Remembered (35 page)

A conversation he’d had with his father returned to him. It had been years after the incident, when his father had confessed to him how frightened he’d been to learn that his son had fallen down that hole. But to Jack’s young ears, when his father had called down to him that day, his father’s voice hadn’t sounded frightened at all. It had sounded of courage, and bravery, and certainty.

The claps stopped. “Jack?”

The echo of his name faded. “Yes, Véronique?”

Time hung like a stilled pendulum. “Are you scared?”

Jack stopped in his tracks, heart knocking against his ribs, barely able to breathe. And he laughed. He couldn’t help it. Scared as he was, his hands shaking as he held his arms out in front of him, he laughed. “A bit . . . are you?”

“Not since I . . . can hear your voice.”

Her voice was close. She was within a few feet of him now, and the smell was overwhelming. He untied his handkerchief, since it was of little worth, and shoved it into his pocket.

She started humming. It wasn’t a tune Jack recognized, but it was beautiful. The hum didn’t echo as much as their voices had, and the way the cave turned the music back upon itself was . . . comforting.

Jack’s hand came into contact with something that was most definitely Véronique Girard. The humming stopped. Her hands touched his chest, then fisted his shirt. Her arms came around him.

Jack held her tight, telling himself it was more for her benefit than his. But he had a feeling they both knew better. Fuzziness crowded his head, and he knew he needed to get out. “Ready?” he whispered. He slid his hand down her arm and laced his fingers through hers.

“
Oui
, but can I do something first?”

About to say no, Jack heard her intake of breath.

“Véronique,” she called out. When the echo had ceased, she called her name again, then spoke something in French that he didn’t understand. But the language foreign to him floated back toward them just the same.

When the last echo had faded, she squeezed his hand. “
Merci
. I am ready now.”

“What were you doing?”

She laughed softly. “Hearing my mother’s voice.” She sniffed. “I am sorry about the smell, Jack.”

“Not a problem.” He started to move, then suddenly didn’t know which way to turn. Yet he knew enough to know not to move without being certain. “Véronique?”

Her hand tightened around his. “I am here.”

Shame poured through him. He’d led hundreds of families across this country, yet he couldn’t find his way out of this cave.

He felt the tug of her hand. She moved past him, and he didn’t need a source of light to know which part of her body had accidentally brushed against him.

He followed, careful not to step on her heels but close enough to where there was no chance of her losing him. When the light at the mouth of the cave appeared, Jack’s breath left him in a rush. Emotion tightened his chest as he recalled the feel of his father’s arm around his boyish shoulders as they walked out of the abandoned mine together.

But what had haunted him for the past thirty-one years, and what he would remember forever, was the sight of Billy Blakely’s father kneeling on the snow-covered ground, weeping.

CHAPTER | TWENTY - NINE

J
ACK HELD HER HAND
as they trekked down the slope to the wagon. Véronique stared at his back as he led the way, so proud of him, so thankful he’d come for her. Yet she wondered what lay beneath the tears he’d quickly wiped away when they’d stepped from the cave moments ago. Whatever their cause, she had felt needed inside that dark cavern. And that was something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

They reached the wagon and she loosened her grip first. Jack let go of her hand. She blinked, still adjusting to the sun’s brightness, but even more, trying to rid her eyes of the foul musk. Her throat was raw from coughing, and she was certain her eyes were swollen from the rubbing.

Yet what she’d experienced in that cave had felt like a gift.

For so long she’d wanted to hear her mother’s voice again. Just one more time. And she had, in the most unexpected place. But she still wished she’d been the one to shoot that confounded skunk. Which reminded her . . .

“Jack, I would appreciate learning how to shoot your gun.”

He set down the crate of supplies he’d retrieved from the wagon. “Right now?” He handed her the canteen.

She drank liberally and handed it back, matching his smile. “Not at this precise moment, but soon. Will you teach me?”

“It’d be my pleasure, ma’am.”

She looked down at her clothes, then down at the creek. “I do not think I can ride all day like this.”

He shook his head. “No need for you to. I’ve still got to unload everything and fix the wheel. You’ll have plenty of time to bathe . . . if you’d like.”

She nodded, and glanced again at the creek. He seemed to follow her gaze as it followed the shoreline for a good distance in either direction, the view of the creek unobstructed and unhindered—and completely lacking in privacy. She met his stare and a slow grin tipped one side of his mouth. The
racaille
. . . Surely he could read her thoughts, as easily as she read his.

“I’ll create a shelter for you with this.” He grabbed a blanket from beneath the bench seat. “That way you’ll have privacy from the roadside. But if any squirrels or prairie dogs sneak up from the opposite bank, I can’t be held responsible.”

“
Merci
, Jack. I appreciate this.” She reached for her satchel, then hesitated, realizing what she’d done. Or rather, hadn’t done.

“What’s wrong?”

On previous trips she’d at least brought along extra undergarments. The one day she’d decided to try and pack lighter . . . “I do not have a change of clothes.”

He considered this. “Then I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice.” He grabbed the crowbar, pried open two of the crates in the back, and pulled out a miners’ shirt, followed by a pair of dungarees.

She took a backward step. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am, unless you want to stay wrapped in this all day.” He held the blanket up in his other hand.

She grabbed the shirt and dungarees, making a silent vow never to travel anywhere again without a full change of clothes. And she was removing “packing light” from her vocabulary. “I have soap in my
valise
. And perfume.”

Jack set her bag on the ground and opened it for her. Then wrinkled his nose when she got closer, and winked. “I hope you have lots of both.”

Véronique stepped behind the makeshift shelter and wished there wasn’t such a steady breeze blowing down through the canyon. Not only for the comfort of bathing—she’d already checked, and the water was icy cold from the melting snows—but for the dependability of her shelter. She feared one healthy breeze would lay waste her bathing screen, along with her last shred of decency.

She unbuttoned her shirtwaist and laid it aside. Then shed her skirt. The breeze whipped the blanket, and she was afraid she was ruined. But Jack’s stakes and ties held, and she continued disrobing, watching the opposite bank of the creek for any sign of movement.

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.