Remembered (36 page)

After what seemed like enough time to construct another Arc de Triomphe, Madame Hochstetler straightened. She turned the order form around and shoved it in Véronique’s direction. “Sign at the bottom.”

Véronique lingered over the document, confirming that everything was correct before signing, and making sure Madame Hochstetler knew who the servant was in this situation. “Please see that my order is executed promptly, madame. I would like the paints delivered as soon as possible.”

The woman offered a tight smile. “Takes three weeks minimum for the order to be processed in New York and shipped by train to Denver. Then another week, maybe more, for our normal freighter to get them here, depending on his schedule. If you want to pay extra for the stage, that’ll save you a few days, but will cost you an extra two dollars. I don’t think that’s worth—”

“I will pay most happily. It is important for me to get them here swiftly.” Véronique retrieved a bank draft from her
réticule
. As Madame Hochstetler tallied the order, Véronique followed along to make sure she added properly.

“Here’s your receipt for what you paid today . . . Miss Girard.” Madame Hochstetler peered over her spectacles. “The other half is due when the shipment comes in.” The woman stuck the pencil back into the mass of gray curls framing her round face and stared at the bank draft. “Just so we’re clear . . . This is a special order, so you can’t return the items unless there’s something wrong with them.”

“
Oui
, you have already stated this to me.”

“We always make sure folks new to town understand because they tend to think they can just decide later whether—”

“I understand what you have explained to me, Madame Hochstetler. I would appreciate prompt notification at the hotel the moment my order arrives.” Véronique gave the slightest curtsy demanded by etiquette and then hurried from the mercantile.

Her boots pounded the boardwalk as she cut a path to the dress shop. She clutched the numerous packages and cloth sacks, finding them growing heavier by the minute. She couldn’t pinpoint why, but from the moment she’d met Madame Hochstetler, the woman had worn a ridge in her nerves. What was the word Lilly had used the other day to describe a demanding hotel guest . . . ?

Véronique could visualize the definition in her mind—
difficult or irritating to deal with
. The word was odd sounding in itself, and actually resembled its meaning. What was it . . . ?

Cantankerous!
That was it!

As Véronique crossed the street, she worked to form sentences in her mind using the word. The customary practice helped newly learned words take firmer root and—at least for today—it also gave vent to her frustration.

Madame Hochstetler is one of the most
cantankerous
women I have ever met.

Madame Hochstetler’s behavior ranks among the most
cantankerous
I have ever experienced
.

Cantankerous
best describes the wife of poor, unfortunate Monsieur Hochstetler
.

Véronique’s hand was on the latch of the dress-shop door when it occurred to her that the face foremost in her mind at the moment wasn’t Madame Hochstetler’s at all—it was Madame Marchand’s.

The realization was jarring. And it made her wish she’d been a bit more lenient with Madame Hochstetler.

It had been months since she’d experienced even a fleeting thought of Madame Marchand, yet Véronique could easily see the similarities between the two women. Part of leaving Paris had meant leaving Madame Marchand behind, and Véronique had not wasted a single moment lamenting the woman’s absence. How could such a vindictive woman have been mother to a man as generous and kind as Lord Marchand? It was not a logical progression from matriarch to son.

The latch suddenly moved in her hand. The door opened from the inside.

“Véronique!” Surprise lit Jack’s expression. “What are you doing here?”

Stunned, Véronique checked the shingle over the door to make sure she was in the right place. “Jack, you have returned!”

“Yes, ma’am. Just got back into town a little while ago. I stopped by the hotel, but you weren’t there.”

Véronique held up a bag. “I’m enlisting Madame Dunston to alter a dress I purchased.” She smiled at the odd look on his face, and decided not to tell him she was also there to commission Madame Dunston to sew her several new dresses—ones better suited for their travels. Homespun, but made with more flattering colors and, hopefully, a Parisian flair of her own influence. “What are
you
doing here, Jack?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “I was . . . making a delivery.”

She looked past him to where Madame Dunston was busy wrapping something behind the counter. “I did not know you delivered items for Madame Dunston.”

