That possibility gave Véronique pause, again. “But the surgeon in Boston believes there is hope for the success of the procédure with Lilly.”
“He’s cautiously hopeful, yes, and he’s considering her case right now. But what he deems an acceptable risk, and my definition of that term, are not necessarily in harmony with one another, mademoiselle.” Removing his glasses, Dr. Hadley had massaged the bridge of his nose. “Granted, my personal involvement with the patient and her family could well be clouding my judgment.” His focus was direct. “But I’ve seen many a patient live out a full life from the confines of a wheelchair, Mademoiselle Girard. I have never witnessed such from the confines of a coffin.”
As she waited on the wagon’s mercilessly hard bench seat, remembering the conversation with Dr. Hadley stirred up a jumble of emotions. The estimated price for the surgery was greater than she had anticipated, but if the established pattern of Lord Marchand’s deposits continued—and she had no reason to believe they would not—she would have ample money to cover the procédure.
Dr. Hadley had graciously offered to confirm the costs with the chirurgien in Boston, and if the man agreed to perform the operation on Lilly, then Dr. Hadley agreed to go with Véronique to present the idea to Pastor and Mrs. Carlson.
When Jack finally joined her in the wagon, the firm set of his jaw told her not to push the subject of Zimmerman. Which, saints help her, made her want to know all the more.
When they reached the edge of town and he’d still said nothing, she laid a hand on his arm. “Please, Jack. I must know. What was Monsieur Hochstetler referring to?”
His smile was unexpected. “Don’t you mean . . . to what was Monsieur Hochstetler referring?”
Realizing her mistake, she tried to think of an excuse—and couldn’t. Other than the fact that listening to the constant diatribe of butchered English since she’d arrived in this country had finally left its tainted mark. Though tempted to share that thought, she decided against it.
“Véronique . . .”
The tender way he spoke her name drew her attention.
“If you want me to tell you what Mr. Hochstetler was referring to, I will.” The steady plod of horses’ hooves pounded out the seconds. “But, for what it’s worth, it has nothing to do with what we’re doing today, and I think it would be better if you didn’t know. I wish you’d trust me in this.”
Sincerity tendered his voice, echoing what shone in his eyes.
Everything within her said to trust him. She knew she could. She nodded slowly, smiling, appreciating his desire to protect her. “I still want you to tell me.”
Instantly Jack’s expression sobered. He turned back to the road. “Zimmerman is the man who held this job before me. On his last trip up to the Peerless, he tried to haul too heavy a load over the pass at Maynor’s Gulch. His wagon clipped the edge and went over.”
“Went . . . over?” She shuddered. “Went over . . . where?”
“The side of the mountain.”
Her head swam and oxygen grew scarce as she pictured the scene. Putting her head between her knees would have helped, but the thought of how unladylike that would appear kept her from it. “Did he . . . Is this Zimmerman . . . deceased?”
“No, ma’am. But he busted up his leg pretty good and spent a couple of cold miserable nights out there before somebody came along and found him.” Jack glanced at her, his eyes dark. “So . . . are you happy? Now that you know?” The look on his face told her he certainly wasn’t.
She trusted Jack’s skill in maneuvering the wagon, yet could not dissuade the knots twisting her stomach, or the ache in her knuckles from clutching the bench seat so tightly.
The higher the wagon climbed the ribboned path that morning, the cooler the air became, and the thinner. Véronique worked to catch her breath.
Three hours later they continued to climb. The narrow, rutted ledge carved into the side of the mountain clung like a frantic child to its mother. It was a wonder these roads even existed. And then it struck her that perhaps they were not naturally occurring.
Jack laughed when she posed the question. “No, these roads aren’t here by chance. They had help. Striking a vein of gold or silver is one thing, but it’s not worth much just holed up in the side of a mountain. You have to mine it, of course, but there’s also the problem of getting your equipment up to camp, and the gold and silver down to town.” He indicated the snaking road before them. “They use dynamite nowadays but used to have to dig it by hand.”
Since the sheer drop-off was on Jack’s side this time, she didn’t have to stare at the thin line where land abruptly ended and plunged into the chasm below. The discovery earlier this morning that Jack was on that side of the wagon had been comforting, at first.
Until she realized that the opposite would be true on their way back down the mountain. And no matter what side the cliff was on, if the wagon went over, they went over with it.
A sudden jolt brought Véronique back to the moment. A wave of nausea hit her. The image of her and Jack lying at the bottom of the canyon was all she could see, their bruised bodies broken and bloodied.
“Can we . . . pull over, Jack, s’il vous plaît?”
Silence. “Where exactly would you like me to pull over?”
The narrow thread of steep incline blurred in her vision. She had to get out. If only for a moment.
“Véronique, what are you—” His arm came around her waist and pulled her firmly back down beside him.
Her stomach roiled. The back of her throat burned. “I think, I am going to be . . . unwell, Jack.” She put a hand over her mouth. Her eyes watered.
His grip lessened, but he still held her secure. “Do what you have to do, but I can’t stop the wagon on this incline, and there’s no pulling over right now.”
