Remembered Page 28

  She knew with certainty that Jack Brennan would not peek. But she had a strong feeling that he would very much like to. When he’d accidentally touched her in the cave earlier she’d been startled but not offended. It had been dark, after all, and he hadn’t done it with intention.

  With her clothes lying in a pile beside her, Véronique took her soap and the towel Jack had given her from the supplies and walked the brief three steps to the creek. Jack had situated the blanket around a place in the creek that ran deeper than the rest. But still the water was no more than two-feet deep, and the space was not wide enough to submerge her body. She shivered just imagining the thought of that cold water covering her entirely.

  She lathered her body and scrubbed. Then smelled her hands and arms, and lathered again, letting the soap rest on her skin. She washed her hair, twice, until her fingers ached from the cold. Using a drinking tin from Jack’s inventory, she poured clean water over her shoulders, arms, and legs.

  Bent over by the creek, she was in the sunshine, but when she stepped back to the shelter to dress, the air held a chill. She dried off quickly and reached for the miners’ shirt. It was enormous, and she had nothing to wear beneath it . . . or the trousers. She bent and picked up her chemise, then immediately let it fall again. Out of the question.

  She slipped the shirt on, finding immediate warmth in its folds. It came well past her knees and was thicker than she’d expected. The dungarees were another matter entirely. The material was comfortable enough, but even with the drawstring cinched tight, the trousers puddled at her ankles. She pulled them up and held them there and began her ascent back to the wagon.

  Jack was removing the broken wheel from the wagon when he saw her. He went absolutely still.

  Véronique kept her gaze averted and carried herself with some measure of comportment until she stepped on a rock and nearly dropped her pants.

  Jack turned back to his task, but she heard his laughter.

  It was midafternoon by the time he got the wheel fixed, the cargo loaded back into the wagon, and the horses harnessed again.

  “Thought I’d bathe real quick before we go,” he told her. “You mind?”

  Véronique raised a brow. “Actually, I would prefer it. And I promise, I will not peek.” He had already taken down the blanket.

  “Good. And I ate lunch while you were bathing. Yours is beneath the seat when you want it.”

  She watched him go, wondering how men did that. Just traipsed off to the stream and removed their clothes without a single thought of who might be watching. He returned a while later dressed in garb identical to hers. Except his clothes fit, and rather nicely.

  They reached the mining town by late afternoon, and Jack quickly worked his transaction with the store owner. Véronique had thought that perhaps her variation in clothes would draw less interest from the miners this trip. But her attire only seemed to invite more comments, along with jokes about why she was wearing them and other coarse remarks.

  By the time they returned to Willow Springs, the sun had set, bringing a welcome cloak of night.

  Jack stopped outside the hotel and helped her down, then caught hold of her hand. “Thank you . . . for what you did for me in the cave this morning.”

  She waited, half hoping he would share the reason behind his reaction in the cave, which was similar to his reaction in the mercantile when they’d first met. When he didn’t, she decided to take the hint. “And thank you,” she whispered, securing the dungarees at her waist, “for coming in after me. I can imagine how much that cost you, Jack.”

  Acting on impulse, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his left cheek first, then his right, then repeated both again. She stepped back, pleased with the look on his face. “That is how we do it in France.”

  He reached up and gently touched the curve of her cheek, then fingered a strand of her hair. His smile started in his eyes first. “Plenty of responses come to mind at present, ma’am” —he gave her hair a gentle tug—“but I think I’d do best just to say good-night.”

  ————

  “But do you realize how expensive those are, Miss Girard? The price listed in the catalog is by the bottle.” Madame Hochstetler’s voice rose in volume as she spoke, as though it took a great effort to help Véronique understand.

  It was all Véronique could do to hold her tongue and contain her temper. Especially with the mercantile as crowded as it was, and her hands full of packages from her shopping that morning.

