Remembered (28 page)

She sat quietly for a moment, as though letting that wash over her. “What kind of disappointment have you suffered that has taught you such discernment?” Admiration and curiosity threaded her soft question.

Jack knew that whatever he shared couldn’t be taken back. He trusted her with knowing about Mary and Aaron—it wasn’t that. But something told him that telling her about them at that moment wouldn’t help her find the answers she sought. “I guess it comes with age, and with having wrestled against my own desires from time to time. Having expectations can be a good thing, unless they take over. Then they can rob you of the happiness you might’ve had, had you been more content from the start.”

She didn’t answer immediately. “I am at peace with whatever my journey reveals.”

He detected tenuous confidence in her tone.

“I have never really known my father, and have only the vaguest of memories of him. So if I do not find him” —she shrugged—“I will have lost nothing,
oui
?”

But deep inside, Jack knew that wasn’t true. And from her guarded expression, he thought she knew it too.

Night had fallen by the time he pulled up in front of the hotel in Willow Springs. Véronique was asleep beside him, her head on his shoulder, her body tucked warm against his. With that combination, he’d been tempted to keep on driving into the night. His back and shoulder muscles ached from the miles of rutted roads, and from not having changed positions in the past hour. He hadn’t wanted to waken her.

The still of night settled around them like a cocoon. It wasn’t much past nine o’clock, but the town was unusually quiet. With the faint murmur of Fountain Creek hovering over the stillness, Jack remembered what Jonathan McCutchens had told him about this town last summer. He would never have come to this place without McCutchens’s recommendation. He owed that man a debt of gratitude, and he determined, at his first opportunity, to visit the banks of Fountain Creek and pay it.

Véronique sighed against him. Jack lightly brushed the top of her head, and then let his hand linger there. If anything had happened to this woman that day—any of the myriad of horrible things that had repeatedly come to mind as they’d traveled down the mountain—he wasn’t sure how he would’ve dealt with it.

She did not belong in mining camps. She attracted too much attention. She was naïve in ways that could easily get her—and him— into trouble. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t wise. He shouldn’t allow her to accompany him again. But he knew he would.

Because if he didn’t let her go with him, she was just stubborn enough to find someone else to take her. And Jack was certain that the average male in this territory wouldn’t have her best interests in mind. Far from it.

Staring at her without fear of being caught, he found his focus drawn to her mouth. Even in sleep, her lips hinted at a smile. How could lips that looked so soft, so delicate, fire back with such deadly accuracy? That thought made him smile. He allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to kiss those lips, often, and what they might taste like. But doing so only encouraged desires he knew were best left unstirred, for both their sakes.

He gently nudged her awake.

She moved beside him. “Are we home, Jack?” She stretched and opened her eyes. They suddenly widened, and her expression went shy. While busying herself with smoothing the edges of the miners’ jacket, she demurely put distance between them on the seat.

Her reaction didn’t surprise him. “Yes, we’re home . . . Vernie.”

He grinned when she sat up a bit straighter. Her brows arched in question. He’d had plenty of time to relive the scene from the ramshackle hut that afternoon and recalled how the stranger had addressed her.

She cocked her head to one side as though to say she remembered the name’s origin. “I prefer my given name, monsieur.”

Jack’s smile deepened as he assisted her from the wagon. “I’ll try and remember that, ma’am.”

She shrugged out of the jacket and handed it to him. “
Merci
for the
jaquette
,” she whispered, covering a yawn with her hand.

He opened the front door to the hotel and waited to see her safely inside, then set her satchel by the front desk. He heard Mr. Baird’s voice coming from the back office.

Pausing at the staircase, Véronique glanced back, her hand poised on the rail. “Try hard to remember . . . Jack.” She said his name with emphasis. “For I have never been partial to nicknames.” Sleep enwrapped her voice, but her tone was all seriousness.

Jack gave her a mock salute. “Which, as you well know, makes me want to use it all the more . . . Vernie.” He closed the door before she could respond.

