My Heart Remembers (21 page)

Maelle glanced at Isabelle’s hand. Her fingernails were chipped, her skin red and chapped. The working-girl hands didn’t match the cultured voice and regal carriage of this young woman. She met Isabelle’s gaze. “How did you get involved in this project?”

Isabelle peered at Maelle for long moments, her vibrant green eyes wide and unblinking, as if probing for hidden motivations. Finally she lifted her hand and gestured toward the sitting area of the apartment. “If we’re going to visit, we should be more comfortable.”

The two women sat in opposite horsehair chairs in front of an open window layered in yellowed lace panels. The bottom edge of the layers billowed and fell in an off-beat rhythm, teased by the fresh-scented breeze.

Isabelle placed her hands in her lap and fixed Maelle with a steady gaze. “If you are going to become involved in the school, perhaps it is best for you to know the details.” She took a deep breath, as if gearing for battle.

Maelle said softly, “Isabelle, you aren’t obligated to divulge any private matters to me.”

A slight smile curved her lips. “Thank you. But if you hear the entire story, you might be willing to do more than write letters.”

Maelle leaned back and crossed her ankles. “I’m not a wealthy business owner, so I probably won’t be able to make a commitment for finances.”

Isabelle laughed airily. “Oh no, I have no intentions of requesting your financial support. But”—she raised a graceful finger—“I will make a request, once the story has been told. So please be patient, and I will do my utmost to be succinct.”

Maelle bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing. In her brief acquaintanceship with Isabelle, she had learned the young woman was rarely succinct.

“You see, several months ago my brother evicted me from our home in the Kansas City area. Our parents were killed in an accident, and he was executor of our father’s will. He never made any pretense of loving me . . .” For a moment Isabelle’s haughty tone faltered, pain creasing her brow. But she quickly recovered and continued fluently. “He saw an opportunity to finally be rid of my presence. The eviction resulted in my fiancé rejecting me, as well.”

Looking at Isabelle, Maelle would never have guessed such heartache existed beneath the surface. Perhaps some of the young woman’s arrogance was a shield of protection. “Kansas City is on the opposite side of the state. How’d you end up in Shay’s Ford?”

“I accepted a position as house servant to a family here. However, after several weeks of employment, I heeded the toll of a chapel bell.”

A tickle crept through Maelle’s scalp. The chapel bell had beckoned to her, as well. Another connection with Isabelle . . .

“At chapel service, I met the Rowleys, who offered me the opportunity to live in their spare room and work for them.” She smiled sadly. “The proposition, although humble, was preferable to the conditions in the Drumfeld household, so I accepted. Then one night Petey”—the first genuine smile Maelle had seen on the woman’s face appeared, transforming her countenance— “slipped into my bed, uninvited, and I found myself involved in helping street children.

“Thanks to the Rowleys, and a Bible given to me before I left my home, I also met God and became a part of His family.” She closed her eyes for a moment, drawing in a breath through her nose, an expression of contentment on her face. Opening her eyes, she continued. “Initially, I hoped to claim my inheritance in order to return to Kansas City and my place in society, but after becoming a child of God, living in the Chesterfield district didn’t seem important any longer. So instead, my inheritance is being used to establish the”—she squared her shoulders, lifting her chin—“Reginald Standler Home for Orphaned and Destitute Children.”

Standler.
A fierce tingle attacked Maelle’s scalp. She scratched her head. “Is Reginald your brother?”

“Oh no. Reginald was my papa, a wonderful, loving, giving man. I’m sure he would approve of my use of the funds he left for me.” Her fire-colored brows rose, her eyes wide and guileless. “I never would have considered taking on such a project had God not led me to this place, to these people. I am certain it is my God-ordained purpose.”

Maelle thought about the weeks she had spent in Shay’s Ford.

Never in all of her years of travel had she remained so long in one town. Then there was that tell-tale tingle in her scalp that plagued her so often here . . . Was it God’s plan that she be involved in the school, too? She leaned forward. “I’ll be glad to help you with those letters you need written.”

Isabelle tilted her head, her eyes flashing. “Thank you. And my second request concerns your skill with a camera.”

Maelle raised her brows, waiting silently.

“I would very much like to have a pictorial record of the school’s construction. Could you be persuaded to remain in Shay’s Ford until the completion of the buildings?”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

Mattie

Rocky Crest Ranch

April, 1903

W
hat’n tarnation . . .” At Clancy’s exclamation, Matt paused in drawing the razor down his cheek and faced his friend. “What’s wrong?”

The older man held up a piece of paper. “Got this here letter in yesterday’s mail, but it’s a might confusin’. My readin’ . . . wal, I reckon it ain’t what it could be.” He scratched his chin, his jaw thrust forward. “Could you maybe look at it an’ tell me what ya think?”