  Jack had left over a week ago on consecutive trips to mining towns that demanded overnight stays, and Véronique hadn’t seen him since. Time spread out before her like an empty canvas, and she had nothing with which to fill it. Even Lilly was busy with her duties at the hotel. The hotel had no piano, and Willow Springs had no art galleries or tulip gardens through which to stroll. So she found herself bored, irritable, and growing more so by the hour.

  She spent some of her evenings rereading her father’s letters, and their contents were proving of no use in her search for him, nor were they improving her demeanor. Her father mentioned no specific mining towns, but he often went into great detail about his attitude toward his new country and how certain he was that both she and her mother would cherish it. And always, at the end of every letter, the same closure: My deepest love always, until we are joined again.

  Madame Hochstetler leaned a beefy arm on the counter. “And these are very expensive since they’ll be coming all the way from New York City. My counsel would be for you to start out by orderin’ a smaller amount, and then—”

  “Merci beaucoup, Madame Hochstetler, for your . . . counseil. But I am quite aware that the price is per bottle, and I would like you to order every color I have indicated on the page . . . s’il vous plaît.” Véronique forced a stiff smile, not appreciating the mercantile owner’s patronizing tone nor the way the woman looked her up and down as she quoted prices from the catalogue. Nor the way she tucked that double chin and peered over those spectacles as she started filling out the order form! Infuriating woman!

  Though Véronique had grown to like many things about this infant country, there were days when she longed for the simple response of “My pleasure, Mademoiselle Girard” from the lesser-ranking servants, instead of their questioning her at every turn.

  Véronique shifted her weight, certain that Madame Hochstetler could write faster than she was at the moment. “I am in a hurry this morning, madame. Is it possible for you to pen the order in a more hasty fashion?”

  Madame Hochstetler ceased her writing and slowly straightened from her crouch over the counter. “Do you want me to order these things for you or not?”

  Sorely wishing that dismissing this woman was within her realm of authority, Véronique nodded. “You may continue your task.”

  Time moved slowly as the woman wrote, and Véronique’s thoughts turned to her search. Once Jack returned—if he ever returned—the number of mining towns they would have visited, either together or him alone, would be twenty-five. That meant only twenty mining camps remained where her father might be, if he’d stayed in the area. Véronique worked hard to ignore the foreboding feeling, but she was beginning to believe she would never find him. And more, that God had never intended it in the first place.

  After what seemed like enough time to construct another Arc de Triomphe, Madame Hochstetler straightened. She turned the order form around and shoved it in Véronique’s direction. “Sign at the bottom.”

  Véronique lingered over the document, confirming that everything was correct before signing, and making sure Madame Hochstetler knew who the servant was in this situation. “Please see that my order is executed promptly, madame. I would like the paints delivered as soon as possible.”

  The woman offered a tight smile. “Takes three weeks minimum for the order to be processed in New York and shipped by train to Denver. Then another week, maybe more, for our normal freighter to get them here, depending on his schedule. If you want to pay extra for the s
tage, that’ll save you a few days, but will cost you an extra two dollars. I don’t think that’s worth—”

  “I will pay most happily. It is important for me to get them here swiftly.” Véronique retrieved a bank draft from her réticule. As Madame Hochstetler tallied the order, Véronique followed along to make sure she added properly.

  “Here’s your receipt for what you paid today . . . Miss Girard.” Madame Hochstetler peered over her spectacles. “The other half is due when the shipment comes in.” The woman stuck the pencil back into the mass of gray curls framing her round face and stared at the bank draft. “Just so we’re clear . . . This is a special order, so you can’t return the items unless there’s something wrong with them.”

  “Oui, you have already stated this to me.”

  “We always make sure folks new to town understand because they tend to think they can just decide later whether—”

  “I understand what you have explained to me, Madame Hochstetler. I would appreciate prompt notification at the hotel the moment my order arrives.” Véronique gave the slightest curtsy demanded by etiquette and then hurried from the mercantile.

