Remembered (7 page)

Jack nudged it forward. “Thank you, ma’am. And I certainly did.” His smile felt sheepish. “I gotta admit I was a bit surprised to discover they already had a daughter, but Matthew explained that Annabelle was with child when his brother passed on. I didn’t realize that on the trail.” Knowing that would have made his decision to leave Annabelle and her first husband, Jonathan, behind on the trail even more difficult. “Their Alice is a cute little thing, and not lacking for love, I can tell you.”

Hannah pursed her lips. “Oh, I’d love to see that precious child. Annabelle mentioned in her letter that Sadie was doing well. Did you get to see her too?”

“Briefly.” Jack blew across the surface of his coffee and took a sip. “Sadie was real quiet around me, but that’s understandable . . . after all the hardship she’s been through. They say she’s adjusting well.”

Jack gathered understanding from the couple’s subdued nods and was relieved he didn’t need to comment further.

The evening he’d visited in the Taylors’ home, Matthew and Annabelle had been open with him about their pasts, and about Sadie’s. So many emotions had accompanied his learning that Annabelle and Sadie had both been sold into prostitution as young girls—surprise, disgust, and anger had battled inside him—but he’d also never been more in awe of God’s ability to heal and to make new.

The scrape of Mrs. Carlson’s chair drew his attention. “I’m not sure if you know this, Mr. Brennan, but Annabelle lived with us for a while before she married. She and I got to be very close during that time.” Hannah pulled the corn bread from the oven. “You wouldn’t believe how much I still miss that woman. She was such a help to me.”

Jack caught Mrs. Carlson’s subtle wink at her husband as she set the skillet on a pad in the center of the table.

She covered the corn bread with a towel. “Annabelle used to volunteer to listen to my husband practice his sermons, and let me tell you . . .” Hannah gave an exaggerated sigh, and Jack turned in time to see a mischievous look creep over the pastor’s face. “It was so refreshing. There are days I’d pay a fortune to have that sweet woman back.” Giggling, she tried to scoot away but wasn’t fast enough.

Patrick caught her with one arm and pulled her close. “And you can imagine, Mr. Brennan, how refreshing it was for me to get insights from someone who actually reads her Bible!”

“Patrick!” Hannah swatted at her husband’s arm.

Jack laughed along with them, admiring the way they bantered back and forth, and appreciating the home they’d made together.

“The stew’s about ready,” Hannah said, still grinning. “I’ll call Bobby in and we’ll be set. Lilly mentioned something about having lunch with a new friend today. She said they might stop by later, but it’ll just be the four of us for lunch.”

Jack noticed how Patrick’s gaze followed Hannah as she left the room. Though it had been many years, he still remembered what that felt like—to be so captivated by one woman that she literally drew your attention, no matter where she was.

In some ways, Hannah Carlson reminded him of Mary. His wife had possessed the same gracious hospitality and playful humor, but Mrs. Carlson was more outgoing than Mary had been. Mary’s soft-spoken manner and her determined desire to put others before herself were the things that had first attracted him to her.

Pastor Carlson pushed back from the table and stretched out his legs. “So, Jack, now that you’re retired from guiding families west, what are your plans?”

Following the pastor’s lead, Jack leaned back and got more comfortable. “I’ll be running freight up to the mining camps around this area. I’ve already got an agreement with Mr. Hochstetler at the mercantile here in town. Met with him this morning, in fact. He has arrangements with most of the suppliers in the surrounding camps. I’m taking the place of his freighter, who was injured recently.”

“Injured?”

Jack nodded. “Apparently the guy tried to haul too heavy a load over a pass. The accident happened up around Maynor’s Gulch about a month ago. Wagon shifted to one side, wheel clipped the edge, and the whole thing went over. A ledge broke the driver’s fall on the way down, but he spent two nights stranded up there before somebody happened along and found him. His leg was busted up pretty bad. Hochstetler said the guy will be lucky to walk again, much less handle a rig.”

“Sounds like there’s quite a bit of risk involved. You sure you want to get into that line of work?”