CHAPTER | TWENTY - THREE

I
’M AFRAID THAT LAND
isn’t for sale, Mr. Brennan. At least not through the normal course of land trade.” Mr. Clayton rose from his desk chair and walked to the large-paned window overlooking a busy thoroughfare of Willow Springs.

Seated on the opposite side of the desk, Jack eyed him, both disappointed and confused. He’d had such hopes for this working out. “What does that mean, sir? The land is either for sale or it isn’t. That shouldn’t be difficult to determine.”

Clayton turned, smiling. “I would completely agree with you, under normal circumstances.” He struck a match and held it to the pipe clenched between his teeth. He puffed in and out on the stem until a steady rise of smoke issued from the bowl. “The portion of acreage you’re inquiring about is part of a larger holding of property in that area.”

“And does this larger holding of property have an owner?”

“Indeed it does, sir.”

“And is this owner open to selling any of his land?” There was other property for sale in the area, but none that Jack desired as much as this piece. He’d already checked out everything available. Nothing matched the quality and location of his chosen plot. In his mind, he’d already started constructing the two-story cabin and knew exactly where he’d situate it.

“That’s where the difficulty comes in, Mr. Brennan. The current owner purchased the land from an auction in—”

“In Denver. Yes, sir, I realize that. Miss Duncan shared that with me the other day.” Jack didn’t want to give the mistaken impression that this was news to him.

“Very good.” The leather chair creaked as Clayton eased his weight into it. “As is customary in auctions, the highest bidder is awarded the prize. And this auction was no different. The only part of the proceedings that was out of the norm was the desire of the purchaser to remain anonymous on public record.”

Jack looked at him more closely. “I thought public record was just that—public.”

“Yes, as did I. And indeed, the name of the buyer is listed in the county records should anyone have cause to go looking. Or should I more aptly say, it’s buried there, in case anyone goes looking.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

Clayton nodded, indicating there was more forthcoming. “When the auctions for that period were listed in the local paper, that specific buyer’s name happened to be excluded from the accounts. Apparently no one noticed, or cared enough to follow up.”

Jack sifted through the details, wondering why Clayton was telling him all this, when he happened upon a nugget of possibility. He looked squarely across the desk at the land and title officer. “Are you intimating that sections of this land are still available for sale . . . but that I cannot know, and will not know, the seller?”

“That is precisely what I’m telling you, Mr. Brennan. At least in part. . . .” Clayton steepled his hands beneath his chin. “There is one more factor involved. The owner won’t sell to just anyone. We’ve had many offers on that property in the past couple of years. Could have sold it all five times over by now.”

“So money’s obviously not a factor for this person.”

Clayton remained silent, his expression unrevealing.

“So what’s the owner waiting for?”

“The better question is who.
Who
is the owner waiting for? And I wish I could tell you that with accuracy. Personally, I haven’t figured it out yet. All I know is that this person likes to interview the potential buyer before agreeing to a contract.”

Jack laughed softly. “Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there. If my offer is within an acceptable range of the asking price.”

“Oh, your offer is within acceptable limits. That’s not an issue. The question that remains, Mr. Brennan, is . . . will
you
be acceptable to the owner?”

————

Véronique seated herself at a vacant table in the dining room, away from the other hotel guests and near the front window, where she could watch the goings-on outside as the evening hour approached. Evenings in this territory were her favorite time of day. Especially with May’s hasty approach and the days growing warmer. The cool nights issued a standing invitation to come and take the air.

But she wished Christophe were there to stroll with her. Or perhaps Jack Brennan.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle Girard, would you like to try the special for the evening?”

Véronique smiled up at Lilly, recalling the conversation with Doc Hadley. “
Oui
, Mademoiselle Carlson. I have heard a
rumeur
that the fried chicken is especially
délicieuse
tonight.”

“Oui
, mademoiselle.” Lilly dipped her head.
“Très délicieuse.”

