Jack tilted his head slightly. “Is there . . . something else you wanted to say, Mr. Rousseau?”
His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the wagons and miners cramming the street. “Only that you ought not delay getting back down the mountain.” The older man took off his hat and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “There’ve been some . . . accidents of late.” His gaze settled on the dirt beneath his worn leather boots. “You seem like an honest man to me, Brennan, but your predecessor” —his voice lowered—“was not. Nor the fella before him. They dealt unfairly and earned a lot of enemies in this town, and others nearby.”
Jack thought of Zimmerman and of the scene he’d viewed earlier that day—plank boards and wagon wheels splintered at the bottom of the canyon. Something about the scene had bothered him then, and it struck him now what it was.
He didn’t remember seeing any remnants of supplies scattered among the debris. Perhaps some of the miners had scavenged them. Rescuing Zimmerman from his ledge had to have been difficult, but that canyon wall was a sheer drop-off of at least three hundred feet on all sides. It would have been near impossible for anyone to retrieve the supplies after the fact.
Jack shifted his weight. “Why would someone hold a grudge against me for something Zimmerman did?”
Rousseau looked at him pointedly. “Sometimes the only thing revenge needs is a target, Mr. Brennan. It doesn’t care who’s to blame. Now the two of you had best be on—” A sudden cough hit him. The spasm seemed to deepen, and Rousseau clutched his chest until he regained his breath.
Jack recognized the phlegmy sound. Lung congestion was familiar among old-timers in the mining camps. “I appreciate your advice, sir.” He extended his hand. “We’ll stop by Ma Petite France, then promptly be on our way.”
Jack returned to the wagon, aware of Véronique’s keen attention every step of the way. He climbed to the bench seat beside her.
“We’re going to head on down the road a ways. Rousseau said that—” “Rousseau?” She looked from him to the man standing in the doorway.
“He came over a couple of years before your father did. I’m guessing, but I think he’s probably about your father’s age.”
“But, he looks so . . . old.”
Jack nodded, having thought the same thing. “Mining’s hard work. It tends to age a man before his time.” If it doesn’t kill him first.
He guided the wagon through the hordes of men lined up for supplies—and no doubt a look at Véronique—then followed Rousseau’s directions down the street to the cluster of bunkhouses.
One hour and countless inquiries later, Ma Petite France had offered up no clue to Pierre Gustave Girard’s whereabouts. If the oldtimers’ testimonies were accurate—and for some reason, Jack believed they were—Pierre Girard had never worked at the Peerless. But Jack had watched, stunned, as Véronique was transformed.
She conversed with the miners in their native tongue, laughing and speaking to them of Paris and their homeland—at least that’s the gist he got from the few familiar words he caught. She listened attentively to their stories and occasionally translated for him, telling him they shared with her about their families left behind, or family members buried shortly after their arrival in this new country.
Most of the miners seemed respectful enough, but Jack stayed close by her side, allowing his presence to stake his claim. From the distance the miners maintained, they got his meaning, even if Véronique was oblivious to it.
Back in the wagon, he and Véronique headed toward the main thoroughfare. She was quiet beside him, but he sensed a renewal within her, and a lightness that hadn’t been present before.
Then he remembered.
He guided the team in the direction of the supply building. “I forgot to collect the inventory list from Rousseau.” After angling the wagon adjacent to the building, he reined in and set the brake. “I won’t be but a minute.” He hopped down, tempted to remind her again about not speaking to anyone in his absence. But being aware of her sensitivity to his being in her employ, and not wanting to alter her current mood, he quelled that impulse. He’d had enough theatrics for one day.
Véronique watched Jack disappear inside the building. She’d wanted to accompany him, but he hadn’t asked. So neither had she. She took in the dismal view of the town from where she sat in the wagon.
How could anyone live in such a place? Why would they choose to? Something caught her attention—a rundown shack across the street. Constructed of gray clapboard and leaning slightly to one side, it squatted in the mud and muck and held no appeal whatsoever— save for the sign tacked above its door.
It read simply Crêperie.
She wasn’t so much hungry in her stomach as she was hungry in her heart. For a taste of home. The miners in Ma Petite France had proven to be a gentlemanly group, putting her at ease. More so than she’d ever thought she would be in such a place.
Hesitating, she glanced at the supply building and saw Jack inside speaking to Monsieur Rousseau. She looked back at the shack. It would only take her a moment, and she could keep Jack in her view the entire time.
She climbed down from the wagon, ignoring with a practiced air the looks and comments from miners as she crossed the street. The inside of the rudimentary crêperie looked no better than its outer shell. But the aromas wafting from a back room enticed her with memories of Paris, and warm crepes she and her mother had often purchased from a street vendeur near the Musée du Louvre.
The front room of the shack was empty. Véronique peered down a narrow hallway to the right, then decided to see if Jack had completed his transaction. A glance through the grimy front window confirmed he was still engaged in conversation with Monsieur Rousseau.
She peered around the corner, down the hallway. “Bonjour!”
No answer.
