My Heart Remembers (15 page)

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

Maelle

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

March, 1903

M
aelle sat cross-legged just inside the hatch of her wagon and munched her simple lunch of cheese and crackers. Rain fell softly outside the opening, bringing in the odors of moist earth, new grass, and a hint of fish. The rain had held off until she’d finished her morning deliveries of portraits—the last pictures she intended to take in Shay’s Ford. From the looks of the gray sky, the rest of the day would be wet, which didn’t make for pleasant traveling. But for now she was dry inside her wagon, and Samson was dry inside the livery down the street, so she wouldn’t complain.

She popped another cracker into her mouth as thunder gently rumbled in the distance, sounding to Maelle like wooden wheels on cobblestone. Moments ago she’d watched Jackson’s surrey pull around the corner. Every day since she’d arrived in town, she’d seen him walk to and from the law office. The sight of him in that surrey had drawn her up short. She supposed she should have guessed from his stylish clothes and his position as a lawyer that he was a man of wealth, but it had taken the leather-covered surrey to classify him as rich in her mind.

In her years of traveling with Richard, she’d photographed more wealthy families than she could count. And she’d never learned to like them. Every one of those families reminded her of the callous couple who had snatched her baby sister from her arms and driven away. She scrunched her eyes closed, searching her memory for the name of the family. Shambler? Stamber? She huffed in frustration.

Although she’d determined to remember it, her inability to write it down—and Richard’s refusal to allow her to talk about it—had erased the name from her mind. She opened her eyes and stared at the cheese in her hand. She couldn’t remember their name, but she remembered their attitude when they’d taken Molly away. Heartless. The wealthy were heartless.

She bit off a chunk of cheese, her thoughts returning to Jackson. He was certainly wealthy, but could she call him heartless? He seemed very concerned about children caught in terrible situations. The speech he’d given at the park had been flowery, but he’d also sounded sincere. And he’d given her a safe place to park, allowing her the unlimited use of his office building. Maybe she shouldn’t call him heartless.

Finishing the last bite of cheese, she reached for her jacket. She held it over her head as she slid out of the wagon and walked to the front of the law office, where she could look across the street to the park. Through the light veil of rain, she spotted the wooden platform where Jackson had eloquently lectured his audience. Her memory replayed an image from her viewfinder: Jackson’s fervent face, his brow creased in concentration, his hands raised in supplication. Yes, he certainly cared about the children of whom he spoke. He wanted to make a difference in their lives.

Dashing across the street, she made her way to the rise where she had set up her camera. A smile tugged her cheek as she remembered the grumpy man and the shrill-voiced woman. It had felt good to stand on that wooden stage and let them know how ridiculous they were being. If they’d seen what she’d seen over the years, maybe they’d set their petty concerns aside and join Jackson in his fight.

“Take care o’ the wee ones.”

Her pa’s voice from long ago still echoed through her heart. Maelle closed her eyes for a moment, battling the tears that always accompanied the memory. Hadn’t she tried to take care of the wee ones? How many fights had she gotten into, protecting smaller kids from bigger ones? She hadn’t kept count, but surely she’d set some record for pounding bullies into the dust. Richard never approved of her fighting—especially after he’d discovered her true gender—but she’d felt obliged to follow her father’s last directive.

Now Jackson’s words seemed to be pulling her into another battle for the wee ones. A battle with legislation and politicians. She chuckled ruefully. A sock in the nose wouldn’t do much good there. It would take something more. It would take many people working together. It would take evidence of the harm being done.

She straightened her shoulders. She had evidence. Photographs. Dozens of them snapped at various work sites across the United States. She’d kept them in one of Richard’s discarded cigar boxes and had gotten them out now and then to pray for the children projected on the paper. But now she could do more than pray. She could put the photos into the hands of someone who could use them for a greater good.

Maelle gave Jackson a half hour to settle in before she entered the law office and marched to his door, the cigar box under her arm. Without asking permission from the scowling secretary, she raised her fist and banged on the paneled door.

