Remembered Read online

  Lilly’s arm loosened about her waist even as she hastily repositioned her skirt over her legs. But not before Véronique saw the brace extending up the girl’s calf and thigh.

  Lilly hesitated, and then motioned to the window. “If I might be so bold, Mademoiselle Girard . . . what were you trying to do over there just now?”

  “I think I was trying to look out the window.” Véronique shrugged, the order of events still sketchy in her mind. Slowly, the memory of the man’s laughter resurfaced. “You were correct, Lilly. This room does provide a nice view. It’s—” she paused, wanting to get the phrasing right—“a mite easy on the eyes.”

  Lilly glanced from her to the window and back again. “Well, I’m not too proud to say that you about scared me to death, ma’am. I knocked, you didn’t answer, and I came in to find you hanging out the window.”

  Véronique considered the two of them on the floor and could barely stifle a giggle. What must this girl think of her?

  A gradual smile softened Lilly’s shock. “I take it you don’t do well with heights, ma’am. Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve put you in a room on the first floor instead.”

  “Non, non. I do not wish to move. I like this room very much.” Summoning an air of nonchalance she’d mastered years ago in defense against Christophe’s tireless wit, she shrugged again. “Heights are not that bothersome to me . . . as long as I do not look down.”

  ————

  The boardwalk, deserted an hour earlier when they’d first entered the dining room for breakfast, now teemed with morning shoppers. “Monsieur Colby, I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me. You have been most kind and attentive.” Véronique opened her réticule to retrieve the bills, hoping he wouldn’t argue the point.

  They’d met for breakfast at the hotel. The pancakes, cooked thin and crisp around the edges and served with jam to spread between, reminded her of crêpes back home, and the sausages had been plump and delicious. She’d also enjoyed a restful night’s sleep, thanks to Lilly having drawn a warm bath for her, followed by the late meal she’d shared afterward with Monsieur Colby. She’d half expected his friend might join them but she hadn’t seen the man since Lilly had come to her rescue.

  She held out the money. “S’il vous plaît, Monsieur Colby, I would like you to have this as a token of my gratitude for your services. You have worked most diligently on my behalf.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not takin’ that.” He took a step back. “That French fella, Descantes” —his pronunciation prompted Véronique to smile—“he already paid me exactly what I agreed to at the outset, and I’m not takin’ a penny more. Wouldn’t be right. Anyway, I’d hardly call what I did for you real work. It was more like a vacation, what with the railroad comin’ clear into Denver now and the stagecoach runnin’ the rest of the way. I didn’t do any real guidin’—not like I used to. As I see it,” he added, throwing in a wink, “my main job was to make sure the menfolk left you alone. And I’ll admit, I had my hands full on that count.”

  Realizing she was fighting a losing battle, Véronique acquiesced and tucked the bills back inside her réticule. It had been awkward at first, traveling with a strange man in a foreign country. But she’d grown accustomed to Bertram Colby’s gentle manner and attentiveness, his always knowing what to do and where to go next. She would miss him.

  She’d been disappointed upon learning at their outset in New York City that he wouldn’t be able to continue in her employ beyond Willow Springs. From her brief glimpse of this small town, she gathered that finding a driver with a suitable carriage to take her to the neighboring mining communities would prove to be a more difficult task than she’d imagined.

  He tipped his hat. “The last weeks have been a pleasure, ma’am, and I hope you enjoy your stay here. Be sure and take in some of the hot springs if you have a chance. They’re mighty nice and have healing powers, some say. I hear there’s a fancy hotel openin’ soon in a town not too far from here just so folks can come, rest up, and soak for a while.”

  Seeing the exuberance in his expression nipped at Véronique’s conscience. She had not lied to Monsieur Colby, but neither had she been completely open with him about why she was in this country. He believed her to be on a pleasure trip and she hadn’t corrected the misassumption. “Merci beaucoup. The hot springs. I will attempt to see that attraction during my stay.”

