Remembered

by Tamera Alexander

  As she stared at the crumpled balls of paper in the corner, she recalled Pastor Carlson’s recent sermon. Never before had she considered God to be cruel, even in her mother’s untimely death. Death was part of life. A ceasing of it, to be certain, but nonetheless the natural order of things. She knew this, for since a young age she had rousted about on death’s threshing floor, in the shadow of its grasp, at Cimetière de Montmartre.

  But the removal of her ability to draw, to paint, felt like a removal of God’s very presence. And in light of everything else that His grace—however bent with human will by His own design—had allowed to be taken from her life, that filching seemed especially cruel.

  “Très bien, Mademoiselle Carlson!” Véronique clapped as she rose from her chair, imbuing her voice with enthusiasm based not on the girl’s correctness of form but on her effort and dedication.

  Lilly straightened from the attempted curtsy, her brow glistening from the past hour’s lesson. The hotel dining room was vacant, the dinner hour long ended. “You’re very kind, Mademoiselle Girard . . . and generous with your praise. I’m not doing well. But I can do better. I know I can.”

  As Véronique had anticipated, the brace on Lilly’s right leg greatly encumbered the bowing gesture, and not even the luminescent quality of Lilly’s eyes could mask the dull of pain in them. Whether it stemmed from the girl’s overexertion during the day or from the repeated attempts to master this act of etiquette, Véronique couldn’t be certain.

  But she desired to put an end to it. “You continually surprise me with your dedication to learning, ma chérie. But I believe we have had more than enough practice for one evening. You must rest now.”

  Lilly took a deep breath. Her slender jawline went rigid. “No, ma’am! I’m going to continue until I get it right!”

  Véronique raised a brow at the harshness in the girl’s voice, full well knowing the tone wasn’t meant for her. She recognized the obstinacy behind Lilly’s attitude, and her frustration—because she shared it. Had she not experienced the same roil of emotion earlier that day with the pencil and parchment as her formidable foes?

  With a determined look, Lilly placed her left foot forward again and attempted to sweep her right leg behind her in a graceful gesture, all while bending at the knee and holding her skirt out from her body. Either her knee buckled or she lost her balance, but if not for grabbing hold of the chair beside her, she would have fallen altogether.

  Véronique hurried to help, but Lilly waved her away. Tears rose in Véronique’s eyes, and fell from Lilly’s.

  “This is so . . . stupid!” Lilly regained her balance and shoved the chair away. “I’ll never be able to do this! Not like you can!”

  “And who says you must do this the way I do, ma chérie? Is there some unwritten rule of which I need to be made aware?”

  At the sudden quickening in her conscience, Véronique stilled. How dare she dole out such appeasing words to this precious young girl, when she—a grown woman—still struggled with the same thing?

  “But you’re so graceful, and so pretty, Mademoiselle Girard. And I’ll never even—” The sentence caught in Lilly’s throat. She shook her head.

  Véronique moved closer and gently lifted the girl’s chin. Despite the wide span in their ages, she and Lilly were eye level with one another. Though with Lilly’s youth, the girl would easily surpass her in height in the coming months.

  Véronique fingered a dark curl at Lilly’s temple. “Already you are such a beautiful girl. This silly gesture we practice here tonight is incapable of enhancing what is already an immutable fact. Is something else of bother to you, ma chérie?”

  Sighing, Lilly bit her lower lip. “We met with Doc Hadley today— my parents and I. About a kind of surgery.”

  At the mention of la chirurgie, Véronique’s concern escalated. “For your leg?” she whispered.

  “Yes, ma’am. I was born with one leg shorter than the other, and my right one’s never grown straight like it should. My father always padded the bottom of my right boot and it was enough. But, in the last year . . .”

  Véronique thought she understood. “As your body has been growing from that of a child into that of a young woman . . .”

