My Heart Remembers (13 page)

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Mattie

Rocky Crest Ranch

March, 1903

H
ey, Matthew, I thought you was goin’ to the cabin.” Matt turned from the ewe he’d been treating to an ear scratch. Clancy ambled across the hay-scattered floor of the barn. The openings at either end of the huge barn allowed anyone to come and go without squeaky door hinges sending an advance warning of their presence. More than once he’d been startled by one of the other hands who’d quietly moseyed in.

“Your turn fer church service tomorrow. Carriage leaves early.”

Clancy’s reminder made Matt smile. The wiry, leather-faced sheepman had assumed a fatherly role toward Matt after learning of his orphan status. Matt had grown very fond of Clancy, despite the older man’s crusty tone.

“Oh, I’ll be up an’ ready.” Matt had only attended one worship service since he’d arrived at Rocky Crest, and that was with an itinerant circuit preacher. Tomorrow Mr. Harders was driving the distance to Shay’s Ford to attend a chapel with his son. Matt looked forward to worshiping in a real church building rather than in the circuit rider’s tent. He also aimed to thank Jackson Harders for sending word about Petey. Apparently the little boy had joined up with some newsboys who were allowed to sleep nights at a shop in town and then were given breakfast each morning. It had eased his mind considerably, knowing the boy at least had some care.

“What’cha doin’ out here, ’sides keepin’ that ewe from sleepin’?”

Matt glanced around the barn, pulling in a deep breath. “Just came out to . . . I don’t know . . . relax, I guess. It’s peaceful out here.” The truth of his statement took him by surprise. Who would have thought he’d find sheep preferable to cattle? Yet the woolly bleaters had grown on him. Rocky Crest had grown on him. He liked Clancy, he liked Mr. Harders, he liked his cabin . . . and he even liked the sheep. Smiling to himself, he turned back to Clancy. “I could ask you the same question. Quittin’ time came and went quite a while ago.”

Clancy shrugged and sauntered forward to drape his bony elbow over the wooden rail that separated two stalls. “Monday is hoof-trimmin’ day. Thought I’d come out, peek at a few feet, get an idea on how many’ll need attention.”

Matt knew how to shoe a horse but not how to trim a sheep’s hoof. He stepped forward, eager to add to his knowledge. “How’s it done?”

As Matt had come to expect, Clancy gave a deep bob of his gray head and said, “Lemme show ya.” He bent over, lifted a rear foot on the ewe, and rested it between his knees. “See, first you check for hoof rot. Hoof rot can be real contagious, so you have to treat it right away.”

Matt nodded. When he’d first arrived, he’d expressed surprise at the open barn. Clancy had explained the lack of doors provided cross ventilation, keeping things more dry, which helped prevent hoof rot. Of course, those wide openings also made it easy for the sheep to take a mind and wander off. A fellow had to keep a close eye on the critters.

He returned his focus to Clancy’s tutelage. “How do you know if it’s there?”

The older man worked his grizzled jaw back and forth for a moment, as if deep in thought. “Wal . . . there’ll be soft spots on the hoof—you hafta cut ’em off. Most likely they’ll bleed afterwards, so you follow that up with chloroform to keep it from gettin’ infected.”

“Chloroform?” Matt crunched his eyebrows. “Isn’t that what’s used to put people to sleep for surgery?”

Clancy smirked. “Yep. But like lots of things, it’s got more’n one use.”

“Okay.” Matt shrugged. Interesting the things he’d learned from Clancy. “What else?”

Clancy shifted his gaze to the ewe’s hoof. “The hoof has to be trimmed at the tip—see how it’s stickin’ a-way out here? That makes walkin’ uncomfortable. So you trim that part off. You also trim the weight-bearin’ part of the hoof ”—he skimmed his hand along the bottom—“so it’s flat. Then you clean around the edges, tuggin’ loose any dried grass or thorns. Then you give the ewe a nice pat”—which he did—“and let it go. All done.”

Clancy straightened and brushed his palms together while the ewe did a little shifting dance at his feet. “An’ now that you know, ya oughtta head on to bed. That ride to Shay’s Ford is pert near an hour. Gerald don’t hold with leavin’ late.”

Matt chuckled. “Clancy, I’ve been risin’ early for as many years as I can remember. I won’t miss my ride.”

