Remembered (20 page)

Her brown eyes were wide and watchful. “I will do as we agreed.”

She turned to him, her expression earnest. “Do you have your weapon at the ready, monsieur?”

He couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, ma’am, I do.” He indicated the rifle loaded and resting against his thigh. “And I’ve got a Schofield tucked in my belt.”

“If a Schofield is a gun, then that is good thing.”

“I don’t anticipate needing either, ma’am. But it’s better to be—”

“Safe than sorry.
Oui
, I agree. I have learned this phrase. It means it is better to act cautiously beforehand than to suffer afterward.”

She let go of his hand and squared her shoulders, lifting her chin in the process. Suddenly she looked more like royalty on an afternoon outing than a daughter searching for the father she’d never really known.

Jack pulled up alongside a building and set the brake.

Two dozen men quickly formed a circle around the wagon. Some simply stared at Mademoiselle Girard while others tried to gain her attention by speaking directly to her. Jack understood what most of the miners were saying, but there were a couple languages he didn’t understand, Mademoiselle Girard’s being among them.

She kept her focus ahead, her shoulders erect.

“Gentlemen.” Jack stood, rifle in hand. “Would you tell me where I might find Wiley Scoggins?”

“You’ll find him right here.”

Jack hadn’t pictured Wiley Scoggins beforehand but certainly would never have matched that name with the man filling the doorway of the building before him. Scoggins was about his height, but the man had him in spades when it came to girth. “I’m Jack Brennan, from Willow Springs. I’ve got your load of supplies.”

“Is everything we see for sale?”

The voice came from behind him, so Jack couldn’t single out its owner. Snickers skittered through the crowd.

“Is there any samplin’ of the merchandise?”

“We got an openin’ over at Lolly’s tent.”

More laughter, then shots rang out.

Jack scanned the faces in the crowd. The men ranged from youthful teens to aging codgers. Regardless of age, their collective expressions wore a flush of excitement that came only from seeing a beautiful woman. He’d felt it the first time he’d seen her that morning outside the washroom. But knowing they shared his reaction awakened a possessiveness inside him that went far beyond the need to simply protect her.

His grip tightened on his rifle. “The supplies in the back of the wagon are for sale. Scoggins, you get first dibs on everything, as agreed. Whatever you don’t take becomes negotiable to the other men.”

Scoggins stepped on a crate substituting for stairs beneath the doorway. The box creaked beneath his weight. “Sounds fair enough.”

Jack met him beside the wagon, well aware of the man’s lingering attention on Mademoiselle Girard—same as every other pair of eyes in the crowd. Jack motioned to the ropes securing the cargo, and Scoggins helped untie them. All Hochstetler from the mercantile had said about this man was that he liked to wheedle on the price, which was expected. But Wiley Scoggins had a quality about him that set Jack on edge.

Another blast sounded, similar to the one moments before.

But this time a low rumble followed. The earth trembled, and voices fell silent.

Jack studied the dirt under his boots, half expecting to see a fissure split the road. When he looked up, he discovered Mademoiselle Girard’s eyes locked on his.

For several seconds, no one moved. No one spoke.

Then three shrill spurts of a high-pitched whistle sounded, and the men immediately fell back into conversation as though nothing had happened. Jack nodded to her, indicating everything was fine, and hoped that it truly was.

Miners huddled around the front of the wagon, getting as close as they could without actually touching anything. Jack kept an eye on Mademoiselle Girard, unable to see her face but noting that her posture was ramrod straight. He glimpsed a younger man’s expression and could only describe it as smitten. But what he saw in the other faces made him glad, again, that he was armed.

Scoggins pulled a bowie knife from a sheath on his belt and pried open a crate containing bags of coffee. Then another filled with hammers and chisels. “I hope you plan on dealin’ more fairly than Zimmerman did. That man was a crook. Never could count on what he’d be carrying or what his cost would be.”

Jack met his stare straight on. “The price I quote won’t change unless market prices go higher. I have to cover my costs, same as you. Give me a list of supplies you want, and when I’m up here next, I’ll do my best to fill it.”

Scoggins didn’t answer but kept opening crates. He paused on occasion to give Jack a questioning look, then finally strode toward the building. “We need to talk, Brennan. Smithy, watch the wagon.”

