Remembered

by Tamera Alexander

  CHAPTER | NINETEEN

  MONSIEUR BRENNAN, may I ask why you are departing town at this hour?”

  Holding the reins in check, Jack couldn’t help but grin at the smartness of her tone and the way her tiny hands were knotted on her slender hips. Her frown deepened, and he guessed that humor was apparently not the reaction she’d hoped for.

  “Good morning, Véronique. How are you today?”

  Momentary shyness replaced her frown, as though she only now realized what a serious breach of etiquette she’d committed by addressing him so curtly. This woman was indeed a handful.

  Jack eyed her fancy getup, the rich purple skirt and matching jacket. Her sleeves had little flowers sewn on the edges, same as graced the front of her jacket. What exactly had this woman done, or been, back in Paris? If Sampson at the livery knew, he’d never let on. Whatever her occupation before Willow Springs, her budget on clothing had been exorbitant. But he had to admit, the garments suited her.

  “Good morning . . . Jack. I am well, merci.” She offered a cursory smile—just enough to satisfy the merest guideline of etiquette—then indulged her previous frown. “I will ask you again, s’il vous plaît. Why are you departing with my wagon at this early hour?”

  “I’d think it would be obvious, ma’am. I’m heading out of town on a supply run.”

  She stepped closer. Her brown eyes flashed. “And to what destination are you . . . headed?”

  Her strident voice sliced a portion of Jack’s humor. “To Duke’s Run, Véronique. One of the mining towns Scoggins mentioned to us the other day.”

  She nodded. “And why, may I ask, was I not informed of this trip? Only yesterday you said our next journey would be on Friday of this week. And yet, here you are” —she made a sweeping gesture with her arm, her voice growing louder—“supplies loaded and secured, and not a word to me about this premeditated and deliberate expedition!”

  “Actually, ma’am,” Jack said, working to keep his tone light, aware of the attention of curious onlookers, “the use of premeditated and deliberate in the same sentence is redundant. Since the word premeditated actually means to think, consider, or deliberate beforehand.” He winked and nodded at the reticule hanging on her arm, hoping to ease her ill temper. “You can check your little book on that one, if you’d like. Now if you’ll please get into the—”

  “Ah!” Her mouth dropped open. Her face turned three shades of crimson. “Why you did not inform me of this trip?”

  At the undainty stomp of her foot, Jack’s own face heated. He kept his voice low. “Véronique, please get into the wagon and we’ll—” “Please provide an answer to my question, monsieur!”

  His patience went paper-thin as two shop owners appeared on the boardwalk, evidently enjoying the scene before them, their grins amused. He looked back at her. “We had an agreement on the front end, mademoiselle, that the trips involving an—”

  “Oui! And you have apparently set aside our agreement with no concern for our discussed terms. I demand that you—”

  He set the brake and jumped down. Managing a stiff smile at the men on the boardwalk, he gently took hold of Véronique’s arm and leaned close. “I’m asking that you please get into the wagon, mademoiselle. I’ll gladly discuss this with you again, at great length, but only in a more private setting.”

  She glanced about, then raised her chin in an imperious fashion. “I will go with you, but only because I consider it prudent to do so.”

  Jack took a calming breath and aided her ascent into the wagon. “And we both know you’re nothing if not prudent.”

  She spun on the seat. “What was that you said?”

  He climbed up beside her and released the brake. “I said such prudence becomes you, ma’am.”

  Jack guided the wagon down a lesser-used side street and reined in. She was staring straight ahead, jaw tense, her posture straight as a board, and with an aura about as welcoming.

  “Mademoiselle, we clearly have had a misunderstanding.”

  “Oui, and I am thinking you believe it is my fault.”

  Sighing, Jack removed his hat and scratched the back of his head. “I honestly haven’t gotten that far in my thinking. You give me too much credit if you think I have. I’m just trying to figure out what’s got you so all-fired angry.” Seeing her pert little mouth drop open, he held up a hand. “I offer you my apology if I misrepresented anything about our travels to these towns together. But I thought I made it perfectly clear, Véronique, that you would not be accompanying me on the overnight trips.”

