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  Praise for the FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES

  “Alexander has written a charming historical romance that features well-drawn characters and smooth, compelling storytelling that will have readers anxiously awaiting the second installment of the FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES. Highly recommended. . . .”

  —Tamara Butler, Library Journal

  (Starred Review)

  “It’s a pleasure to read this debut book. Rich prose, a realistic setting and characters, and a compassionate story of love will keep you turning the pages long into the night. . . .”

  —Romantic Times TOP PICK (4½ stars)

  “[A] tenderhearted story of redemption . . . Rarely does a debut novel combine such a masterful blend of captivating story and technical excellence. Alexander has introduced a delightful cast of winsome characters, and there’s a promise of more stories yet to be told.”

  —Kristine Wilson, Aspiring Retail

  “Book two in the FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES is a winner. Alexander deftly portrays the heroine’s wounded soul and her struggles with regret while being careful not to reveal anything too soon.”

  —Bev Houston, Romantic Times

  “This second book in the FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES reveals the power of love and forgiveness. All of the characters in the story are interesting and complex, even if they play minor roles. A warmhearted inspirational story.”

  —Nan Curnutt, Historical Novels Review

  “Tamera Alexander’s characters are real, fallible, and a marvelous reflection of God’s truth and grace. Her stories unfold layer-by-layer, drawing you in deeper with every page.”

  —Sheryl Root, Armchair Interviews

  Rekindled has been named to

  Library Journal’s Best Books of 2006 list

  and is a nominee for

  Romantic Times’s Best Inspirational Novel of 2006.

  Books by

  Tamera Alexander

  FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES

  Rekindled

  Revealed

  Remembered

  Fountain Creek Chronicles (3 in 1)

  TIMBER RIDGE REFLECTIONS

  From a Distance

  Beyond This Moment

  Within My Heart

  TAMERA

  ALEXANDER

  FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES | BOOK THREE

  REMEMBERED

  Remembered

  Copyright © 2007

  Tamera Alexander

  Cover design by Studio Gearbox

  Cover photograph by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studios, Inc.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Alexander, Tamera.

  Remembered / Tamera Alexander.

  p. cm. — (Fountain Creek chronicles ; bk. 3)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7642-0110-3 (pbk.)

  ISBN-10: 0-7642-0110-7 (pbk.)

  1. Young women—Fiction. 2. French—Colorado—Fiction. 3. Frontier and pioneer

  life—Colorado—Fiction. 4. Mining camps—Fiction. 5. Birthfathers—Identification— Fiction. 6. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.L3563R46 2007

  813'.6—dc22

  2007007116

  * * *

  DEDICATION

  To Joe, with love

  Thank you for Paris.

  For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.

  ISAIAH 55:8–9

  Content

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Cimetière de Montmartre, Paris, France

  July 17, 1870

  VÉRONIQUE EVELINE GIRARD laid a single white rose on her mother’s grave, and bent low to whisper into the afterlife. “If somehow my words can reach you, Maman . . .” Her hand trembled on the cool marble. “Know that I cannot do as you have asked. Your request comes at too great—”

  An unaccustomed chill traced an icy finger up her spine. Sensing she was no longer alone, Véronique rose and slowly turned.

  Cimetière Montmartre’s weather-darkened sepulchers rose and fell in varying heights along the familiar cobbled walkway. Rows of senescent, discolored tombs clustered and leaned along meandering paths. Canted summer sunlight, persistent in having its way, shimmered through the leaves overhead and cast muted shadows on the white and gray marble stones.

  Movement at the corner of her eye drew her focus.

  There, peeking from behind a centuries-old headstone, sat a cat whose coat shared the color of ashes in a hearth.

  Véronique sighed, smiling. “So I am not alone after all. You are the racaille skulking about.”

  The cat made no move to leave. It only stared at her, its tail flickering in the cadence of a mildly interested feline. Cats were common in Paris these days, and they were welcome. They helped to discourage the overrunning of rodents.

  “He is not the only racaille skulking about, mademoiselle.”

  Véronique jumped at the voice close behind her, instantly recognizing its deep timbre. “Christophe Charvet . . .” Secretly grateful for his company, she mustered a scolding look as she turned, knowing he would be disappointed if she didn’t. “Why do you still insist on sneaking up on me here?” She huffed a breath. “We are far from being children anymore, you and I.”

