Remembered (17 page)

“He made a conscious decision to allow God to turn all that hurt into something good. Certain talents, perhaps nonexistent before the trial, or maybe waiting to be unearthed by it, now command respect from a huge number of people. This person has impacted no telling how many lives through the years. I so admire how he made a deliberate choice to let God turn his losses into gain. First for others, and ultimately for him in the long run.”

Véronique found herself caught off guard when Pastor Carlson asked the assembly to stand and sing. Sermons back home went on for at least an hour—most times twice that. Yet this one seemed hardly begun. She didn’t know the words to the song, or the tune itself, so she listened, mulling over what she heard.

She couldn’t help but wonder who it was sitting somewhere behind her who had endured such trials and had come through it with such strength and luster. She would like to know such a person.

————

Jack slowed the mare from its canter and reined in at the top of the ridge, unprepared for the scene spread before him. He’d followed the main road leading out of Willow Springs for a good half hour, and had begun to think he’d passed the turnoff to Casaroja, the ranch where he was buying his hitching team. Hochstetler had said he couldn’t miss the place—and the man had been right.

Taking in the view, Jack briefly wondered why Jake Sampson hadn’t directed him here to look for a wagon. Then he thought better of it. Jake Sampson had had an agenda, after all. Turns out, Sampson
could
be right persuasive when he set his mind to it.

Situated on a gently rising bluff, Casaroja’s two-story red-brick residence was as grand as any Jack had ever seen. Massive white columns, glistening in the afternoon sun, supported a second-story porch that ran the length of the front of the house.

Cattle dotted the field to the north, and at a quick glance Jack estimated the herd to be at least three thousand head. Mares grazed at leisure in the field to the south, with a few foals bounding about, still testing their wobbly legs.

Jack nudged his mount down the fence-lined path leading to the main house. Ranch hands working in the fields acknowledged him as he passed, and he couldn’t help but wonder what manner of gentleman had amassed this estate.
Imagine all the good a man could accomplish with this as his resource
.

He counted four structures with corrals off to the side and guided his mount to the one closest to the two-story house. The stable’s construction and freshly painted wood lent it a considerably newer appearance than the others.

He dismounted and looped the reins around a post.

“Jack Brennan?”

Jack looked up to see a man approaching. “That’s me . . . and you’re Stewartson?”

The man extended his hand. “Yes, sir—Thomas Stewartson. Welcome to Casaroja. Glad you found your way out here.”

Jack appreciated the man’s firm grip. Taking in his surroundings, he blew out an exaggerated breath. “You’ve got yourself a nice little setup out here.”

Stewartson chuckled, trailing Jack’s gaze. “Yes, sir, we do. I’ve had the privilege of working here since the ranch started back in ’60. You won’t find any finer horseflesh in the territory.”

Jack nodded toward the north fields. “And looks like your herd isn’t too shabby either.”

Quiet pride shone in the man’s expression. “Miss Maudelaine Mahoney won’t accept anything less than the best. From her employees or her animals.”

Jack hesitated, thinking he’d misunderstood, but Stewartson’s revealing grin said he hadn’t. “You’re telling me a . . . woman built all this?”

Stewartson indicated the main house. “Miss Mahoney runs Casaroja now. Has for the past three years. But everybody around here calls her Miss Maudie. It was her nephew, Donlyn MacGregor, who actually started the place. He’s . . . not with us anymore.”

Regret shadowed Stewartson’s eyes, and Jack paused for a second, aware of the hesitancy in the man’s tone and thinking he was going to say something more. “Well,” Jack finally said, “Miss Mahoney is doing a fine job—with a little help from you, I’m sure.”

“And many others, I assure you.” Stewartson gestured toward the barn closest to them. “I’ve picked out two of our finest horses for you, Brennan. Percherons. We had eight of them delivered this past week, as a matter of fact. First of their breed to come to Casaroja, and to this part of the country. Finest workhorses I’ve ever seen. Originally from France, they tell me.”

“From France, you say.” The humor of this coincidence wasn’t lost on Jack.
Won’t Mademoiselle Girard love this. . . .

Stewartson nodded. “Smart animals too—amenable, good tempered. And energetic to boot. The pair is well matched in height and size for pulling.”

“I’m eager to see them. But first . . .” Jack had to ask the question, regardless of having already agreed to work for Mademoiselle Girard. “You don’t happen to have any freight wagons available, do you?”