  Lilly nodded. “It’s gotten a lot worse. About a month ago, Doc Hadley told us about an operation he read about that’s being done by a surgeon in Boston. My parents said they were interested in finding out more, so Doc Hadley wrote the surgeon about me. Today we went back to Doc Hadley’s clinic, and he measured my legs and knees and hip joints, took all sorts of notes on my posture and how my legs move. He’s sending all that to the surgeon back East. It’ll take a couple of months to find out what the surgeon says about my leg, and if he thinks the surgery will help me or not.” She looked at the floor, fingering her calico skirt. “Doc Hadley told us more about the operation today too.”

  Véronique read ill news in Lilly’s expression. She encouraged the girl to sit and then claimed a chair beside her. “This procédure, it is a dangerous one?”

  “It comes with risks, the doc said. And it’s more expensive than we thought.” Lilly gave a humorless laugh. “I’ve been saving, working at the hotel as much as I can. My folks have been working extra too. Mama’s taking in more mending and washing. Papa’s taking odd jobs at ranches and in town—whatever he can find.” She firmed her lips together. “But it’ll take years to earn enough.”

  “Dr. Hadley is favorable that the chirurgien in Boston will agree to perform this procédure for you?”

  “The surgeon told Doc Hadley that he typically does this on younger children, not someone as old as me. But as I see it, it’s a good sign that he’s willing to look at my charts, right?”

  Véronique nodded, wanting to give the girl hope. “And what does Dr. Hadley make of all this?”

  “He says that, with how quick my body is growing and the way my joints are positioned, he thinks the operation—if the surgeon says yes—will need to be done by year’s end at the latest. Else my leg will be too far gone.” Lilly lifted the hem of her skirt, revealing the brace extending the full length of her right leg. “My left leg will continue to grow like normal, he says.” Her voice softened. “My right one won’t. But the real problem isn’t with my legs. It’s with my spine.”

  Lilly sat up straighter as she said it, though Véronique doubted the girl was even conscious of the gesture.

  Lilly placed her hand on her lower back. “My lower spine is curved to one side, and it’s pressing on a nerve.”

  Véronique frowned. “This causes you much pain, non?”

  “Only some days. For the past few months Doc Hadley’s given me medicine for it—a powder I mix in my tea—but it’s not working like it used to. There’re exercises he taught me to do too, but those aren’t working anymore either.” She glanced down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “The pain’s not really that bad though. I’ve learned to make do pretty well.”

  The maturity in Lilly’s tone, the finality and acceptance of her circumstances, only deepened Véronique’s hurt. Someone so young ought not to have to be so strong.

  Véronique worded her next question with care. “Did Dr. Hadley say what other options would be available if you and your parents elect not to have the chirurgie?”

  A shadow passed across Lilly’s face. “Based on the notes about me that Doc Hadley sent to Boston last month, the surgeon said that without the operation . . .” Her voice fell away. Her chest rose and fell, yet she didn’t make a sound. “He said that within a year” —tears welled in her violet eyes—“I won’t be able to walk anymore.”

  The knot in Véronique’s throat cinched taut. She tried to say something, but couldn’t.

  “I’ll be twelve years old this summer, Mademoiselle Girard.” A sad smile ghosted Lilly’s mouth. “And I’ve never even danced with a boy. I’ve danced with my papa.” All courage fled, and the mask of bravery slipped. “But he doesn’t count!”

  Véronique pulled Lill
y to her, whispering words of comfort. Suddenly her frustration over the inability to sketch or paint any longer seemed unimportant by comparison, and selfish at heart.

  She drew back, pulled the kerchief from her sleeve, and handed it to Lilly. Surprised at the girl’s youthfulness—she was even younger than Véronique had imagined—her mind raced, processing all that Lilly had told her. Véronique kept her voice hushed. “There is one more thing Dr. Hadley shared with you, non? The risks of the procédure? Are they great?”

  Lilly’s expression turned guarded. “The surgeon told Doc Hadley that he’s operated on forty-eight children so far who’ve had the same problem as me, or similar. Thirty-nine of them got better and were able to walk normal. Four of them didn’t, and they went crippled anyway.”

