She tilted her head to one side. “From personal experience, I happen to know the extent of that falsity, Monsieur Brennan.” If not mistaken, she thought his face deepened in color.
He feigned pulling something out of his chest, near the spot covering his heart. “If you’d like to name them, I’d not be opposed to it.”
Looking back at the first Percheron, she remembered when, as a petite fille, she’d first seen the breed. She’d been riding atop her father’s shoulders at the time.
Jack leaned against the stall, listening, watching her as she shared the memory with him. “What else do you remember about your father?”
Closing her eyes, Véronique reached back as far as she could into her memory. “The way his large hand curved around my smaller one as he showed me how to hold a pencil.” She breathed in. “And his scent. He smelled of pipe smoke and sunshine when he kissed me good-night. And I remember what I felt like when I was with him.” Cherished, chosen, loved.
Overcome by sudden emotion, she slowly lifted her face. “The rest of my memories are as real to my inner eye, but were told to me by my maman.”
“Do you think your mother would have been untruthful about such things?”
“Non, non, not untruthful. But . . . she had a way of seeing things that differed from mine. For instance, in the retelling of a situation I had also witnessed, she would give it a different hue from what I remembered. So I am not certain about how reliable these borrowed memories are—if that makes sense.”
“It does.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “I bet you have one vivid imagination.”
Her thoughts circled back to what had originally prompted their conversation. “Too vivid for my own good, at times.”
He pushed away from the wall. “So, what do you think we should do about it?”
Her eyes widened.
“Naming the horses, I mean.”
“Ah . . .” She let out a breath, then sized up the first animal. “I think . . . Napoleon Bonaparte for him.” She moved to the next stall. “And for this majestic creature . . . what other name could we bestow but Charlemagne.”
Jack’s laughter echoed through the livery. “I think I should’ve made some rules at the outset.”
“Too late, I am afraid. As you can clearly see that Napoleon and Charlemagne are quite pleased with the outcome.”
When they arrived back at the hotel, Jack accompanied her up the stairs. At the second-floor landing, she paused. “You are still a guest here at this hotel as well, non?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am.”
She nodded and continued her climb.
Jack followed, gaining far too much pleasure from the view than he should have. But those little bustled dresses she wore, fitting snug in the waist and then fanning out, were like waving a red flag in front of him. He’d figured she knew he was still staying at the hotel but was relatively certain she wasn’t aware that his room was directly across the hall from hers.
Unless she’d asked Lilly—something he wouldn’t put past her. Those two seemed like sisters separated at birth.
“Thank you for seeing me to my room, Jack, and for a lovely evening. It was most unexpected, and welcome.”
“I enjoyed it too, as did Napoleon and Charlemagne.” He did his best to say their names like she did, enjoying her reaction. He briefly studied the rug beneath his boots, knowing this was as good a time as any to bring up what he needed to discuss. “In the next couple of weeks, I’ll be returning to some of the mining towns we’ve already visited.”
“Business is good for you, non? Congratulations is the correct word, I believe.”
He nodded. “Business is very good. A bit too good, as it’s going to be keeping me busier than I’d planned on being.”
“I believe the wagon you are using is a great contributor to this success, would you not agree?”
Hearing the tease in her voice, he laughed softly. “Yes, ma’am. I’d say that was real accurate.” How could he phrase this? He’d already given this a lot of thought before their evening together, but after what had nearly happened in the livery a few minutes ago . . . He’d almost taken her in his arms and done what he’d been thinking about since dinner. Truth be told, since having met the woman. And if not for her sudden diatribe on Percherons, he would have. “In considering the day-trips to places we’ve already visited, Véronique, I think it would be best if you didn’t accompany me on those particular runs again.”
The light faded from her eyes. A tiny frown creased the bridge of her nose as she looked away. “Why do you consider this best?”
“I enjoy having you along, so don’t take this as commentary on that.” He bent down a mite until he’d secured her attention again. “I want you to hear me on that count, all right? I enjoy having you with me. This is not about that.”
She nodded. “And for the purpose of being clear, that enjoyment is reciprocated on my part as well.”
He reacted to the vulnerability in her voice, to the innocence in her brown eyes, which made him even more determined to get this agreement settled. “As we’ve discussed before, it’s always dangerous having you along. Since we’ve already visited these places, it doesn’t make sense for you to go again. The risk outweighs the benefit in those cases. Do you see the logic in that?”
“I see it. I do not like it, but I see it.”
He smiled at the unexpected response. “Always such honesty. That could get you in trouble one of these days, you know.”
Her mouth slipped open. “That is what Christophe used to tell me. In almost the same words.”
All sense of playful banter left Jack at the name. “Christophe?”
“Oui,” she whispered. “A dear friend from whom I have not heard in some time.”
“You’ve been writing him?”
“Oui, and I am awaiting his response. You would like him very much, I think.”
Doubtful. “I’m sure I would. Well . . .” Jack slipped her key from her hand and unlocked the door. “I hope you rest well this evening.”
“Thank you, Jack. I wish you the—” He spotted it just after she did.