A man immediately stepped forward, thick-chested, belligerent looking, and—in Jack’s opinion—enough of a deterrent.

Jack tossed the netting back over the wagon bed, easily guessing what Scoggins wanted to discuss. Hochstetler had prepared him and said he would back Jack on his decision. Seems that Zimmerman, the previous freighter, had held some side agreements with Scoggins.

Jack stopped by the buckboard. Mademoiselle Girard’s expression was a smooth mask of composure.

But when she slipped her hand in his after he helped her down, he found it to be ice-cold.

Jack tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and held her much closer than he normally would have. He guided her through the crowd, meeting every man’s eye as he went. Murmurs of “Good day, ma’am” and “How’dya do, ma’am” echoed as they passed. Hats came off heads faster than he could count, sending puffs of dust into the air.

Jack assisted her onto the crate and was thankful to shut the door behind them. Until he saw the glare on Scoggins’s face and knew he was responsible for putting it there.

CHAPTER | SIXTEEN

W
ILEY
S
COGGINS ADDRESSED
Jack from behind a counter constructed of sawhorses and plank board. “Where’s the whiskey, Brennan?” Rifle in hand, Jack waited, letting the silence soak up the accusation. “I don’t haul liquor, Mr. Scoggins.”

The man laughed, then gradually sobered. “You’re serious.”

“Yes, sir, I am. But I’ve got plenty of other things that will interest the men.”

“The men don’t want schoolbooks and peppermint sticks, Mr. Brennan. They want liquor. Women and liquor. We’ve already got the one—we need the other.”

Jack sensed Mademoiselle Girard’s tension beside him but kept his focus on Scoggins. “Then you’re going to have to arrange shipment for that through someone else. Liquor, the way it’s consumed here, isn’t something I condone. Among other things . . .”

“Teetotaler are you, Brennan?”

Ignoring the obvious taunt, Jack pulled the inventory list from his pocket. “Every other item you ordered is in the wagon. Just as you requested.”

“Except the most important one!”

As though reconsidering his outburst, Scoggins smiled and spread his arms wide. “Listen, friend. The men around here like to enjoy a drink every now and then. There’s no harm in that. After a hard day’s work, they deserve it.”

“From the looks of things here I’d hardly label the drinking these men do as ‘every now and then.” ’

The merchant’s stare hardened. “I’ll give you twice your normal profit.”

“Not interested.”

Scoggins moved from behind the counter. “Three times your profit, and that’s my final offer.”

Jack shook his head. “My answer stands.”

An unexpected grin replaced the merchant’s frown. “Don’t tell me, Brennan . . . your father was a drunk and used to beat you senseless, so you’ve sworn off the stuff for good. Now you’re on some kind of” —his voice deepened, and he jabbed his forefinger in the air like some sort of hellfire-and-brimstone preacher—“holy rampage to rid the world of the evil brew.”

Jack was only mildly amused. “You have the phrasing down, Scoggins. I’ll give you that. But you couldn’t be further from the truth. My father was the kindest man I’ve ever known, but I’ve seen what liquor can do to a man. I won’t be party to it, and there’s nothing you can say or do that will convince me otherwise.”

The blood vessels in Scoggins’s forehead became more pronounced. “What if I tell you I’m not interested in anything you’ve got today, Mr. Brennan?”

Jack carefully let out his breath, knowing he had yet to inquire about Mademoiselle Girard’s father—and knowing Scoggins would likely be of little help to them now, even if he did know something. “Then I’d say I’m sorry we can’t reach an agreement. And like I told you earlier, I’ll sell whatever you don’t want to the miners outside, if they’re interested.”

Mademoiselle Girard stepped forward, but Jack caught her arm.

Scoggins’s attention shifted. “I haven’t had the pleasure, Brennan. Is this your wife?”

Jack hesitated. “The lady is with me.”

“The lady . . .” Scoggins nodded slowly. “Well . . . that answers that, now, doesn’t it.”

She scoffed. “Monsieur Scoggins, you are being most unreas—”

“Mademoiselle, please.” Jack pulled her close and leaned down. “You gave me your word.”

“But he is being unfair to you,” she whispered, their faces nearly touching.

Scoggins snickered. “She’s a feisty one. Aren’t you, mademoiselle?
Est-ce que les choses vous rendent toujours si passionnée? Si oui, je voudrais discuter autres choses qui vous intéresse.”