  Véronique frowned. “But what happened to the oth—” Seeing the look on Lilly’s face, she stopped midsentence, and wished she’d reasoned her thought through before giving it voice. She nodded. “So . . . have you and your parents made a decision, ma chérie? If the chirurgien says yes to your request.”

  “My folks aren’t in accord yet. They talk about it a lot. I hear them at night, when they think I’m asleep. Even if we had the money, I’m not sure what their decision would be. Doc Hadley told Papa that if people in town knew, they would want to help by giving, after all the good my folks have done here.”

  “I am believing the words of this doctor. Though I have been in Willow Springs for only a brief time, I know that your papa and mère are well esteemed in this community.”

  A fragile smile touched Lilly’s lips. “Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle Girard. But lots of people suffer from maladies and don’t come asking for special help. They just get through it as best they can with God’s help.”

  As swiftly as the idea entered her mind, Véronique couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner. Her first order of business tomorrow morning would be to seek out the Willow Springs physician and discuss the situation with him. Then she would pay Monsieur Gunter a visit at the bank.

  ————

  Jack nodded to the young woman approaching him on the boardwalk, hoping her destination was the land and deed office. He’d been waiting a good twenty minutes for the office to open, and precious moments of daylight were slipping away with each tick of his pocket watch.

  She coerced a key into the lock and jiggled the handle. “Have you been waiting long, sir? My apologies if you have. I’m running a bit . . . late this morning.”

  Jack shook his head. “Not too long. I’m just eager to get on the road. I’ve got a load to haul up the mountain today.”

  “I can see that.” Smiling, she glanced past him to the wagon. “And it looks like a heavy one.” She opened the door and motioned for him to follow. “You must be Mr. Brennan, Mr. Hochstetler’s new freighter.”

  With the size of Willow Springs, her comment wasn’t surprising. Jack nodded and stepped inside. “Yes, ma’am, I’m Jack Brennan.” He removed his hat.

  “I’m Miss Duncan . . . Aida Duncan, if you’d like. Pleasure to meet you.” She hung her shawl and bonnet over a hook on the wall. “I think I saw you at church on Sunday.” Her brows arched.

  “Yes, ma’am. I snuck in a bit late. Sat in the back.”

  She stared for a second, her smile softening. “A friend told me about you, Mr. Brennan. Said you came from up around Oregon?”

  “That’s right. But I’m afraid you have the advantage over me, ma’am. I didn’t realize the position of freighter held such status among the townsfolk. I’m deeply honored.” He punctuated the tease with a smile.

  She dipped her head and shrugged, fussing with the ties on her skirt. When she looked back her cheeks had gained a rosy hue and her eyes held a sparkle.

  A bit too much of a sparkle for Jack’s ease. He got the sneaking suspicion that this woman—while friendly, and right pretty, he admitted—was fishing for something. And he’d been single long enough to guess what it might be.

  He also knew he wasn’t interested. Not that anything might be deficient with Miss Duncan’s character or person. He’d simply put thoughts of this ilk behind him a long time ago.

  For the past fifteen years, he’d good-naturedly put up with matrimonial-seeking mothers who tried every day of the monthslong cross-country trek to pair him with their available daughters. Stopping by his tent in the evenings with a slice of dried-apple pie or a pan of warm biscuits had been a favorite “coincidence” of those kindly women. And though he’d eaten like a king much of the time, he’d acted with utmost care to gently discourage their endeavors.

  After losing Mary and Aaron, he’d gradually grown accustomed to the rhythm of his solitary life, to its ebb and flow within the boundaries of cherished memories. Life was simpler, easier, with only him. And it was enough.

  He cleared his throat and gave the faintest of smiles. “I stopped by this morning to check on a piece of property west of town. I came across it yesterday afternoon, and I’d like to know if it’s for sale.”

  Flirtation faded from the woman’s expression, leaving kindness in its place. “And where is this land located, sir?” She walked to a desk situated against the wall and opened a drawer.