  That pert little mouth clamped shut. But only briefly. “I remember our discussion quite well, Jack. I also remember voicing my concern regarding my personal interests being properly managed in my absence.” She turned toward him on the seat. “I have given more thought to the subject at hand. With you being in my employ, and understanding that we are both two mature adults, I desire to broach the subject again.”

  Jack stared, not following. “You desire to broach what subject again?”

  She huffed softly. “The subject of the overnight trips. I am certain I could manage to find an appropriate chaperon, and therefore would be able to confirm for myself whether my father has been in that particu—”

  “That subject is not open for discussion, mademoiselle.”

  A single manicured brow arched in determination. “Let us not forget who is the employee here, monsieur, and who is the patronne.”

  “I’m hardly forgetting that, ma’am. But let’s also not forget who’s the man, and who’s the woman.” As he had anticipated, her eyes widened. “I realize, more than I care to distinguish in conversation, what differences there are in our genders. Suffice it to say—” he paused and looked at her pointedly—“please, let it suffice to say . . . that while I consider traveling with you to be a pleasure, it also presents a . . . challenge, from time to time.”

  She stared at him, unflinching. “I am aware of these . . . challenges. Christophe has told me of such things. But I was also under the impression that a gentleman possesses the ability to not act on such challenges, even though he may be tempted to do so.”

  Jack looked away. He suddenly felt like a schoolboy attempting to explain why he’d been caught cheating on a test. Why was nothing ever easy with this woman? And how could he explain this to her without embarrassing them both? And who on earth is Christophe?!

  Then it hit him. “Have you ever walked by a dress shop, Véronique, and had something catch your eye? Say a dress or a bonnet?”

  She shook her head, laughing. “Certainly not here in Willow Springs.”

  Jack bit the inside of his cheek. “In Paris, then. Use your imagination, please.”

  She gave him a curt look. “Oui, I have experienced this. What woman has not?”

  “Very good, we’re getting somewhere. Say that when you left the house that morning you had no intention of shopping for a dress or a bonnet. You were on your way to the mercantile to do your shopping.” Anticipating the shake of her head, he quickly added, “Or on your way to see a friend. You did visit friends on occasion in Paris, did you not?”

  Again, the look. “Oui, I visited friends. On occasion.” She mimicked his tone.

  “Wonderful.” He ignored it. “You’re passing by this dress shop, and a bonnet in the window draws your attention.” He shrugged. “You don’t need a bonnet, you weren’t thinking about bonnets. But nevertheless, there it is, and you’re thinking about it now. In fact, you find you can think of nothing else but that bonnet.”

  She looked at him as though he had sprouted another head. “There is nothing wrong with thinking about a bonnet.”

  Jack slowly exhaled through his teeth. “Mademoiselle, you do realize this is an analogy. Correct?”

  Her expression clouded. She reached for her reticule and pulled the tiny book from within. As she turned the pages with enthusiasm, Jack rested his forehead in his hands.

  She whispered under her breath as she read. “Ah . . .”
She looked up again, her expression brightening. “The story you are telling bears resemblance to the subject at hand, non? I will be able to draw a comparison between the two when you have reached the conclusion.”

  Jack didn’t dare blink. “That is my sincerest hope, mademoiselle.”

  She looked at him through squinted eyes. “Continue with your . . . analogy, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Okay, where were we . . . ?”

  “I have seen the bonnet,” she supplied in a none-too-serious tone. “I do not need a bonnet, but I find I can think of nothing else but that bonnet.”

  Jack quelled the urge to throttle her, quite a challenge in itself. He cleared his throat. “You go into the dress shop to inqui—”

  “Millinery, you mean.”

  “What?”

  “I would see a bonnet in a millinery, Jack. A hat store. Not a dress shop.”

  He ran a hand over his face. “Fine. As I was saying . . . you go into the hat store and inquire about the bonnet. But as it turns out, you don’t have the means to buy it. Nor do you have the right to—”

  “But what if I do possess the means to buy it?”

