If only Véronique would look at him.
Wondering where to begin, and how to tell her that he knew, Jack opened his mouth—then promptly closed it when she lifted his hand to her lips.
Véronique kissed the back of his hand—once, twice—then pressed his scarred palm against the dampness of her cheek.
Emotions buried deep inside him rose unexpectedly, and Jack struggled to keep them in check. No words she could have spoken would have affected him more deeply.
After a moment, she lowered their hands but didn’t relinquish her hold. “How long ago was this for you?”
“Fifteen years.” The rush of the creek behind them filled the silence. “And another lifetime,” he whispered. “I’ve been on the verge of telling you so many times before, but . . . just never did.”
“I would like to know about them both, s’il vous plaît. If you are willing to share with me. . . .”
Warmth spread through him at her concern. Even with all she’d endured herself, her thoughts were for him. “I’m more than willing, Véronique.” He wiped the tears from her cheeks, believing more than ever that what he had planned this evening at Casaroja would help lift her spirits. If only he could get her out there. “But would you mind if we continued this conversation in the wagon?” He winced, realizing that wasn’t the smoothest of transitions. “Remember, Miss Maudie is expecting us, and I’ve got a delivery to make.”
“Always it is this way with you, Monsieur Brennan.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Must we be traveling together every minute?”
He heard the tease in her voice but saw the weariness in her expression. “Not every minute, no ma’am. But right now I’ve got a feisty little Irish lady who’s waiting for her goods. And I know she’d love to see you too.”
At her nod, Jack slipped an arm around her waist and they walked back to the wagon.
As he drove the familiar road to Casaroja, he told her about Mary and Aaron, their life together, the day of the accident, and about his life since then. “So I spent the next thirteen years guiding other families west. Trying to move on with my life while learning to accept what had happened.”
She sat wordless beside him for the longest time. “How is it, Jack, that you can quote John Donne?”
He smiled and lowered his head briefly. “That would be Mary’s doing. After she died, I found a book of sonnets in her trunk. Parts of that one had been underlined, many times. And gradually, I guess I just took it to heart.”
“I also have that sonnet written on my heart. It was my mother’s favorite, and I read it to her countless times.” She gave a soft sigh. “But only now have I begun to understand its meaning.”
“It took me some time too.”
“Sometimes . . . it takes the better part of a life, non?”
Hearing the still-fresh grief in her voice, he took hold of her hand on the seat between them and remembered the day he’d spoken those same words to her. He slowly wove his fingers between hers, enjoying the privilege.
A warm breeze stirred the golden-gray stalks of prairie grasses growing on either side of the road, and Jack found himself counting the fence posts as they passed—and praying for her. He’d reached twenty-two when she broke the silence.
“Jack, I need to say something to you.”
He slowed the wagon but she shook her head. “Non, please keep going on your way. I prefer it.”
What she preferred, he knew, was not having him looking at her—something he preferred to do every chance he got. Yet he understood her request and gave the reins a gentle flick.
“Vernie, before you say anything else I need to tell you that I know about what happened at the mercantile on Saturday.” He glimpsed the question in her eyes. “I stopped by the bakery in town earlier to pick up the—to pick up something to eat, and Mrs. Rawlings told me. My only question is . . . why didn’t you seek me out this morning, to tell me?”
She looked at him as though his question were absurd. “I did not seek you out for the same reason you were not pleased to learn that I overheard your encounter with Monsieur Hochstetler. That is not too difficult to understand, non?”
He actually felt himself blush at her straightforward answer, and yet not a trace of sarcasm shaded her tone. Telling the truth was the same as breathing to this woman. He couldn’t hide his smile. “If I remember correctly, I believe the word touché would be appropriate here.”
“Oui, I have heard it used that way in this country.” She smiled briefly, and gently withdrew her hand from his. “Saturday at the mercantile was a most unpleasant experience. However . . . what happened following the confrontation with Madame Hochstetler was far more painful to me.”