“Come in.” His aggravated voice barked the invitation.

She pushed the door open and crossed quickly to the desk where Jackson sat blotting several ink-splattered pages with a stained handkerchief. “Accident?”

He snorted. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t do something like this on purpose.”

She resisted the urge to laugh. “No. I suppose not.” She tipped sideways to peer at the papers. “Looks like you’ll be redoing those.”

A noisy breath whooshed out of him. “Yes. As if I have time to redo these. Ah, well . . .” Tossing the handkerchief aside, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “What can I do for you this dismal afternoon?”

She plunked the cigar box on the desk right in front of Jackson. “It would be better to ask what
I
can do for
you
.”

“All right, then . . .” He glanced at the worn box, his lips quirked in puzzled query. “What can
you
do for
me
?”

Reaching across the desk, she flipped open the lid on the cigar box and waited expectantly.

Jackson looked into the box, his eyebrows jerked up, and he sat upright. “Mike . . .” He lifted out the top photograph, which showed a little girl with bare feet and a dirty apron, stretching her tiny hand toward the thread bobbin of a massive machine. His gaze slowly followed the photo as he set it aside; then his chin jerked as he turned again to the box. He reached for another, which showed a boy slumped, asleep, in a narrow patch of floor between machines.

“You took these?”

She nodded. “From Maine to the Carolinas to California . . . My uncle allowed me to practice on whatever I chose as he taught me to use the camera. Since I was a kid, I picked kids to photograph.”

He held up a picture of a row of young boys leaning over some sort of chute and tapped the photo with the backs of his fingers. “Breaker boys?”

Maelle gave a grim nod. “They sit there all day, watching the coal come out of the chutes. Their job is to pick out the rocks. Somewhere in that box is a picture of a foreman striking one of the boys on the back with a club because he dared to take his eyes off the box and stretch.” She didn’t mention the same foreman had chased her away, waving the club.

She shook her head, staring at the picture. “Can you imagine sitting like that for ten hours at a time? Some of those kids have permanently humped spines from it.” With a shrug, she added, “But at least those boys are in the fresh air. A lot of kids work inside the mines, inhaling coal dust. That’s a lot less healthy than a curved spine.”

Jackson looked at every picture, clear to the bottom of the box, then leaned back and stared at her in wonder. “These are unbelievable. And I thought our little newsboys had it rough! But this . . .” He gestured toward the stack of photographs. “This is beyond imagination. Children should not spend their childhoods like this.”

“I agree.” Maelle rested the heels of her hands on the edge of the desk. “I spent my childhood working as my uncle’s apprentice. But I had it good—I was never overworked or mistreated.

He taught me to read and write, and I learned a trade that lets me take care of myself now that my uncle’s . . . gone. I’ve carted those pictures around for years. I used them as reminders to pray for the kids. But I think you could put them to better use.”

Jackson let out a whoop as he came out of his chair. Rounding the desk in three bounds, he captured her in a hug. “You’re marvelous!”

Bile rose in her throat. With a cry of alarm, she shoved her palms hard against his chest. He released her abruptly. She stumbled but quickly regained her footing and made a show of adjusting her shirt, refusing to look at him even though she sensed his confused stare.

A few tense moments ticked by while she fingered the buttons of her shirt and he remained motionless beside his desk. Then, finally, he walked slowly behind the desk and stood there, his fingertips resting on the wooden surface.

She lifted her chin slightly and peered at him through her fringe of lashes. “Kindly keep your hands to yourself.” Deliberately, she maintained an even, almost friendly tone, but she felt certain the warning came through.

“I apologize. I just wanted to thank you for . . .” His hoarse voice drifted off, and he shook his head. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

She sucked in a deep breath and released it by increments, bringing herself under control. She offered a nod of acknowledgment before pointing to the scattered photographs. “Will those speak loud and clear to the politicians who need to change the laws?”