  Contrition shadowed his eyes, as did a glint of mischief. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Mademoiselle Girard, be most assured that it has been many years since I have looked upon you as a child.” Playful formality laced his tone even as his expression took on a mor
e intimate look—one Véronique remembered but considered long ago put behind them. “With the slightest sign of encouragement from you, mademoiselle—”

  “Christophe . . .” She eyed him, anticipating what was coming and wishing to avoid it.

  Gentle determination lined Christophe’s face. “With the slightest sign of encouragement I would, mademoiselle, for the final time, attempt to capture the heart of the woman before me as easily as I once won the heart of the young girl she once was.”

  She stared up at him, not completely surprised that he was broaching this subject again—especially now, after her mother’s passing. What caught her off guard was how deeply she wished there were reason to encourage his hopes.

  She’d known Christophe since the age of five, when they’d tromped naked together through the fountain of Lord Marchand’s front courtyard. Remembering how severe the punishment for that offense had been for them both, she curbed the desire to smooth a hand over the bustle of her skirt. Those escapades had extended into their youth, when after hurrying through their duties, they had raced here to explore the endless hiding places amidst this silent city of sepulchers.

  She’d adored Christophe then. Of course it wasn’t until later in life that he had noticed her in that way, but by then those feelings for him had long passed and showed no sign of being resurrected.

  She repeated his name again—this time more gently. “You know you are my dearest friend . . .”

  A dark brow shot up. “Dearest friend . . .” He grimaced. “Words every man hopes to hear from a woman he adores.”

  His sarcasm tempted her to grin. But she was certain whatever rejection he felt would be short-lived. After all, he had said a woman, not the woman.

  He gave an acknowledging tilt of his head. “You can’t blame a man for trying, Véronique—especially when such a prize is at stake.” Resignation softened his smile. “In light of this, I hereby renew my solemn vow made to you in our twenty-sixth year as we—”

  “Twenty-fifth year.” Véronique raised a single brow, remembering that particular afternoon five years ago when he’d made the promise as they strolled the grassy expanse of the Champs-Elysées.

  “Pardon, ma chérie. Our twenty-fifth year.” His eyes narrowed briefly, a familiar gleam lighting his dark pupils. “I stand corrected, and will henceforth extinguish the fleeting hope that my dearest friend” —wit punctuated the words—“will finally succumb to my charm and consider altering her affections.”

  With a serious sideways glance, she attempted to match his humor. “You will not regret your restraint, Christophe, for you would not be pleased with me. On that I give you my vow.” She shrugged and gave herself a dismissive gesture, secretly hoping her mother could somehow hear their exchange. Maman had always enjoyed their bantering, and had loved Christophe dearly. “I am like wine left too long in the cellar. I fear I have lost my sweetness and grown bitter with time’s fermenting.”

  He tugged playfully at her hand, and a familiar quirk lifted his brow. “Ah, but I have learned something in my thirty years that you apparently have not, Mademoiselle Girard.” His smile turned conspiratorial.

  “And what would that be, Monsieur Charvet?”

  Truth tempered the humor in his eyes. “That the finest French Bordeaux, full-bodied and rich in bouquet, does not yield from the youngest vintage, ma chérie, but from the more mature.”

  Unable to think of a witty reply, Véronique chose silence instead. Christophe’s handsome looks and gentle strength had long drawn the attention of females. Why he still held a flame for her, she couldn’t imagine.

  A silent understanding passed between them, and after a moment, he nodded.

  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then bowed low and proper, mimicking the grand gesture used daily among the male servants in the Marchand household in which they’d grown up serving together. “I will henceforth resign myself to the designation I hold in your heart, Mademoiselle Girard, and I will treasure it.” He smiled briefly and added more softly, “As I always have, ma petite.”

  My little one.

  Christophe’s use of his childhood name for her encouraged Véronique to draw herself to her full height. But barely brushing five-foot-three, she hardly made for an intimidating figure and knew full well she looked far more like a girl of eighteen than a woman of thirty. Her mother had often told her she would one day be thankful for such youthfulness. That day had yet to dawn.

  Christophe motioned in the direction of the street. “I’ve come to escort you home. Lord Marchand has requested a meeting with all members of the household staff.” He took a breath as if to continue, then hesitated. The lines around his eyes grew deeper.

  Véronique studied him, sensing there was more. “Is something amiss, Christophe?”

  This time the quirk in his brow didn’t appear fully genuine. “Be thankful I came to retrieve you, ma petite. Dr. Claude volunteered to come in my place—that racaille— but I would not abide it.”

  She grimaced at the mention of Dr. Claude’s intent.