He shrugged. “I’m a freighter. I deliver goods to the people who need them. And speaking of—I’ve got some business to attend to.”

After glancing over his shoulder, he opened the door wide. He bowed at the waist and made a sweeping motion with his arm. “I grant you entrance, mademoiselle.”

Smiling at his antics, she stepped inside, wishing he wouldn’t leave so soon. She suddenly pictured him dressed in a formal tailcoat and trousers, complete with a silk
cravate
, and quickly decided she much preferred his white button-up shirt, worn leather vest, and dungarees. His clothes suited the untamed masculine quality she’d come to appreciate about him.

He moved past her. “Are you ready for another trip?”

“I am more than ready. I am bored silly in this town. When do we leave?” Something flashed across his face. An emotion she couldn’t identify but was quite sure she didn’t like.

“You’re . . .
bored
?”

“
Oui
. You have been away and Lilly has been occupied. There is little else for me to do, other than to shop.” She gave the street outside a cursory glance. “And there is only so much shopping one can do in a place like this.”

He glanced at the stringed boxes and cloth sacks filling her hands. “But it looks like you’ve given it a brave effort.”

“It took some time, but I located the items I needed—and two specific items that I believe Lilly will enjoy.” She smiled, imagining Lilly’s reaction at seeing them. “Things every young girl should have.”

“Depending on what those things are, you might consider asking permission of her parents before you give them to her.”

Véronique scoffed. “Nonsense. She will enjoy them, and I am content in the belief that her parents will be pleased.”

With his current mood, she decided not to tell him about her order at the mercantile. It was an expensive purchase, to be certain, but necessary. In the past week, she’d discovered that all of her paints had dried or turned grainy in the combined months of travel. She had yet to draw anything of worth recently but trusted that holding a palette full of colors in one hand and a fresh brush in the other would be inspiring. Not to mention the canvases she’d ordered as well.

Jack glanced down, then back at her. “Véronique . . . have you given any consideration to looking for employment here in Willow Springs?”

He said it so quietly, so matter-of-factly, and with such affection, that Véronique couldn’t take offense. But she sorely wanted to. “For what purpose would I seek a position of employment, Jack? My financial requirements are met, and my first responsibility is to search for my father.” She shifted the packages in her hand and added, “When you’ll allow me to accompany you.”

His expression drained of warmth. “I just made an observation and thought I would offer a suggestion.”

“Exactly what observation have you made?”

Jack glanced over her shoulder, and she turned to see Mrs. Dunston having stilled from her task.

The woman’s gaze darted between the two of them. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” She walked into the back room.

“My observation is simply that . . .” Jack lowered his voice. “Perhaps you would find greater contentment in giving of yourself instead of” —he glanced at the packages again, not offering to take any of them from her—“attempting to fill your time with other things.”

His closely targeted observation stung, and her defenses rose. “I am still in the process of becoming acquainted with Willow Springs. Once I am settled, I will seek out opportunities as time—” She couldn’t continue. The sincerity in his eyes, and the loneliness inside her, wouldn’t permit it.

“This is just an idea, Véronique, but I’ve been out to Casaroja several times in recent weeks, and I’ve spoken with Miss Maudie on occasion. I think the two of you would be very good for each other. I haven’t presumed to speak with her about any sort of arrangement like this, but I know she’d enjoy your company.” Jack lightly touched her right cheek, reminding Véronique of the nearly healed scratch she’d received days ago, running through the trees from that rabid skunk. “Will you at least consider the idea?”

She finally nodded, remembering how much she had enjoyed Miss Maudie’s company. “Yes, Jack, I will.” She managed a brief smile. “You asked if I was ready for another trip. Do you have another planned?”

“Day after tomorrow. We’ll leave at—”

“Dawn.
Oui
, of the departure time I am always certain.”

She watched through the front window of the dress shop as he crossed the street and rounded the corner. Then it occurred to her that she hadn’t asked about his trips of the past week, and neither had he volunteered any information. Which meant he hadn’t discovered anything new about her father.