Jackson’s brows pulled down. “Mike, are you sure you want to part with these?”

His penetrating gaze sent a buzz of awareness down her spine. Backing up, she said, “I’m sure. Like I said, I just used them as a reminder to pray. But those images . . .” She tapped her forehead. “They’re in here, too.” Along with other images, other memories, that were just as difficult to dislodge. She swallowed. “I can pray without the pictures.”

Jackson nodded. Putting the photographs down, he offered a hesitant smile. “Thank you, Mike.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned toward the door. “I best be heading out now. Take care, Jackson, and thanks again for your hospitality.”

“Wait!” He started to come around the desk, then stopped. “You’re leaving town?”

Her hand on the doorknob, she gave a slow nod. “Yes.”

“But you’ve only been here . . . what? Three weeks?”

“Yes.”

“But aren’t there more pictures to take?”

Maelle sighed. “Jackson, I live in a wagon because I’m a
traveling
photographer. Well, the time has come to travel.”

“But if you leave now, you’ll be missing an opportunity to capture history in the making.”

His impassioned tone made her pause. “What opportunity?”

He took two steps closer but still maintained several feet’s distance. “On April eleventh, approximately thirty ranchers are meeting in Shay’s Ford to discuss providing financial backing to a potential new member of the Missouri House of Representatives. If elected, this candidate plans to use his position to change the labor laws of our state to exclude the employment of children.”

Jackson snatched up one of her photographs and waved it. “If things go the way I plan, these pictures will be a memento of the past rather than a current-day happening. And you could be the one to record it for history.”

The familiar tingle in her scalp signaled her interest. She licked her lips, considering Jackson’s words.

Apparently he took her silence for a lack of interest, because he threw his arm outward and implored, “At the very least, wouldn’t you like another opportunity to be published in the
Shay’s Ford Progress
? You do keep a portfolio of your work, don’t you?”

A slight grin trembled on her lips. Jackson would be stunned by her “portfolio.” She cleared her throat. “Oh yes. I’ve made use of several cigar boxes.”

Jackson chuckled. “Quite the filing system.”

“Simple, but effective.”

“And in the meantime,” he went on, “surely there are more families in town who could benefit from your services.”

Jackson was a good lawyer—he’d managed to change her mind, which was no mean feat. She sighed. “All right, Mr. Fancy Pants. I’ll stick around for your meeting. A follow-up in the newspaper would make a nice addition to my cigar box of articles. And there is one section of town I haven’t visited yet.”
The wealthiest section . . .

Jackson smiled. Her hand on the doorknob, Maelle nodded toward the desk and the cigar box, which sat open on top of the ink-stained pages. “Take good care o’ me wee ones,” she said, and then she slipped out the door.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Molly

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

April, 1903

I
sabelle stared with longing at the remaining bit of cinnamonladen bread on her plate. The delectable flavor of spices on her tongue made her want to snatch up the last bite and eat it. All of the Rowleys cleaned their plates at every meal. Mr. Rowley even used a piece of bread to mop up any crumbs, leaving his plate looking as though it hadn’t been used.

Mrs. Rowley reached for Aaron’s empty plate. “Are you finished?”

“Yes, ma’am, and thank you.”

Isabelle glanced up to watch Aaron rise and deposit a kiss on his mother’s plump cheek. The familiar, affectionate gesture sent a second, more intense spiral of longing through her chest.

Mrs. Rowley then turned to Isabelle. “You done, too?”

Isabelle sighed, giving her plate a little push. “Yes. Your cinnamon buns are the best I’ve ever eaten.”

Mrs. Rowley’s hand fluttered at her throat in pleasure. “Why, thank you. Don’t you want to finish it?”

Isabelle drew herself straight in the chair and rested her hands in her lap. “My mother taught me that to completely clean one’s plate appears gauche and gluttonous.”

