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t peg you as the threatening kind, ma’am.”

  Feeling only mildly guilty, she shrugged. “You have never backed me into a corner before, monsieur.” At a loss to describe the emotion that moved in behind his eyes, she would have given much to know his thoughts at the moment.

  “So what do you propose we do, mademoiselle? If I don’t get this load of goods up that mountain today, I lose my job. And if that happens . . . you lose your driver.”

  Véronique tempered her smile. “Now who is doing the threatening, monsieur?”

  He shrugged, returning the look she’d just given him. “I’ll wait thirty minutes for you to find an appropriate dress, and then I’m leaving.”

  Believing he would do it, she hurried down the boardwalk without a backward glance.

  ————

  Jack sat aboard the wagon, aware of Jake Sampson standing in the doorway of the livery watching him.