Remembered (25 page)

Jack strode from the mercantile and Véronique hurried to catch up with him. “Be mindful of what pass, Jack? To what was Mr. Hochstetler referring?”

“It’s nothing to worry about, Véronique.”

She quickened her steps. “Who is this Zimmerman Mr. Hochstetler mentioned?”

Jack hefted a box and situated it in the wagon. “Can you hand me that other one right there, please?” He pointed. “The small one?”

She did as he asked. “And what are you supposed to remember?”

From the opposite side of the wagon, he peered at her across the cargo, then tossed over one end of a rope. “Can you pull this taut?”

She gave the rope an anemic tug, knowing what he was trying to do. “What was Mr. Hochstetler’s meaning, Jack? He said Zimmerman went somewhere. Who is Zimmerman and where did he go?”

Sighing, Jack came around and tied the rope himself. “It’s all right, Véronique. I’ve got everything under control. You’ve given me a job to do—now let me do it. I’ll be ready to go in a minute, so why don’t you go ahead and climb up? Mrs. Baird sent some muffins this morning. Cinnamon, I think. They’re beneath the seat.” He turned back to his work.

She stared after him. It felt as though he’d just patted her on the head and sent her off to play.
She
was the employer in this situation. It was
her
wagon! She was paying
him
! How dare he try to dismiss her as though she were some—“Jack, you will cease your duties this instant and give heed to my question.”

Gradually he turned to face her.

The furrow in his brow, coupled with the way his eyes narrowed, made her wish she’d taken more care in phrasing her request. “Please,” she added more softly, “I would appreciate your attention for a moment. I am asking you a simple question and yet you continue to avoid giving response.”

“In our culture, ma’am” —he jerked the rope tight—“that could be seen as me trying to give you a polite hint.” He secured the knot and offered a stiff smile. “Maybe you should consider taking it.”

“I do not care for these . . .
hints
, Jack. I have never done so. I prefer for thoughts to be expressed explicitly and in clear order. So that everything can be understood.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me . . . ?” He blew out a breath as he walked around the corner of the wagon.

Faced with his stony silence, she climbed up onto the bench seat and waited. Maynor’s Gulch was a pass they crossed on their way to the Peerless, if her map reading from the previous evening was without error. Five hours up and five hours down. Jack couldn’t avoid her forever.

This morning hadn’t come soon enough for her. She was eager to renew the search for her father and—at least up until now—to be in Jack’s company again. He’d already summarized his supply trip to Duke’s Run. His overnight venture had yielded success in sales, but not in discovering anything about her father. Yet no doubt existed in her mind that he had ‘overturned every stone’ in his search, as went the recently learned saying.

Eyeing Jack as he finished securing the wagon, Véronique found her thoughts returning to Lilly Carlson. The visit with Dr. Hadley early Wednesday—prior to her altercation with Jack in the middle of Main Street, for which she had promptly apologized to him this morning—had proven informative, but also distressing.

Dr. Hadley had painted a far less hopeful picture of the surgery’s likelihood of success than had Lilly. “I appreciated your note requesting a meeting with me about Lilly Carlson,” the doctor had stated. “Your desire to help the Carlson family is most noble, Mademoiselle Girard, and I took the liberty of meeting with Pastor Carlson— though I did not reveal your specific intent to him, as you requested in your note. I learned from him that you and Lilly have become good friends. You’ve been a guest in their home. The girl esteems you most highly, mademoiselle, and gives weight to your counsel. With Pastor Carlson’s permission, and in consideration of the generous offer you present on the family’s behalf, I’ll discuss the details of the surgery with you.

“Lilly’s bones have been so long in their current growth pattern, Mademoiselle Girard, that I’m not at all convinced her body will respond to this procedure in a positive way. The anesthesia has certain risks as well, as does the length of the operation.”

“But Lilly Carlson is young, Doctor. And she is strong,
non
?”

