Then there were all the packages she’d had with her at the dress shop. But what topped it off was overhearing Mrs. Hochstetler rave to her husband that same afternoon about how “that snooty little Frenchwoman” had waltzed in and placed an order equal to nearly two weeks’ worth of profit for the store, and then how Miss Girard had “demanded” it be shipped via stage for the fastest delivery. He didn’t know what the order was for and didn’t consider it his business. He only hoped Véronique knew what she was doing in her spending.
But the real truth was . . . he felt guilty about taking her money. He’d brought her no closer to finding her father than when they’d first started out, and Jack had a feeling little was going to change in that regard.
And yet much was changing in regard to his feelings for her— which also stiffened his resistance to taking the stack of bills in her hand.
Véronique huffed a breath. “You leave me no choice.” Using the spoke of a wheel for leverage, she situated a dainty boot and hoisted herself up. “I will leave the money here, on the seat, for you. You may do with it . . . as you wish.”
If that were truly the case, he’d stuff those bills right back inside that fancy little drawstring bag of hers.
She climbed back down and brushed off her skirt and shirtwaist, a routine he’d come to expect from her, whether her clothes needed it or not. And looking at her clothes, Mrs. Dunston had apparently gotten her hands on them again because they accentuated every inviting curve Véronique Girard had been blessed with.
Jack gave an already taut rope another firm tug, wishing—right now, anyway—that Véronique hadn’t been quite so blessed.
“Ah! I forgot something!”
He turned to see her wide-eyed expression. In answer, he merely looked up at the sun cresting the eastern horizon. She was well aware they had two deliveries to make. Granted, the towns didn’t look far apart on the map, but he didn’t know how long it would take with the twisting mountain trails.
She held up a hand. “I will hurry, non? I give you my word.”
Watching her race back down the street in the direction of the hotel, Jack couldn’t hold back a grin. She hadn’t even waited for his response. The little scamp knew he wouldn’t leave without her.
Véronique topped the third-floor landing of the hotel, winded from the brisk walk back but not daring to run for fear of someone seeing her—even so early in the morning. Yet she knew Jack would be counting the minutes, and though she felt with relative certainty he would wait for her, she wouldn’t have bet her life on it.
When she neared her room at the end of the hallway, her steps slowed.
The door to her room stood open.
She peered around the corner and saw Lilly standing just inside, perfectly still. The girl’s arms were laden with soiled linens and she appeared to be staring at something on the far wall.
Véronique stepped forward. The floorboard creaked beneath her boot.
Lilly spun. “Oh, Mademoiselle Girard!” Her cheeks took on a deeper tint of rouge. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I mean, I was just—” The girl’s stare returned to its former focus. “Where did you get these?”
Véronique followed Lilly’s line of vision, and felt her own cheeks heating with embarrassment. Her paintings were lined up on the floor opposite the window, just where she’d left them the previous evening.
After reading a few more of her father’s letters last night, she’d felt a twinge of homesickness and had retrieved her paintings from the trunk. Those of the grassy expanse along the Champs-Elysées and its jardins, the Château de Versailles, the Place de la Concorde, the Arc de Triomphe, the Cimetière de Montmartre, and several of a bridge that crossed the river Seine. No matter how many times she’d tried, Véronique had never managed to capture the emotion she’d experienced every time she visited that special bridge. Still, surrounding herself with scenes of Paris had provided comfort and made her feel not quite so far from everything familiar. From her mother. From home.
But in her haste to leave this morning, she hadn’t had time to return the paintings to the trunk.
Véronique crossed the room and quickly gathered what canvases she could in her arms, then began turning the rest to face the wall. Once discovering who had painted them, dear Lilly would feel compelled to offer compliments Véronique knew were undeserving. “Pardonnes-moi, Lilly. I am sorry to have left these out.”
“Mademoiselle Girard, I hope you’ll abide me asking again. . . . Where did you get these paintings?”
Something in her young friend’s voice made Véronique go still inside. She ceased her efforts and lowered her face. The rhythmic ticking from the clock on the mantel filled the silence. “I brought them with me, from home.”
Hearing Lilly’s quick intake of breath, Véronique knew what was coming.
A pain tightened her chest, remembering with detailed clarity a particular instructor’s unflattering critique of her work, her style.
She’d heard all the criticisms before—that her work was unconventional, not worthy of distinction, that her talent was lacking. But the criticisms had never come from someone—and this struck to her vanity, she knew—who had grown to admire her so much in such a short time.
“These came all the way from Paris?” Lilly laid aside the linens and moved closer. “They’re simply . . .” Her laughter came out breathy and halting. “Magnifique!”
Véronique didn’t know how to respond.
Lilly leaned forward, squinting. “It’s funny, when I look at them up close, I only see tiny little splotches of paint. But when I back up, it’s like I’m looking out a window to some magical place I could only dream of visiting. They’re so real. How could you ever choose to leave such a place?”
Words failed to describe Véronique’s emotions at what she saw in Lilly’s face. Though young and lacking training in the arts, the girl thought her paintings had merit. “Oui, Paris is quite beautiful.” She glanced past Lilly out the window to the pale outline of the Rockies. “But this place is as well.”
