My Heart Remembers (18 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
OUR

Mattie

Rocky Crest Ranch

April, 1903

A
s Matt and Clancy ambled toward the big house together, Matt’s stomach growled, causing Clancy to let out an amused snort.

“Don’t know why you’re so hungry. Hardly worked ya a’tall today. Why, you never left the barn!”

Matt stared at him. “Hardly worked . . . ?” He waved a hand toward the sheep barn. “Shearing an’ bundling is hardly workin’?”

Clancy chortled, his face crinkling with mirth. He threw his arm over Matt’s shoulders. “Now, no need to get your feathers all a-ruffled. I was joshin’ ya. You earned your keep today—that’s for certain.” He grinned, showing yellowed, crooked teeth. “But we won’t have another day like that’n for a year, an’ next time you’ll know what to expect, so it’ll seem easier.”

Matt puffed his cheeks and blew. “I can see why you only shear once a year. It’s a chore wrestlin’ those woollies.”

“We only shear once a year so’s there’s a good coat waitin’,” Clancy clarified. Then he chuckled. “Did ya see ol’ José with that one cantankerous ewe? I think at one point the ewe was shearin’ the hair off José’s head instead of the other way around!”

The two men shared a laugh at José’s expense as they entered the back door, which led into the kitchen. They found Mr. Harders and his son, Jackson, seated together at the planked trestle table, and Matt’s laughter immediately died. Something in the men’s faces brought an immediate rush of worry.

Apparently Clancy had the same sense of foreboding, because he put his hands on his wiry hips and said, “All right, let’s have it. Someone’s either gettin’ buried or married—but either way it ain’t good news.”

Mr. Harders shook his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips. “Clancy . . .” The single word held a gentle admonition. He looked at his son, and Jackson turned to face Matt. Matt felt a cold sweat break out over his body. The bad news—whatever it was—involved him. Was it Jenks? His quivering knees didn’t seem sturdy enough to keep him upright. He took two shaky steps forward and clung to the back of a chair.

“What is it?”

Jackson took a deep breath. “Matt, there was an accident in Shay’s Ford last Friday. Petey slipped beneath a trolley car. His right foot was severed.”

Two opposite emotions swept Matt at the same time—relief that Jenks hadn’t caught up with him and remorse for Petey’s suffering. Then a third struck—guilt for bringing Petey to Shay’s Ford. He pulled out the chair and sank into it. “Will he be all right?”

“The surgeon is hopeful, but there are no guarantees.”

Matt lowered his head, sorrow weighing him down.
Oh, Lord, I shoulda left him in St. Louis. I know Dave was mean to him, but even if he had a few welts, at least he’d be whole.
A hand clamped onto his shoulder. He looked up into Clancy’s concerned face.

“Don’t you be thinkin’ you’re the one who brung harm to that boy.” The crusty tone warmed Matt’s heart. “No way you could’ve seen this comin’. It’s just . . . one of them things.”

Matt nodded, but inside he rebelled. It wasn’t just “one of them things”—it was wrong. A little boy should have two good legs for running and playing. And a little boy shouldn’t ride on a trolley, unattended. Petey needed a home. A permanent home.

“Who’ll be takin’ care of him when he’s out of the hospital?”

“The Rowleys plan to take him in. Their hired girl, Isabelle, has been taking turns with Mrs. Rowley staying at the hospital.”

Jackson’s low voice calmed Matt’s racing heart. “When he’s released, he won’t be selling newspapers anymore.”

Jackson removed a piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. Matt realized it was a clipping from a newspaper. Jackson went on. “The newspaper reported the accident. I can only hope this has awakened some people to the real danger faced by our street children. Maybe now they’ll be willing to get involved.”

Anger billowed in Matt’s chest. “Well,” he growled, “as far as I’m concerned, they’re a few days too late.” Pushing out of the chair, he stormed outside.

Molly

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

April, 1903

“Gangrene.”

