Remembered (15 page)

C.O. Bigelow Apothecaries of New York
.

On a whim, he laid his hat on the counter and unscrewed the lid. He took a whiff, and his reaction surprised him. The scent painted a picture so vivid in his mind he doubted an artist could have done better. Prairie grasses, young and tender, bowing in the breeze beneath a simmering summer sun. He closed his eyes and he was there again, on the prairie—with land spanning out in all directions as far as he could see, wagon canvases gleaming so white in the early morning sun that it hurt his eyes to look overlong. And the excited chatter of families drifting over the plains as they pushed west to homes waiting to be built and dreams waiting to be discovered. A pang tightened his chest, knowing those days were past for him.

He opened his eyes and took a quick look around, making sure no one was watching him. Then he peered into the jar, feeling more than a little foolish that a silly concoction could evoke such emotion. He read the ingredients.
Lemon oil and extracts
—

“Are you planning on purchasing that?”

His head came up.

Mrs. Hochstetler had returned, and based on her scowl, her mood had further deteriorated—if that were possible.

He screwed the lid back into place, the tangy scent of the lotion lingering, like the power of the memory. He didn’t need this. There was no good reason for him to buy it. “Yes, ma’am, I believe I will.”

Though the woman’s smile was an improvement, it wasn’t enough to overcome the harshness of her features. “That just arrived from New York City, sir. I think it’s going to be one of our most popularselling items. That’ll be a dollar, please.”

A dollar!
That would buy almost eight pounds of coffee, for pete’s sake! Begrudgingly, Jack handed over the money, doubting the woman’s prognostication one hundred percent.

“I’ll go wrap this up for you, sir. And my husband will be right out.”

Mrs. Hochstetler returned minutes later. Still brooding over his impulsive purchase, Jack was relieved to see her husband close on her heels.

“Brennan, it’s good to see you again. I was in the back taking inventory of your supplies. They’re all ready to go.” Hochstetler motioned him off to the side, away from the crowd. “I’ve got a full load for your first trip, and I’m eager to get it sold.”

Explaining his predicament was going to be harder than Jack imagined. “I . . . I’m afraid there’s been a change in plans, Mr. Hochstetler. Something’s happened, and I’m not going to be able to leave on Monday.” Jack laid out the turn of events, without identifying the buyer of the wagon by name. Hochstetler’s expression darkened by the second, telling Jack this might not turn out as he’d hoped.

“I hate that it happened too, Jack. I really do. But I’ve got to get those supplies up to Scoggins in Jenny’s Draw. It’s been almost a month since he’s had a shipment. I’ve been carrying inventory on my books and I need to get it sold.”

“I understand, sir. Mr. Sampson’s agreed to build me another wagon, but . . . that will take some time.” Jack looked at the hat in his hands.

“And time is a luxury I don’t have. Neither does Scoggins, and neither do the other mining towns. If I don’t deliver those goods soon, he’s liable to seek a contract with a mercantile in another town, or hire his own freighter, and that hurts my business.” Hochstetler rubbed his jaw. “You said somebody else bought your wagon. Any chance of renting it from them, even short term? Until Sampson gets the next one finished?”

Jack hesitated, then shook his head. “I’ve already been down that road. The owner’s not willing to negotiate.” Pressured by Hochstetler’s obvious displeasure, he pictured Mademoiselle Girard, and the sweet innocence he’d attributed to her earlier faded a mite. “Would you be willing to give me a few days, sir? A week at the most. That’ll give me time to check in Denver . . . to see if I can locate a wagon up there.”

Hochstetler looked away, appearing to consider the request.

The hum of conversation filled the crowded store, but Jack’s attention honed in on one voice in particular. He felt his blood rising. The closer the voice came, the harder his pulse pounded. When she stopped midsentence, he knew she’d seen him. He looked to his right. She stood only a few feet away.

“Monsieur Brennan!” Surprise heightened her brow.

“Mademoiselle Girard.” With a nod, he acknowledged the girl standing close beside her. The girl looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

Mademoiselle Girard’s focus drifted to Mr. Hochstetler, then back again, and Jack couldn’t help but wonder if she’d overheard their conversation.