Mr. Rowley choked on his coffee, and Aaron quickly patted him on the back. Mrs. Rowley’s face mottled with red. She smacked Isabelle’s plate on top of Aaron’s. “Well, around here, dear, we try not to waste food. So don’t worry about appearing gluttonous. If the food tastes good and you’re hungry, eat.”

Isabelle licked her lips, peering at Mrs. Rowley with her head low. “I . . . I shall try to remember.”

The older woman’s face relaxed into a gentle smile. Setting aside the stack of plates, she touched Isabelle’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I scolded. It’s clear you was raised a bit different than my scamp here.” She sent a teasing grin in Aaron’s direction, which he returned with a wink. “We’re all learning to put up with each other, and with God’s help, we’ll manage fine.”

Isabelle’s lips twitched into a half-hearted smile. “I suppose.”

Mrs. Rowley gave a bright smile. “Maybe later this morning, if things are slow, we can come up here and I’ll show you how to make the buns. Then, when you have your own house, you can still enjoy them.”

Pushing back her chair, Isabelle said, “I appreciate your offer, but I don’t see the need. I am certain I shall have a cook to see to the baking in my home.” The moment the words were out, she recognized how ungrateful and superior they sounded. Heat filled her cheeks. Sinking back into her chair, she covered her face with both hands and released a muffled groan.

Warm, sturdy arms surrounded her, and Mrs. Rowley’s tender voice whispered, “Tell us what’s troubling you, Isabelle. We’d like to help, if we can.”

Her face still hidden behind trembling hands, Isabelle shook her head. “There—there’s nothing anyone can do.”

A gentle tug brought her hands away from her face, and Isabelle found herself under the sympathetic scrutiny of the entire Rowley family.

Aaron leaned forward. “Isabelle, why are you in Shay’s Ford? What brought you here?”

She straightened in her seat, disengaging Mrs. Rowley’s embrace, and fixed him with a fierce glare. “Nothing
brought
me here. I was
forced
here against my will!”

“Forced?” Mrs. Rowley asked. “To Shay’s Ford?”

Isabelle grabbed the older woman’s hand. “My brother kicked me out of our home after our parents were killed. My fiancé broke our engagement and trundled me away in disgrace. They say—they say I’m not Isabelle Standler. They say I’m an orphan named Molly Gallagher, but I’m not! I tell you, I’m not!”

Mr. and Mrs. Rowley looked at each other. Mr. Rowley shook his head and emitted a puzzled chuckle. “You’re gonna have to slow that down a mite. I’m not so sure we follow ya.”

Tears flooded Isabelle’s eyes. She brushed them away with an impatient swipe of her hand. “I was raised in Kansas City, in the Chesterfield area.” From their blank expressions, she could tell they knew nothing of Chesterfield. She offered a simple explanation. “My father co-founded the Western-Continental Railroad.”

Mrs. Rowley plunked back into her seat. “Railroad tycoon?” she clucked, pressing a hand to her bodice. “Why, little wonder you carry yourself like a princess.”

Isabelle grimaced and hurried on. “When he and my mother were killed in a paddleboat explosion, my brother, Randolph, took ownership of the business. At the same time, he disowned me.”

Her chin quivered, but at that moment she couldn’t decide if she felt more distraught or indignant. “He gave me a Bible, which originally belonged to a family named Gallagher. Randolph insists I am one of the Gallagher children listed in the Bible’s record. He also displayed a packet of papers he asserts prove I was not born to my parents but was taken in as a baby. I’m certain all the documents are forgeries, concocted by Randolph to lay claim to my share of the inheritance, but no one believes me. When my fiancé learned I no longer had my promised inheritance, he cancelled our wedding plans. Then he—” She paused, pursing her lips. “He suggested something immoral in lieu of a marriage.” Her chin shot up. “I refused.”

“Good girl.” Mrs. Rowley gave Isabelle’s shoulder an emphatic pat.