Protectiveness rose within him but he kept silent. Obviously Mrs. Rawlings had not been privy to this part of the story.
“After I left the mercantile, I went to see Monsieur Gunter at the bank. My account with his depository is severely overdrawn, and there will be no more deposits issuing from France.” She bowed her head, and let out a deep breath. “But the worst news . . . is that Lord Marchand, my former employer, has passed away. I do not know the details, but I am certain to get a letter from Christophe eventually. At least I am hoping for one.”
She stared ahead as she continued, and Jack sensed each word exacting a cost. The hollowness in her voice reminded him of the loss he’d experienced after Mary and Aaron’s deaths—as though he’d been set adrift without hope of finding anchor.
He quickly put two and two together. From his earlier conversation with Lilly, he surmised that Véronique hadn’t yet told the Carlsons about her change in financial status. That had to be weighing on her something fierce.
The turnoff to Casaroja came sooner than anticipated, and he pulled back on the reins to negotiate the corner.
“I attempted to give Monsieur Gunter what cash I had remaining, but he would not take it.” Her laugh came out hollow. “It was not nearly enough to cover the drafts I have written. He and I are meeting on Thursday to discuss what is to be done. As he encouraged, I have spoken to all the vendors except for Madame Hochstetler, and Lilly and her parents. I cannot fathom how great their disappointment will be. Both in the change of circumstance—” She paused. “And in me,” she added in a rough whisper.
He searched for something to say, but nothing measured up. In the distance, at least twenty wagons were parked around the main house and along the pasture fencing. Wondering if Véronique had noticed, he stole a look beside him to find her gaze confined to her lap.
He stopped the wagon prematurely and set the brake.
That drew her attention.
He moved closer. “I know this makes little difference now, Véronique, but . . . I wish I’d been there with you when you got this news. About Lord Marchand, and about the money.”
Her lips trembled. She reached up and touched the side of his face. “Would you have shot Monsieur Gunter for me, Jack? Like you threatened the miners?” She bit her lower lip, but the tiniest smirk still slipped past. “Or perhaps Madame Hochstetler instead, which would be my preference.”
He couldn’t help but stare at her mouth, and the image of Madame Hochstetler actually helped to curb his foremost desire at the moment. “Don’t put such tempting thoughts in my head, woman.”
Her eyes sparkled, but only for a moment. “Since all of this has happened, I have been given the opportunity to look more closely at myself, Jack.” She shook her head. “And I have not liked what I have seen.”
“That’s where we’re different, then, ma’am. Because I like what I see very much.”
She bowed her head. “I was raised in a wealthy home, with privilege and opportunity not belonging to me by birth but by chance. Yet somewhere along the way, I lost sight of what I was, and I began thinking that all of that was mine. That I was deserving of it. In a way, it is ironic.” She closed her eyes, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “All my life, I have been a servant . . . and yet I have never possessed a servant’s heart
.”
Jack’s chest ached as he watched the fullness of that realization move over her. She bowed her head, and a soft moan from somewhere deep inside worked its way up. He cradled her cheek, patient for her to look at him. When she finally did, he leaned close. “That might have been true in some sense before, Vernie. But it’s not true of the woman I’m looking at now.”
She took a quick breath and worked at forming a smile. “Must you persist with the use of that name?” Her lips parted and she looked at his mouth with clear intent.
Needing to ease the tension of the moment—not to mention his own—Jack drew back a fraction. “You’re not about to be sick on me again, are you?”
His mouth went dry at the look in her eyes.
“Non, Jack. Rather, I am thinking what it would be like to kiss you again.”
He could’ve fallen flat off the wagon right then and felt no pain. He actually had to swallow in order to speak again. “Is . . . is that so, Mademoiselle Girard.”
“It is quite so, Monsieur Brennan.”
She moved closer, and Jack did nothing to dissuade her this time. She seemed set on taking the lead, and he let her. Her kiss was tentative at first, her lips brushing against his until he encouraged her the slightest bit.