When the surgeon who had operated on Petey’s leg summoned Isabelle and Aaron into the hallway for an update, she had sensed something was wrong. But the single word stabbed Isabelle’s heart with fear. “Is it bad?”

Dr. Carolton frowned as if the question were foolish. “There’s no such thing as good gangrene. It’s quite serious. If the child were stronger, better nourished, perhaps . . .” The man’s voice drifted off, and Isabelle understood his frustration. “I’ll have to amputate another few inches higher, to remove the diseased tissue, but I cannot guarantee the child will survive the operation.”

Isabelle’s legs went weak. Only Aaron’s fingers, clamped around her elbow, kept her upright. “And if you don’t operate?”

“The infection will certainly kill him.”

Isabelle drew in a deep breath, steadying herself. “Then you must operate.”

The doctor nodded. “As soon as the operating room is readied, orderlies will return for the boy.” He strode away.

Isabelle and Aaron stood silently outside Petey’s door. Isabelle’s chin quivered, but she clamped her jaw against it. When she had regained control, she said, “I want to return to Petey. He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Of course.” Aaron escorted Isabelle into Petey’s room. He took the single chair in the corner, and she sat on the edge of the bed. The child’s flushed face, beaded with perspiration, disturbed Isabelle. A foul odor hung in the air, a result of the infection that had taken hold of the little boy’s leg.

Leaning his elbows on his knees, Aaron spoke in a husky tone. “Are you going to be all right, Isabelle?”

Isabelle felt a sad smile on her lips. “The morning after the first surgery, Petey asked me the same thing. There he lay, small and fragile, his foot gone, and he asked about me.” She released a long sigh. “Aaron, this week has been . . . a growing time, I suppose.”

Aaron’s brow creased. “How so?”

Their whisper-soft voices, an attempt to avoid disturbing the sick child, gave an intimacy to the sterile setting. Aaron’s attentive gaze, his fingers linked as though he were in prayer, brought a flutter to Isabelle’s heart.

Rising from the bed, she crossed to the small table in the corner and picked up her Bible. “I’ve had little to do this week besides read. I’ve read to Petey, and while he’s slept, I’ve read to myself. There’s so much here, Aaron, so much I didn’t know. . . .”

Aaron’s gaze pinned to hers, his blue-green eyes tender.

“I read Psalm 139, the one you told me about. There’s a verse that says God’s hand is laid upon me, that He has beset me behind and before. This week, here with Petey, I’ve finally
sensed
His presence. And . . .” She pinched her brow, struggling to put into words all of the emotion of the past week. “As I’ve watched over Petey—even when he wasn’t aware of my being here—it made me think of God watching me when I wasn’t aware of Him.”

Aaron offered a slow nod, his eyes shining.

Bolstered by his silent understanding, she continued. “When I read the message from Jackson Harders that said all the documents Randolph had were authentic, I . . . accepted it. I didn’t mourn it. And I believe God gave me the strength to accept it.”

She lowered her gaze once more to the Bible. Swallowing, she went on. “I’ve been so unaware of God, but I want to change. I want to
know
Him, the way you and your parents know Him.” Raising her head, she met Aaron’s gaze. “What . . . what do I do, Aaron, to truly know God?”

To her amazement, tears welled in Aaron’s eyes. He clasped her hands, curling them around the Bible. “My dear Isabelle, you’ve taken the first step. You’ve said right out loud that you need Him. Now all you have to do is ask His son, Jesus, to come into your heart.”

She tipped her head. “It’s really that simple?”

Aaron nodded. “For us, it is. Jesus did all the work when He died on the cross to take the place of our sins. When you ask Him into your heart, He’ll come. That makes you one of God’s children. Then He’ll be with you every day on earth, and when you die, you’ll go live with Him in heaven.”

Yearning made her chest ache. “Oh, I want that, Aaron.”

“Then ask.”