  “It starts about a two-hour ride west by mount, along the banks of Fountain Creek. I didn’t spot any homesteads or ranches, but I didn’t go up into the hills. Just scouted the perimeter. I’m curious as to whether any of that land might still be available and, if so, who I need to speak with about it.”

  She flipped through the files jamming the length of the drawer. “You’re thinking of settling down here, then?”

  “I might, yes, ma’am. If all goes well.”

  She looked up, and while her smile said she wished things would go well for him, it also conveyed that she harbored no ill will. “Willow Springs is a very nice town, Mr. Brennan. I’ve been out here for a couple of years, and I don’t think you’ll find better people.” She pulled a folder from the drawer. “Mr. Clayton, the gentleman who handles all property sales in the area, won’t be in for a while. He usually arrives later on Wednesday mornings due to township meetings. But I should be able to determine whether land in that area is available for purchase or not.” She raised a brow. “Not an inch of land is sold in these parts without the deeds coming across our desks. And Mr. Clayton is a stickler for maintaining accurate records.”

  “Well then, I’ve come to the right place, Miss Duncan.”

  “Let’s see . . .” She opened the file flat atop her desk and ran a forefinger down the top page. “Depending on which area we’re talking about, and looking at this plat . . .” She turned the mapped grid around so he could see it too. “There are several quadrants in the vicinity. Which of these are of interest to you?”

  Jack leaned closer to read the markings. “This should be the area right here.” He marked the spot with his forefinger.

  Nodding, she returned her attention to the open file. “The majority of that section was purchased back in ’60. By a sole buyer, it says, and proprietary rights for Fountain Creek were issued with that original deed.” She read on, her head moving slightly from side to side. Her brows rose. “Then it was sold in an auction in the fall of ’68, at the courthouse in Denver.” She tapped the file with her index finger. “Let’s see if we have a record of who purchased . . .” She turned the page and immediately fell silent. She frowned, picked up the file from her desk, and tilted it toward herself.

  Jack got the distinct impression she thought he’d been trying to read it.

  Miss Duncan flipped to the next page. And the next. “Odd. It doesn’t list who purchased that land at the auction, Mr. Brennan. But it does show a portion of it being sold again. Only days after it was purchased in Denver, in fact.”

  “But only a portion of it was sold?”

  Her expression skeptical, she nodded.

  “So that means that some land might still be available for sale in that area?”

  “That’s my understanding from reading the
file. I’m certain Mr. Clayton will have a record of the transactions and will be able to answer your questions.” She closed the file and slipped it back into her desk. “I’ll inform him that you’re interested, and that you’ll be in touch when you return from your trip.”

  “I’m much obliged for your help, Miss Duncan. And for your warm welcome.” As Jack closed the office door behind him, he couldn’t deny the vein of excitement shooting through him.

  That property was exactly what he’d dreamed about—land cradled in a cleft of the Rocky Mountains, with an abundance of aspens and willows, and nourished by the bubbling waters of Fountain Creek. With little effort he envisioned the cabin he might build there one day.

  He climbed into the wagon, released the brake, and guided the team of Percherons down the main street. He intended to thank Stewartson at Casaroja again for his assistance in choosing this pair. He’d never had such superb draft horses—so well matched in height and strength, standing eighteen hands high, and with a smooth stride—not as choppy as that of other heavy horses. All of these attributes made heads turn when the horses passed. Black as a starless night, they were magnificent animals.

  The hour was still early, so only a few folks braved the morning’s chill. Jack glanced at the empty place beside him on the bench seat. Funny, even though they’d only been on one trip together, it felt sort of odd not having her—

  ‘ ‘Monsieur Brennan!”

  He pulled back on the reins, wondering if he was imagining her voice.

  But when he spotted Véronique striding toward him, her cheeks flushed, a scowl darkening her pretty face, and the fancy little feathered hat atop her head bobbing up and down, he knew he hadn’t imagined it. And he also knew that she was très unhappy about something.