Her hands moved from his shoulders to the back of his neck, and she tilted her head into his kiss.
After a moment, Jack gradually grew mindful again of where he was. Caring so much for the woman in his arms, he took her gently by the shoulders. “Véronique,” he whispered against her mouth.
She opened her eyes but didn’t move. “Oui?”
Still able to taste her, Jack thanked God again for His foresight in creating the feminine gender. And this beautiful woman in particular.
She drew back slightly, as though reading his thoughts, a twinkle lighting her eyes. “Do we need to . . . be getting back on the road?”
Did the woman remember every single thing he’d ever said? Jack shook his head, enjoying her smile. It boded well for the evening ahead. “Yes, ma’am. We most certainly do.”
CHAPTER | FORTY - ONE
JACK’S HAND BRUSHED against hers as they walked from the wagon toward the far side of Miss Maudie’s home. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and Véronique smiled to herself, thinking back to moments earlier. There was so much more to Jack Brennan than she had first imagined, and still more she wanted to know.
She tried to imagine what sort of woman his wife, Mary, had been, and which parent little Aaron had resembled. Or had Jack’s son been a blend of them both? Learning about Jack’s previous marriage didn’t change her feelings for him. Discovering what he’d been through, knowing what he’d lost—and yet witnessing what kind of man he was now—only made her appreciate him all the more.
They rounded the corner, and Véronique came to a halt.
Her mouth slipped open. When they’d first driven up, she’d heard faint laughter and the thrum of conversation, and figured there was a gathering—the number of wagons told her that. But she’d never expected this! Casaroja had been transformed!
Glittering cut-out stars crafted of red, white, and blue paper hung from boughs of trees, and streamers of similar colors adorned everything imaginable—from hitching posts to corral fences to clotheslines. Royal blue tablecloths covered long plank wood tables, and candles were arranged at intervals, waiting to be lit. And the number of people!
The entire population of Willow Springs looked to be in attendance. Which made Véronique want to turn and run—especially when she thought of facing Pastor and Hannah Carlson, and Lilly, and of having to explain what had happened. In light of that, asking pardon from Mrs. Hochstetler no longer seemed a great issue.
Already Véronique prayed the Carlsons would find the grace to forgive her, and that God would provide another way to heal Lilly.
Jack discreetly reached for her hand. “It’s okay, Vernie. These are good people. They understand what it’s like to go through hard times. And I’ll be beside you when you tell the Carlsons, if you’d like.”
“Merci beaucoup, Jack. I would be most grateful.” She took a deep breath and gestured to the festive surroundings. “What is all of this about?”
“It’s a celebration, of our country’s independence. We do this every—”
“Fourth of July. Oui, I know of this. I have read of this celebration in a book from the library.” It had simply slipped her mind in the events of recent days. She caught a whiff of something decadent. Apple pie, perhaps . . . “It very much resembles our Bastille Day.”
Question shadowed his expression.
“That is the day my country celebrates the end of tyranny in France. Much as you do your freedom from Britain.” She recalled something. “Do you remember what I told you about Louis the Sixteenth?”
A smirk tipped Jack’s mouth. “He was the one with the nice house, right?”
She ignored his comment, but couldn’t completely quell her smile. “The people stormed the Bastille—a prison in Paris—and that day was the beginning of the end for King Louis, and also for his wife.” She let go of his hand and quickly slid a finger across her throat. “So we have similar histories in this respect, non? Fighting for our freedom?”
“Oui, mademoiselle.” He bowed at the waist. “And on behalf of my country, may I offer my gratitude to yours for the aid provided in our fight against King George.”
She curtsied. “You are most welcome, monsieur.” She softened her voice. “My country is grateful for the alliance we have formed with yours. We cherish it, in fact.”
Intimacy shaded his smile, telling her he’d understood the subtlety of her reference.