Matt set down his razor and crossed the floor to Clancy. He glanced at the handwritten note and felt a chill when he saw the signature at the bottom: Lester Jenks. He shifted his attention to the beginning and read slowly.

Clancy stood at Matt’s side, muttering, “Accusin’ me of assault? I didn’t do nothin’ more’n pull him away from that lady photographer. Didn’t hurt him. Not like I wanted to . . .”

The letter completed, Matt handed the paper back to Clancy, who scowled at it. “It sounds as though Jenks is threatening to file charges against you, Clancy.”

“What kinda charges can he make? He’s the one what was botherin’ that lady. An’ he’s the one what busted her camera. Me an’ Jackson, we was tryin’ to help. Shorely the law’d recognize that.”

Matt heard the worry in Clancy’s tone, and as much as he wanted to reassure the man, he had witnessed Jenks’s power over others. He feared Jenks would do exactly what he’d threatened and Clancy would lose the battle. He pointed at the letter and offered a small glimmer of hope. “Says there he’s willin’ to talk to you about it first. Do you . . . do you reckon he’ll come here?” His belly seemed to turn a dozen somersaults as he waited for Clancy’s answer.

Clancy frowned at the letter. “It don’t say, but if he’s wantin’ to speak to me, he’ll hafta come here. I ain’t a-goin’ to him. I got a job to see to.” Suddenly his eyes widened. “If he was to come here, then . . .”

Matt nodded. If Jenks came here, Jenks would see Matt. Maybe recognize him. The somersaults doubled their speed in his middle.

Clancy clamped a wiry hand around Matt’s upper arm. “Don’t you be frettin’ now, Matthew. I’ll talk to Gerald, an’ Gerald’ll talk to Jackson, an’ we’ll git this here matter all straightened out without that man comin’ here.”

Matt wanted to believe Clancy, but he felt certain Jenks wouldn’t let the Harders or Clancy have the upper hand. He wouldn’t tell Clancy that, however. No sense in distressing his friend. The soap on his face had dried, making his skin feel tight, but he forced a smile. “Aw, don’t worry about me, Clancy. You just worry about you—gettin’ that matter worked out so you’re clear of any charges. If he comes around here, I’ll just stay in the barn with the sheep. Don’t reckon he’d come out there.”

Clancy snorted. “Course not. Might get his hands dirty.” He shook his head, folding the letter and stuffing it in his shirt pocket. “Don’t have much respect for a feller who never does any work hisself, just points and gives orders. Man like that . . . filin’ charges against me . . .” His muttering continued as he ambled out the door toward the big house.

Matt washed the dried soap from his face without finishing his shave. Maybe he’d grow a beard. He’d never cared much for the feel of facial hair—made him itch—but if it would keep Jenks from recognizing him, it just might be worth it.

Maelle

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

Maelle stood before the tiny mirror fastened to the wall of the wagon, hairbrush raised, when a knock on the back of the wagon intruded into her thoughts.

“Who is it?”

“Jackson Harders, Mike.”

Setting the brush aside, she dropped the hatch and smiled at Jackson. “Don’t tell me Isabelle sent you with another list of addresses.” She let her fingers dangle and shook her hand back and forth. “My hand is worn out from letter writing!”

Jackson didn’t return her smile, and a feeling of trepidation washed over her. She crouched on the hatch, bringing her eyes to his level. “What’s wrong? Is it Petey?” Although the little boy was doing much better—had even managed several steps on wooden crutches—his frailty was a continuing concern for all who knew him.

Jackson shook his head. “No. Petey’s fine. It’s . . .” He held up an envelope. “I got this in the mail yesterday, but I didn’t look at it until late. It’s addressed to me, but I think you need to see it.” He handed it over.

Maelle shifted to sit on the wagon hatch. Heavy strands of hair swung into her face, and she caught them and pushed them over her shoulder. She noticed Jackson observe the motion, and for some reason heat rose in her cheeks. But she ignored the curious feeling of embarrassment and opened the envelope. By the time she’d finished reading the short note, more heat filled her face, but she knew this time anger was the cause.

“Who does he think he is, accusing you of—” she sought the words on the page—“libelous intent to defame his character.” Waving the offending letter, she exclaimed, “The man has no character! All you did was stand up for me when he . . . he . . .” She swallowed, remembering the fear of that moment when he’d run his smooth, cool fingers up the length of her arm. Shoving the letter back into Jackson’s hands, she stated, “He has no grounds.”

“He thinks he does,” Jackson said grimly, pointing at her with the letter, “and he’s determined to take this as far as he can.” A crease appeared between his eyes. “This kind of hearing creates very unfavorable publicity.”

“Do you think it will harm your case for ending child labor?”