Feeling it build inside her, she tried to distance herself from him. She could not do what she was about to do while sitting next to him.
“You cannot stand up, Véronique! It’s not safe.” He crushed her back against him.
The pressure in her temples became excruciating. She tried to scoot to her side of the wagon, but Jack insisted on pulling her close, as though trying to comfort her.
“It’ll be all right, Véronique. Just hang on. We’ll be over this rise in about ten minutes.”
Ten minutes was an eternity. Every bump, every jostle on the rutted road reminded her of the yawning cavern to her left and churned the upset inside her.
Until she could hold it in no longer.
“Jack, I am so sor—” She emptied the contents of her stomach on the floor of the wagon. Her breath wouldn’t come. She gulped for air. And then it happened a second time.
Jack let her go and recoiled beside her, bracing his legs against the footrest.
Tears choked her throat. Her eyes burned. Hot and cold flushes ransacked her body, resulting from her nausea, most certainly. But also from mortal embarrassment.
Head cradled in her hands, she snuck a look at his splattered pant legs and wished she could crawl into a hole in the side of the mountain and never come out. It was not fitting for a patronne to . . . become sick all over her employee. She had a strong sense that this would do little for her goal of maintaining a respectful boundary between them.
A burst of cool breeze felt like heaven against her face and neck, and helped dispel the stench. The pounding in her temples gradually eased, her head cleared. She put a hand to her hair and found it in complete disarray. Funny how little that mattered now, comparatively.
After a moment, she chanced another look beside her.
Jack was concentrating on the road, and yet she knew he was aware she was looking at him. One corner of his mouth twitched. “Feeling better?”
His question—so innocent, so lacking in judgment—didn’t help her embarrassment, and Véronique covered her face with her hands.
“It’s okay, Véronique, really. First place I can, I’ll pull over and we’ll wash up. Okay? Shouldn’t
be too long.”
She nodded, keeping her face averted.
Moments passed, and she felt something on her back—a most tentative touch. It startled her at first. Her throat tightened with emotion.
Jack combed his fingers gently through the hair now falling loose down her back. He encouraged her to move closer. “Come here,” he whispered. He moved his hand in slow circles, urging her over beside him.
Surprised by the forwardness of his actions, she resisted.
But when she felt the pressure on her back increase and heard the hushed whisper of his deep voice, she acquiesced. As she scooted close against him, she felt a shiver and looked up. Something flashed in his dark blue eyes. He didn’t seem to be frustrated with her, and yet the intensity of his expression made her wonder.
She laid her head on his shoulder and peered down, then winced at the condition of his clothes, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. But she did know everything was not all right.
“Jack?” Her voice came out a broken whisper. He didn’t respond, and she repeated his name.
“Yes?” His chin brushed against the crown of her head.
“The next time . . . I will trust you.”
A chuckle rumbled from deep inside him. His arm tightened around her shoulders. He cradled her head against his chest. “Then this was worth it.”
CHAPTER | TWENTY - ONE
THE PEERLESS MINING CAMP was a good distance higher in the mountains than Jenny’s Draw, and though it was April, a fall like coolness braced the air. They’d arrived later than Jack had estimated, a little past noon, with having to stop and clean up from Véronique’s . . . incident.
A fine sleet filtered down from the ashen clouds shrouding the highest peaks, cloaking the stands of blue spruce and towering pines until their needles shimmered in the gray light.
Jack stood just inside the open doorway of the supply building and listened as the merchant counted the payment. The old man’s gnarled fingers moved slower than Jack would have liked.
Véronique remained in the wagon, swathed in a blanket she kept tucked close beneath her chin.
They’d stopped shortly after her illness so she could rinse her skirt in the creek and freshen up. The floor of the wagon had borne the brunt of it and he’d easily set that to right with a bucket of water. He only wished he could say the same for her ransacked pride. A quick pilfer through the supplies in the wagon bed afforded him what he needed. Miners’ shirts and dungarees were standard freighting items.
Unfortunately, women’s skirts and shirtwaists were not.
He knew she had to be chilled with that damp skirt on but she’d insisted on wearing it. And the look she’d given him when he offered her a pair of miners’ dungarees was something he wouldn’t soon forget.
Miners continued to flock toward the building and were forming a lengthy queue that managed to wrap itself closely around the wagon.
So far most of the men were only looking at Véronique. One would occasionally gain the nerve to call out to her. But despite that and their obvious ogling, she somehow managed to appear at ease and in complete control. Though Jack knew quite the opposite to be true.
That morning, as they’d passed over Maynor’s Gulch, he’d spotted splintered boards and debris from what he assumed was Zimmerman’s wagon far below at the base of the canyon’s throat. Not wanting to risk Véronique’s seeing the wreckage, he had persuaded her to move closer to him in order to divert her attention. It had taken some doing, and at first she had resisted, as he’d expected. But when she’d finally moved closer and tucked herself against him, the memory of what it had been like to be a husband in the intimate sense had returned again with such force that his response to Véronique’s nearness almost made him regret his action.
Almost.
Many years had passed since he’d felt Mary’s soft female form curved into him. But that was one memory time could not erase.