“We’ve got lots of freight wagons. But if by available you mean for sale, then I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” Stewartson frowned. “I was under the impression you already had a wagon, Brennan.”

Jack smiled to himself. “I do. I was just checking.”

Stewartson motioned for him to follow. “I’ll show you these first, and then I’d encourage you to ride out and look at the rest of the herd too, if you’re—”

“Thomas!”

Stewartson turned in the direction of the shrill voice, and Jack followed suit.

A woman rushed down the back stairs of the main house and ran toward them, the screen door slamming behind her. “Thomas, it’s Miss Maudie. She’s taken a fall!”

Stewartson immediately started for the house. “Brennan,” he called back over his shoulder, “you go on ahead and—”

“If I can be of help, I’m willing.”

At the man’s nod, Jack shadowed his steps.

They climbed the back stairs and entered the house through the kitchen. The young woman gave Jack a brief nod, and then clutched at Stewartson’s arm. “I found her at the base of the staircase, Thomas. I don’t know how far she fell, but she says it hurts her to move.” The woman cut a path around a large rectangular table and down an unusually wide hallway. “She tried to get up, stubborn woman, but I told her to stay put until I got you.”

Jack followed after them, noticing the fine furniture perfectly arranged beneath painted canvases of distinguished-looking men and women.

“I’ve told her not to take the stairs alone, what with the dizzy spells she’s had recently.”

“It’s all right, honey, we’ll see to her. She’s ’bout as tough as they come. Mr. Brennan—” Stewartson glanced behind him—“this is my wife, Claire. She manages the kitchen here at Casaroja.”

Remembering his hat, Jack slipped it off. “Ma’am.”

Claire looked back at him, tears filling her eyes. She offered a weak smile.

Jack rounded the corner behind the couple and spotted the elderly woman slumped at the base of the stairs. Her eyes were closed. His gaze quickly ascended the lofty staircase, and he prayed Claire Stewartson was right in her hope that the woman hadn’t fallen all the way down.

Claire knelt and arranged the woman’s skirt over her lower legs. But not before Jack spotted the slight protrusion in Miss Maudie’s right shin, just beneath the skin.

“Miss Maudie, Thomas is here.” Claire tenderly brushed a shock of white hair from the older woman’s forehead. “We’re going to take care of you, so don’t you fret.”

Beads of perspiration glistened on the woman’s brow. Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again. “Oh . . . I’m not frettin’, dear. But I am—” she winced and drew in a quick breath—“hurtin’ just a wee bit. If the room would cease its spinnin’, I’d be the better for it.”

“Where exactly does it hurt?” Claire asked.

“At this very moment . . . I’d have to say everywhere.” Miss Maudie sighed, a shallow smile momentarily eclipsing her frown.

Jack kept his distance, not wanting to frighten the woman with a stranger’s presence. Though, despite her frail appearance and delicate Irish lilt, he sensed that Miss Maudelaine Mahoney was not a woman easily alarmed—by anything.

Already kneeling over her, Stewartson leaned close to her face. “Miss Maudie, I need to check for broken bones, ma’am.” Though he voiced it like a statement, the echo of a silent question lingered in his tone.

“That’ll be fine by me, Thomas. As long as that pretty wife of yours won’t be gettin’ jealous over it.”

With a subdued laugh, Claire pressed the older woman’s hand between hers. “I’ve always known you had an eye for my husband, Miss Maudie.”

Miss Maudie’s gaze briefly connected with the younger woman’s, and a look of endearment passed between them. Then Miss Maudie’s focus shifted. She squinted as though not seeing clearly. “Who’s that there?”

Stewartson motioned Jack forward. “This is Jack Brennan.” He started a slow examination of the woman’s arms and shoulders. “The gentleman who’s buying the Percherons.”

Miss Maudie lifted her head slightly. “Ah . . . the wagon master turned freighter.”

Jack moved into her line of vision, smiling at how she’d summarized his career so succinctly—reminded him of someone else who’d done that in recent days. . . . “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m sorry about your accident.”

She eased her head back onto the plush rug. “I am too, Mr. Brennan. That’s a fine surname you bear. Would you be knowin’ what area your people were from?”

“They hailed from Kilkenny, ma’am,” he answered, slipping easily into the thick Irish brogue of his grandparents. “Me great-grandfather came over in 1789. Brought with him his beautiful bride and their three wee bairns. Triplets they were.” He winked. “And holy terrors, the lot of them, if family tales hold true.”