Drawing in a deep breath, Isabelle continued. “The only other option given was for me to travel to Shay’s Ford and assume the position of house servant for a business associate of my fiancé’s father. I had no place to go, so I accepted the position with great reluctance.” She shuddered. “It was a deplorable situation. You all saved me from that, but . . .” Tears stung again.

From below, a banging erupted. They all jumped, and Mr. Rowley shot to his feet. “Customers thumpin’ the door. Gotta open up.”

Aaron started to follow. “I’ll help you, Pa.”

But Mr. Rowley waved a big hand. “No. You stay here—get Isabelle taken care of. I can handle things for a while.”

Aaron sat back down and gave her an encouraging smile. “Go ahead. We’re listening.”

One tear spilled down Isabelle’s cheek. “But I don’t belong here.” She pressed her palms to her heart, her expression fervent. “I’m certain I’m Isabelle Standler, but the Bible mocks me with the idea that perhaps I’m Molly Gallagher. I miss my home in Kansas City so much it is a constant ache in my heart, yet I can’t return to that life until my brother relinquishes his allegation that I’m not his sister. And the only way he’ll do that is with irrefutable proof. Yet how do I prove it?” A deep sigh escaped. “It’s all so very hopeless.”

“It isn’t hopeless,” Aaron said. “I think I know how you can prove it.”

Isabelle gaped at Aaron. “How? How can I prove it? Tell me.” She heard the command in her tone yet refused to apologize for it.

Aaron shrugged. “I have a friend—Jackson Harders—who’s a lawyer. He could look at those papers you were talking about and figure out if they’re real or not.”

Isabelle lowered her brows. “You have a friend who’s a lawyer?”

“Is there some reason I shouldn’t know a lawyer?”

She had insulted him, but that was the least of her worries at the moment. “Do you think he would be available to speak to me today?”

Aaron’s frown deepened. “Maybe. But you’re working today, remember?”

Isabelle ducked her head. Of course. She had things to do. Her parents had taught her to honor her responsibilities. Regardless of how desperately she wanted answers now, she couldn’t simply leave the Rowleys shorthanded.

Her head still down, she admitted, “You’re right, Aaron. I am working.” She stifled the sigh that longed for release and lifted her gaze. “Perhaps when you see him next, you might inquire about a convenient time for us to meet?”

He offered an approving nod. “Yes, I can do that. I meet with him every Friday afternoon.”

Isabelle couldn’t imagine what business a storekeeper’s son would have with a lawyer—especially business that required weekly contact—but she wouldn’t resort to nosiness. Friday was only two days away. She could wait that long. “I thank you.” Pushing herself to her feet, she squared her shoulders. “I apologize for burdening you with my personal troubles. I assure you I will not do so again. I will allow this lawyer friend of yours”—she forced herself to smile—“to take care of things from this point forward.”

Aaron and Mrs. Rowley exchanged glances. Isabelle was sure she read sadness in their eyes, and her heart contracted with the knowledge of their genuine concern for her.

Mrs. Rowley reached out and brushed her fingertips down the length of Isabelle’s arm. “Honey, I have to tell you . . . you need more than just a lawyer.”

Isabelle stiffened. She didn’t care to be reminded of the number of things she needed. A lawyer, yes—but also her home, her place in her family restored, a return to the life she had led in Kansas City. The warmth of the previous moments swept away, and she opened her mouth to protest the woman’s callous remark.

“You need a Savior.”

Mrs. Rowley’s simple statement sent Isabelle’s heart to clamoring, but she didn’t know why.

Aaron rose and met Isabelle’s gaze. “Isabelle, before you go downstairs, can we pray for you?”

Isabelle stepped away from her chair and took hold of the spindled back. Ministers prayed in churches, and of course Mr. Rowley prayed before meals, as had her own father on occasions such as Christmas or when important guests were present. To pray in the middle of the morning felt uncomfortable . . . yet she did, for some reason, want Aaron and Mrs. Rowley to pray for her.