Clancy grimaced. “Heaven knows you’re a capable man an’ I got no need to fuss over ya. But . . .” He rubbed the underside of his nose with a weather-aged finger. “Never had me a family to fuss over, y’know.”

Matt’s heart turned over at the sincere words muttered in the familiar terse voice.
Lord, thank you for sendin’ me here. I do feel at home
.

“Yeah . . .” Clancy’s voice sounded distant—even a little sad. His gaze aimed somewhere beyond Matt’s shoulder. “All the hands that’ve come an’ gone . . . Fellers just don’t seem to cotton to our woollies fer some reason. Makes it hard on a body, gettin’ used to someone new all the time. But you, Matthew?” He looked Matt in the eye. “You got stick-to-it-iveness, an’ I gotta say I’m proud of the way you been jumpin’ in, doin’ whatever’s asked without complaint. Gerald hired himself a good’un when he hired you.”

Clancy’s approval made Matt’s chest feel as if it expanded. He grinned, backing up and lifting his hand in a wave. “I’ll head on to the cabin now. Don’t wanna oversleep an’ miss my ride to church. See you tomorrow.”

Walking through the dusky twilight, Matt sucked deeply of the evening air. Even the smells were different on a sheep ranch, he acknowledged. Sheep were more . . . He pinched his brow, trying to find a description. He settled on musky. Not unpleasant, he realized.
The smell of cows could curl a man’s nose hair
. Then again, a person got used to it over time.

Just like he’d gotten used to the sheep.

He entered the cabin he shared with Clancy. A long, narrow sitting room opened into two ten-foot-square bedrooms that each contained a rope bed, a small table for a lantern, and a trunk to store belongings. Nothing fancy, but dry, clean, and all his own.

Matt lit the lantern, closed the door, and stripped down to his long johns. Stretched out on his bed, he stared at the soft shadows dancing on the thick ceiling joists. It was quiet without Clancy’s rattling snore coming through the walls. Funny how a person got used to certain sounds. Without the snore, he didn’t feel like it was time to sleep.

Sitting up, he reached for his Bible, which waited on the small table beside his bed. Holding the book, he remembered Mr. Smallwood’s delight when Matt had shared his decision to ask Jesus into his heart. The old man had embraced him, told him he’d been praying for Matt to do that very thing, then hauled him into the mercantile to buy him his very first Bible.

“You read that every day, Matthew,” Mr. Smallwood had said as he’d placed the Bible reverently into Matt’s hands, “and you’ll grow ever closer to your Savior. You strive to follow Him, and you’ll find joy.” Flicking the edges of the pages, Matt suddenly remembered a preacher calling Jesus the Good Shepherd. The remembrance stirred pleasant feelings in his chest.

Opening the cover on the black book, he removed a faded photograph. He held it toward the yellow lantern glow to better see the sober faces. Ma, Da, Maelle, baby Molly, and himself, all lined up in front of their little cottage. With a rough finger, he touched each face, the loneliness swelling as it did every time he took out the picture.
Lord, be with ’em, wherever they are.
He placed the Bible back on the table and propped the creased photo against it.

He eased under the quilt and rolled to his side, facing the table. The coarse sheet covering the straw mattress smelled dusty, but it sure beat a bedroll on the ground. “Dear Lord,” he prayed aloud, “thank you that I’m no longer movin’ on. Do you reckon now that I’m settled Maelle’ll finally be able to find me?”

Maelle

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

March, 1903

Maelle held a match to the lantern’s cloth wick. The bright flare made her blink rapidly. She adjusted the dial, bringing the flame under control, and then lowered the globe into place. A pleasant yellow glow lit the wagon’s interior. With a puff, she extinguished the match and dropped it into a bowl of water. She smiled at the hiss of the match as it hit the soapy liquid.

What a gift Jackson Harders had given her by allowing her access to his office building. Running water less than twelve feet from the back of her wagon! And she didn’t have to boil it before using it. Just splash it from the bucket into the pitcher or the washbowl. Her skin tingled pleasantly from the recent bath. How good it felt to be clean.