His sweet voice, deep with emotion, spurred her response. Slipping to her knees, she closed her eyes and pressed the Bible to her heart. “Jesus, come into my heart. Be with me from this day forward.”

When she opened her eyes, she found Aaron kneeling before her, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Welcome to God’s family, Isabelle,” he said.

Warm tears splashed down her cheeks, but she laughed. “Oh, Aaron, what wonderful words! For the last weeks I’ve wondered . . . where do I belong? I am not truly a Standler. I’m not a Gallagher. But now . . . I’m God’s child.”

Without a word, Aaron reached out and embraced her, pulling her firm against his chest. She nestled there, content, for several seconds. When he released her, there was something in his eyes that sent her heart pattering.

“Isabelle, I have something for you.” He rose, lifting her to her feet. Then he slipped his hand inside his shirt and withdrew an envelope. “Jackson sent this for you earlier today. It’s a message from your father’s lawyer.”

Isabelle clapped her hand to her breast. Her heart thumped mightily, and her mouth went dry. Her gaze bounced from the envelope to Aaron’s eyes. She placed the Bible on the table, then reached with trembling hands for the envelope. Slowly she withdrew a letter and read aloud.

“ ‘Mr. Harders, thank you for contacting me concerning the inheritance of Miss Isabelle Standler. Although Miss Standler was never formally adopted by Reginald Standler, he loved the child as his own and planned for her future. An account of—’ ” Isabelle nearly dropped the paper when she read the dollar amount—“ ‘was established, which was intended to come into her possession on her twentieth birthday.

“ ‘In the event of her foster parents’ untimely demise, Mr. Standler allowed a provision for early retrieval. Following are instructions on withdrawing these funds. Please advise Miss Standler to contact me, and I shall see that she receives access to the account. Sincerely, Mr. Emery Murray.’ ”

Isabelle raised her gaze to meet Aaron’s.

He shook his head, releasing a low whistle. “So now you know . . . you are Molly Gallagher. But the Standlers loved you as their own.”

Isabelle nodded. In her heart, she’d already known these things. Her thoughts raced. She was born Molly Gallagher, but even so the man she loved as Papa had provided for her. She was an orphan but was not penniless. With the fund Papa had established, she had the financial means to return to Kansas City and reestablish her old life.

She looked again at the dollar amount printed on the page, and she suddenly felt as light as air. Lifting her smile to Aaron, she said, “I must lay claim to this fund immediately.”

“You . . . you’ll be leaving, then?” His voice sounded pinched.

She touched his arm and gave a quick shake of her head. “I must have these funds to pay for Petey’s hospital stay. And I must buy him a peg leg. I promised.” Aaron’s puzzled expression made her smile. “Then we’ll use these funds to help the street children.

We’ll build an orphanage, or a school, or whatever we need.”

Moving to Petey, she caressed the child’s pale cheek. “We’ll use the money to fight for the children, Aaron.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
IVE

Maelle

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

April, 1903

C
heerful purple crocus and yellow daffodils greeted Maelle from yards that were throwing off their winter brown and turning green beneath the bright spring sunshine. Easter was just around the corner, and even the flowers seemed to recognize it was time for new birth.

From high on the wagon seat, Maelle whistled, observing neat houses with shutters and flower boxes, cobblestone streets, and neatly painted businesses as she rolled toward the hospital. Shay’s Ford was a pleasant community, she acknowledged. The kind of place it would be nice to call home.

Her whistle ceased. Home? Maelle’s home was as peculiar as her attire—a big box on wooden wheels. If she pressed her memory, she could barely recall her home back in Ireland. A tiny cottage with a mud fireplace, where stew bubbled in a pot and Da’s laughter shook the rafters. But try as she might, so much of her early life refused to be remembered. How she longed to recall Ma’s sweet smile, Mattie’s unruly hair, Molly’s dimples. But it was so long ago, and the memories were faded. She wished she had photographs to remind her of the faces and the place. But those kinds of wishes were pointless.