Again the recurring thought—perhaps finding Pierre Girard was not part of God’s master plan. But if that proved to be true, then why had God brought her to this place.

CHAPTER | THIRTY

J
ACK TOOK ACCOUNT
of the stack of bills in Véronique’s hand, hesitant to accept the money. She’d been at him to take it ever since she’d arrived at the livery that morning. “Why don’t you keep it for now, Vernie, and we’ll settle up later.”

In the dim light of dawn, he ignored the familiar challenge in her stance and adjusted the harness straps on Charlemagne and Napoleon. He shook his head at the names she’d insisted on giving his horses. But oddly, the names fit.

Hearing a snicker, Jack spotted Jake Sampson sitting just outside the open livery doors, well within earshot. A telling grin curved Sampson’s mouth as he wriggled his bushy brows.

Jack pretended he hadn’t seen.

Véronique nudged the money forward again. “This is as we agreed,
non
? You have earned this money for services rendered.”

That only encouraged Jack’s hesitance. He walked to the wagon bed and double-checked the tie-downs. “Véronique, I don’t—”

“It is yours, Jack. You have earned it. Please take it from me now.”

He recognized the resoluteness in her tone and knew she wouldn’t let it drop. What he didn’t know was where this woman got her continual supply of money. He’d watched her pay Sampson cash for the wagon a while back—a sum that had taken him months to earn. And save the trips they’d made together last week, so far she’d paid him seven dollars for every trip they’d made—
services rendered
, as she’d phrased it. He hoped no one else had heard that comment. Didn’t sound too respectable.

Then there were all the packages she’d had with her at the dress shop. But what topped it off was overhearing Mrs. Hochstetler rave to her husband that same afternoon about how “that snooty little Frenchwoman” had waltzed in and placed an order equal to nearly two weeks’ worth of profit for the store, and then how Miss Girard had “demanded” it be shipped via stage for the fastest delivery. He didn’t know what the order was for and didn’t consider it his business. He only hoped Véronique knew what she was doing in her spending.

But the real truth was . . . he felt guilty about taking her money. He’d brought her no closer to finding her father than when they’d first started out, and Jack had a feeling little was going to change in that regard.

And yet
much
was changing in regard to his feelings for her— which also stiffened his resistance to taking the stack of bills in her hand.

Véronique huffed a breath. “You leave me no choice.” Using the spoke of a wheel for leverage, she situated a dainty boot and hoisted herself up. “I will leave the money here, on the seat, for you. You may do with it . . . as you wish.”

If that were truly the case, he’d stuff those bills right back inside that fancy little drawstring bag of hers.

She climbed back down and brushed off her skirt and shirtwaist, a routine he’d come to expect from her, whether her clothes needed it or not. And looking at her clothes, Mrs. Dunston had apparently gotten her hands on them again because they accentuated every inviting curve Véronique Girard had been blessed with.

Jack gave an already taut rope another firm tug, wishing—right now, anyway—that Véronique hadn’t been quite so blessed.

“Ah! I forgot something!”

He turned to see her wide-eyed expression. In answer, he merely looked up at the sun cresting the eastern horizon. She was well aware they had two deliveries to make. Granted, the towns didn’t look far apart on the map, but he didn’t know how long it would take with the twisting mountain trails.

She held up a hand. “I will hurry,
non
? I give you my word.”

Watching her race back down the street in the direction of the hotel, Jack couldn’t hold back a grin. She hadn’t even waited for his response. The little scamp knew he wouldn’t leave without her.

Véronique topped the third-floor landing of the hotel, winded from the brisk walk back but not daring to run for fear of someone seeing her—even so early in the morning. Yet she knew Jack would be counting the minutes, and though she felt with relative certainty he would wait for her, she wouldn’t have bet her life on it.

When she neared her room at the end of the hallway, her steps slowed.

The door to her room stood open.

She peered around the corner and saw Lilly standing just inside, perfectly still. The girl’s arms were laden with soiled linens and she appeared to be staring at something on the far wall.