  “You must watch yourself around him, Véronique. Though I have overheard nothing absolute, I believe he deems himself worthy of your hand and has spoken with Lord Marchand about pursuing it.”

  Véronique pictured Dr. Claude, the personal physician to the Marchand famille. “Of his worth there is no doubt, and his rank and situation are far above my own. But—” she made a face—“he is so old and his breath is always stale.”

  Christophe laughed. “Fifty may be older, yes, but it hardly portends impending death, ma chérie.” He shook his head. “Always such honesty, Véronique. An admirable quality, but one that will get you into much trouble if not balanced with good sense.”

  She let her mouth fall open. “I have perfectly good sense, and while you’ve always warned me against being too honest, my dear maman—may she rest in peace—always said that giving a right, or honest, answer resembles giving a kiss on the lips.”

  He smiled. “When the answer is one you’re seeking, no doubt it is just that.” He held up a hand when she started to reply. “But let me say this—if your dear maman held any belief that contrasts one of my own, I will instantly resign mine and adopt hers without exception.” His gaze shifted to her mother’s grave. “For she was a saint among women.”

  He stepped past Véronique and knelt. Laying a hand on the tomb, near the white rose, he bowed his head.

  Véronique watched, knowing the depths of his affection for her mother. She knelt beside him and ran her hand across the cool, smooth stone. Her mother had died slowly. Too slowly in one sense, too quickly in another.

  Arianne Elisabeth Girard had suffered much, and there were many nights when, in a fitful laudanum-induced sleep, she had begged God to take her and be done with it. For a time, Véronique had begged God not to grant her mother’s wish. How selfish a request that had been.

  But no more selfish than what her maman had asked of her in that final hour.

  It had been unfair and carried much too great a cost. Her mother would have realized that under ordinary circumstances, but the fever and medications had confused her thinking. Véronique had heard it said that one could never recover from the loss of one’s mother, and if past weeks were testament, she feared this to be true.

  Picturing her mother’s face, she struggled to find comfort in a sonnet long ago tucked away in memory. Beloved by her maman, the sonnet’s words, penned over two hundred years earlier, were only now being made to withstand the Refiner’s fire in Véronique’s own life.

  Wanting to feel the words on her tongue as the author himself would have, she chose the language of the English-born poet instead of her native French. “‘Death, be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so.” ’

  Christophe spoke fluent English, as did she. Yet he remained silent, his head bowed.

  Her brow furrowed in concentration. Her voice came out a choked whisper. “‘For those whom thou think’st thou dos
t overthrow, die not, poor death. Nor yet canst thou kill me.” ’ Her memory never faltered, but more than once the next passages of the sonnet threatened to lodge in her throat.

  John Donne’s thoughts had often lent a measure of consolation as she’d been forced to watch her mother waste away in recent months. But instead of affording comfort that morning, Donne’s Holy Sonnet seemed to mock her. Its claim of victory rang hollow, empty in light of death’s thievery, however temporary the theft might prove to be in the afterlife.

  She pulled from her pocket the diminutive book of Holy Sonnets, its cover worn thin, and turned to the place her mother had last marked.

  The note at the bottom of the page drew her eye.

  Still remembering her mother’s flowing script, the artistic loops and curls that so closely resembled her own, Véronique experienced a pang in her chest each time she looked at the barely legible scrawl trailing downward on the page at an awkward angle. But dwelling on her mother’s last written thoughts offered her a sliver of hope.

  “‘Death is but a pause, not an ending, my dearest Véronique.” ’ Véronique softened her voice, knowing that doing so made her sound more like her mother—people had told her that countless times in recent years. If only she could hear the resemblance, especially now. “‘When the lungs finally empty of air and begin to fill with the sweetness of heaven’s breath, one will realize in that instant that though they have existed before, only in that moment will they truly have begun to live.” ’

  Ink from the pen left a gaunt, stuttered line that disappeared into the binding, as though lifting the tip from the page had been too great an effort for the author.

  Christophe’s hand briefly came to cover hers.

  Véronique closed her eyes, forcing a single tear to slip free. She still cried, but not as often. It was getting easier—and harder.

  Her gaze wandered to the name chiseled into the marble facing— ARIANNE ELISABETH GIRARD—then to the diminutive oval portrait embedded in stone and encased in glass beneath it. She had painted the likeness at her mother’s request one afternoon in early February, shortly before her passing, by a special bridge along the river Seine. Some of Véronique’s most cherished memories could be traced back to that bridge.