  Her boots pounded the boardwalk as she cut a path to the dress shop. She clutched the numerous packages and cloth sacks, finding them growing heavier by the minute. She couldn’t pinpoint why, but from the moment she’d met Madame Hochstetler, the woman had worn a ridge in her nerves. What was the word Lilly had used the other day to describe a demanding hotel guest . . . ?

  Véronique could visualize the definition in her mind—difficult or irritating to deal with. The word was odd sounding in itself, and actually resembled its meaning. What was it . . . ?

  Cantankerous! That was it!

  As Véronique crossed the street, she worked to form sentences in her mind using the word. The customary practice helped newly learned words take firmer root and—at least for today—it also gave vent to her frustration.

  Madame Hochstetler is one of the most cantankerous women I have ever met.

  Madame Hochstetler’s behavior ranks among the most cantankerous I have ever experienced.

  Cantankerous best describes the wife of poor, unfortunate Monsieur Hochstetler.

  Véronique’s hand was on the latch of the dress-shop door when it occurred to her that the face foremost in her mind at the moment wasn’t Madame Hochstetler’s at all—it was Madame Marchand’s.

  The realization was jarring. And it made her wish she’d been a bit more lenient with Madame Hochstetler.

  It had been months since she’d experienced even a fleeting thought of Madame Marchand, yet Véronique could easily see the similarities between the two women. Part of leaving Paris had meant leaving Madame Marchand behind, and Véronique had not wasted a single moment lamenting the woman’s absence. How could such a vindictive woman have been mother to a man as generous and kind as Lord Marchand? It was not a logical progression from matriarch to son.

  The latch suddenly moved in her hand. The door opened from the inside.

  “Véronique!” Surprise lit Jack’s expression. “What are you doing here?”

  Stunned, Véronique checked the shingle over the door to make sure she was in the right place. “Jack, you have returned!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Just got back into town a little while ago. I stopped by the hotel, but you weren’t there.”

  Véronique held up a bag. “I’m enlisting Madame Dunston to alter a dress I purchased.” She smiled at the odd look on his face, and decided not to tell him she was also there to commission Madame Dunston to sew her several new dresses—ones better suited for their travels. Homespun, but made with more flattering colors and, hopefully, a Parisian flair of her own influence. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “I was . . . making a delivery.”

  She looked past him to where Madame Dunston was busy wrapping something behind the counter. “I did not know you delivered items for Madame Dunston.”

  He shrugged. “I’m a freighter. I deliver goods to the people who need them. And speaking of—I’ve got some business to attend to.”

  After glancing over his shoulder, he opened the door wide. He bowed at the waist and made a sweeping motion with his arm. “I grant you entrance, mademoiselle.”

  Smiling at his antics, she stepped inside, wishing he wouldn’t leave so soon. She suddenly pictured him dressed in a formal tailcoat and trousers, complete with a silk cravate, and quickly decided she much preferred his white button-up shirt, worn leather vest, and dungarees. His clothes suited the untamed masculine quality she’d come to appreciate about him.

  He moved past her. “Are you ready for another trip?”

  “I am more than ready. I am bored silly in this town. When do we leave?” Something flashed across his face. An emotion she couldn’t identify but was quite sure she didn’t like.

  “You’re . . . bored?”

  “Oui. You have been away and Lilly has been occupied. There is little else for me to do, other than to shop.” She gave the street outside a cursory glance. “And there is only so much shopping one can do in a place like this.”

  He glanced at the stringed boxes and cloth sacks filling her hands. “But it looks like you’ve given it a brave effort.”

  “It took some time, but I located the items I needed—and two specific items that I believe Lilly will enjoy.” She smiled, imagining Lilly’s reaction at seeing them. “Things every young girl should have.”

  “Depending on what those things are, you might consider asking permission of her parents before you give them to her.”

  Véronique scoffed. “Nonsense. She will enjoy them, and I am content in the belief that her parents will be pleased.”