She bent down to retrieve an envelope that had been shoved beneath her door. She stood, excitement lighting her face. “It’s a letter from—”
“Christophe,” Jack softly supplied. “How timely. I’ll leave you to it, then. Good night, Véronique.”
“Good night, Jack, and thank you again.” She closed the door before he’d even turned to go.
CHAPTER | TWENTY - FOUR
VÉRONIQUE WAVED TO Monsieur and Madame Carlson as she and Lilly pulled away in the wagon. Having spent time with Lilly’s parents two Sundays previous and then at lunch again
E´ today following the church service, Véronique didn’t have to look far to see why Lilly was so special. And her younger brother, Bobby, was adorable, even if Véronique had grown somewhat self-conscious beneath his constant staring during mealtime.
She wished Jack would have accepted Hannah Carlson’s invitation to lunch as well. But he had begged her pardon, saying he needed to take care of some business. She’d only seen him once, in the mercantile, since their dinner together last weekend, and he’d seemed more distant, aloof. She would have given much to know the cause.
Lilly maneuvered the wagon down the road from her house and onto a main thoroughfare in town. Véronique studied the girl’s every move, noting the confident manner in which she gripped the reins, how she braced her feet against the footrest, and how every so often—Véronique hadn’t figured out the pattern yet—Lilly would glance back over her shoulder.
“Mademoiselle Girard, would you like a lesson in driving the wagon this afternoon?”
Knowing she’d been caught, Véronique tried to match the teasing quality in Lilly’s voice. “And to think I considered myself furtive in my close observation of your talent.”
“If by furtive you mean staring at me from the corner of your eye and being obvious as the day is long, then you were
.” Lilly flashed a grin at her before returning her attention to the road. “Just let me get us on the road leading out to Miss Maudie’s, then I’ll pull over and let you drive.”
Véronique felt a tingle of anticipation and was glad she’d agreed to come with Lilly on this outing. Being with young Lilly always boosted her spirits, which was a welcome antidote since she’d wrestled with lingering melancholy in recent days.
Christophe’s letter discovered beneath her door had been brief, and hastily penned if the uneven markings of his script were any indication. The Marchand famille was once again situated in their home in Paris, Christophe along with them. But all was not well. Lord Marchand had fallen ill in Brussels, and even the practiced care of his personal physician provided no ease to the sickness. Christophe’s description of the return journey to Paris and of their discovered fallen city had read quite grueling. Beneath his words, Véronique sensed a gravity to the situation that even Christophe’s positive spirit could not fully conceal.
She had authored a response missive immediately, filled mostly with questions as to Lord Marchand’s health, the political climate in Paris, their safety, and Christophe’s current situation.
The woman at the post office had informed her it could take two months or more for a missive to travel from the Colorado Territory to Paris. The Paris hand stamp on Christophe’s envelope read February eleventh—over two and a half months earlier. What had transpired in all that time? The Denver newspaper was the only publication she’d found that carried news of Europe, and even that was weeks old at the time of printing.
As Véronique had departed the post office after mailing the letter, she’d paused and stared at her hand on the latch. Had her father stood in this very same place many years ago, mailing his letters to her and her mother? She had brushed off the unexpected sense of connection, attributing it to her imagination.
But still, she wondered.
After visiting several of the mining towns with Jack, it dawned on her how far she’d come in her journey. But it also struck her as she recalled searching the faces of the miners—specifically the scores of older men who lived in Ma Petite France at the Peerless—how far she had yet to go. And how many mining towns she and Jack had yet to visit—thirty-nine remained—before winter set in again.
The dawning of that discovery thinned her tenuous hope of ever finding her father, until she remembered whose desire had birthed this journey.
Bittersweet memories of her maman pressed close, and she wished for the remembered touch of her mother’s hand on her younger brow. The coolness of her mother’s fingers, the feather-soft love in them. Or to watch her mother stirring the cream into her coffee, until it matched the warm color of her eyes.
Véronique tilted her head back and searched the yawning blue canopy overhead, the breeze stirring tendrils of her hair. Could Maman see her right now? Could she see Véronique’s father? And if so, per chance would God allow a moment’s reprieve so that her mother could give direction to her search? But perhaps her maman already knew the whereabouts of her papa because she was already reunited with him, up there somewhere, the two of them, without her.
The likelihood of that thought brought a sudden pang.
Lilly chose that moment to pull the wagon off to the side of the road, adjacent to the church where her father delivered his sermons.
Unsettled inside, Véronique studied the white-steepled structure perched proudly on the edge of town, thankful for the excuse to abandon such melancholy thoughts.
Though far from ornate, the church building possessed a welcoming quality with its colorful confetti of flowers dotting the front walkway leading to the stairs. Her focus moved past the church to the cemetery some yards beyond. Pale shadows of gray hovered over the hallowed ground, and she pictured the slab of polished marble marking her mother’s resting place half a world away.
It seemed an almost frivolous thought in light of everything else, but she hoped someone—Christophe, possibly?—was tending that patch of earth, since she could not. It hurt to think of her mother’s grave being covered by weeds and thorny briars.
