Remembered Read online

  Miners huddled around the front of the wagon, getting as close as they could without actually touching anything. Jack kept an eye on Mademoiselle Girard, unable to see her face but noting that her posture was ramrod straight. He glimpsed a younger man’s expression and could only describe it as smitten. But what he saw in the other faces made him glad, again, that he was armed.

  Scoggins pulled a bowie knife from a sheath on his belt and pried open a crate containing bags of coffee. Then another filled with hammers and chisels. “I hope you plan on dealin’ more fairly than Zimmerman did. That man was a crook. Never could count on what he’d be carrying or what his cost would be.”

  Jack met his stare straight on. “The price I quote won’t change unless market prices go higher. I have to cover my costs, same as you. Give me a list of supplies you want, and when I’m up here next, I’ll do my best to fill it.”

  Scoggins didn’t answer but kept opening crates. He paused on occasion to give Jack a questioning look, then finally strode toward the building. “We need to talk, Brennan. Smithy, watch the wagon.”

  A man immediately stepped forward, thick-chested, belligerent looking, and—in Jack’s opinion—enough of a deterrent.

  Jack tossed the netting back over the wagon bed, easily guessing what Scoggins wanted to discuss. Hochstetler had prepared him and said he would back Jack on his decision. Seems that Zimmerman, the previous freighter, had held some side agreements with Scoggins.

  Jack stopped by the buckboard. Mademoiselle Girard’s expression was a smooth mask of composure.

  But when she slipped her hand in his after he helped her down, he found it to be ice-cold.

  Jack tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and held her much closer than he normally would have. He guided her through the crowd, meeting every man’s eye as he went. Murmurs of “Good day, ma’am” and “How’dya do, ma’am” echoed as they passed. Hats came off heads faster than he could count, sending puffs of dust into the air.

  Jack assisted her onto the crate and was thankful to shut the door behind them. Until he saw the glare on Scoggins’s face and knew he was responsible for putting it there.

  CHAPTER | SIXTEEN

  WILEY SCOGGINS ADDRESSED Jack from behind a counter constructed of sawhorses and plank board. “Where’s the whiskey, Brennan?” Rifle in hand, Jack waited, letting the silence soak up the accusation. “I don’t haul liquor, Mr. Scoggins.”

  The man laughed, then gradually sobered. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes, sir, I am. But I’ve got plenty of other things that will interest the men.”

  “The men don’t want schoolbooks and peppermint sticks, Mr. Brennan. They want liquor. Women and liquor. We’ve already got the one—we need the other.”

  Jack sensed Mademoiselle Girard’s tension beside him but kept his focus on Scoggins. “Then you’re going to have to arrange shipment for that through someone else. Liquor, the way it’s consumed here, isn’t something I condone. Among other things . . .”

  “Teetotaler are you, Brennan?”

  Ignoring the obvious taunt, Jack pulled the inventory list from his pocket. “Every other item you ordered is in the wagon. Just as you requested.”

  “Except the most important one!”

  As though reconsidering his outburst, Scoggins smiled and spread his arms wide. “Listen, friend. The men around here like to enjoy a drink every now and then. There’s no harm in that. After a hard day’s work, they deserve it.”

  “From the looks of things here I’d hardly label the drinking these men do as ‘every now and then.” ’

  The merchant’s stare hardened. “I’ll give you twice your normal profit.”

  “Not interested.”

  Scoggins moved from behind the counter. “Three times your profit, and that’s my final offer.”

  Jack shook his head. “My answer stands.”

  An unexpected grin replaced the merchant’s frown. “Don’t tell me, Brennan . . . your father was a drunk and used to beat you senseless, so you’ve sworn off the stuff for good. Now you’re on some kind of” —his voice deepened, and he jabbed his forefinger in the air like some sort of hellfire-and-brimstone preacher—“holy rampage to rid the world of the evil brew.”

  Jack was only mildly amused. “You have the phrasing down, Scoggins. I’ll give you that. But you couldn’t be further from the truth. My father was the kindest man I’ve ever known, but I’ve seen what liquor can do to a man. I won’t be party to it, and there’s nothing you can say or do that will convince me otherwise.”