  Twice she’d been tempted to tell him her real reason, and twice she’d held back. She’d not confided in him, and apparently neither had her benefactors. She’d overheard Lord Descantes conversing with Monsieur Colby in New York City and had also been briefed on the letter penned by Lord Marchand to him. In short, the letter declared that someone of great personal import to Lord Marchand needed safe passage to the town of Willow Springs and that Monsieur Colby was to see to her every need in the course of travel. The amount Lord Marchand paid Colby was listed in the missive, and her former employer had compensated him well—demonstrating the same generous nature he’d shown her.

  “I don’t know what France is like, ma’am. But this is mighty pretty country out here. I think you’ll like it. The people in this town are good and honest . . . for the most part. You remember everything I told you, you hear?” His expression reflected concern. “ ’Specially about some of the men.”

  She smiled. “Oui, I will do my best.” Though she knew it would be impossible for her to remember everything, given the way the dear man liked to talk.

  He’d often warned her about “scoundrels” as they’d traveled together, but apparently he was not familiar with the ways of French men. She could hardly imagine the men here being any bolder when it came to their advances on women. Growing up with Christophe as her closest friend had made her privilégiée to insights that might have otherwise remained hidden.

  He had been the first to disclose to her the pivotal nature of a man’s thoughts, revealing how varied they were from a woman’s. Through Christophe’s detailed discernments, she’d learned that the two sexes approached situations, as well as relationships, quite differently. That bit of knowledge had proven beneficial on more than one occasion.

  “A grown woman out here on her own is one thing, Miss Girard. But bein’ as young as you are . . . Well, miss, that’s another. You best watch yourself at every turn.”

  “I will do that. I promise,” she answered, knowing he considered her much younger than her thirty-one years. But since it wasn’t proper to discuss a woman’s age—nor was it important to sway his opinion in this regard—she let it pass. “I wish you all the best as you continue with your responsibilities in Denver, Monsieur Colby, and I hope our paths will cross again.”

  “I’ll be back through here in a couple months or so, ma’am. I’ll be sure and look you up, if you’re still here. To see how you’re farin’.”

  “I will look forward to that rendezvous.” She curtsied. “And I will also look forward to seeing how you are . . . farin’.” She tried to pronounce the word as he had, and failed miserably. But the attempt earned her a grin.

  Watching Monsieur Colby walk away proved more difficult than she had imagined, and Véronique busied her thoughts with the tasks at hand. She needed to visit the town’s depository that morning to ascertain her financial standing, which was based solely on whether Lord Marchand’s funds had been deposited as he’d promised her before she left Paris. Then she would visit the town’s livery to inquire about hiring a driver and a carriage.

  But one thing she feared was certain—the likelihood of finding an escort as capable and honorable as Bertram Colby seemed a dwindling hope.

  ————

  “How kind of you to hand deliver her letter to us, Mr. Brennan.” Hannah Carlson lifted the lid from the Dutch oven on the stovetop and gave the contents a stir. “And definitely beyond the call of duty.”

  “My pleasure to do it, ma’am.” Jack savored the aromas as he watched Mrs. Carlson slide a skillet of corn bread into the oven. Home-cooked mea
ls were a rarity for him.

  So far, everything Annabelle had told him about Patrick and Hannah Carlson was proving to be true. He’d instantly felt at home and could see why Annabelle had spoken of them with such fondness. When they’d invited him to stay for lunch, he’d gladly accepted. It delayed his trip to the town’s livery to speak with a Mr. Jake Sampson about the wagon he’d ordered, but the day was young.

  “Mrs. McCutchens and her—” Jack caught himself. “I’m sorry, I should say Mrs. Taylor now. She and her husband send their best to you both. And, Pastor” —he glanced across the table at Patrick Carlson—“Matthew sent a special message for you. He said to tell you that he wished the two of you could have another one of your . . . ‘front porch interviews,’ if that makes any sense.”

  Patrick shook his head, a thoughtful smile surfacing. “It does indeed. Matthew Taylor’s a good man.”

  “I always had a certain feeling about Annabelle and Matthew,” Hannah said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Especially after we got that one letter. Remember, Patrick? Annabelle penned it while they were traveling to catch up with your group last summer, Mr. Brennan. She wrote to reassure us that she and Matthew ‘hadn’t killed each other yet.” ’ She laughed softly. “And that’s when we knew.”