She squinted, able to distinguish the shadowed outline of headstones beneath the bowers of trees bordering Fountain Creek. Its churning waters issued from the heart of the great Rocky Mountains and cascaded down the narrow canyon off to her right. On their way back into town one evening Jack had explained that, years ago, the French traders had dubbed the creek Fontaine qui Bouille or Boiling Fountain.
Her father had been in this town—that much she knew from the postmark of his last letter to her mother. But had he walked the shores of Fountain Creek? Had he heard the ancient melody of its icy waters crashing down and tumbling over smooth rock?
Movement in the cemetery drew her eye.
She spotted someone walking through the headstones in the distance. A grown man, she guessed from his height and long gait. He paused as if searching for something, then walked to a grave and knelt down.
“You’re going to love doing this!”
At Lilly’s exclamation, Véronique redirected her attention, reluctant to look away from the man’s private vigil.
Lilly held out the reins. “It’s only fair that I teach you something in exchange for all the French lessons you’re giving me.”
“Ah . . . but we shall soon see if I am the astute learner you have proven to be. Perhaps I will disappoint you, non? Prove to be less than you have considered me to be.” Véronique took hold of the leather straps, struck by the harnessed power now in her control.
Feeling a touch on her arm, she looked back.
Lilly’s eyes sparkled, but with tears instead of her customary smile. Her delicate chin shook. “You are so much more astute . . . and beautiful . . . and cultured than I’ll ever hope to be. I’m so glad we’re friends, Mademoiselle Girard. And I’m so glad you came to Willow Springs.”
Taken aback at first, Véronique reached out and touched the girl’s cheek. “Ah, ma chérie, but you already are those things—every one of them.” She tipped Lilly’s chin and smiled. “But I am wondering . . . how can you not be aware of this?”
Lilly shook her head. “I stopped by the mercantile yesterday and there was this—” She hiccupped and sniffed.
Véronique pulled a handkerchief that had belonged to her mother from her réticule. An embroidered corner of the soft cloth bore the cursive initials A.E.G. She nudged it into Lilly’s hand. “Here, take this and tell me what has upset you so.”
Lilly nodded and dabbed her tears. “It’s not like this hasn’t happened before—it has.” She hesitated. “There’s this boy I’ve sort of . . . liked since I was nine. Sometimes I thought he liked me back, but I was never sure. Then yesterday morning, he was standing outside with some of his friends, and—” she winced, pressing her lips together—“I tripped as I was leaving the mercantile, and I dropped Mrs. Baird’s groceries all over the boardwalk. That’s when his friend called me . . . a name and—” Her breath caught. “Jeremy laughed. He didn’t help me. He just . . . laughed.”
A maternal instinct rose so swift and livid within Véronique that she was glad the boy was not within her reach. She pulled Lilly into a hug and stroked the back of her head. Strange how the gesture encouraged her own tears as she remembered her mother doing the same with her when she had faced similar disappointments. And how Jack had comforted her the day she’d made such a fool of herself by becoming so nervous she made herself sick.
Véronique drew back and brushed a stray lock from Lilly’s face. “I am sorry this happened to you, ma chérie. And as sure as I am looking into the eyes of a beautiful young woman mature beyond her years and lovely beyond words, there is a young man out there whom God is preparing only for you. This boy will love you for who you are, instead of who you are not. But you are young yet. It could be some time before this boy comes into your life.”
Lilly frowned.
“Because . . .” Véronique arched a brow. “Whomever God has chosen for
you will be special, Lilly. This boy must be the equal to your traits of kindness and generosity, intellect and honor. And, in my experience, these qualities are not often found in abundance, and certainly not coupled together.” She pictured Jack, and silently ticked off the characteristics again in her mind, finding he possessed each one. How was it that no woman had ever claimed him as her own?
A tear trailed Lilly’s cheek.
But Véronique warmed at the sparkle slowly returning to her young friend’s eyes, and she recalled what her mother had said to her when she’d had a similar altercation with a member of the opposite sex. “That moment outside the mercantile, when those boys laughed at you, does not define the young woman you are, Lilly. Who you are is defined by what you will do with this experience, and how you will act toward those boys the next time your paths cross.”
Lilly nodded, looking mildly convinced. “Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle Girard.”
“De rien, Lilly.” She patted the girl’s back, wanting to inquire about the surgery but hesitant to bring up the subject. Especially now. She gave Lilly one last hug, then gripped the reins and squared her shoulders. “And now . . . I am ready for my first driving lesson, non?”
Lilly giggled and released a lever on the side of the wagon. “That may be, but as my papa might say, are the streets of Willow Springs ready for you?”
————
The patch of earth where Jack knelt was damp, and gradually the moisture sank through his pants to his knees. He remained bowed beside Jonathan McCutchens’s grave, lingering, relishing the peacefulness that embraced this hallowed spot.
He had awakened long before sunrise that morning, his room dark and still, and stretched out an arm, the space in the bed beside him feeling empty and wanting. After so many years of accepted solitude, the discovery caught him unaware. He’d finally risen and reached for his Bible, taking advantage of a few moments of unclaimed time and hoping to fill the void within him—if not the one beside him.
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