  The blood vessels in Scoggins’s forehead became more pronounced. “What if I tell you I’m not interested in anything you’ve got today, Mr. Brennan?”

  Jack carefully let out his breath, knowing he had yet to inquire about Mademoiselle Girard’s father—and knowing Scoggins would likely be of little help to them now, even if he did know something. “Then I’d say I’m sorry we can’t reach an agreement. And like I told you earlier, I’ll sell whatever you don’t want to the miners outside, if they’re interested.”

  Mademoiselle Girard stepped forward, but Jack caught her arm.

  Scoggins’s attention shifted. “I haven’t had the pleasure, Brennan. Is this your wife?”

  Jack hesitated. “The lady is with me.”

  “The lady . . .” Scoggins nodded slowly. “Well . . . that answers that, now, doesn’t it.”

  She scoffed. “Monsieur Scoggins, you are being most unreas—”

  “Mademoiselle, please.” Jack pulled her close and leaned down. “You gave me your word.”

  “But he is being unfair to you,” she whispered, their faces nearly touching.

  Scoggins snickered. “She’s a feisty one. Aren’t you, mademoiselle? Est-ce que les choses vous rendent toujours si passionnée? Si oui, je voudrais discuter autres choses qui vous intéresse.”

  Jack felt her arm tense beneath his hold.

  She slowly faced Scoggins again. “Voire l’injustice, c’est ça qui me rend passionnée . . . ça et les imbéciles qui ont été donné l’autorité.”

  The man’s laughter filled the room.

  Jack stared between them. He’d not seen this steely look in her eyes before, though the high-and-mighty tone sounded vaguely familiar. “What did you just say to him? And what did he say to you?”

  Scoggins stepped forward. “Et si j’achète tout ce qu’il a, ma chérie, que vaut-il a` vous? Il y a certaines choses qui je suis toujours prêt a` marchander.”

  Jack didn’t understand the words, but from the tone of Scoggins’s voice—and the outraged disbelief on Mademoiselle Girard’s face—he didn’t need to. Her honor had been insulted.

  Knowing he had only one chance on a guy this size, Jack sank the butt of his rifle into the man’s midsection, then came up hard with his elbow and caught the man in the mouth.

  Scoggins staggered back a few steps, a string of profanities punctuating his groans.

  Jack quickly laid aside his rifle and braced himself, reminded again of what a bad idea it had been to accept Mademoiselle Girard’s offer.

  Regaining his balance, Scoggins tensed for a charge. Then he froze. His eyes went wide.

  Confused, Jack followed the man’s gaze. And the same numb shock that lined Scoggins’s expression coursed through him.

  Mademoiselle Girard had the butt of the rifle pressed flush against her shoulder, her chin tucked and the barrel pointed—from best Jack could tell—somewhere within a six-foot proximity of where Scoggins stood. Though her aim needed work, the effect was intimidating—more so if you couldn’t see that the safety was still on. Which Scoggins couldn’t from his vantage point.

  “Mademoiselle . . .” Jack spoke softly, moving to place his hand over hers on the barrel. “I don’t believe it will come to that today.” He took the rifle from her and felt her trembling. “I’d appreciate you waiting by the door for me, please.”

  “But this man! His behavior! I fail to comprendre—”

  Jack pres
sed his fingers to her lips, apparently surprising her by the gesture as much as he surprised himself. “Please, Mademoiselle Girard,” he whispered, finding the softness of her mouth distracting. “Trust me in this.”

  She studied him, struggle evident in her expression.

  Jack stared at her pert little pout. She possessed such fire, such presence, for one so young. To his relief, she did as he asked and went to wait by the door.

  But her look told him she was none too happy about it.

  Jack turned. “Scoggins, be assured that I’ll never—”

  “I’ll buy the whole load—everything but the books and candy.” Scoggins rubbed his jaw, smiling. “There hasn’t been this much excitement around here in a long time.” He looked at Mademoiselle Girard. “Je suis désolé, mademoiselle. Je viens de faire le sot, et dans le très mauvais goût.”