  Pastor Carlson shook his head. “No, that’s when you knew, Hannah. I still didn’t trust him.”

  The pastor’s tone was teasing, but Jack sensed a smidgen of truth in it, and he understood. He’d had reservations about Matthew Taylor the first time they’d met on the northern plains, when Matthew and Annabelle rendezvoused with his group heading west. But Matthew had quickly proven him wrong, for which Jack was thankful. After everything Mrs. Taylor had been through—losing her husband, Jonathan, so early in their marriage and so unexpectedly—she deserved some happiness.

  And that she’d found it with Jonathan’s younger brother just seemed right somehow.

  Mrs. Carlson returned to the table with a fresh pot of coffee. “Lunch will be ready in just a few minutes. By chance, Mr. Brennan, did you see Matthew and Annabelle’s daughter while you were there?” She glanced at his empty cup with a raised brow.

  Jack nudged it forward. “Thank you, ma’am. And I certainly did.” His smile felt sheepish. “I gotta admit I was a bit surprised to discover they already had a daughter, but Matthew explained that Annabelle was with child when his brother passed on. I didn’t realize that on the trail.” Knowing that would have made his decision to leave Annabelle and her first husband, Jonathan, behind on the trail even more difficult. “Their Alice is a cute little thing, and not lacking for love, I can tell you.”

  Hannah pursed her lips. “Oh, I’d love to see that precious child. Annabelle mentioned in her letter that Sadie was doing well. Did you get to see her too?”

  “Briefly.” Jack blew across the surface of his coffee and took a sip. “Sadie was real quiet around me, but that’s understandable . . . after all the hardship she’s been through. They say she’s adjusting well.”

  Jack gathered understanding from the couple’s subdued nods and was relieved he didn’t need to comment further.

  The evening he’d visited in the Taylors’ home, Matthew and Annabelle had been open with him about their pasts, and about Sadie’s. So many emotions had accompanied his learning that Annabelle and Sadie had both been sold into prostitution as young girls—surprise, disgust, and anger had battled inside him—but he’d also never been more in awe of God’s ability to heal and to make new.

  The scrape of Mrs. Carlson’s chair drew his attention. “I’m not sure if you know this, Mr. Brennan, but Annabelle lived with us for a while before she married. She and I got to be very close during that time.” Hannah pulled the corn bread from the oven. “You wouldn’t believe how much I still miss that woman. She was such a help to me.”

  Jack caught Mrs. Carlson’s subtle wink at her husband as she set the skillet on a pad in the center of the table.

  She covered the corn bread with a towel. “Annabelle used to volunteer to listen to my husband practice his sermons, and let me tell you . . .” Hannah gave an exaggerated sigh, and Jack turned in time to see a mischievous look creep over the pastor’s face. “It was so refreshing. There are days I’d pay a fortune to have that sweet woman back.” Giggling, she tried to scoot away but wasn’t fast enough.

  Patrick caught her with one arm and pulled her close. “And you can imagine, Mr. Brennan, how refreshing it was for me to get insights from someone who actually reads her Bible!”

  “Patrick!” Hannah swatted at her husband’s arm.

  Jack laughed along with them, admiring the way they bantered back and forth, and appreciating the home they’d made together.

  “The stew’s about ready,” Hannah said, still grinning. “I’ll call Bobby in and we’ll be set. Lilly mentioned something about having lunch with a new friend today. She said they might stop by later, but it’ll just be the four of us for lunch.”

  Jack noticed how Patrick’s gaze followed Hannah as she left the room. Though it had been many years, he still remembered what that felt like—to be so captivated by one woman that she literally drew your attention, no matter where she was.

  In some ways, Hannah Carlson reminded him of Mary. His wife had possessed the same gracious hospitality and playful humor, but Mrs. Carlson was more outgoing than Mary had been. Mary’s soft-spoken manner and her determined desire to put others before herself were the things that had first attracted him to her.

