Remembered (34 page)

Véronique was proud of her ability to identify most of the trees now, aided by the book she’d borrowed from the library in Willow Springs entitled
Mountainous Nature and Wildlife
. The section of the book dedicated to wildlife was rather lacking, however, and the drawings of the animals were annoyingly childlike.

The mid-May sun burned bright overhead, and she shielded her eyes from the glare. A canopy would also be a considerate addition to a wagon like this, but she kept that suggestion to herself. “I much prefer these trips that do not take us as high into the mountains. But I do miss the cooler air.”

Jack motioned. “Those clouds layering the north promise some afternoon shade. Maybe even rain. I’ve noticed you don’t carry that umbrella around with you anymore. Would come in handy today though, wouldn’t it?”

“Umbrella?” She tried to mimic the way he said it. “Do you refer to my
parasol
?”

“You know exactly what I’m referring to, Vernie. Whatever name you want to give it.”

She smiled despite his use of that horrid nickname. It was still her theory that if she ignored it, he would cease using it. “I am thinking that if I had it with me now you would demand that I—”

The sudden pop beneath the wagon sounded like a firecracker going off. Another crack followed.

Jack immediately pulled back on the reins. Napoleon and Charlemagne responded but snorted and stomped at the sudden command.

Holding onto the seat, Véronique leaned over her side of the wagon and briefly peered beneath. “Nothing is broken with
your
wagon . . . that I can see.”

Jack sent her a look that said he’d caught her inflection. “Oh sure, it’s
my
wagon when it breaks.”

“I believe that would be a good rule for us to make.”

He got out and came around to her side. “With a noise like that, it doesn’t sound promising.” He ran a hand along the front wheel, stooping as he went. Then he stopped and blew out a breath. “Cracked felly.”

Véronique didn’t know what a felly was, but she knew from the tone of his voice that the repair would not be an easy one. “Was there something wrong with the wheel Monsieur Sampson made you?”

“No.” He sighed. “This just happens over time when you’re hauling heavy loads over rough terrain.”

“We will need a new wheel?”

He stood, took off his hat, and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Yes, ma’am, we will. Thankfully we’ve got one attached to the underside of the wagon bed. But . . . this means I’ve got to unload everything.”

Véronique looked at the boxes and crates stacked high and filling every inch of space. “The entire shipment must be removed?”

“Everything.” He began loosening the ties of the netting. “The wagon is heavy enough on its own. I can barely manage it empty.”

Véronique stretched her back and shoulder muscles, then turned on the seat to see him better. “You have done this before,
non
?”

His hands stilled. He tipped back his hat. “Just what is it you think I’ve done for the past thirteen years, Véronique?”

She shrugged, then seeing his expression darken, wished she hadn’t. “You were a driver of wagons. You . . . ‘guided folks.’ That is what Monsieur Sampson told me.”

Jack shook his head and went back to his task. “This’ll take me about an hour to unload, about that much more to change the wheel, and then another hour to pack everything back in. So you might want to get comfortable.”

Véronique climbed down from the wagon, wishing she hadn’t sounded so flippant about his former occupation. That hadn’t been her intention. And she sensed she’d hurt him. “I will help you do this, and then I must take a . . . brief respite.”

“I can get this. You go ahead and take care of business. But don’t go far.” Without looking at her, he took off his hat and tossed it up on the bench seat.

Véronique scanned the slope leading down to the creek but saw no opportunity for privacy there. She looked above to where the mountain angled upward and chose that option instead. Trees were plentiful and boulders large enough to stand behind dotted the wooded landscape.

Needing some therapeutic papers, she turned to retrieve her
valise
and found Jack already holding the papers out to her.

Unable to look him in the eye, she took the bundle from him. “
Merci beaucoup
,” she whispered, then quickly crossed the narrow gulley and began her climb.

The aspens were just beginning to leaf, and as she forged a path upward through the trees, she looked behind her on occasion, setting that perspective to memory as Jack had taught her on a previous trip. But she had little worry of getting lost on such a short climb.