“It is most surprising to see you again.” She blinked as though remembering something. “May I introduce a friend of mine—”

“My apologies, mademoiselle, but . . . I’m in the middle of an important conversation.” Jack indicated Hochstetler with a nod. “If you wouldn’t mind excusing us, please.”

“Ah . . .” Understanding slowly dawned in her eyes. “
Pardonnezmoi
. My apologies for having interrupted.”

Hochstetler’s deep sigh drew Jack’s focus once again. With divided attention, Jack awaited the man’s response while grateful to hear the retreat of footsteps behind him. If he was about to be fired, he’d prefer a certain little French coquette not be witness to it.

“I’m sorry to have to do this, Jack, but business is business. I’ve got to get those supplies up the mountain. If you can’t do it . . . I’ll have to find someone else who can.”

Jack fought to think of another option. Even if he left for Denver immediately, the businesses would be closed for the day by the time he got there, and would remain closed on Sunday. He was grasping at straws. And from Hochstetler’s dubious expression, he knew it too.

“Tell you what.” Hochstetler looked Jack square in the eye. “I’ll give you until Monday morning, like we agreed when we shook on the deal.”

The reminder of their agreement felt like a hit below the belt. At their first meeting, he had made a point of telling Hochstetler there would be no need for a written contract between them, that his word was as binding as anything put on paper. “I appreciate that, sir. And again, I apologize for putting you in this situation.” Jack felt a sudden flush and tugged at his shirt collar, wondering when the room had grown overly warm.

“I’m sorry too, Brennan. I was looking forward to working with you. Bertram Colby spoke highly of you.” Regret weighted Hochstetler’s tone, and knifed Jack’s sense of obligation. “If you don’t have anything worked out by Monday, I’ll contact a local who bid for the job when you did. See if he’s still interested.”

Hochstetler’s offer to wait until Monday—while generous—only fueled Jack’s failed sense of duty. And the firmness of the man’s parting handshake renewed his frustration with Mademoiselle Girard all over again.

Jack looked down at the wrapped package in his hand, wishing he could take it back. He could eat for a week on what he’d spent on the silly item, and his funds were becoming more limited by the minute.

He turned to leave and found himself boxed in by a crush of shoppers pressing toward the front counter. All aisles were blocked. The air around him grew stagnant and tired, as if it had been breathed and exhaled one too many times.

His vision blurred. He blinked to clear it. This couldn’t be happening again. . . .

His breath caught at the base of his throat. His lungs rebelled at the lack of oxygen. He remembered again why he’d chosen a profession that kept him in wide open spaces. Seven aisles stood between him and the door. He spotted an opening in a side aisle and went for it, hoping to make it outside before the room closed in on him completely.

He rounded the corner, his focus intent on reaching the door. He was almost home free—when he collided with someone full force.

CHAPTER | TWELVE

W
ITH
J
ACK
B
RENNAN’S ASSISTANCE,
Véronique managed to steady herself. She could say one thing for him—the man was solidly built. If not for the table at her backside, he would have knocked her flat on the floor. She noticed his hat beside his feet and a package of some sort in his hand.

He quickly stepped back, his expression an odd mixture of anger and . . . panic.

“Monsieur?” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

The muscles in his jawline clenched tight, and she feared his teeth might shatter from the pressure. “I need . . . to get out of here.”

His voice sounded husky and forced, and had a desperate
timbre
she recognized.

His breathing grew erratic. “Please, miss . . .”

Without a second thought, she bent, grabbed his hat and took hold of his hand. She cut a swath through the lines of patrons, pulling him with her. She skirted barrels full of dry goods and dodged bolts of fabric piled on edges of tables, never letting go of him. Not that she could have even if she’d wanted to. His grip was viselike, and growing painful.

When she reached the door, she glanced back. Monsieur Brennan’s glazed stare was locked on their clasped hands as if that were his only lifeline.

She led the way to a wrought-iron bench on the boardwalk a few feet away and gestured for him to sit, then took a place beside him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. With his legs spread wide, he rested his forearms on his thighs. His breath came in short bursts. His hands trembled.