The feel of Véronique pressed against him had been more stirring than he’d imagined, and he’d already spent too much time trying not to imagine it in too great of detail. The brief encounter wasn’t helping that struggle, which was why it couldn’t happen again.
Not out here, not alone like they were.
Jack took in a deep breath, held it, then slowly let it out, trying hard to think about something else.
A miner approached the wagon, his focus on Véronique, his intent on speaking to her obvious. Jack stepped through the threshold and onto the boardwalk, making his presence known. The man spotted him and slowed. The fella’s gaze went from the rifle in Jack’s hand, to Véronique, and back again. Apparently changing his mind, he wandered back through the crowd.
Jack sensed her stare and looked up, but she quickly averted her eyes.
He’d tried his best to coax her into talking when they stopped at the creek earlier. He’d even joked about what had happened. But the more he’d attempted to draw her out, the more reticent she’d become. Her responses had been polite, brief, and void of their customary sparkle.
He thought back to the morning they’d met in the washroom of the hotel. His first glance had told him she was feminine through and through. That was impossible to miss. Since then, he’d witnessed her confidence, her ability to take charge of situations and communicate her desires—she had no problem with that last one.
But what he hadn’t realized until this morning was just how much of Véronique Girard’s confidence was rooted in her maintaining that carefully manicured appearance and textbook ladylike behavior.
It was a fragile façade at best, and one destined to be shattered and reshaped if she was going to survive this territory. He had a feeling she’d give fate a fair fight at it too.
“You’re most welcome to count it yourself, Mr. Brennan.” The merchant laid the final dollar on the stack and tapped it with his forefinger, or what was left of his forefinger. “To make sure it’s all there.”
Even before learning the merchant’s name, Jack had detected the trace of an accent in the man’s voice. His gut instinct nudged him to trust Bernard Rousseau, so he took the bills, folded them, and shoved them deep into his pants pocket. “I appreciate your business, Monsieur Rousseau.” He pulled the inventory list from his pocket. “These are all the items available. Might see if there’s anything else you want added for next time. Mark it and I’ll make sure it’s delivered.”
As Rousseau reviewed the list, Jack stole a glance at Véronique.
Her gaze was on him, the look on her face expectant. Since the Peerless was one of the mines that had attracted Frenchmen in the early days, according to Scoggins, anyway, Jack knew she had great hopes for discovering something about her father here.
Jack cleared his throat, knowing she was watching—and waiting for some sign of recognition from the merchant. “Could I bother you with a question, sir?” He waited for Rousseau’s attention. “How many years did you mine the Peerless before you decided to move into supplying?”
Rousseau smiled, revealing a surprising number of straight, albeit yellowed, teeth. “I mined her for my first twenty years over here, until I lost the hearing in one ear . . . along with a few other things.” He wriggled his right hand. Not only was the tip of his right forefinger missing, but his ring finger and pinkie were absent as well. “Blasting powder. Funny thing is, I still feel an ache in those fingers every once in a while.” He shrugged. “Running the supply store is easier on an old man’s body, not to mention safer. I’ve been doing this since ’63.”
Jack quickly did the math. This man came over two years before Pierre Gustave Girard. “Have you ever returned home, sir?”
A wistful look moved over the man’s face. “Only every night, in my dreams. I would give much to see the light reflecting off the river Seine one more time. Or to visit the Sainte-Chapelle at sunset” —the look in his eyes went vague as though reliving a memory—“and watch rouge settle across the city as evening falls.”
For Véronique’s sake, Jack prayed this
man would at least have heard of her father. He briefly described the circumstances of their search for Pierre Gustave Girard. “Does he sound familiar at all, Mr. Rousseau?”
The man sighed, shaking his head. “I’m afraid that can describe a number of men I’ve known in the past, and still do. We all came with such dreams. . . .” He indicated for Jack to precede him out the door to the muddied street. “The name is common enough among my countrymen, but I can’t say I know the man you’re asking about. Many of us have passed through the Peerless. Quite a few have stayed.” Rousseau’s brow crinkled. “You’re welcome to ask around just down the road there.” He motioned. “Just past the last saloon on the right. You’ll come across a row of bunkhouses. We call it Ma Petite France. Some of the men have been here since the first blast, like I have. We came over together. But they still work the mines. If this . . . Pierre Girard is here, or if he has been through here in recent years, they’ll know it.” He glanced from Jack to the wagon. “Très belle,” he whispered. “You’ve got a fine-looking wife, Brennan, and it’s an honorable thing you’re doing in searching for her father. Especially after all this time.”
Jack followed the man’s admiring stare, pleased when Véronique met his gaze and offered the tiniest smile. “Actually, we’re n—”
“You’re wise not to let her out of your sight, and if I may be so bold, I’d suggest you rethink bringing her along with you in the future. Marriage isn’t necessarily a respected union in places like this. Not by some, anyway.” His expression sobered. “If anything happened to you up here, Brennan, she’d be left on her lonesome. And that wouldn’t be a desirable thing.”
Jack nodded. “I understand.”
Rousseau opened his mouth as if to say more, then firmed his lips. “I wish you both safe journey.”
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