The pungent scent of musk mingled with the sweetness of the pines, and she was reminded again of how much she enjoyed spring. A ways uphill, she located a large boulder companioned by an evergreen that provided sufficient privacy. She knelt behind it.

The sound of Jack rearranging the crates and boxes in the wagon on the road below drifted up to her, and she was thankful for the ambient noise. This was one aspect of traveling with him that she hadn’t grown comfortable with, and doubted whether she would anytime soon. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem bothered by it in the least.

“You all right?” he yelled.

She smiled. If ever she’d been gone for any length of time, he’d always called out to her. “
Oui
, I am fine. . . .
Merci beaucoup
.”

After a moment, she stood and adjusted her skirt, then used the extra papers to wipe her hands. She looked at the name printed on each one of the sheets.
Joseph Gayetty
. What kind of man would print his name on a piece of paper created for such use? She shook her head.
Americans . . .

She bent down to retie her boot and spotted a furry black-andwhite nose edging its way through the low-growing brush.

Véronique crept back a step, resisting the urge to run or scream. She had read about the animal in the book from the library and had also seen them on her journey to Willow Springs with Bertram Colby. Though the ones they had seen then had been quite dead at the time—just as she wished this one to be.

She slowly backed away, feeling behind her for anything in her path.

The animal crawled out from beneath the shrub, completely black except for the white strip on its forehead that extended into a V down its back.

It made a path straight for her.

“Jack,” she called, increasing her backward momentum.

Bertram Colby had said these animals, similar to those in France, came out only at night. But apparently he had been mistaken. He’d also said they were naturally afraid of humans. Again, a fact not proving true in this instance.

Perhaps Monsieur Colby’s knowledge didn’t extend to the animals living in this part of the—

The skunk darted for her, sending Véronique’s heart to her throat. Then he stopped and walked stiff-legged for a few paces.

Or perhaps Monsieur Colby had been right but there was something wrong with this particular animal.

Véronique met with a tree at her back and quickly maneuvered around it. “Jack!” She raised her voice only slightly, remembering that the book recommended “not to cry out when confronted by a skunk, as this mammal could become easily agitated.”

The animal’s head went low, and came up sharply. He stamped his front feet and ran full out straight for her.

Véronique started to run downhill, but a rise of boulders blocked her path. So she ran on the slope, finding it hard to keep her footing amid the rocks and low-growing branches.

From the scurry of the skunk behind her, it was clear he was not having the same difficulty.

“Jack!” She screamed as loudly as she could, figuring the animal had already reached an agitated state. She glanced behind her.

The skunk was at least six or eight feet behind but was covering the ground more quickly.

Véronique turned back and spotted the pine branch just as it caught her in the face. Her right cheek felt like someone had struck a match against it.

“Véronique!” Jack’s voice sounded muted, far away.

“Jack!” She pushed limbs from her path as she ran. Just ahead, she spotted what looked to be a more level path to her right, and she took it.

Then quickly realized what a poor choice that had been.

CHAPTER | TWENTY - EIGHT

T
HE CAVE LOOMED AHEAD,
the skunk loomed behind. And Véronique found neither choice appealing.

Breathless from her run, she paused and braced her arms on her thighs. She drew in air and swallowed, trying to ease the burning in her lungs. From the tall earthen walls on either side, she guessed the entrance to the cave had been carved out by hand rather than by nature.

The skunk crested the hill, took a few steps, and stopped.

Véronique eyed him. Perhaps the wicked little creature was as tired as she was and had finally decided to—

The fur on its back went stiff. The skunk turned, and raised its tail.

Véronique put her hand over her nose and mouth and ran.

She ducked into the cave, stopping within a few feet of the opening. Everything beyond that point was darkness.

The pungent spray filtered in. Her eyes began to burn. Her throat tightened with the same stinging. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to ease the pain and adjust to the lesser light.

Using the wall of the cave as a guide, she took measured steps deeper into the cavern, aware of the fading light behind her. She swallowed, and the saliva caught in her throat. Coughing, she tried to catch her breath as the fog of skunk spray grew thicker.

