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time.”
    She nodded. “I’ll have them carried up to your room.”
    As Lilly disappeared back through the side door, laughter coming from outside drew Véronique’s attention. She stepped closer to the window for a better look.
    Bertram Colby stood on the boardwalk a few feet away, speaking with another man. The stranger’s back was to her, but the sound of his deep laughter carried through the open window. She could hear their voices but not the specifics of their conversation.
    Standing at least a head taller than Monsieur Colby, the man was broad shouldered and possessed a manner that bespoke familiarity. And kindness. He turned toward her then, and Véronique found her interest substantially piqued.
    Monsieur Colby’s voice lowered. He looked away, still speaking, and the taller gentleman reached out and laid a hand on Colby’s shoulder, nodding. Apparently Monsieur Colby had crossed paths with a trusted camarade , and that spoke most highly for the man.
    The sound of a door opening brought Véronique’s attention around.
    “I’ve got your key and have water warming on the stove for your bath, Mademoiselle Girard.” Lilly joined her by the window.
    “Thank you, Lilly.” Véronique motioned in the direction of Bertram Colby and his friend. “What do you know about that gentleman standing there?”
    “Mr. Colby? Everybody knows—”
    “ Non, non , my apologies,” Véronique whispered. “I have made Mr. Colby’s acquaintance. I was referring to the other gentleman.”
    Lilly shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before.” A mischievous grin crept over her pretty face. “And I think I’d remember if I had. He’s a mite easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”
    Although not familiar with Lilly’s phrasing, Véronique understood her tone and agreed wholeheartedly, though wasn’t about to admit such aloud. She nudged Lilly with a shoulder and gave her a playful smile. “How is it that you take notice of such things, ma chérie ? That man is far too many years your senior.”
    Innocence swept Lilly’s face. “Oh, I wasn’t talkin’ about me, Mademoiselle Girard.” The tiniest flicker of a gleam entered her eyes as she turned. “I was looking at him for you.”
    Véronique chuckled and stole a last glance out the window before turning and following the girl upstairs. She felt more at ease on her first day in Willow Springs than she’d ever expected to, especially when the real journey still awaited her. “I think I would be wise to keep both of my eyes on you, Lilly Carlson. You are youthful, to be sure, but by no means are you still a child.”
    Thoughts of Christophe sprang to her mind, bringing memories of home. The longing for Paris was always close. That never changed, no matter the miles distancing her from her dearest friend, or from the Marchand home, or from everything familiar.
    What was so foreign in that moment was the sudden and unexpected connection she felt to this place—and to the father she’d never really known. She thought of the letters her mother had received from Pierre Gustave Girard, and of a particular missive in which he had informed them he was turning from fur trading to mining. “The streams and rivers no longer yield sufficient trappings, but there is opportunity in mining in these grand mountains. Many have found their fortune already, and I hope soon to be among their number.” In a subsequent letter he had described his new profession but his words hinted at having been carefully chosen. And even as a young girl, Véronique had gathered that mining was a dangerous occupation.
    That envelope, nested with others at the bottom of one of her trunks, bore a handstamp with this town’s name, and a date registering almost twenty years ago. But would that letter’s journey back to its birthplace prove to be any more fruitful than the years of waiting she and her mother had endured?
    Lilly reached the third floor and chose the left hallway.
    Formerly lost in her thoughts,