Jack smiled, already having answered that question in his own mind. “I think that’s one of my main reasons for making this change. The risk in this new job is personal . . . no one else to be responsible for or to look after.” He paused. “I hope this doesn’t come across as self-centered, but . . . after what I’ve done all these years, I’m ready to look after only me for a while.”

Patrick seemed to weigh that response. “Being responsible for others is a heavy load to carry, and you’ve borne your share of that for . . . how many years now?”

“A little over thirteen.”

Patrick nodded. “It’s hard enough finding your own way in this world. But knowing others are depending on you, that they’re watching your every step, can be a burdensome thing. Even if it’s a job you’ve enjoyed and a road you’ve traveled many times.” Patrick took a slow sip of coffee. “So tell me, what was life like for you before you took to the trail?” His brow arched. “If you can remember back that far.”

Jack sat up a little straighter at the question. It had been a long time since he’d spoken to anyone about Mary and Aaron, but Pastor Carlson had a way about him that invited conversation. Jack hesitated, softening his voice. “I remember life back then pretty well, in fact.”

It took some doing, but he gradually told Carlson about Mary and Aaron, the accident, and his recent—and final—visit to their grave in Idaho. “I think traveling that road—many times, like you said—is how I eventually made my peace. God used all those years, and all those miles, to heal my grief.”

Carlson’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’m sorry for your loss, Jack. But in the same breath, I admire what you allowed God to do with it. You’ll never know how many people’s lives were changed because of that choice.”

Wrapping his hand around his empty cup, Jack silently acknowledged the pastor’s kindness with a nod. Then he shifted in his chair, ready for a lighter turn in the conversation.

“So when do you start this new job?”

“I’m supposed to head out Monday morning with my first load, but I’ve yet to pick up my wagon. I stopped by the livery last night, but I arrived later than I’d planned, and the place was already closed.”

“That’s because you were out raisin’ Cain with Bertram Colby.”

Jack didn’t even try to hide his surprise.

Pastor Carlson grinned. “Mr. Colby stopped by briefly this morning on his way out of town. He told us you’d arrived and—”

A door slammed at the back of the house and a young boy rounded the corner at breakneck speed.

“Whoa there, Bobby!” Patrick reached out and playfully grabbed his son by the scruff of the neck. Despite the boy’s squirming, the pastor easily managed to wrap an arm around his son’s chest and pull him close. Bobby giggled as his father tickled him and mussed his hair.

Jack watched the scene between father and son, and a distant thrumming started deep within him that he was helpless to stop. With determination it rose, and he looked away as the thought surfaced— Aaron would’ve been sixteen this year, had he lived.

In an instant, snatches of memories never made with his son flashed in quick succession, one after the other—teaching Aaron to fish, taking him on his first hunting trip, showing him how to tie knots, instructing him how to read the night sky so he’d know the next morning’s weather. The tightening in Jack’s throat grew uncomfortable, and he swallowed to lessen it. Being healed of a hurt didn’t mean you still wouldn’t mourn the loss from time to time— that was another lesson he’d picked up somewhere along the way.

Hearing the young boy’s laughter drew Jack’s focus back, and gradually persuaded a smile.

“Bobby, I want you to meet Mr. Brennan.” Patrick looked at Jack across the table. “And this is Bobby, our youngest. Bobby, Mr. Brennan here is a real live wagon-train master.”

The boy stilled from his antics. “No foolin’?”

“No foolin’,” Jack repeated, guessing Bobby to be around seven or eight.

“There you are!” Hannah appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips. “You ran off so fast I couldn’t keep up.”

As though not hearing, Bobby raced around to Jack’s side of the table. “Will you tell me some stories, Mr. Brennan? Did you ever kill anybody?”

Hannah lightly chucked her son beneath the chin as she passed. “You mustn’t pester Mr. Brennan, Bobby. He’s our guest.” She shot Jack a look of warning. “Bobby loves hearing stories about life on the trail. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not in the least, ma’am.” Jack rested his forearms on his knees so he was closer to eye level with the boy. “Besides, what’s the good in rescuing a newborn calf from the jaws of a mountain lion if you can’t tell someone about it?”

Bobby’s jaw went slack.

Patrick rose from the table. “Well, I can see that just about does it. Not only do you have to stay for lunch, Jack. Now you have to move in with us!”