She took more steps. Darkness closed around her.

Her eyes watered, and she was unable to keep them open but for one or two seconds at a time. Her hand ran across something wet on the cave wall and she cringed. Then just as quickly, she got excited thinking it might be water. She blinked but could see nothing. She brought her hand to her face with the intention of wiping her eyes, but . . . what if it wasn’t water?

Véronique lifted her palm to her nose but could smell nothing but skunk. With her eyes already watering, she didn’t realize she was crying until her hiccupped sobs echoed back to her.

She took a few more steps inside the cave then leaned down to rub her eyes with her skirt. But that only worsened the sting.

She grew disoriented. “Jack!!” Her voice echoed back to her, Jack’s name spilling over itself in decreasing waves, one atop the other. Where was he?! And why hadn’t he come to help her?

Even that far back the stench was nauseating. Then slowly, Véro’t the lingering musk in the air. It was
hernique realized it wasn
! Her clothes reeked, her hair reeked—everything about her reeked. Which only encouraged her tears. Which should have helped her eyes. But it didn’t.

“Véronique!” Pistol at the ready, Jack quickly discovered the scattered therapeutic papers and followed the trail of strewn leaves and broken branches to the first crest in the mountain.

That’s when he smelled it.

He pulled the kerchief from his back pocket and tied it over his mouth and nose.

“Véronique!”

If she’d somehow met up with this skunk, Véronique might be scared, she might be smelling something awful, but chances of anything worse were remote. He’d seen rabid animals, but they weren’t nearly as plentiful as myth led people to believe.

Jack ran along the slope, careful with his footing, then slowed when Véronique’s trail abruptly ended. He spotted the cave just as he heard something rustle in the brush behind him.

The skunk crawled out, stiff-legged, and began to stamp its feet. It darted forward, veered, and stopped. Then lowered its head as though about to charge.

That’s all Jack needed. He aimed his pistol, gauging his sight as far away from the dangerous tail end of the varmint as he could, and fired.

The animal dropped, and Jack quickly put distance between them in case the skunk had gotten off another spray. The gunshot reverberated against the mountain walls, weakening with each returning echo.

Sure the skunk was dead, Jack turned back to the cave and approached the entrance. “Véronique!”

“Jack?”

At the sound of her voice, the first thing he felt was relief. The second thing was a cold sweat. Jack peered inside the cave and was seven years old again, standing beside Billy Blakely, staring into the dark yawn of that deserted miners’ dig.
Billy Blakely . . .

Jack tried to shake off the memory, but it hung close. “Are you all right?”

Nothing, and then a faint whimper. “I will be.”

He had no choice, and he knew it. He clicked the lock on his pistol and shoved it into the waistband at his back, all the while staring at the entrance of the cave. The skin on his back and neck crawled. “I’m coming, just stay where you are.”

As he took the first step, it struck him that those were the same words his father had yelled down that abandoned miner’s shaft to him, thirty-one years ago. Jack wondered if Véronique drew as much comfort from hearing his voice as he had his father’s. He doubted it, because she didn’t sound nearly as scared as he remembered being.

He entered the cave and paused, letting his eyes adjust. The smell of skunk was strong, and his eyes watered, his throat burned. But he didn’t dare pull the kerchief any tighter. He could barely breathe as it was.

“Véronique . . .” He waited for the echo to pass, and for his pulse, hopefully, to slow. “Can you clap your hands?”

Seconds passed.
“Oui.”

He waited. “Would you do it, please . . . one time.”

A single clap sounded.

“Good. Do that . . . every few seconds.”

A clap . . . Silence . . . Another clap . . . A slow pattern developed.

Jack followed the sound, and with each step the rush in his ears grew louder. He forced the air in and out of his lungs—evenly spaced breaths—ignoring the pace fear wanted to set for him. He would’ve sworn he could feel the walls of the cave closing in. He stretched his arms out in front of him—then to the sides just to make sure the walls hadn’t moved.

The clapping grew closer, and the stench grew stronger.