  Jack turned to her, seeking translation.

  “Monsieur Scoggins offered an apology to me . . . which I accept.”

  Her smile only hinted at warmth. “And an apology to you, Monsieur Brennan. And as a token of faith in future dealings, he offers to pay an additional . . . ten percent on the total amount of his receipt.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that not correct, Mr. Scoggins?”

  The man stared, then shook his head. “Yes, ma’am. That’s correct.”

  Not believing for a second that Scoggins had made that offer, Jack accepted. And his respect for the diminutive woman beside him increased tenfold.

  As they finalized the transaction, Scoggins ordered the supplies be unloaded and Jack inquired about Pierre Gustave Girard, briefly explaining the situation. “He originally came over in the early fifties and—”

  Mademoiselle Girard laid a hand on his arm. “Pardonnez-moi, but that is not correct.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “My papa left Paris in 1846, when I was but five years old.”

  Jack let that sink in. “But that would mean you’re thir—” Seeing the subtle rise of her brow, he caught himself. He curbed his smile, both at her reaction and at realizing they were much closer in age than he’d imagined. “I stand corrected, Scoggins. Her father came over in ’46.”

  Scoggins finished counting out the bills according to Jack’s itemized receipt. And he shot Mademoiselle Girard a begrudging look as he tacked on the extra ten percent. “I’ve never heard of the man, and I’ve been here since the first blast nineteen years ago. Most of the Frenchmen who came through here in the beginning moved on to prospecting when gold showed up in the streams. Either that or they went to camps that were mining more gold than Jenny’s at the time.”

  Jack’s interest piqued. “Which mines were those?”

  “Let’s see, of the mines that are still operating . . . that would’ve been Duke’s Run, Sluice Box, Deception, and the Peerless. Oh, and Quandry too.” Scoggins pushed the money forward, hesitated, and stretched out his hand.

  Jack shook it. “I appreciate your business.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Scoggins shook his head, but Jack sensed humor in the sarcasm. “Good luck in your search, to you both.” Scoggins included Mademoiselle Girard in his nod. “Au revoir, mademoiselle.”

  “Au revoir, et merci.” She offered a passable smile, lowering her gaze.

  Eager to get her out of the place, Jack opened the door to leave and quickly realized that would not be easily done.

  Four times the original number of men now gathered in the street outside the supply building, surrounding the wagon and clogging the narrow roadway.

  Holding her close to him, Jack carved a path to the wagon and helped her up. Despite the catcalls and whistles, she searched the crowd, face by face. Jack didn’t try to dissuade her. He knew who she was looking for. He prayed that one day she would find him—and that Pierre Gustave Girard would be a man worthy of her search.

  He flicked the reins and the wagon lurched forward.

  The crowd parted, but the miners kept calling out to her. He wanted to defend her against the inappropriate remarks, but he couldn’t fight a hundred men. And he’d warned her about this. Perhaps now she would listen to him.

  But seeing the determined set of her chin—probably not.

  They were nearly out of town when she laid a hand on his arm. “Merci, Monsieur Brennan, for defending my honor. And for inquiring about my papa.”

  Seeing the restrained emotion in her face, Jack knew two things. However long it took and however many towns they had to visit, he would do his best to help her find her father. And furthermore, he was bone weary of having to address this woman as Mademoiselle Girard. Especially when she had such a beautiful first name. “It was my pleasure . . . Véronique. Thank you for making this such a profitable trip for me.”

  Warmth slipped into her eyes. She threaded her hand through the crook of his arm. “The pleasure was most assuredly mine . . . Jack.”

  They drove in silence for a ways. Part of his motivation for taking this job had been based on how young he’d thought she was. He shook his head to himself.

  “What is the reason behind that look, Jack?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not altogether sure I should tell you.”

  “Which is the reason that you must.”

  Hearing the playfulness in her voice, he looked at her. “Part of why I took this job was because I thought you were much younger. You certainly don’t look your years, Véronique. And that’s meant as a compliment.”