She drew her finger through the cool water in the bowl, creating swirls in the soap residue. Her imagination took flight, and she envisioned clouds, then creamed coffee, and a man’s curling white beard. The thought of a beard made her frown, and she turned from the bowl, wiping her finger dry on her pant leg.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll. She paused, her head tilted, counting the resounding bongs. Over the week she’d spent in Shay’s Ford, she’d become accustomed to the bell tolling out the hours of nine, noon, three, and six o’clock each day. Before she left, she’d have to locate and take a photograph of the bell’s source. She imagined a quaint chapel—one bearing a deeply steeped roof, stained-glass keyhole windows, and a high cupola graced by a wooden cross.

Opening a small cupboard, she withdrew a loaf of bread and jar of jam. Her fold-down bunk served as a table when she rolled the pallet aside and perched beside it on a stool. As she leaned forward to smear jam on a thick slice of bread, her hair swung into her way. She caught the thick waves and gathered them into a tail at the base of her neck, nimbly twisting the strands into a loose braid. Closing her eyes, she relished the feel of her fingers in her hair. The auburn locks hadn’t felt a scissors’ blades in more than a dozen years. If she had her way, they never would.

Her hair temporarily restrained, she ate her simple breakfast in the dim lantern light. Glancing around the shadowy, stuffy space, she once again wished the wagon had a window. Just a small one to let in the morning light and air.

The only opening in the wagon was the back hatch. But opening it exposed the entire interior to the public. When she parked in the countryside, she left the hatch open, but never in town. Even here, parked in an alley, the back of the wagon faced a side street—a busy side street, since it intersected with Main Street. And an open hatch invited curious gawking. So, despite the confined feeling, she kept it closed.

She finished the last bite of her bread and pushed to her feet, prepared to transform her bunk-turned-breakfast-table into a work surface to develop the portraits she’d shot of area families during the past week. Just as she reached beneath the bunk for her box of chemicals, a banging on the back of the wagon startled her.

Frowning, she took the two steps necessary to reach the dropdown door, released the pins, caught the rope, and allowed the door to fold outward a few inches. Buttery sunlight and a sweet-scented breeze poured through the narrow gap. “Who’s out there?”

“Jackson Harders.”

Her heart lurched. What could he want? “Step out of the way—I’m dropping the hatch.” She waited a few seconds before letting the rope slide through her hands until the hatch caught on the side chains. With the hatch fully open, the morning sun nearly blinded her.

She shielded her eyes with her hand and peered down at Jackson, who stood to the side, grinning upward. She scowled. “Have I worn out my welcome?”

His grin faded at her solemn greeting. “What?”

“Did you come to tell me it’s time to move on?” A week was about as long as she and Richard had ever stayed in any community, but based on the contacts she’d made in the past several days, she knew she could stay busy here for at least another week—maybe longer. According to the townspeople, a photographer hadn’t been through in quite some time. If Jackson sent her away, she’d find a camping area close to town.

Jackson removed his bowler and held it against his thigh. “I have no intention of asking you to leave. You may stay as long as you like.”

Relief washed over her.

He flashed a bright smile. “The photographs you sold to the newspaper, and the subsequent interview the reporter offered me, have generated much interest in my cause to end child labor. You, Miss Mike Watts, are my new hero.”

A flutter of nervousness diminished the feeling of relief. His gaze was a bit too attentive for comfort. “Oh. Thanks.” The chains groaned in protest as she crept out onto the hatch. “Then, what did you need?” She looked him up and down, taking in his three-piece pin-striped suit and newly polished shoes. Instantly she felt dowdy in her wrinkled shirt, trousers, and unraveling braid.

Slapping the hat back over his dark, brilliantined hair, he grinned. “My father is coming in this morning. Would you like to accompany me to church service?”

Maelle nearly laughed. The idea of attending a formal service certainly appealed to her, but he must be daft to think she’d go with him. “No, thank you.”

“Why not?”

His innocent query stirred Maelle’s frustration. Her primary reason was to keep her distance from him. But she didn’t care to communicate that to Jackson. So she chose an excuse he would certainly understand. Her eyebrows high, she silently gestured to her clothes.

He gave her a glance, and understanding dawned. “Ah . . .”

Then he shrugged. “Service doesn’t start for nearly an hour. Change.”

Change
. As if it were that simple. Temptation to go—not necessarily
with
Jackson, but to just go to a church service—tugged hard. Taking in his fashionable appearance, she was certain the members of whatever church he attended would not appreciate having a trouser-wearing female in their midst. She shook her head, strands of hair slipping loose from her braid and tickling her cheeks.