Remembered Read online

  Nothing.

  Everything she’d drawn had been disproportionate to everything else. Or else lacked any sense of life or movement—or originality. What gifts God had so generously given her before, it would seem He had recalled with equal completeness for some unknown reason.

  Her gaze settled on the rocky clefts where deepening purples gave way to expanding darkness. Did anything remain that she could do in order to win back God’s favor in that regard? If yes, He held the answer just out of her grasp.

  As she crossed the hotel lobby, Mr. Baird, the proprietor, glanced up from behind the front desk. He lowered his newspaper and stared at her across wire-rimmed spectacles. “Miss Girard, I was hoping to catch you before you turned in for the night. A note came for you earlier.”

  “A note?” Véronique’s first thought was that Christophe had written again, but seeing the plain piece of folded paper in Mr. Baird’s hand, she quickly dismissed that hope. Perhaps it was a response to the advertisement for a driver that she’d placed at the post office earlier that afternoon. She’d indicated for all interested parties to contact her at the hotel. Which reminded her, she needed to make Mr. Baird aware of that.

  He nodded as she explained. “Oh, that’s fine by me, Miss Girard. I’ll be sure and tell the boss so she’ll know to be on the lookout too.”

  She stared for a moment, not understanding.

  Mr. Baird chuckled. “I was referrin’ to my wife . . . Mrs. Baird.” He winked. “She’s the real boss around here. I just do whatever the good woman tells me.”

  “Merci.” Véronique took the note, giving a slight nod. She was gradually becoming accustomed to the informalities so common among the people of this country, even if she didn’t claim to understand them. She scanned the brief missive, unsure what to make of it at first.

  “Good news, I hope,” Mr. Baird commented, returning to his newspaper.

  Véronique read the note again, and smiled. “Oui, I believe it is. My sincere thanks, monsieur.” With a bounce to her step, she was to the stairs before she remembered. “Monsieur Baird, would you be so kind as to draw me a bath this evening?”

  “You betcha, ma’am . . . though it might be a while.” He pointed directly above them. “Another guest just went in there a minute ago. He should be done soon enough, then I’ll give your door a knock.”

  She sighed, wishing for a bath but even more for bed. “I’m rather tired. Could I request that it be drawn first thing in the morning instead?”

  After arranging the time, Véronique climbed the stairs to the third floor. Shared lavatories were not unknown to her. They were common enough in Paris, in the lower classes. But sharing with someone of the opposite sex—that was a new experience. One for which she had yet to develop an affinité.

  She reached the third-floor landing and a sloshing sound drew her attention. She paused. Looking up, she realized she’d stopped right by the lavatory. Footfalls coming closer from the other side of the door sent her racing down the hallway. Once safely inside her room, she collapsed on the bed and giggled at her overreaction, then glanced again at the note from Monsieur Jake Sampson.

  It read: Mademoiselle Girard, come by the livery first thing in the morning. Your carriage awaits.

  CHAPTER | SIX

  VÉRONIQUE STEPPED INTO the steaming bath and slowly sank down. With her shoulders pressed back against the tub, she stretched out her legs. The hot water seeped into her muscles, tingling, relaxing. Heavenly, but for one thing—did Americans have something against scented bath water? Or perhaps they simply hadn’t yet learned about perfumed baths from their European cousins.

  She still had a good foot of space before her feet touched the opposite end, so she slid down farther and dunked her head, thoroughly soaking her hair. Breaking the surface again, she wiped the water from her face and breathed the moist air deep into her lungs.

  Monsieur Sampson’s note came to mind. Contemplating what he’d meant by it, she rubbed the coarse block of soap between her palms and smoothed the lather over her arms and legs. The arid climate of this territory was drying out her skin, and this soap certainly wasn’t going to help any. She’d used the last of her favorite lemon and sage grass lotion three weeks ago, having carefully rationed it since leaving Paris. Perhaps the mercantile could order—

  The latch on the washroom door jiggled.