Only one photograph existed of the place that lived in Maelle’s memory, and she’d given it to Mattie all those years ago. In her travels across the United States with Richard, aiming the camera at individuals and groups of people, Maelle had often hoped to look through the viewfinder and recognize Mattie or Molly. She had imagined the reunion so many times she had it memorized—she could hear the laughter, feel the hugs, see the distortion of vision due to tears of joy. She had promised Mattie she would never stop looking for him, and she hadn’t. Everywhere she went, she looked. And looked. But the search had proved futile.

The search kept her moving from town to town despite the desire to settle down and open a shop where the customers came to her rather than the other way around. But until she found Mattie and Molly, she knew she could never settle down. Her restless feet and seeking heart would press her ever onward.
Let me be findin’ me brother and sister, Lord
.

She waited for a horseless carriage to wheeze by before crossing the final intersection that led to the hospital. Leaving Samson nodding in the spring sunshine, she retrieved her camera and headed inside. A woman behind a wooden desk directed her to Petey’s room, and she found the door open.

Her heart turned over in sympathy when she entered the simple room. Petey lay, small and unmoving, in the middle of an iron bed. The little boy’s face didn’t hold much more color than it had the first time she’d seen him crumpled on the road. As she stood watching, his eyelids fluttered open.

“Isabelle?”

She leaned in close so he could see her face. “Nope. I’m Mike. And you’re Petey, right?”

Tousled blond hair fell across his wide, unblinking blue eyes. “How’d ja know my name?”

Gingerly, she sat on the edge of the bed and held her camera in her lap. “Jackson Harders told me.”

“Oh.” The child nodded, nestling against his pillow. “I like Jackson. He’s my friend.”

Maelle resisted running her hand over the child’s hair. “I bet you have lots of friends.”

“Yep.”

His nonchalant reply gave Maelle’s heart a lift. “Maybe I can be your friend, too.”

Petey slipped his hands from beneath the covers and linked them on his chest. “Are you a lady?”

She laughed. “Yes, I am.”

“Mike’s a funny name for a lady.”

“I suppose so.” She loved this child’s openness.

His gaze fell to the camera. “Watcha got?”

“My camera.” Maelle gave it a loving pat. “I take pictures with it, and I brought it with me so I could take your picture.”

“My pitcher?” The boy’s brow pinched. “How come?”

“Well . . . tomorrow some men are coming to Shay’s Ford. Powerful men—men who know how to get things changed for the better. Your friend Jackson wants them to help him change some laws so children like you go to school instead of having to sell newspapers all day.”

Petey nodded slightly. “I know. Aaron an’ Isabelle say I’ll be goin’ to school when I get outta the hospital. I can’t sell newspapers no more ’cause I only got one leg.”

The child’s blithe statement made Maelle’s nose sting. “I know. And I’m glad you’ll be going to school. But lots of other boys won’t unless the laws are changed. So Jackson thought if we had a picture of you to show the men, then they’d know what kind of fine boys they’d be helping by changing the law. So . . . is it okay if I take your picture?”

Petey bit down on his lower lip, surveying her with a steady gaze. “All of me?”

“You mean, do I want a picture of your leg, too?”

He nodded.

She took a deep breath. “It would help.”

After a long moment, he gave a slow nod. “Okay.”

Maelle carefully pulled the covers back to reveal Petey’s small form. She battled tears when she looked at his skinny legs sticking out from beneath the striped nightshirt, one ending with a bare foot and the other ending with a bandaged stump below his knee. The tears nearly blinded her when she put her camera in position and glimpsed Petey’s bright smile through the viewfinder.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The sharp tone stilled Maelle’s fingers around the bulb. She glanced over her shoulder to find the young, red-haired woman she’d photographed the day of Petey’s accident. Turning, she offered a smile of greeting. “You must be Isabelle.”