“Yes, mademoiselle, she is. But successful surgeries of this kind have consistently occurred with much younger patients—not those Lilly’s age.” Concern weighted his sigh. “Doctors take an oath to first do no harm. Not to knowingly take steps that will leave a patient in a worsened condition than when they first inclined themselves to our services.” The earnestness in his voice matched that in his expression. “Since the day the Carlsons moved to Willow Springs, I’ve cared for their family and have watched Lilly grow into a beautiful girl who has such promise ahead of her. I have no desire to bury that child sooner than her Maker wills.”

That possibility gave Véronique pause, again. “But the surgeon in Boston believes there is hope for the success of the
procédure
with Lilly.”

“He’s cautiously hopeful, yes, and he’s considering her case right now. But what he deems an acceptable risk, and my definition of that term, are not necessarily in harmony with one another, mademoiselle.” Removing his glasses, Dr. Hadley had massaged the bridge of his nose. “Granted, my personal involvement with the patient and her family could well be clouding my judgment.” His focus was direct. “But I’ve seen many a patient live out a full life from the confines of a wheelchair, Mademoiselle Girard. I have never witnessed such from the confines of a coffin.”

As she waited on the wagon’s mercilessly hard bench seat, remembering the conversation with Dr. Hadley stirred up a jumble of emotions. The estimated price for the surgery was greater than she had anticipated, but if the established pattern of Lord Marchand’s deposits continued—and she had no reason to believe they would not—she would have ample money to cover the
procédure
.

Dr. Hadley had graciously offered to confirm the costs with the
chirurgien
in Boston, and if the man agreed to perform the operation on Lilly, then Dr. Hadley agreed to go with Véronique to present the idea to Pastor and Mrs. Carlson.

When Jack finally joined her in the wagon, the firm set of his jaw told her not to push the subject of Zimmerman. Which, saints help her, made her want to know all the more.

When they reached the edge of town and he’d still said nothing, she laid a hand on his arm. “Please, Jack. I must know. What was Monsieur Hochstetler referring to?”

His smile was unexpected. “Don’t you mean . . . to
what
was Monsieur Hochstetler referring?”

Realizing her mistake, she tried to think of an excuse—and couldn’t. Other than the fact that listening to the constant diatribe of butchered English since she’d arrived in this country had finally left its tainted mark. Though tempted to share that thought, she decided against it.

“Véronique . . .”

The tender way he spoke her name drew her attention.

“If you want me to tell you what Mr. Hochstetler was referring to, I will.” The steady plod of horses’ hooves pounded out the seconds. “But, for what it’s worth, it has nothing to do with what we’re doing today, and I think it would be better if you didn’t know. I wish you’d trust me in this.”

Sincerity tendered his voice, echoing what shone in his eyes.

Everything within her said to trust him. She knew she could. She nodded slowly, smiling, appreciating his desire to protect her. “I still want you to tell me.”

Instantly Jack’s expression sobered. He turned back to the road. “Zimmerman is the man who held this job before me. On his last trip up to the Peerless, he tried to haul too heavy a load over the pass at Maynor’s Gulch. His wagon clipped the edge and went over.”

“Went . . . over?” She shuddered. “Went over . . . where?”

“The side of the mountain.”

Her head swam and oxygen grew scarce as she pictured the scene. Putting her head between her knees would have helped, but the thought of how unladylike that would appear kept her from it. “Did he . . . Is this Zimmerman . . . deceased?”

“No, ma’am. But he busted up his leg pretty good and spent a couple of cold miserable nights out there before somebody came along and found him.” Jack glanced at her, his eyes dark. “So . . . are you happy? Now that you know?” The look on his face told her he certainly wasn’t.

She trusted Jack’s skill in maneuvering the wagon, yet could not dissuade the knots twisting her stomach, or the ache in her knuckles from clutching the bench seat so tightly.

The higher the wagon climbed the ribboned path that morning, the cooler the air became, and the thinner. Véronique worked to catch her breath.

Three hours later they continued to climb. The narrow, rutted ledge carved into the side of the mountain clung like a frantic child to its mother. It was a wonder these roads even existed. And then it struck her that perhaps they were not naturally occurring.