Watching Lilly walk away, noticing the exaggerated limp, Véronique hoped the
chirurgien
in Boston wouldn’t delay in responding to the town’s doctor.

A family’s laughter coming from a table in the corner drew her attention. A
petite fille
, no more than four or five years old, sat atop a block of painted wood situated on a chair between the two adults. The father reached over and tweaked the little girl on her nose. She cupped her hands over her face amidst a fountain of giggles, trying to hide as her father reached for it again.

Véronique looked on. What would it be like to be loved like that by one’s
papa
? To be shown such earnest, playful adoration? She wished she’d asked her
maman
more questions about him before her passing. They’d had numerous discussions about Véronique’s father when she was young, but as the years passed, and they accepted their lot, the conversations about ‘him’ became fewer and more distanced with time.

Véronique angled her chair so the family was no longer in her direct line of vision.

The past week had kept her busy accompanying Jack on three shorter supply runs, and all without any of the challenges of their journey to the Peerless. These mining towns—Beaver Run, Spitfire, and Bonanza—were smaller communities, closer to Willow Springs, and nearer the foothills, so even the heights hadn’t proven too hard for her.

But one thing
had
proven difficult—no one had heard of her
papa
. It was as though he had never existed, at least not in this area.

She thought of her mother’s bundle of letters buried deep in a trunk in her hotel room two stories above. At the bidding of her
maman
, she’d read them aloud, one by one, in the weeks preceding her mother’s death. She remembered her attempt late one night to make one of the letters briefer by skipping parts, as she was exhausted and wanting for bed. But apparently her
maman
knew the missives by heart. “You have left out a part, Véronique. Please read more carefully,
ma chérie
.”

Perhaps reading the missives again might offer insight Véronique had overlooked before, while also fulfilling another last request of her
maman
.

“Pardonnez-moi
, mademoiselle. Might I join you for dinner?”

Véronique firmed her lips to quench the impulsive smile. “Though it saddens my heart to say it, monsieur, I must answer
non
. For I am waiting for a most important guest to join me. I must ask you to kindly dispose of yourself at another table,
merci
.”

Jack pulled the chair out beside hers and sat down, his large frame dwarfing the poor chair, and filling a portion of the emptiness she’d been feeling.

“I think I’ll just dispose of myself right here, seeing as you have room to spare, ma’am.” He gave an exaggerated sigh.

“How are you this evening, Jack? Did your supply run to Briar Rose go well?” She’d last seen him two days prior, before he left on the overnight trip.

“It did, thank you. A bit quieter than usual, but nice.”

She gave him a droll look, secretly wondering if he enjoyed the time without her. Or maybe, if he missed her company. She waited, knowing he would volunteer the information without her having to prompt him.

“I checked with the supply merchant, and I also stopped by the livery.” His expression sobered. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. No one had heard of him.”

The familiar news hit her strangely this evening, and Véronique had to look away. “Thank you, Jack . . . anyhow,” she whispered, using a new word she’d learned that week. One that wasn’t in her little book.

When Lilly brought her meal, she also brought one for Jack. And as the two of them ate, Véronique marveled at the ease with which they spoke and laughed together. It was as if she’d found another Christophe. Except that she’d never thought about Christophe Charvet the way she did about Jack Brennan.

She looked up and caught him staring.

He tucked his napkin beside his plate and stood. “Would you care to take the air with me tonight, Vernie?”

She cringed at the nickname, knowing that the more she opposed it the more he would insist on using it. The past week had proven that. “I would love to, monsieur.
Merci
.” He would forget in time. Or until she discovered something of equal irritation to use against him. She accepted the silent challenge with enthusiasm.

As they strolled the boardwalks, Véronique was surprised at how many people she recognized, and at how many greeted her by name.

“Want to check on the Percherons with me?”

She glanced up and saw the livery ahead in their path. “
Oui
, I would enjoy that. But does Monsieur Sampson not do this for you? You pay him to board the horses. I have seen commerce change hands between you,
non
?”