Isabelle swept to the bed and deftly flipped the covers over Petey’s hips. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing?”

Petey caught the woman’s hand. “She’s takin’ my pitcher for Jackson to show to the men. I told her she could.”

Isabelle looked at the boy, and her expression grew tender. But when she turned back to Maelle, her green eyes sparked. “Jackson indicated a photographer named Mike Watts would be photographing Petey. Do you work for Mr. Watts?”

Maelle stifled her grin. “Well, not quite.” She scratched her head. “I
am
Mike Watts.”

Isabelle’s eyebrows shot high, and her gaze roved from Maelle’s head to her toes and back again. “Mike . . . and that is short for . . .”

“Michael.” It was devilish, Maelle knew, yet she enjoyed needling the snippy young woman.

Isabelle pursed her lips and stared at Maelle for several silent seconds while Maelle waited. Then Petey tugged her hand.

“Isabelle? You gonna move so Mike can take my pitcher?”

The woman sucked in a mighty breath, as if holding back an unpleasant barrage. When she released it, the semblance of a smile flitted across her face. “Very well.” Folding the covers over the foot of the bed, she stepped aside. “Please proceed quickly. Petey needs his rest. He’s been through quite an ordeal.”

As if I didn’t already know that.
Maelle lifted the camera, focused, and squeezed the bulb. “All done.”

“Good.” Isabelle covered Petey once more, then stood beside the bed like a guard.

Petey said, “Am I gonna get to see the pitcher?”

Maelle tucked the camera beneath her arm and crossed to the bed. “Well, Petey, I can make a copy of it for you and bring it to you, if you’d like. I won’t be able to come tomorrow, but I could come Sunday afternoon.”

The boy’s eyes lit with delight, but Isabelle said, “We are hoping to transport Petey to Rowley Market on Sunday, so that probably wouldn’t be a good day to visit.”

Maelle looked at Isabelle in surprise. “He’s being released so soon? He must be doing well, then.”

Isabelle sighed, stroking Petey’s hair. “The Lord has certainly answered our prayers.”

Maelle found the comment odd. Given Isabelle’s cold treatment, she wouldn’t have taken the other woman as a Christian. Yet her statement deemed otherwise.

“You can come see me at the Market, though, right?”

Maelle couldn’t say no to Petey’s hopeful question. “Sure I can! And I’ll bring lots of pictures. Have you ever seen the Grand Canyon? Or the Pacific Ocean? Or Pikes Peak?”

Petey’s eyes widened. “Pikes Pete?”

Maelle swallowed her amusement. “
Peak
. It’s a mountain. A very tall mountain first glimpsed by a man named Zebulon Pike. He didn’t actually climb it, but I did.”

Petey shook his head, making his hair flop. “I never seen none o’ that stuff.”

“Well, then, I’ll have to show you the pictures before I leave town.”

“Really?” His voice became high-pitched with excitement. “You’ll really show me?”

“Sure I will. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

To her surprise, Petey lost his sunny expression. “You ain’t teasin’ me, are ya? Sometimes people say they’ll do somethin’, but then they don’t. You aren’t just sayin’ it an’ not meanin’ it, are ya?”

“Take care o’ the wee ones.”

Maelle squeezed Petey’s thin shoulder, then stepped back, aware of Isabelle’s disapproving stare. “I mean every word, Petey. I’ll meet you at Rowley Market on Sunday.”

Isabelle turned from Petey and pinned Maelle with a regal glare. “May I have a word with you, please? In the hallway.”

Maelle shrugged and followed Isabelle.

The woman closed Petey’s door before addressing Maelle. “It was kind of you to offer to share your pictures with Petey.”

Maelle shifted her camera to her other arm. “He’s a great kid.”

“Yes, he is. But I’m not sure . . .” For a moment the younger woman seemed to falter, her brow creasing and gaze dropping to the floor. Then she squared her shoulders and faced Maelle again. “I’m not sure spending time with you is a wise idea for Petey.”