“Monsieur? Madame? Are you open for business?” Taking a step into the hallway, she was certain she heard a voice coming from the back. Never would she have considered consuming anything from a place like this before coming to this country, much less crossing the threshold of such an establishment. This newfound bravado of hers was exhilarating. And frightening. Knowing Jack was close at hand bolstered her shifting courage.
“Is anyone there?” She glanced down the hallway behind her, no longer able to see Jack, but still able to see the wagon. “I am interested in purchasing something, s’il vous plaît.”
“Exactly what is it you’re interested in purchasing, mon amie?”
Véronique spun to find a man standing in the hallway, close to her. She stepped back—then calmed when she got a better look. He resembled some of the gentlemen she’d just visited at Ma Petite France and could well have been one of them. “Bonjour, monsieur. I saw your sign out front and was tempted to see what your establishment might offer.” She shrugged. “It has been a long while since I have enjoyed the tastes of home.”
He bowed briefly at the waist. “I am honored that you would visit my humble establishment.” His accent thickened, and grew playful. “I have warm crêpes in the back and was just about to bring them out. Would you like to help me?”
She gave a brief curtsy. “Oui, monsieur. I would be happy to assist a fellow countryman in such an honored task.”
She followed him down the hallway, her shoulders nearly brushing the walls, the passage was so narrow. This man looked to be about the age of her father, and she found herself imagining, as she had when she was much younger, what her father looked like. And if the years of adulthood had granted her any outer resemblance to him at all.
According to her mother, she was Arianne Girard’s daughter on the outside but was Pierre Girard’s on the inside. “When we peer into the mirror, my dear daughter, we see identical faces,” her mother had said more than once, gently caressing her cheek. “We are so alike. But within your eyes and within your heart’s cadence, Véronique, lingers your father, always. His passion, and his life.”
In latter years, her mother became less wi
lling to speak of her father, and when she did, she became withdrawn and reticent afterward. Which was understandable, given what he had done. To them both.
The room at the back of the shack was small, but true to the man’s word, fresh crepes were spread out on a board, with more stacked in a skillet perched on a black stove in the corner.
He glanced back over his shoulder. “We need only to butter them, mon amie. The butter is there, on the shelf.”
Véronique glanced behind her, then reached for the metal container. “The crêpes smell délicieuses. How long have you been—”
The man pressed close from behind, pinning her against the cupboard and holding her there with his body. “Mon amie, indeed.” His breath was hot against the side of her face. “I’d like to taste something from home too.”
Véronique screamed and clawed his bare forearms. Then grabbed his hands to still their progress.
He tried to turn her toward him, and at first she resisted. Then she remembered something Christophe had taught her after a boy had attempted to take liberties. Loathing this man’s hands on her body, Véronique allowed him to turn her to face him.
Then she did exactly as Christophe had demonstrated.
The man loosened his hold and staggered back a step. He bent at the waist, his expression one of shocked fury, and pain. “Why you little—”
Not looking back, Véronique ran down the hallway to the front room, certain she heard the door open. “Jack!”
But the man standing in the doorway wasn’t Jack. And she skidded to a halt, breathless.
CHAPTER | TWENTY - TWO
THE MAN STANDING IN the doorway was broad-shouldered and thick through the chest, giving the appearance of being as wide as he was tall. His bald head gave him a menacing look that was offset by the kindness in his eyes.
But she’d trusted appearances before. . . .
His gaze flickered past her, his expression wary. “Somethin’ wrong here, miss?”
Trembling, Véronique nodded, hoping she wasn’t going to be sick again. “The man in the back . . . he tried to—”
“Véronique!” Jack burst through the open doorway, pistol drawn. He took stock of the man beside him and moved to stand close to her. He stared down hard, his breath heavy. “Are you all right? What are you doing in here?”
The rush of courage that had emboldened her only moments before evaporated at the concern in his voice. Cradling her midsection, she slowly nodded. “I am all right.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway behind them—then hastened in the opposite direction.
“Miss . . .”
Véronique looked back at the stranger.
“You said the man tried to do something. . . .”
Understanding his unspoken question, Véronique shook her head. “Non, he did not hurt me.” She watched understanding flood Jack’s face, followed by fury. “I managed to escape him,” she added quickly, hoping to allay his fears.
Relief diluted Jack’s anger, but only briefly.
“You get her on outta here, friend. And keep her safe.” The stranger tipped his head toward the hallway. “I’ll take care of him, with pleasure.”
Jack hesitated, then took hold of her hand.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you, Miss . . . ah . . .” The man obviously struggled to remember her name. “Vernie. But decent women have no business going around here unaccompanied.” He threw Jack a look that said he should’ve known better.
Jack’s grip tightened around her hand.
Knowing their situation wasn’t Jack’s fault, Véronique expected him to set the stranger aright of that fact. Regardless of Jack’s being in her employ, she knew she deserved the public correction.
Jack tucked the revolver inside his belt. “We’ll be on our way, then. I’m obliged to you for taking care of things here.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and escorted her outside.
The action felt stiff, formal, and she sensed a different anger building inside him as he drew her with him across the street.
