Remembered by Tamera Alexander Read Free Book Online

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    Smoky brown in color, they appeared dull, lifeless. She thought of Lilly’s flashing violet eyes and their brilliance, contrasted them with her own, and came up lacking. Truth be told, the girl possessed the exact coloring Véronique would have chosen if the Maker had granted her choice.
    Sighing, she turned away and withdrew the few remaining pins from her coiffure . Her hair fell down her back. She massaged her neck and shoulders. This journey had been enlightening in so many ways, and humbling in others.
    Being employed by Lord Marchand had afforded her and her mother a way of life she’d taken for granted, having known nothing else. The household staff had seen to all of her basic needs. Her clothes, only slightly less fine than Francette’s, had been sewn by the Marchands’ personal family seamstress and when soiled would disappear only to reappear the next day, freshly laundered and back in her armoire . Until forced to leave Paris last summer, she’d never realized how pampered an existence she had lived, and how much she had depended on the security and familiarity of that life to make her feel safe. To tell her who she was.
    She moved closer to the window, careful not to get too close, and gave the shutters a push to allow the cool breeze greater entrance. That was one thing she’d quickly come to appreciate about this Colorado Territory—no matter how warm midday grew with the coming spring, the evenings summoned a welcome cool. She breathed in and detected a sweetness on the air—a pleasant fragrance, yet unfamiliar.
    Then she heard it again. . . . Laughter so rich and deep that the mere sound of it persuaded a smile.
    Considering the direction from which it came, she guessed Monsieur Colby and his friend were still standing just outside on the boardwalk, two stories below. She gauged the distance to the window.
    White lace curtains fluttered in the breeze, bidding silent invitation—either that or issuing a dare. She hesitated, trying not to think about how the floor beneath her feet projected from the building, supported only by a corbel beneath. But the need to be in control, to prove that she could do something of her own volition, momentarily outweighed her fears.
    She forced one foot in front of the other.
    For centuries, buildings in Paris had been built with oriel windows, so the architectural design wasn’t new to her. She simply tried to avoid them, making an extra effort to do so when they were open, like now.
    She braced her hands on either side of the window. It’s only three stories. It’s only three stories . The phrase played like a silent mantra in her head.
    Quick breaths accompanied the pounding in her chest as the sides of the window inched past her peripheral view. Finally, her midsection made contact with the sill. She gritted her teeth and ignored a shiver as the street below moved into view.
    Closing her eyes, she gathered the last of her nerve and leaned forward. A swimming sensation caused her to tighten her hold on the wood framing. She waited for it to pass, and gradually opened her eyes.
    Monsieur Colby and his friend were indeed standing where they had been, below her window, as she’d guessed. Street traffic had thinned as afternoon made way for evening.
    Her body flushed hot, then cold. I can do this. . . .
    One street over, a woman at the mercantile swept the boardwalk while a young boy scrubbed the front windows. A bubbling creek carved its way down the mountains, skirting the edge of town, and a white steeple rose in the distance. She couldn’t be certain at this distance, but what appeared to be a graveyard lay alongside the length of the churchyard. Lilly had been right, this window provided an excellent vantage point from which to view Willow Springs.
    A flush of lightheadedness made her head swim, and a faint whirring began in the far corners of her mind.
    Rouge tinted the western horizon, an azur sky offsetting the reddish hue. The mountains glowed in the late