  Instinctively, Véronique sank deeper into the tub, wishing there were bubbles to aid her intent. Had she slid the lock on the door into place? Certainly she had. . . .

  The door handle rattled again.

  “This room is occupée,” she called out.

  Silence. Then what sounded like the clearing of a man’s throat.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t think anybody would be in there this early. I . . . I just came for my shirt. I think I left it in there last night.”

  Véronique peeked over the edge of the tub, then back at the door. “Oui, I believe you are right. I see a garment hanging in the corner. However, I am . . . unable to come to the door at this moment.”

  “Ah . . . no, ma’am . . . I mean . . . yes, ma’am. I understand. You just take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Véronique rinsed off and reached for her towel.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.”

  The sound of his voice sent her plunging again. Water sloshed over the sides and back of the tub. “You have caused me no bother.” She brushed a strand of wet hair from her face. “But that is changing quite rapidly,” she added softly, certain she heard a soft chuckle come from beyond the door. She waited for the sound of retreating footsteps. Hearing none, she peered over the edge and saw a shadow beneath the door. “I am aware that you are still there, monsieur.”

  “Ah . . . yes, ma’am. I . . . I’m just going to wait outside here so I can get my shirt.”

  Rising slightly, Véronique checked for cracks in the door. Detecting none, she climbed from the tub, ran a towel over her body, and then pulled on her dressing gown. The robe covered her adequately, but she blushed at the idea of a strange man seeing her dressed like this. And even more at his apparent lack of trust.

  “Monsieur, I am no thief. I assure you, I will not attempt to abscond from the lavatory with your shirt.”

  Another soft chuckle. This time louder than the first, and affirming what she thought she’d heard earlier. “No, ma’am. You don’t sound much like an . . . absconder to me. It’s just that I’ve got something in the pocket there that’s mighty valuable, and I want to make sure it doesn’t wander off.”

  Now curious, and emboldened by his lack of decorum, Véronique crossed the room and lifted the shirt from the hook. She peeked inside the front pocket and instantly realized his cause for concern. Glancing back at the door, she had a sudden thought. “What is in the pocket of your garment, monsieur, that is so valuable to you?”

  Silence, then the creak of a floorboard. “Are you just about done in there, ma’am?”

  Véronique held back a giggle, enjoying being the one with the avantage. “Oui . . . just about.” She returned the shirt to its hook and rushed through her morning ritual. She cleaned her teeth and combed and towel-dried her hair, more conscious of her movements, and of time’s passing, knowing he was waiting.

  When she was done, she opened the door. And immediately wished she could close it again.

  ————

  Jack had to lower his gaze significantly just to look the woman in the eye—but it was well worth the effort. She glanced at him, then looked away again, and he got the impression she wasn’t completely comfortable with him.

  Reasonable, under the circumstances.

  He maintained his distance in hopes of putting her more at ease. “I’m sorry for having startled you a few minutes ago, miss. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in the washroom this early.”

  She briefly looked up before once again confining her attention to the floor. “Thank you. I accept your kind apologie, mon
sieur.”

  He smiled, realizing he’d correctly guessed her native tongue moments before.

  She gestured behind her toward his shirt. “As you can see . . . there it hangs.”

  Recognizing the familiar fabric and seeing the outline in the front pocket, Jack felt the tension in his gut begin to relax. How could he have been so foolish? But he’d been so upset last night, so frustrated with Jake Sampson and the whole situation, that he hadn’t been thinking straight. He stepped to one side, allowing the woman space to exit. The shirt was hanging exactly where he’d left it. He quickly counted the money, and experienced a rush of relief. Fortunate for him that such an honest woman had been first to use the washroom.

  “Your garment is safe, monsieur. In the same condition you left it last night, non?”

  Her expression was all sweetness, yet something in her tone seemed to mock him. But with his money safe in hand again, Jack didn’t care. “Yes, ma’am. Looks as if everything is in order, thank you.”