  Pastor Carlson pushed back from the table and stretched out his legs. “So, Jack, now that you’re retired from guiding families west, what are your plans?”

  Following the pastor’s lead, Jack leaned back and got more comfortable. “I’ll be running freight up to the mining camps around this area. I’ve already got an agreement with Mr. Hochstetler at the mercantile here in town. Met with him this morning, in fact. He has arrangements with most of the suppliers in the surrounding camps. I’m taking the place of his freighter, who was injured recently.”

  “Injured?”

  Jack nodded. “Apparently the guy tried to haul too heavy a load over a pass. The accident happened up around Maynor’s Gulch about a month ago. Wagon shifted to one side, wheel clipped the edge, and the whole thing went over. A ledge broke the driver’s fall on the way down, but he spent two nights stranded up there before somebody happened along and found him. His leg was busted up pretty bad. Hochstetler said the guy will be lucky to walk again, much less handle a rig.”

  “Sounds like there’s quite a bit of risk involved. You sure you want to get into that line of work?”

  Jack smiled, already having answered that question in his own mind. “I think that’s one of my main reasons for making this change. The risk in this new job is personal . . . no one else to be responsible for or to look after.” He paused. “I hope this doesn’t come across as self-centered, but . . . after what I’ve done all these years, I’m ready to look after only me for a while.”

  Patrick seemed to weigh that response. “Being responsible for others is a heavy load to carry, and you’ve borne your share of that for . . . how many years now?”

  “A little over thirteen.”

  Patrick nodded. “It’s hard enough finding your own way in this world. But knowing others are depending on you, that they’re watching your every step, can be a burdensome thing. Even if it’s a job you’ve enjoyed and a road you’ve traveled many times.” Patrick took a slow sip of coffee. “So tell me, what was life like for you before you took to the trail?” His brow arched. “If you can remember back that far.”

  Jack sat up a little straighter at the question. It had been a long time since he’d spoken to anyone about Mary and Aaron, but Pastor Carlson had a way about him that invited conversation. Jack hesitated, softening his voice. “I remember life back then pretty well, in fact.”

  It took some doing, but he gradually told Carlson about Mary and Aaron, the accident, and his recent—and final—visit to their gra
ve in Idaho. “I think traveling that road—many times, like you said—is how I eventually made my peace. God used all those years, and all those miles, to heal my grief.”

  Carlson’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’m sorry for your loss, Jack. But in the same breath, I admire what you allowed God to do with it. You’ll never know how many people’s lives were changed because of that choice.”

  Wrapping his hand around his empty cup, Jack silently acknowledged the pastor’s kindness with a nod. Then he shifted in his chair, ready for a lighter turn in the conversation.

  “So when do you start this new job?”

  “I’m supposed to head out Monday morning with my first load, but I’ve yet to pick up my wagon. I stopped by the livery last night, but I arrived later than I’d planned, and the place was already closed.”

  “That’s because you were out raisin’ Cain with Bertram Colby.”

  Jack didn’t even try to hide his surprise.

  Pastor Carlson grinned. “Mr. Colby stopped by briefly this morning on his way out of town. He told us you’d arrived and—”

  A door slammed at the back of the house and a young boy rounded the corner at breakneck speed.

  “Whoa there, Bobby!” Patrick reached out and playfully grabbed his son by the scruff of the neck. Despite the boy’s squirming, the pastor easily managed to wrap an arm around his son’s chest and pull him close. Bobby giggled as his father tickled him and mussed his hair.

  Jack watched the scene between father and son, and a distant thrumming started deep within him that he was helpless to stop. With determination it rose, and he looked away as the thought surfaced— Aaron would’ve been sixteen this year, had he lived.

  In an instant, snatches of memories never made with his son flashed in quick succession, one after the other—teaching Aaron to fish, taking him on his first hunting trip, showing him how to tie knots, instructing him how to read the night sky so he’d know the next morning’s weather. The tightening in Jack’s throat grew uncomfortable, and he swallowed to lessen it. Being healed of a hurt didn’t mean you still wouldn’t mourn the loss from time to time— that was another lesson he’d picked up somewhere along the way.