Aaron walked around the table and stood between the two women. Taking his mother’s hand, he offered his free hand to Isabelle. After a moment of hesitation, she placed her hand in his. Then Mrs. Rowley caught hold of her other hand, and they formed a small circle. Both Rowleys bowed their heads, and Isabelle followed suit, closing her eyes and listening as Aaron petitioned the Lord on her behalf.

“Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for bein’ a God who cares about all of our needs. Isabelle needs to know the truth of her past. You know the truth, God, so I ask that you help her learn who she is and . . . where she belongs.”

Did she hear a catch in his voice? She fought the urge to peek at him, to see if he looked as troubled as he sounded.

“You have a perfect plan for Isabelle’s life, God. I ask you to help her find her plan an’ then give her the wisdom to follow your leading. Amen.”

Isabelle’s heart pounded. God had a plan for her life? God cared . . . about
her
? She raised her head and offered Aaron a puzzled smile. “You truly believe God has made a plan for my life?”

Aaron nodded, his expression eager. “’Course I do. Psalm 139 talks about how all the days ordained for us were in His book before one of them came to be. He has a plan for every life.”

“He surely does,” Mrs. Rowley put in, giving Isabelle’s hand a squeeze. “And, honey, He’s just waiting for you to recognize He wants what’s best for you. That’s His greatest desire for all of us—for us to follow His ways.”

Isabelle nibbled her lip, her brows crunched in confusion. All of these ideas were so new . . . and strange. It almost felt wrong to think of God dictating where a person should go and what he should do. Yet, at the same time, she yearned for someone wiser to give her direction, to put her on a proper pathway.

She shook her head. “Well, I thank you for your prayer, Aaron.” She suddenly became aware that he still held her hand, and she pulled it loose, pressing it to her thumping heart. “But for now, I believe my pathway is the stairs leading to the market. Mr. Rowley can surely use my assistance by now.”

Mrs. Rowley clapped her hands to her face. “Oh my, yes! We’ve left poor Ralph down there alone far too long!” She waved both hands at the pair. “You two go down. I’ll get these dishes washed up.”

Aaron gestured toward the stairs, and Isabelle preceded him to the lower level, keenly in tune with the sound of his feet on the risers behind her, the gentle swish of his calloused hand on the rail. She recalled the rough calluses against her own smoother palm when they’d held hands to pray, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled with awareness, making her want to hurry her steps and escape the feeling. But at the same time a part of her wanted to slow her pace and more fully examine the sensation. Why was she always so filled with mixed emotions these days? Aaron’s prayer—the request that God give her wisdom to discover His leading—tickled her mind. If God answered, where might she be taken next?

She reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner to enter the market, allowing Aaron to step past her. She watched him head straight to his father’s side, and for a moment she observed the pair, at ease with one another and their tasks.

Never, in all of her growing-up years, would she have envisioned herself in this setting. Yet, despite everything, she had discovered a sense of purpose here—assisting the homeless newsboys. Was it possible God had led her to this place?

With a shake of her head, she pushed that thought away. Randolph’s jealousy and Glenn’s greediness had been the force behind her coming to Shay’s Ford. Nothing more than two men’s selfish choices brought about this change in her life. But as she slipped a work apron over her mourning dress, Aaron clinked two glass jars together, reminding Isabelle of the church bell’s toll. The sound had beckoned her to the Sunday service, where she had met the Rowleys and been offered a job here in the market. Her hands fumbled with the apron ties. Had God orchestrated that series of events, or was it simply chance? Her breath came in little spurts as thoughts tumbled through her mind. The family had offered her a home and a job, and now Aaron had offered to speak to a lawyer for her—to help her discover a way to regain her home and social status. She might soon be going back to Kansas City!

She finished the bow and smoothed the apron over her hips as she slipped behind the counter. After work, she would read Psalm 139 in the Gallagher Bible.

But when her gaze fell upon Aaron leaning down to hug Petey, who must have slipped in for a cup of coffee, she felt her heart lurch. Suddenly the thought of leaving Shay’s Ford lost some of its appeal.