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Speaking of alliances, I’d like to explore how we might strengthen ours, Mademoiselle Girard. If you’re open to that.”
Something stirred inside her. Oh, this man . . . “I would welcome those negotiations, Monsieur Brennan.”
With a lingering look, he covered her hand on his arm and drew her toward the crowd.
The first person Véronique spotted was Madame Dunston. Their eyes met and she tensed, anticipating the dress-shop owner’s reaction at seeing her again. Madame Dunston had been gracious when Véronique had visited her about the overdrawn bank draft, but perhaps she’d had time to reconsider.
Madame Dunston made her way through the crowd. “Mademoiselle Girard, I’ve been looking for you.” She gestured to the gentleman beside her. “I’d like to introduce you to my husband.”
As the woman made the introductions, Véronique noted the sincerity in Madame Dunston’s voice, absent of any trace of animosity.
Monsieur Dunston possessed a gentil manner that complemented his wife. “My wife tells me you’ve agreed to help her in the dress shop, Mademoiselle Girard. She’s long boasted about your talent when it comes to fashion, ma’am, so I’m pleased this has worked out. She couldn’t be happier.”
Véronique looked at Madame Dunston. Warmth and acceptance filled the woman’s expression, and it pained Véronique to realize that had the tables been turned, those were not emotions she would have demonstrated, prior to recent events. She curtsied, bowing low, feeling a depth of gratitude and humility in the gesture that she hadn’t before.
Slowly, she rose. “It is I who am indebted to your wife, Monsieur Dunston. In many ways.”
“Mademoiselle Girard!”
Véronique couldn’t locate the owner of the voice in the crowd until Jack directed her.
She couldn’t believe her eyes. “Monsieur Colby!” Excusing herself from the Dunstons, she wished it were appropriate to hug the man.
Bertram Colby grabbed her hand and bestowed a whiskered kiss.
He looked handsome with his freshly trimmed beard and ready smile. “Ma’am, you’ve come to mind so many times in past months. I’m glad to find you’re still here.” His gaze swept her up and down. “Looks like the Colorado Territory’s been treatin’ you well.”
Jack clapped his friend o
n the shoulder. “Glad you got back in time to join us, Colby.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. It wouldn’t be the Fourth without your show, Brennan.” His attention swung back. “So tell me, ma’am, how are things goin’ for you?”
As Véronique answered, she caught Jack mouthing that he would return in a moment. With quick glances, she followed his path, aware of people acknowledging him as he moved through the crowd. Men shook his hand, and women—single and married alike, Véronique noticed—made a point of touching his arm and thanking him for this evening.
Then she saw them—the Carlson family—and her stomach knotted. They waved, and Véronique did likewise, while attempting to listen to Monsieur Colby’s animated conversation.
A bell clanged, and she felt a touch on her arm.
“It’s time for dinner,” Jack whispered, and relief filled her at his return. “Miss Maudie would like everyone to be seated.”
Jack led her to a table with Monsieur Colby in tow, and the gentlemen flanked her left and right.
With a cane, and some assistance from Thomas Stewartson, Miss Maudie stood and addressed the crowd. “Welcome to Casaroja, dear friends. I’m so pleased you’re able to join us for this evening’s festivities. Let me tell you how the evening will unfold.”
“Who’s that fine-lookin’ woman?”
Véronique grinned at Bertram Colby’s whispered inquiry. “That is Miss Maudelaine Mahoney. Everyone calls her Miss Maudie.” Véronique was certain she’d detected interest in the man’s voice. “Casaroja is her home. And she is indeed a fine woman, Monsieur Colby. It would please me greatly to make an introduction on your behalf sometime during the evening.”
“Not near as much as it would please me, ma’am.” His focus never left Miss Maudie. “I’d sure be obliged.”
After a delicious steak dinner, followed by an assortment of delectable french pastries made special by Susanna Rawlings in her bakery, the men pushed back the tables and the music began.
“May I have this dance, Vernie?”
Remembered Page 38