Jack laughed when she posed the question. “No, these roads aren’t here by chance. They had help. Striking a vein of gold or silver is one thing, but it’s not worth much just holed up in the side of a mountain. You have to mine it, of course, but there’s also the problem of getting your equipment up to camp, and the gold and silver down to town.” He indicated the snaking road before them. “They use dynamite nowadays but used to have to dig it by hand.”

Since the sheer drop-off was on Jack’s side this time, she didn’t have to stare at the thin line where land abruptly ended and plunged into the chasm below. The discovery earlier this morning that Jack was on that side of the wagon had been comforting, at first.

Until she realized that the opposite would be true on their way back down the mountain. And no matter what side the cliff was on, if the wagon went over, they went over with it.

A sudden jolt brought Véronique back to the moment. A wave of nausea hit her. The image of her and Jack lying at the bottom of the canyon was all she could see, their bruised bodies broken and bloodied.

“Can we . . . pull over, Jack,
s’il vous plaît
?”

Silence. “Where exactly would you like me to pull over?”

The narrow thread of steep incline blurred in her vision. She had to get out. If only for a moment.

“Véronique, what are you—” His arm came around her waist and pulled her firmly back down beside him.

Her stomach roiled. The back of her throat burned. “I think, I am going to be . . . unwell, Jack.” She put a hand over her mouth. Her eyes watered.

His grip lessened, but he still held her secure. “Do what you have to do, but I can’t stop the wagon on this incline, and there’s no pulling over right now.”

Feeling it build inside her, she tried to distance herself from him. She could not do what she was about to do while sitting next to him.

“You cannot stand up, Véronique! It’s not safe.” He crushed her back against him.

The pressure in her temples became excruciating. She tried to scoot to her side of the wagon, but Jack insisted on pulling her close, as though trying to comfort her.

“It’ll be all right, Véronique. Just hang on. We’ll be over this rise in about ten minutes.”

Ten minutes was an eternity. Every bump, every jostle on the rutted road reminded her of the yawning cavern to her left and churned the upset inside her.

Until she could hold it in no longer.

“Jack, I am so sor—” She emptied the contents of her stomach on the floor of the wagon. Her breath wouldn’t come. She gulped for air. And then it happened a second time.

Jack let her go and recoiled beside her, bracing his legs against the footrest.

Tears choked her throat. Her eyes burned. Hot and cold flushes ransacked her body, resulting from her nausea, most certainly. But also from mortal embarrassment.

Head cradled in her hands, she snuck a look at his splattered pant legs and wished she could crawl into a hole in the side of the mountain and never come out. It was not fitting for a
patronne
to . . . become sick all over her employee. She had a strong sense that this would do little for her goal of maintaining a respectful boundary between them.

A burst of cool breeze felt like heaven against her face and neck, and helped dispel the stench. The pounding in her temples gradually eased, her head cleared. She put a hand to her hair and found it in complete disarray. Funny how little that mattered now, comparatively.

After a moment, she chanced another look beside her.

Jack was concentrating on the road, and yet she knew he was aware she was looking at him. One corner of his mouth twitched. “Feeling better?”

His question—so innocent, so lacking in judgment—didn’t help her embarrassment, and Véronique covered her face with her hands.

“It’s okay, Véronique, really. First place I can, I’ll pull over and we’ll wash up. Okay? Shouldn’t be too long.”

She nodded, keeping her face averted.

Moments passed, and she felt something on her back—a most tentative touch. It startled her at first. Her throat tightened with emotion.

Jack combed his fingers gently through the hair now falling loose down her back. He encouraged her to move closer. “Come here,” he whispered. He moved his hand in slow circles, urging her over beside him.

Surprised by the forwardness of his actions, she resisted.

But when she felt the pressure on her back increase and heard the hushed whisper of his deep voice, she acquiesced. As she scooted close against him, she felt a shiver and looked up. Something flashed in his dark blue eyes. He didn’t seem to be frustrated with her, and yet the intensity of his expression made her wonder.

She laid her head on his shoulder and peered down, then winced at the condition of his clothes, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. But she did know everything was not all right.

“Jack?” Her voice came out a broken whisper. He didn’t respond, and she repeated his name.

“Yes?” His chin brushed against the crown of her head.

“The next time . . . I will trust you.”