Lilly laughed again. “Willow Springs is nice, but it’s certainly nothing like this.” She picked up the painting of the Château de Versailles, one of Véronique’s favorites—as was the memory of the last day she had spent there with her mother. “What is this place called?”
Véronique told her, and gave a brief history of the palace and how it was built. “Versailles is at its most beautiful in early morning. The sun’s rays bathe the marble courtyard and send shards of light reflecting into the pools below the gardens. That is the best time to capture the color of the water and the flowers.”
The interest in Lilly’s expression underwent a subtle shift. A question slipped into her eyes. Lilly looked from Véronique to the paintings and then back. “Did you paint these, Mademoiselle Girard?”
Véronique felt her lips tremble. She slowly nodded.
Tears welled in Lilly’s eyes. “As my papa would say, you have been given a gift from the Giver, Mademoiselle Girard.”
Véronique tried to stop the hiccupped sob before it worked its way up her throat and escaped, but she could not.
“From where I’m sittin’, things look like they’re shapin’ up pretty well for you, Mr. Brennan.”
Humor laced Jake Sampson’s tone, and though Jack was tempted to react to it, he curbed his smile so as not to give the man any satisfaction.
“Things are going all right, I guess.” Jack glanced in the direction where Véronique had just run off down the street, then he knelt to check the underside of the wagon. A portion of his cargo was unusually heavy this time, and costly, and he searched for any signs of bowing due to the excessive weight.
Hochstetler had assured him that the printing press was well crated and would fare the journey. Not a single cloud dotted the dusky blue overhead, but Jack had already confirmed that the oiled tarpaulins were stowed beneath the bench seat as usual just in case.
“That wagon’ll hold your goods. Don’t you worry
none.”
Jack rose and gripped the side of the cargo bed. “So far she’s made it over every pass without a hitch.” With the exception of the cracked felly days earlier, but that wasn’t a reflection on his workmanship. More a hazard of hauling the loads over mountain passes. “You built her strong, Sampson. And you built her well. I appreciate that.”
Sampson’s boots sounded behind him on the gravel-packed road.
“It was your design done that, Brennan. I only followed the steps you laid out for me.”
The reply prompted something within Jack. “You’re always so quick to ward off praise, sir. It’s all right to accept thanks for something every now and then. Especially when it’s a good deed you’ve done for someone else. The craftsmanship in this wagon is worthy of credit. You should take it, sir. You’ve earned it.” He clapped Sampson on the shoulder. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to get your thoughts on something.”
When the older man didn’t respond, Jack looked back.
The grin on Sampson’s face slowly faded, and shades of regret crept into place. Sampson laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “Most of what I’ve done in my life isn’t worthy of much credit.” His brow furrowed. “You ever wish you could go back and do some things over in your life, Brennan? And I mean the things that matter, in the long run.”
Jack held his stare, surprised at this turn in conversation. And at the turn in this man.
“Every man has regrets, Sampson—if he’s honest enough to admit it. And, yes, sir, I’ve got some of my own.” Though nearly fifteen years had passed, it felt as if he were standing on that Idaho prairie again. He had looked away—for the briefest of moments—to help another family, when he’d heard the snap of a rope. He’d turned back to help the men lowering the wagon, but it had been too late. Despite his grip, the other ropes slipped, then snapped beneath the sudden weight, sending the wagon careening downhill. He could still picture the scene. The splintered wreckage of the wagon, beneath which lay his wife and son.
Jack looked down at his hands, and at the faint scars the ropes had burned into his palms that day. “Some of the bad in this life, a man brings on himself. Other times, it seems to seek him out. But either way, I’ve chosen to trust that God will bring good out of it all. He already has for me.”
Sampson gave a nod. “I believe that way too. But sometimes I wonder . . . will the good ever outweigh the bad?”
Though Jack had answered that question within himself years ago, he understood the days of doubt. They still visited him on a far too frequent basis. “In the long run . . . yes, sir, I trust that good will win out. But some days, it doesn’t feel like that.”
If Jack wasn’t mistaken, the older man’s eyes misted as he looked away.
After a minute, Sampson cleared his throat. “You take care of her out there. And you do your best to help her find what she came lookin’ for.”
“You mean who she came looking for.”
“I mean, as you help her in her search, Brennan. She may never find her father, and God help her not to find him, if he’s a man unworthy of such a one.”
Jack felt a quickening in his spirit. Hadn’t he said the same thing to the Almighty more than once since getting to know Véronique?
“That young lady didn’t come all this way just to find her father.” Sampson shook his head. “She came here firstly because her mama asked it of her. And second, she came lookin’ to find out who she is.” Sampson’s crooked smile slowly slid back into place. “Then at just the right time you arrived in town, and the Almighty saw fit to pair the two of you together.”
Jack shot him a look. “From what I remember, seems that was less the Almighty’s doing and more yours.”
“Either way, I’m trustin’ He’ll bring some good out of it all,” Sampson said with a shrug.
