Free Remembered by Tamera Alexander Page A

yet again, as a woman much younger than her actual age. All her life, other people had made decisions for her, and she’d let them, having no choice in the matter. But in past months she had discovered that she did have choices. She liked that difference and wasn’t about to surrender it willingly.
    “So under the circumstances . . .” Sampson paused. His eyes narrowed for a slight instant. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with what you’re askin’ of me. Not and do it in good conscience. Je suis désolé , Mademoiselle Girard,” he added, the pronunciation of his apology near faultless.
    Véronique couldn’t find the words to respond. He’d flatly refused her request, but he’d done it in such a caring manner she couldn’t hold him in contempt. So why did her jaw ache so badly? And what was this heat stirring in the center of her chest and spiraling up into her throat? She could scarcely breathe because of it. Monsieur Sampson’s concern for her, however sincere, didn’t change her reasons for being there or her determination to see this journey through. Apparently she hadn’t made that clear enough.
    “Monsieur Sampson, I spent over a month on a ship crossing the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, caring for four sick children and their mère while I myself was ill on more than one occasion. Followed by riding in a train, where I either suffocated from the closed air or choked from cinders and ash blowing in my face. After that extrême pleasure, I was stuffed into a coach with five other passengers and jostled for miles in order to get to . . . this place. I have invested much in my journey to stand here before you now.” She hiccupped a breath. Her whole body trembled. “And yet you tell me you are intentionally refusing to provide me aid? Might I ask why?”
    Fisting her hands at her sides, she waited for him to answer, her words playing back in her mind. Never had she spoken to anyone like this before, much less a stranger and a man as kind as Monsieur Sampson seemed to be.
    She bowed her head and kept her attention focused on the caked hem of her skirt. Might Christophe have been right? Was she stronger than she once considered herself to be? But if this behavior could be defined as stronger, should she truly desire such a thing? She fully expected Monsieur Sampson’s response to match the ferveur of her own, and with good cause. She had spoken out of turn, and to a much older gentleman—no matter that her rank would have far exceeded his in France.
    But when she lifted her chin, she saw only kindness and compassion in his eyes.
    “When did you last see your father, Mademoiselle Girard?” he asked after a long moment, his voice barely audible over the low crackle of the fire.
    Her chin trembled. She couldn’t answer.
    “Or have you ever seen him?”
    She blinked and tears slipped free. “He left for the Americas when I was but a child.”
    “So he was a trapper.”
    She nodded. “Before he turned to mining. He was supposed to send for us, my mother and me.”
    Silence settled between them, unencumbered, as though they’d spoken to one another like this many times before. Something within her told her she could trust Jake Sampson, and she chose to listen to that voice.
    “But your father never sent for you, did he. . . . And now you’re here, some twenty years later, hoping to find him.” Monsieur Sampson’s focus flickered past her to the open doors. “Is your mother here with you?”
    Oui, in every way but one . She shook her head, her throat tightening. “I left my mother in France,” she whispered. “In Cimetière Montmartre.”

CHAPTER | FIVE
    M R. S AMPSON, YOU CERTAINLY do fine work, sir.” Having just come from lunch with the Carlsons, Jack knelt to survey the undercarriage of the wagon. Reinforcements of wood and steel crisscrossed the breadth and width of the extra deep wagon bed, enabling the conveyance to withstand even the heaviest loads he would demand of