  He closed the bathroom door behind them, and before he knew it, she was several paces ahead of him down the hall. She walked fast for being so little, but he caught up with her easily, not wanting her to leave just yet. No doubt she knew what was in his shirt pocket— he could sense it. And he rarely misjudged people in that regard. “I appreciate you acting with such integrity, ma’am. Not everyone would have done as you did.”

  Pausing in front of room 308, she reached into her pocket and withdrew a key. “Oui, you should be grateful to me, monsieur. It was a most arduous task.”

  There it was again, that hint of mockery in her voice. Though he couldn’t see her expression, he definitely heard her smile this time.

  She tried fitting her key into the lock and achieved success on her third attempt, still apparently unwilling to look at him. The thought that he might be the object of her discomfort both bothered and encouraged him.

  The front and shoulders of her robe were slightly damp from her freshly-washed hair. Her belt was cinched modestly tight, preventing any gapping in the fabric, yet her care at swaddling herself so only served to accentuate the curve of her small waist and slender hips. Recognizing the drift in his focus, Jack pulled his attention back and was pleased to actually find her looking at him. Whatever this young woman lacked in height, she made up for in every other way.

  She was completely stunning—and much too young for him.

  He took a step back. Being thirty-eight years old hardly meant he had one foot in the grave, but he would place her age around twenty years his junior, and that was too big of a difference in his book. No matter what the opinions or practices of others might be. Anyway, he’d been looking forward to lightening his load these days, to being responsible only for himself. Isn’t that what he’d told Pastor Carlson? Suddenly those words had a hollow ring to them.

  “Well, thank you again, ma’am. I sincerely appreciate your honesty.” And I hope our paths cross again sometime is what he wanted to add, but didn’t. Still, something told him the chances of that happening were good.

  Jack walked back down the hallway, fully aware that she hadn’t yet shut her door. Once he heard the click of the latch behind him, he retraced his steps, pulled out his own key, and entered the room directly across from hers.

  CHAPTER | SEVEN

  WHEN VÉRONIQUE DESCENDED the stairs to the hotel lobby an hour later, business appeared to be brisk for a Friday morning. At the front desk, Monsieur Baird assisted a couple with two small children while four other gentlemen waited off to the side.

  The men didn’t resemble the kind of patrons Véronique had seen staying at the hotel. They had the appearance of hired hands, only slightly rougher around the edges, and the way they looked at her sent prickles of warning skittering up her arms and neck. Perhaps Monsieur Baird had engaged their services for a specific task at the hotel. If so, he would be well advised to instruct his workmen to use the back entrance next time.

  As she crossed the lobby, one of the men bolted forward, blocking her path.

  “Miss Girard, isn’t it?” Butchering her name, he thrust out his hand, breaking all étiquette in the process.

  Caught off guard, Véronique backed up a step. The man addressing her was tall, with a thick build, and had obviously consumed a breakfast entrée which included onions as a main ingredient. How did he know who she was? She stared pointedly at his hand until he returned it to his side.

  “I’m here to speak with you, ma’am.” He cast a glance at the three men behind him. “And I’d like to make it known that I was first in line.”

  First in line? Véronique didn’t know what he was referring to, but she was relatively certain that whatever it was, it could not be of lesser priority to her.

  The other men suddenly stepped forward to form a half circle around her, all speaking at once.

  “Miss Girard! A word with you, please.” Monsieur Baird’s voice boomed over them all.

  Véronique skirted around the wall of men to see the proprietor striding toward her. He wore a severe expression, and she got the distinct impression he was unhappy with her.

  “May we speak in the dining room, Miss Girard?”

  Grateful for his timely rescue, she glanced at the clock on the front desk. Jake Sampson would be expecting her at the livery any time now.

  “This won’t take long, I promise,” Monsieur Baird added as though reading her mind, his clipped tone persuasive. He indicated for her to follow him.