  With his current mood, she decided not to tell him about her order at the mercantile. It was an expensive purchase, to be certain, but necessary. In the past week, she’d discovered that all of her paints had dried or turned grainy in the combined months of travel. She had yet to draw anything of worth recently but trusted that holding a palette full of colors in one hand and a fresh brush in the other would be inspiring. Not to mention the canvases she’d ordered as well.

  Jack glanced down, then back at her. “Véronique . . . have you given any consideration to looking for employment here in Willow Springs?”

  He said it so quietly, so matter-of-factly, and with such affection, that Véronique couldn’t take offense. But she sorely wanted to. “For what purpose would I seek a position of employment, Jack? My financial requirements are met, and my first responsibility is to search for my father.” She shifted the packages in her hand and added, “When you’ll allow me to accompany you.”

  His expression drained of warmth. “I just made an observation and thought I would offer a suggestion.”

  “Exactly what observation have you made?”

  Jack glanced over her shoulder, and she turned to see Mrs. Dunston having stilled from her task.

  The woman’s gaze darted between the two of them. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” She walked into the back room.

  “My observation is simply that . . .” Jack lowered his voice. “Perhaps you would find greater contentment in giving of yourself instead of” —he glanced at the packages again, not offering to take any of them from her—“attempting to fill your time with other things.”

  His closely targeted observation stung, and her defenses rose. “I am still in the process of becoming acquainted with Willow Springs. Once I am settled, I will seek out opportunities as time—” She couldn’t continue. The sincerity in his eyes, and the loneliness inside her, wouldn’t permit it.

  “This is just an idea, Véronique, but I’ve been out to Casaroja several times in recent weeks, and I’ve spoken with Miss Maudie on occasion. I think the two of you would be very good for each other. I haven’t presumed to speak with her about any sort of arrangement like this, but I know she’d enjoy your company.” Jack lightly touched her right cheek, reminding Véronique of the nea
rly healed scratch she’d received days ago, running through the trees from that rabid skunk. “Will you at least consider the idea?”

  She finally nodded, remembering how much she had enjoyed Miss Maudie’s company. “Yes, Jack, I will.” She managed a brief smile. “You asked if I was ready for another trip. Do you have another planned?”

  “Day after tomorrow. We’ll leave at—”

  “Dawn. Oui, of the departure time I am always certain.”

  She watched through the front window of the dress shop as he crossed the street and rounded the corner. Then it occurred to her that she hadn’t asked about his trips of the past week, and neither had he volunteered any information. Which meant he hadn’t discovered anything new about her father.

  Again the recurring thought—perhaps finding Pierre Girard was not part of God’s master plan. But if that proved to be true, then why had God brought her to this place.

  CHAPTER | THIRTY

  JACK TOOK ACCOUNT of the stack of bills in Véronique’s hand, hesitant to accept the money. She’d been at him to take it ever since she’d arrived at the livery that morning. “Why don’t you keep it for now, Vernie, and we’ll settle up later.”

  In the dim light of dawn, he ignored the familiar challenge in her stance and adjusted the harness straps on Charlemagne and Napoleon. He shook his head at the names she’d insisted on giving his horses. But oddly, the names fit.

  Hearing a snicker, Jack spotted Jake Sampson sitting just outside the open livery doors, well within earshot. A telling grin curved Sampson’s mouth as he wriggled his bushy brows.

  Jack pretended he hadn’t seen.

  Véronique nudged the money forward again. “This is as we agreed, non? You have earned this money for services rendered.”

  That only encouraged Jack’s hesitance. He walked to the wagon bed and double-checked the tie-downs. “Véronique, I don’t—”

  “It is yours, Jack. You have earned it. Please take it from me now.”

  He recognized the resoluteness in her tone and knew she wouldn’t let it drop. What he didn’t know was where this woman got her continual supply of money. He’d watched her pay Sampson cash for the wagon a while back—a sum that had taken him months to earn. And save the trips they’d made together last week, so far she’d paid him seven dollars for every trip they’d made—services rendered, as she’d phrased it. He hoped no one else had heard that comment. Didn’t sound too respectable.