Jack felt her arm tense beneath his hold.

She slowly faced Scoggins again.
“Voire l’injustice, c’est ça qui me rend passionnée . . . ça et les imbéciles qui ont été donné l’autorité.”

The man’s laughter filled the room.

Jack stared between them. He’d not seen this steely look in her eyes before, though the high-and-mighty tone sounded vaguely familiar. “What did you just say to him? And what did he say to you?”

Scoggins stepped forward.
“Et si j’achète tout ce qu’il a, ma chérie, que vaut-il a` vous? Il y a certaines choses qui je suis toujours prêt a` marchander.”

Jack didn’t understand the words, but from the tone of Scoggins’s voice—and the outraged disbelief on Mademoiselle Girard’s face—he didn’t need to. Her honor had been insulted.

Knowing he had only one chance on a guy this size, Jack sank the butt of his rifle into the man’s midsection, then came up hard with his elbow and caught the man in the mouth.

Scoggins staggered back a few steps, a string of profanities punctuating his groans.

Jack quickly laid aside his rifle and braced himself, reminded again of what a bad idea it had been to accept Mademoiselle Girard’s offer.

Regaining his balance, Scoggins tensed for a charge. Then he froze. His eyes went wide.

Confused, Jack followed the man’s gaze. And the same numb shock that lined Scoggins’s expression coursed through him.

Mademoiselle Girard had the butt of the rifle pressed flush against her shoulder, her chin tucked and the barrel pointed—from best Jack could tell—somewhere within a six-foot proximity of where Scoggins stood. Though her aim needed work, the effect was intimidating—more so if you couldn’t see that the safety was still on. Which Scoggins couldn’t from his vantage point.

“Mademoiselle . . .” Jack spoke softly, moving to place his hand over hers on the barrel. “I don’t believe it will come to that today.” He took the rifle from her and felt her trembling. “I’d appreciate you waiting by the door for me, please.”

“But this man! His behavior! I fail to
comprendre
—”

Jack pressed his fingers to her lips, apparently surprising her by the gesture as much as he surprised himself. “
Please
, Mademoiselle Girard,” he whispered, finding the softness of her mouth distracting. “Trust me in this.”

She studied him, struggle evident in her expression.

Jack stared at her pert little pout. She possessed such fire, such presence, for one so young. To his relief, she did as he asked and went to wait by the door.

But her look told him she was none too happy about it.

Jack turned. “Scoggins, be assured that I’ll never—”

“I’ll buy the whole load—everything but the books and candy.” Scoggins rubbed his jaw, smiling. “There hasn’t been this much excitement around here in a long time.” He looked at Mademoiselle Girard.
“Je suis désolé, mademoiselle. Je viens de faire le sot, et dans le très mauvais goût.”

Jack turned to her, seeking translation.

“Monsieur Scoggins offered an apology to me . . . which I accept.”

Her smile only hinted at warmth. “And an apology to you, Monsieur Brennan. And as a token of faith in future dealings, he offers to pay an additional . . . ten percent on the total amount of his receipt.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that not correct, Mr. Scoggins?”

The man stared, then shook his head. “Yes, ma’am. That’s correct.”

Not believing for a second that Scoggins had made that offer, Jack accepted. And his respect for the diminutive woman beside him increased tenfold.

As they finalized the transaction, Scoggins ordered the supplies be unloaded and Jack inquired about Pierre Gustave Girard, briefly explaining the situation. “He originally came over in the early fifties and—”

Mademoiselle Girard laid a hand on his arm. “
Pardonnez-moi,
but that is not correct.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “My
papa
left Paris in 1846, when I was but five years old.”

Jack let that sink in. “But that would mean you’re thir—” Seeing the subtle rise of her brow, he caught himself. He curbed his smile, both at her reaction and at realizing they were much closer in age than he’d imagined. “I stand corrected, Scoggins. Her father came over in ’46.”

Scoggins finished counting out the bills according to Jack’s itemized receipt. And he shot Mademoiselle Girard a begrudging look as he tacked on the extra ten percent. “I’ve never heard of the man, and I’ve been here since the first blast nineteen years ago. Most of the Frenchmen who came through here in the beginning moved on to prospecting when gold showed up in the streams. Either that or they went to camps that were mining more gold than Jenny’s at the time.”