Jack laughed and shook his head.
“Well, I’m glad we had us this little talk, son. Now, was there something else you were gonna ask me?”
Jack had nearly forgotten. “I’m considering buying some land and wondered if you might be willing to speak on my behalf, if the situation calls for it. Being new to Willow Springs I don’t have an established reputation here yet.”
“Sure, I’ll put in a good word for you, son. You can mention Bertram Colby too. Clayton over at the title office has known both of us forever. Use our names if that’ll win you some points.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jack stretched out his hand, and was quickly reminded that Sampson had a grip worthy of the hours the man spent pounding the anvil. “And one more thing. How’s my wagon coming along? I didn’t see any sign of it inside.” Jack waited, expecting Sampson to have a good excuse.
Sampson glanced away. “Business has been right busy lately, but I guarantee you, I’ll have it ready for you soon. Don’t you be givin’ me that look now. I’m not joshin’ you. I’ve got enough work for two men at least.”
“Why don’t you hire someone, then? Cut down on your load. I’m sure there’re men in this town who could use a job.”
Disgust darkened Sampson’s expression. “I’ve already tried three locals. Slack hands, every one of ’em. I reckon I could try again, but it’s easier just to do a job right the first time than to come behind somebody and fix their foolishness.” Sampson’s brow shot up. “You wouldn’t be interested in a second job now, would you, Brennan?”
Jacked waved him off. “My hands are full enough already, thanks mainly to you.”
Sampson peered over Jack’s shoulder. A grin puffed his bearded cheeks. “Well, you’d better get ready. . . . I think those hands o’ yours are about to get a mite fuller.”
Seeing Sampson’s wink, Jack knew without turning around what he was referring to. Finally, he looked back.
Véronique scurried down the street toward them—another satchel in hand. If that woman didn’t beat all. . . . She already had one loaded in the back. How many bags did she need for a day-trip? Then he thought about the incident with the skunk and was surprised she wasn’t pulling a trunk behind her.
He started to give her a hard time about it, but when she drew closer, he guessed from the puffiness around her eyes that she’d been crying.
He hopped down and relieved her of the bag. “Is something wrong?”
“Non, I am quite well. Merci.” Her smile appeared genuine, despite the obvious signs to the contrary. Looking around, she lifted her shoulders slightly and let them fall. “Are you ready to leave?”
Jack took the hint and stowed her second bag, which weighed next to nothing, beneath the bench seat, then helped her up. Whatever had upset her apparently wasn’t open for discussion. And he knew better than to push.
When a woman didn’t want to talk about something, it was best to let it rest until she did. He hadn’t thought of it in ages, but he remembered the handful of times his Mary had been upset, and how it had served him best to let her cool down.
Three hours into the trip and still hardly a word out of her. Jack kept watch on the gray skies overhead, wary of the scent of moisture in the air. He snuck another glance beside him. She certainly didn’t appear to be sad.
On the contrary, her eyes were bright and attentive to everything they passed. She seemed to be taking it all in—every bird flying overhead, every chipmunk scampering into the brush as the wagon approached. Even the increasing altitude didn’t seem to bother her. Of course, the portion of road they were traveling was lined with clusters of aspens and willows, so the steep ledge was relatively obscured.
But if he read the terrain right, that would be changing soon enough.
“We’ll stop in a few minutes to let the horses rest, and we’ll eat some lunch. Sound good?”
She cut her eyes in his direction. “The . . . horses?”
Hearing the teasing lilt in her voice, he decided this was the break he’d been waiting for. “That’s right. The horses. What else do you want me to call them?”
She had the droll look down to perfection. “These
animals have been bestowed grand names worthy of—”
“Emperors, yes, I know. So you’ve said. Your Charlemagne I’ve read about, but who was this Napoleon Bonaparte?” He loved the way her jaw dropped in disbelief as she took the bait.
The library in Willow Springs was limited and claimed no books on French history. But he’d recalled seeing a history text among Mary’s collection, and sure enough, it contained a brief chapter on European history. He’d reread that one a couple of nights earlier.
“Napoleon Bonaparte” —Véronique repeated the name, accentuating the French pronunciation—“was a great French leader. He expanded the empire through western Europe and accomplished many great things for our country.”
“So he’s your favorite leader in French history?” Anticipating her positive response, Jack readied his facts on a little incident he’d read about called Waterloo.
“Non . . .” She gave a shy chuckle. “I do not have a favorite leader, as you say it, but . . . there is one king in our history who I know better than others due to visiting his home, on many occasions. That would be Louis the Sixteenth.”
The name was familiar to him, but Jack scrambled to remember that particular leader’s distinction. “Wasn’t he married to a Marie . . .”
“Marie Antoinette, oui. Very good, Jack. You are familiar with my country’s history?”
He decided to come clean. “I only know a little. I’ve been reading up on you.”
Her laughter trickled over him. “I am most impressed, and honored that you would do such a thing.”
A tight switchback called for his undivided attention, and he turned his focus to the road ahead.
Remembered Page 29