Véronique watched him, feeling the weight of responsibility, and guilt. She hadn’t intended to stand around the corner and eavesdrop on his conversation. But what she had read in the mercantile owner’s expression had been so ominous that her curiosity had gotten the best of her. Knowing she’d played a part in his being relieved of employment had rooted her to the spot as firmly as if her boots had been nailed there.

She stared at his hat in her lap. If only sins committed in secret were weighted less heavily by the Almighty than those acted out for all to see. . . . She knew she needed to apologize. But where to begin? Especially when he was unaware of her trespass.

What was it that Christophe had told her their last morning together at Cimetière de Montmartre? A lifetime ago now . . . That her honesty would get her in trouble if not balanced with good sense. But at the moment, honesty and good sense hardly seemed congruent. For every ounce of good sense within her screamed not to confess what she’d done. Yet the higher law to which she answered demanded it.

“Mademoiselle Girard . . .” Monsieur Brennan ran his hands over his face, his voice still shaky. He drew in a deep breath and held it, as though the act were a privilege. He let it out slowly. “I apologize for . . . for imposing myself on you like that.”

She couldn’t help but stare. What manner of man was this Monsieur Jack Brennan? Even with all she’d cost him, however unintentionally, he was willing to offer an apology to her?

“It was not an imposition, monsieur. You did not force your company or your attention upon me. Nor did you take unwarranted advantage. If I am correct in my memory, I took hold of your hand, and . . . it pleased me to be of assistance.”

A faint smile crossed his face. “Do you always respond by using the definition of a word? Wait, please . . . don’t answer that.” He massaged his forehead. “I don’t think my head can take it.”

Smiling, she ran a forefinger over the crown of his hat. It was surprisingly soft and supple. “What is this material?”

“Beaver fur.”

Beaver fur
. “I did not know the fur of such an animal could be so soft.” No doubt her father was accustomed to this texture. She stroked it again, memorizing the feel and the way it moved beneath her fingertips.

“What happened back there—” Jack Brennan motioned toward the mercantile—“it doesn’t happen often. But that’s twice today. Things just start closing in on me for some reason. I can’t breathe, I can’t think straight.” He raked a hand through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck.

“I recognized the crowded feeling in your voice. I too have experienced this, once. It was most unpleasant and something I do not wish to repeat.”

“Where were you when it happened?”

“On the ship, coming from Italy to this country. I took passage with a family from Paris. Their four children were my charge during our months in Italy and then on the voyage. We stayed in a cabin together, the five of us. One evening there came a storm and the ship tossed and swayed all night. They cried, I cried,” she said softly. “Come morning, it was not a pleasant sight in our quarters.”

A faraway look moved into his eyes. “I’ve never been on a ship like that before.”

“I am thinking you would not enjoy it. The chambers are very cramped, which did not bother me on the whole—just that night of the storm.” She refrained from sharing that she’d never once ventured to peer over the side of the ship down into the murky waters. A cool shiver accompanied the mere thought of it.

She held up his hat. “I have seen many men wearing this fashion. I hope this is not offensive to you, but . . . I consider the style most odd.”

He took the hat, a feigned look of hurt on his face. “This is the best hat I’ve ever owned. Keeps me warm in the winter, cool in the summer, and dry in the rain and snow.” He worked the crease on the top into a more defined shape, treating the article of clothing as though it were a cherished item.

Véronique took a deep breath, wishing she had already delivered the words of apology forming in her mind. “About what occurred inside the shop, Monsieur Brennan, I need to tell you that—”

“Again, I’m sorry, mademoiselle.” He shrugged, his soft laughter hinting at embarrassment.

Realizing he’d anticipated her remark incorrectly, she hesitated. Perhaps this was a sign she wasn’t to proceed with her apology. Though the thought was tempting to believe, she knew it wasn’t true. “Monsieur Brennan, there is something I must say to you, and I am having difficulty finding the words.”

A spark lit his eyes, giving the impression he might say something. But seconds passed, and she decided she’d been mistaken.

His eyes were an unusual color, and Véronique found herself searching a mental
palette
for the precise combination of
bleu
and
noir
that would capture the richness of their depth—which only provided further diversion from her task at hand. “I fear that your staring at me is not assisting my effort, monsieur. In truth, I find it most distracting.”