  He sighed. “For the sake of the analogy, Véronique, let’s say that you do not.”

  Frowning, she nodded.

  “So not only do you not have the money to purchase the bonnet, you also realize that you don’t have the right to buy it. Because the bonnet is being held for someone else.”

  “For whom is it being held?”

  “It doesn’t matter for whom. The point is—”

  “Because in the most prestigious shops in Paris, you may only hold a bonnet for one day. If you do not return with payment within that time, then—”

  “It’s being held in the interest of someone who is the rightful owner of that bonnet.” He silenced further interruption with a raised forefinger. “Though this person has not yet purchased the bonnet, though she has never seen it, she is the rightful owner. Because when the seamstress created this special bonnet, she had that particular customer in mind. She uniquely fashioned it for that person. And for no one else.” He waited, frustrated, fearing he’d made a mess of things in trying to paint a more vivid picture for her. He wondered why he’d even attempted to explain it in the first place. “For you to demand ownership of that bonnet just because you saw it and wanted it, though it seemed like the perfect fit and selection for you at that particular moment, would be wrong.” He held her gaze. “Are you following this story at all?”

  She stared at him for a moment, giving a faint nod. A light slowly dawned in her eyes, then flickered and died. “Non, I am afraid I do not. I understand wanting the bonnet, and . . . almost I can imagine not having the means to purchase it, but that is where my understanding parts most abruptly with your story.” She reached out and patted his hand. “I am sorry, Jack.”

  Jack closed his eyes, unable to look at her as he spoke next. “If you and I were to travel together on these overnight trips, Véronique, the temptation for me to want to be closer to you could present itself . . . from time to time.” Would present itself, and often, if his unexpected reaction to her now was any indication. How could he so desire silence from a woman while also wanting to kiss her . . . thoroughly. He blinked to clear his imagination. “I do not want to put myself—or you—in that circumstance. I will not put us in that circumstance, mademoiselle. And I humbly ask that you please not pursue this subject further. Now, or in the future.”

  When he finally lifted his head, she had turned away.

  All at once, he felt clumsy and boorish. “It was not my intention to offend you, Véronique. I was trying to do just the opposite, in fact. I’m sorry.”

  When she looked back, unshed tears filled her eyes. “Au contraire . . . You have not offended me, Jack. You have made me want for home, and for my conversations with Christophe.” She nodded, her smile fragile. “I understand your story now and will abide by your wish. I give you my word not to broach this subject again.”

  Jack let out a held breath. “And I give you my word, Véronique, that I will be your mouthpiece in these towns when you are not with me. I’ll seek information on your father, I’ll follow every lead.” He caught her eye and smiled. “As though you were standing right beside me, with my rifle aimed and at the ready.”

  She chuckled and tears slipped down her cheeks.

  But Jack resisted the urge to catch them, recalling in vivid detail what it had been like to be with Mary as her husband, and how she had responded to him when he had comforted her at times like this, when her emotions were tender and raw. His body responded to the memory, and to the woman sitting beside him, and he hungered for the intimacies shared between a husband and his wife.

  Desire fed imagination, and imagination needed no prompting.

  He made himself look away from Véronique, knowing full well that for him to console her now would be like him opening the door to the millinery . . . ever so slightly.

  CHAPTER | TWENTY

  BE MINDFUL OF THE PASS on your way up to the Peerless today, Brennan.” Monsieur Hochstetler paused from his task, and Véronique read warning in his expression. “Remember, right around Maynor’s Gulch is where Zimmerman went—”

  “Will do, Mr. Hochstetler. Thank you!” Jack’s quick response seemed a bit overly sincere, even for him. “I appreciate your advice.”

  Jack strode from the mercantile and Véronique hurried to catch up with him. “Be mindful of what pass, Jack? To what was Mr. Hochstetler referring?”

  “It’s nothing to worry about, Véronique.”

  She quickened her steps. “Who is this Zimmerman Mr. Hochstetler mentioned?”

  Jack hefted a box and situated it in the wagon. “Can you hand me that other one right there, please?” He pointed. “The small one?”