  Once inside the dining room, he closed the double doors behind them. Monsieur Baird acknowledged the patrons occupying several of the tables, then guided Véronique farther to the back. “Miss Girard . . .” His voice was hushed. “Those men in there are answering the notice you posted yesterday.”

  Véronique shook her head. “That can’t be. . . .” She glanced back at the closed doors, able to picture the men all too clearly in her mind’s eye. “None of them fit the description for which I advertised. I specifically requested—”

  “My guess, Miss Girard, is that you listed your name on that advertisement.” His dark brows slowly rose over the rims of his spectacles. “Am I correct?”

  Her mind raced, trying to follow the turn of his thoughts and failing to do so. She nodded in answer to his question.

  “I realize this is none of my business, ma’am, and you’re free to tell me so after I’m done. But seeing as you’re quite young and might not be aware of certain things, I feel it’s my duty to step in here.”

  She stiffened at his comment about her age. Always, people were making that assumption. Always, they were making decisions for her—and she was weary of it. Forcing a smile she hoped passed for pleasant, she determined to change that—starting now. “I appreciate your concern, monsieur, but I want to make it clear to you that I am capable of making decisions for myself. I have traveled all the way from Paris, France, to get to this—”

  Monsieur Baird held up a hand. “Miss Girard, this has nothing to do with whether you’re capable or not. You’re a very capable young woman, I’ve no doubt about that. I also have no doubt as to why those men showed up in answer to your advertisement.” His features softened. “Willow Springs is a small town, ma’am. Word travels fast here. Everybody in this town knows who you are.”

  She frowned. “But I have been here for only two days.”

  “Like I said, ma’am, this is a small town and . . . I don’t mean any disrespect by this, but we don’t get many women from Paris, France, through here.” He smiled. “And you tend to make a lasting first impression, Miss Girard. But those men in there . . .” He shook his head. “They came here for all the wrong reasons. Trust me on that. And for the record, just because you’re capable of doing something, ma’am—like listing this advertisement—doesn’t necessarily mean you should.”

  She wanted to object, but the truth behind his statement wouldn’t allow it.

  He gave a heavy sigh. “In the end, it’s your decision. But I’ve got three daughters about your age,
and I wouldn’t dare let a one of them set off anywhere with those men in there, much less up to the mountains. I’m sure if your father were here, he’d feel the same way.”

  Véronique’s breath caught. A stinging sensation rose to her eyes. Monsieur Baird did not know her reason for being in Willow Springs, so there was no way he could know how much his last comment had hurt her. She lowered her face. The obvious love this man possessed for his daughters only deepened her regret over her own father’s absence from her life. The reminder of what she’d had—and lost— was keen, and razor sharp.

  She cleared her throat, forcing down the rising tide of emotion. “I appreciate what you have said to me, Monsieur Baird,” she whispered. “I acted in haste and did not consider with proper care the outcome of my actions.” She glanced again at the door, dreading having to face those men again.

  He trailed her gaze and then gave her an unexpected wink. “Would you mind if I took care of those rowdies in there? It would do this father’s heart a world of good.”

  Relieved beyond words, Véronique wished she could hug him. But she settled for a curtsy instead and made her exit out the kitchen entrance.

  She arrived at the livery later than planned, and just as she had imagined, Monsieur Sampson was busy seeing to other customers. She waited off to one side, giving him a small wave when he acknowledged her presence with a smile. Her nerves were taut, partly from all that had happened that morning, but also from anticipating what Monsieur Sampson was going to tell her.

  Finally there came a moment between customers when they could speak in private.

  “Good mornin’, Mademoiselle Girard.” Jake Sampson wiped his hands on a soiled cloth, then made a show of scrutinizing her gown. He let out a low whistle. “I gotta say, ma’am, you’re ’bout the prettiest thing I’ve seen so far today. One of these years I’m gonna have to get myself over to Paris. Does everybody over there dress so fancy, the way you do?”