  She softly sighed. “So my mother was right after all . . .”

  “Right about what?”

  “Many times in recent years Maman told me that a day would come when I would be thankful to look so young. I did not believe her. Always, I have wanted to look like a woman and not a little girl.”

  Jack took care with his next words. “If you’d allow me to be so bold, ma’am . . . Looking like a little girl isn’t something you have to worry about anymore.”

  “Merci beaucoup again . . . Jack,” she whispered.

  He didn’t understand it, but somehow this woman stole his breath away. All while making him feel as if he’d finally come home again—after so many years of wandering.

  CHAPTER | SEVENTEEN

  VÉRONIQUE STRETCHED AND pushed herself to a sitting position E´ in the freshly ticked hotel bed. The sun streamed in the dust-streaked windows as she combed her hair back with her hands and leaned to look at her watch on the night table. Half past eight. She threw back the quilt. She hadn’t planned to sleep so late.

  Thoughts of the trip to Jenny’s Draw yesterday and of Jack Brennan, Jack—she smiled, remembering—had kept sleep at bay until the wee hours of the night, despite her being exhausted and sore from the journey along the furrowed roads.

  Upon returning to town last evening, Jack had dropped her off at the hotel before heading to the livery to board the horses. Watching him drive away, it occurred to her that she had no definite way of contacting him in case she needed something. Unless, of course, he was still staying at this hotel. Possible, even though she’d not seen him in the hallways. A quiet query to Lilly could settle that issue. But he hadn’t mentioned anything about when their next trip was scheduled either. A question she planned on having answered the next time she saw him.

  Several tasks awaited her that day, so she gathered her personal items and visited the washroom down the hall. The most important errand on her list was to pay Monsieur Sampson for the freight wagon. In all her dealings with him, she’d never presented him with payment. Nor had he requested it. She’d remembered her oversight late yesterday afternoon when Jack had told her he’d commissioned Monsieur Sampson to build a wagon for him, identical to hers. The news shouldn’t have surprised her. She’d known all along he wanted his own wagon.

  But the way he’d said it reminded her of his initial reservations regarding the formation of their partnership, and that the current arrangement was quite temporary. In his mind at least.

  As she washed her face, the journey to Jenny’s Draw flitted through her memory in color-washed vignettes.
But one scene stood out above all others.

  Never had a man come so boldly to her defense. Jack could not have understood Monsieur Scoggins’s vulgar suggestion. Yet somehow he had known, and his retribution had been swift and deserving. The exhilaration of gripping Jack’s rifle in her hands also remained vivid with her.

  She chuckled as she reached for the towel, recalling the look on Jack’s face when he’d seen her. The poor man had been stunned. But no more than she. Never would she have attempted something like that before coming to this country. She would have considered the action unbecoming of a lady. But now . . .

  Now she not only wanted to hold the gun again, she had aspirations of learning how to shoot it!

  She ran a brush through her hair. Much had changed in the months since leaving Paris. She had changed.

  One by one, she slipped the combs into her hair and gathered it atop her head, arranging the curls. Pausing, she closed her eyes.

  She imagined herself standing in the grand front foyer of the Marchands’ home once again—fresco-painted ceilings soaring overhead, polished marble beneath her feet—surrounded by opulent furnishings bequeathed from generation to generation within the Marchand famille. Breathing deeply, she recalled the sweet fragrance of fresh-cut white roses—her mother’s favorite—that had always graced the front foyer table. And she could still hear the crescendo of the grand piano as Lord Marchand played in the ballroom late at night.

  The rumble of wagons and the smell of livestock from the street below helped dispel the cherished memory. Her eyelids fluttered open. The webbed crack in the upper portion of the mirror suddenly seemed more pronounced, as did the peeling wallpaper and the dust laden cobweb draping the top of the window sash. The wooden floorboards creaked as she returned to her room.

  This journey had taken her not only far from her home, but also far from whom she used to be. Yet somehow she felt more alive and free in this uncivilized territory than she’d ever felt before. How could that be when Paris was still so dear? As was the refined existence of her previous life.