  She did as he asked. “And what are you supposed to remember?”

  From the opposite side of the wagon, he peered at her across the cargo, then tossed over one end of a rope. “Can you pull this taut?”

  She gave the rope an anemic tug, knowing what he was trying to do. “What was Mr. Hochstetler’s meaning, Jack? He said Zimmerman went somewhere. Who is Zimmerman and where did he go?”

  Sighing, Jack came around and tied the rope himself. “It’s all right, Véronique. I’ve got everything under control. You’ve given me a job to do—now let me do it. I’ll be ready to go in a minute, so why don’t you go ahead and climb up? Mrs. Baird sent some muffins this morning. Cinnamon, I think. They’re beneath the seat.” He turned back to his work.

  She stared after him. It felt as though he’d just patted her on the head and sent her off to play. She was the employer in this situation. It was her wagon! She was paying him! How dare he try to dismiss her as though she were some—“Jack, you will cease your duties this instant and give heed to my question.”

  Gradually he turned to face her.

  The furrow in his brow, coupled with the way his eyes narrowed, made her wish she’d taken more care in phrasing her request. “Please,” she added more softly, “I would appreciate your attention for a moment. I am asking you a simple question and yet you continue to avoid giving response.”

  “In our culture, ma’am” —he jerked the rope tight—“that could be seen as me trying to give you a polite hint.” He secured the knot and offered a stiff smile. “Maybe you should consider taking it.”

  “I do not care for these . . . hints, Jack. I have never done so. I prefer for thoughts to be expressed explicitly and in clear order. So that everything can be understood.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me . . . ?” He blew out a breath as he walked around the corner of the wagon.

  Faced with his stony silence, she climbed up onto the bench seat and waited. Maynor’s Gulch was a pass they crossed on their way to the Peerless, if her map reading from the previous evening was without error. Five hours up and five hours down. Jack couldn’t avoid her forever.

  This morning hadn’t come soon enough
for her. She was eager to renew the search for her father and—at least up until now—to be in Jack’s company again. He’d already summarized his supply trip to Duke’s Run. His overnight venture had yielded success in sales, but not in discovering anything about her father. Yet no doubt existed in her mind that he had ‘overturned every stone’ in his search, as went the recently learned saying.

  Eyeing Jack as he finished securing the wagon, Véronique found her thoughts returning to Lilly Carlson. The visit with Dr. Hadley early Wednesday—prior to her altercation with Jack in the middle of Main Street, for which she had promptly apologized to him this morning—had proven informative, but also distressing.

  Dr. Hadley had painted a far less hopeful picture of the surgery’s likelihood of success than had Lilly. “I appreciated your note requesting a meeting with me about Lilly Carlson,” the doctor had stated. “Your desire to help the Carlson family is most noble, Mademoiselle Girard, and I took the liberty of meeting with Pastor Carlson— though I did not reveal your specific intent to him, as you requested in your note. I learned from him that you and Lilly have become good friends. You’ve been a guest in their home. The girl esteems you most highly, mademoiselle, and gives weight to your counsel. With Pastor Carlson’s permission, and in consideration of the generous offer you present on the family’s behalf, I’ll discuss the details of the surgery with you.

  “Lilly’s bones have been so long in their current growth pattern, Mademoiselle Girard, that I’m not at all convinced her body will respond to this procedure in a positive way. The anesthesia has certain risks as well, as does the length of the operation.”

  “But Lilly Carlson is young, Doctor. And she is strong, non?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle, she is. But successful surgeries of this kind have consistently occurred with much younger patients—not those Lilly’s age.” Concern weighted his sigh. “Doctors take an oath to first do no harm. Not to knowingly take steps that will leave a patient in a worsened condition than when they first inclined themselves to our services.” The earnestness in his voice matched that in his expression. “Since the day the Carlsons moved to Willow Springs, I’ve cared for their family and have watched Lilly grow into a beautiful girl who has such promise ahead of her. I have no desire to bury that child sooner than her Maker wills.”