A shrill whistle blew, and in no time the thoroughfare was again flooded with miners. Jack lifted her by the waist up into the wagon, then climbed over her and sat down, not bothering to walk around to the other side as he customarily did.
When they reached the outskirts of town, she could no longer bear his silence. Or her guilt. “I am sorry, Jack. My actions were impulsive and foolish and—”
“Yes, ma’am, they were.” He stared ahead, jaw set.
Véronique smarted at his tone, then thought again of what might have happened to her had she not managed to get away from that man. Sickly chills inched up her legs and pooled in the pit of her stomach. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.
They rode in silence. Jack glanced behind them on occasion, as though expecting to see someone following them. It only added to her unsettled feeling.
It was later in the day than she had realized, and from reading the sun’s position in the blue overhead, she wondered whether they would arrive back in Willow Springs before dark, as Jack had predicted earlier that morning.
“You said you escaped him.” His deep voice came out flat and thin, telling her he was still angry. “How did you manage that?”
She confined her gaze to her lap. “When I was younger, Christophe gave me instruction on how a woman can defend herself against a man.”
“Christophe, huh?” He scoffed softly. “And what did he teach you exactly?”
She didn’t care for his patronizing tone. “I hardly think I need to spell it out for you, Jack.”
“And I hardly thought I needed to spell out to you that you were supposed to stay in the wagon while I went inside. But apparently I was mistaken.”
Véronique didn’t like this side of Jack Brennan, yet she felt responsible for its manifestation. “I have apologized to you, Jack. And I have well imagined what could have happened to me, if perhaps you are thinking I have not.” Her voice caught. “It was impulsive on my part. I know this. But I saw the sign on the building and—”
“What did the sign say?”
She hesitated. “Crêperie.” Her neck heated, knowing how foolish that would sound to him. “In your language, it means . . . crepe shop. Much like a bakery, to you.”
He shook his head but said nothing.
With every bump and jolt of the wagon, she felt his censure. Seeing a sharp bend in the path ahead, where trail and chasm met with little introduction, she closed her eyes tight, determined not to look over the edge. Once they traversed the curve, she opened them again.
“I only wanted a taste of home, Jack. Of something familiar. And my desire for that outweighed the logic of my actions. It will not occur again. I give you my word.”
After a long moment, he looked over at her. “See to it that it doesn’t.” His expression softened a fraction. “S’il vous plaît.”
Jack’s senses remained on alert as they wound their way down the mountain. After an hour, his pulse had returned to normal. Once they’d crossed Maynor’s Gulch, he began to relax. When they were little more than two hours from Willow Springs, the trail they were on joined up with the route they’d taken from Jenny’s Draw. And once he’d traveled a route, it remained etched in his memory.
“Jack?” Her voice sounded overly small.
He looked beside him. Her brown eyes appeared luminous in the half-light of approaching evening. Seeing her arms wrapped around herself, he wondered if she was chilly. “Would you like your coat?”
“Oui, please. It is in the top of my bagage.”
Jack stopped the wagon. He reached behind him and located her satchel, unlatched it, then felt around for her coat. Unsuccessful, he finally stood and leaned over the seat. He couldn’t believe the assortment of items she’d stuffed inside the bag—mirrors, powders, a bottle of perfume, books, and undergarments galore. But not a coat to be seen. He finally came across something and held up a tiny nothing of a jacket. “This is the coat you brought along
with you to stay warm?”
A nod, far less confident than usual.
He stuffed it back into her bag and reached beneath the bench seat for a miners’ jacket he kept stored there. “Put this on.”
She did so without question. It dwarfed her small frame.
Between the events of the day and the earlier drizzle of sleet, her blond hair had long since evaded her efforts to keep it situated atop her head. It fell in a thick swoop over one shoulder. With her customary defenses reduced to shambles, she looked more than a bit defeated—and far too alluring.
He found himself thanking God again that nothing worse had happened to her back at the Peerless. When he’d returned to the wagon to find it empty, he’d panicked. He knew enough to realize that the deeper root of his anger was tethered back fifteen years ago. But the emotions of that day, and of the days following Mary’s and Aaron’s death, had returned with a vengeance when he’d seen the empty wagon.
Véronique was in his care, and he hadn’t been there to protect her.
“I would like to speak with you about something, Jack, if I may.”
Her formality struck him as odd, in light of all they’d been through. “You may speak with me about anything you wish, Véronique.”
She gave him a tiny smile. “I realize that the likelihood of finding my papa in this Colorado Territory is . . .” She paused as though searching for the right word.
“Slim?” Jack supplied, his voice soft.
She shot him an unexpected look. “It was my intention to say ‘not as promising as I once considered it to be,’ but . . . I suppose the idea of my hopes becoming more slender also fits the description.”
The serious tone of her voice kept Jack from smiling at her mild correction. “Twenty years is a long time to go with no word from a man.”
“Oui, it is.” She slowly inhaled, then let her breath out quickly. “Something I have not told you . . . and I do not know why I tell you now, other than I want you to better understand this search I am on. I was sent on this journey. I came not of my own choosing but at someone else’s behest—that of my maman, God rest her soul.”
Remembered Page 21