Maelle frowned. “Why not?”

“Well . . .” Isabelle’s gaze drifted from Maelle’s braid to her brown boots. “You are hardly . . . conventional. Your motivations may be pure, but . . .” Isabelle’s brow crinkled. “Your abnormal appearance leads one to see you as less than respectable. Petey has enough challenges, having been abandoned by his parents, living on the streets, and now facing life as a cripple. He doesn’t need any more strikes against him. An open friendship with you might not be in his best interest.”

Maelle carefully digested Isabelle’s words. “So if I were to dress . . . differently . . . you would have fewer concerns about me spending time with him?”

“I am truly trying not to be judgmental,” the younger woman said, “but you must admit, those—those britches . . .” Her face puckered in distaste. “They are quite distracting.”

Maelle took a step back. Her heart pounded. She wore the pants for a number of reasons from practical to personal. She’d grown accustomed to people looking at her askance, and she’d never really cared what others thought. Now, for the first time, she wondered if wearing them created more than mild disapproval. Did they create a barrier to relationships?

She’d tried so hard to keep the promise to her da to look out for little ones who needed protection. It was a lot easier to dive into a fight while wearing a sturdy pair of trousers. But she’d made another promise, too—to her heavenly Father to share His love with those she encountered. Would her clothing prevent people from seeing her Father in her?

As much as Maelle hated to admit it, Isabelle had hit a raw nerve. She gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “I’ll think about what you said. Thank you for your honesty.”

Isabelle tipped her head, her red hair shining in the electric lamps that lit the hallway. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

Maelle felt bruised, but she wouldn’t admit it. She forced her lips into a grin and quipped, “I’m right as rain. Don’t worry about me.”

Maelle returned to her wagon and lowered the hatch. She put the camera safely in its box, then pulled herself onto the driver’s seat. As she picked up the reins, she looked down at her trousers and frowned. “Let’s go, Samson,” she encouraged the big bay. She nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully as the wagon rolled back to Jackson’s law office. Guiding Samson to the alley behind the building, she parked in the same spot she’d occupied the previous weeks.

She freed Samson from his rigging and walked him to the livery. She hung a bag of oats around his neck and scratched his ears while he munched. Stepping back from the horse, she brushed her hands on her pant legs. And frowned again.

With a deep sigh, she returned to the wagon and climbed in.
Father, help me . . .
Kneeling beside the drop-down bed, she pulled a trunk from beneath the bunk. It filled the middle of the wagon floor, and she had to wiggle around to its end before she could lift the heavy lid.

Clothing came into view. Trousers. Shirts. Some Richard’s, some hers. Her heart doubled its beat as she reached inside with hands that had become unsteady. She moved aside the neat stacks, creating a valley through the center. And there, wrapped in crumpled tissue, she located the source of her trembling hands and palpitating heart.

Lifting it from the tissue, she rose and shook out the folds of pale green muslin. A musty odor rose from the fabric—a scent of neglect. For several seconds she held the garment out, vivid details of that evening assailing her. When the pain became too intense, she crushed the dress to her chest and closed her eyes.

A picture of Richard’s sheepish look as he’d given her the dress appeared behind her closed lids. His voice echoed through her mind.
“I know it’s not one of those two-piecers the ladies are wearing today, but the lace is real pretty, and the color will go good with your fallcolored hair.”
Though his voice was gruff, his expression gentled as he finished,
“You’re a right attractive girl, Mike, and it’s time to start dressing like a lady.”

Richard had seldom praised her. Those words had meant so much. She savored the memory as she cradled the dress. But then, unbidden, his final words charged through her mind—“Run, Mike! Run for the sheriff!” She’d run, holding up the skirts of that green muslin dress. And when she’d come back, sheriff in tow, Richard lay dead in the alley with a knife in his chest.