A smile bloomed across Miss Maudie’s face. She chuckled. “What a blessin’ to hear a bit of my homeland in the deep timbre of a man’s voice. Where are your people livin’ now?”

“My brothers and sisters live in Missouri, ma’am. The rest of the family is scattered back East.”

“And your folks?”

Jack’s smile grew more subdued. “I laid my folks to rest about ten years ago—God rest their souls.”

Miss Maudie repeated the blessing in a whisper. “I remember passin’ through Kilkenny when I was but a young lass.” She raised her head again. “There was a—”

Stewartson held up a hand. “Okay, enough talking for now.” Concern softened his expression. “I need you to lie still, ma’am, and save your breath. Doc Hadley’s going to want an explanation once he finds out you’ve been climbing those stairs alone.”

Miss Maudie frowned, but Jack caught her subtle wink seconds later and shook his head. Despite her present condition, he didn’t have any trouble imagining this woman in charge of Casaroja, and would’ve welcomed her on any one of his caravans through the years.

As Stewartson started to gently run a hand over Miss Maudie’s left leg, Jack knelt and pointed discreetly to her right shin, wanting to spare her the additional pain of having the injury touched.

With a quiet apology, Stewartson eased the woman’s skirt to midcalf to reveal the protrusion. He gently touched her right foot. “Miss Maudie, looks like you’ve got a break on this side, ma’am. Right near the middle of your shin.”

“Well, that explains it.” She sighed. “I heard somethin’ like the crack of a whip when I went down. Flames shot up my leg good and hot.”

Claire rose, looking at her husband. “I’ll send for Doc Hadley.”

“Oh, I wish we didn’t have to be doin’ that.” As Claire left the room, a frown shadowed the elderly woman’s pale complexion. “He’ll use the opportunity to give me yet another tongue-lashin’ about how I’m no longer a young lass.”

Jack admired the woman’s spunk. “It’s not a clean break, ma’am, but I’ve seen this before. Hopefully it won’t take too long to heal.”

She smiled up at him. “And should we be addin’ doctorin’ to that list of your professions, Mr. Brennan?”

He briefly ducked his head, turning his hat in his hands. “Not hardly, ma’am. But when you’re out in the middle of nowhere, sometimes doctors are scarce. I’ve managed to learn a few things along the way.”

Her gaze held discernment. “I’m thinkin’ you’d be a good man to have around, Mr. Brennan. You wouldn’t be interested in settlin’ down and workin’ on a little ranch I know of, would you, now?”

“I appreciate the offer, Miss Mahoney. Looking at the setup you’ve got here, it’s mighty tempting. But I’ve obligations to fulfill. And to be honest, I’m getting a mite restless for the trail again, and to see those mountains of yours up close.”

He imagined accompanying Mademoiselle Véronique Girard through those mountains to the various mining towns—most of which were still uncharted territory for him—and while the image of her sitting beside him on the wagon seat wasn’t altogether unpleasant, he couldn’t help but wish she possessed a bit more of Miss Maudie’s spunk, and a little less
fancy
. He had his doubts about how well she’d fare under such primitive conditions. Then again, she’d proven him wrong before, so it wouldn’t be the first time.

He’d seen her at church earlier that morning, sitting between Hannah Carlson and the young girl he’d seen at the mercantile. Who turned out to be the Carlsons’ daughter, Lilly. She was a younger version of her mother, and he wondered how he’d missed their physical resemblance the day before in the mercantile. Of course, his mind had been on other things that particular afternoon.

When Pastor Carlson secretly singled him out during the sermon, and said those kind things about him, the certainty of God’s presence in Jack’s life had moved over him to a degree he’d not remembered before. Or perhaps he’d just never experienced such a strong emotional reaction to the knowledge. Whichever, it had been both an uncomfortable experience for him and one that he welcomed to happen again.

As Jack helped Stewartson move Miss Maudie to the bedroom located around the corner, the reality of being responsible for someone else again began to weigh on him. The burden he’d carried in moving families west for thirteen years was one he’d gratefully laid aside last fall with his final trip to Oregon. Now it rested squarely on his shoulders again, and none too lightly this time. Especially when considering how disappointing Véronique Girard’s search for her father could be. What if she never found the man? Or what if she found him and the man she discovered wasn’t the father she expected?