CHAPTER | FOUR

V
ÉRONIQUE SEARCHED THE
street corner, then glanced again at the paper in her hand. Lilly Carlson’s directions to the livery—penned in block-style letters, strikingly uniform in shape and size—directed her down this particular street. But the street bore no marker declaring its name. Granted, Willow Springs wasn’t a large community, but how were newcomers expected to find their way without street markings?

After saying good-bye to Monsieur Colby, she’d located the bank with little difficulty and discovered, to her relief, that Lord Marchand had already made a sizable deposit to an account registered in her name. Ample funds were available to hire a carriage and driver, and to keep her driver employed, at least until the next deposit arrived.

Véronique looked up again and huffed at the lack of proper signs. She committed Lilly’s note to memory, and then tucked it inside her
réticule
. Did the people in this town
déconcertant
not believe in displaying placards to mark their thoroughfares?

Parasol poised in one hand, she tugged at her high-necked lace collar with the other. She would’ve sworn the sun’s rays burned stronger here. Already an April sun shone brightly overhead, chasing away the morning’s chill. Ignoring the open stares of townspeople, she summoned a confident stride and set off down the street.

She passed the mercantile, where doors stood propped open by barrels of potatoes and onions. Minutes later, she passed a men’s clothier, which she made mental note of for later—
Hudson’s Haberdashery
. Perhaps the gentleman inside behind the counter possessed the skills necessary to rescue her green ensemble now hanging sadly in the wardrobe back at the hotel.

A low whistle attracted her attention before she caught herself and faced forward again. A group of young men—schoolboys from the looks of them—gathered on the boardwalk outside the barbershop. Their comments were indistinct, but their laughter carried over the rumble of wagons trafficking the street.

Farther down the planked walkway, she slowed her pace and stepped closer to the front window of a shop.

Dresses hung from a wooden dowel, with obvious care having been given to their arrangement. What drew her attention first were the colors, or lack thereof. The materials all consisted of drab browns and dull grays. They looked similar to what the scullery maids at the Marchands’ home might have worn, only not nearly as nice. Hoping this wasn’t the only dress shop in town, Véronique couldn’t ignore the disturbing suspicion that it was.

The livery sat adjacent on the corner ahead, just as Lilly had described. Véronique crossed the street, careful to maneuver a path around the deposits that horses, oxen, and other animals had left in their passing. Didn’t this town have people who were responsible for the removal of such . . . occurrences? The bright royal blue of her gown was already covered with road dust; it wouldn’t do to be dragged through a pile of—

Her boot sank into something soft.

She took a quick step back, then grimaced and exhaled through her teeth. Not only was her boot covered with it, the hem of her gown was caked in the filthy waste.

She glanced around for a patch of weeds or grass in which to scrape her heeled boots, but apparently God had banished all manner of growth from this accursed scrap of earth. Trusting no one around her spoke French, she continued down the street, taking immense pleasure in expressing her opinion of this town, this territory, indeed this entire country and its inhabitants, beneath her breath.

She paused outside the open doors of the livery. Having never entered this type of establishment before and uncertain of the protocol, she chose to listen for a moment. Lilly had described the proprietor, and Véronique easily distinguished Monsieur Jake Sampson from among his customers. Now to decide what her best approach with him might be.

Men came and went, each giving her a thorough perusal as they passed. Without exception they all tipped their hats and greeted her cordially, but being the only woman in sight, Véronique wished now that she’d asked Lilly to accompany her.

Bits and pieces of Jake Sampson’s conversation with his customers floated toward her, and she soon relinquished any doubt that he was the right man to whom she should inquire about locating a driver and carriage. This man appeared to know everything about everyone in Willow Springs.

Waiting until the last customer exited, she took a deep breath and knew the moment had come.

Monsieur Sampson stood by a stone furnace a few feet away, his back to her. He pumped a lever protruding from the side—five, six times—until flames shot up through the throat of the stone structure.

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur Sampson.” She raised her voice to be heard over the crackle of the fire.

“Be with you in just a second,” he answered, still bent over his task. “Been a busy mornin’ and I’ve had nary a minute to even—” He saw her and fell silent.