The morning breeze caught a rippling strand of hair and carried it under her chin. Jackson seemed mesmerized by the waving lock. Maelle pushed to her feet and retrieved a piece of string. Her back to Jackson, she confined her hair in a tail at the nape of her neck, then returned to the hatch.

Jackson replied as if she’d never moved, but his voice sounded tight. “There’s a real possibility this could carry over and create problems since the alleged attack on his character took place at a meeting centering on the child labor issue.” He sighed deeply, the brocade vest taut against his chest with the initial intake of breath. “I don’t want to put you through an unpleasant encounter, Mike, but it might be necessary for you to make a formal complaint against Jenks to show valid cause for my actions.”

Maelle sucked in her lower lip and stared at her clenched fists in her lap, considering Jackson’s words. She had involved herself in this fight by giving Jackson photographs and penning dozens of letters. She cared deeply about the plight of children trapped in dangerous, demanding occupations, but the thought of having to face the gold-toothed man who had coldheartedly treated her like a common strumpet made her want to close up her wagon and drive away as fast as she could.

“Mike?” Jackson placed his warm hand over her fists. When she raised her gaze to meet his, he continued. “I hope to work this out without involving the court system, but if Jenks ends up taking this before a judge, will you testify as to the reason for my verbal assault?”

Somewhere at the back of Maelle’s brain it registered that a man held her hands. Yet no fear filled her. She offered a slight nod. “I’ll do whatever’s necessary, Jackson. We can’t let him keep this legislation from being passed.”

His hand slipped away. “Thank you.”

Odd, unrecognizable emotions swirled through Maelle’s chest. Why had the touch of his hand on hers not created the same reaction as Jenks’s touch? She hopped off the edge of the hatch and closed it. Her fingers trembled slightly as she dropped the pins into place. She pressed her palms together as she faced Jackson and assumed a flippant tone. “Well, I’m stuck here until my camera arrives anyway. And I told Isabelle I would photograph the groundbreaking of the orphans’ home, so I might as well make myself useful while I’m still in town.” Flinging her arms outward, she concluded, “And speaking of useful . . . I’m sure Isabelle has more letters for me to write.”

She hurried away without giving him a chance to respond. Her boots thumped purposefully against the boardwalk as she walked in the widest stride her skirts would allow. She found it frustrating that she had to take smaller steps in a full-cut skirt than she had in trim-fitting trousers. But with trousers there were no layers of fabric to wrap around her ankles. Walking in skirts slowed one’s stride. A slower pace allowed racing thoughts to catch up and be acknowledged.

A warmth flooded her cheeks again when she remembered her response to Jackson’s simple touch. The last time he’d touched her—the hug in his office—she’d nearly knocked herself to the floor trying to get away. But this time there’d been no rush to escape. Instead, she’d sat meekly, her hands beneath his wide palm, allowing the contact to continue. For a fleeting moment she wished Jackson had tried hugging her, just so she could know if she still found it repulsive. The yearning to be held took her by surprise. When had the idea of having a man’s arms around her become desired rather than distasteful?

She pushed the strange thoughts aside as she stepped through the open doorway of Rowley Market and moved directly to the back of the store.

Petey, perched on a high stool beside the counter, broke into a huge smile when he spotted her. “Hi, Mike!”

Maelle glanced around the quiet store. “Where are the others? Did they leave you all alone?”

Petey giggled. “I’m mindin’ things. I’m s’posed to ring the bell if anybody comes to buy somethin’.” He gestured toward a tarnished brass bell standing on the counter, then crinkled his face in concentration as he began a recitation. “Papa Rowley’s in the storeroom. Mama Rowley’s takin’ a nap. She’s got a bad headache. Aaron went to the church to do some cleanin’. An’ Isabelle went upstairs to check on Mama Rowley.”

Maelle propped an elbow on the counter. “Well, I guess I’ll wait here for Isabelle, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” Petey imitated her position by resting his elbow on the wooden surface. “You got your camera yet?”

“Nope, not yet.”

The boy sighed. “Sure am wantin’ to have my pitcher took.

Isabelle says we’ll all get in it—me, an’ Mama an’ Papa Rowley, an’ Aaron an’ Isabelle. It’ll be like a family pitcher.”

A sad smile tugged at Maelle’s cheeks. While it was gratifying that this small waif had found his place to belong, his simple words stirred a longing to revisit the photograph she’d given to Mattie. To remember when she was part of a family. “That sounds like a good idea. And I’ll have to make sure to come back through Shay’s Ford again in a year or two and take another picture to show how you’ve grown.”

Petey sat up straight, his eyebrows high. “You’re leavin’?”

“I’m afraid so, Petey.” Maelle discovered she truly was sorry to think of leaving this community. Her lengthy stay had stirred her long-held desire to settle in one place. Yet she knew she could never settle down until she’d finally located her brother and sister. “I’m a traveling photographer. I have to travel on.”

Without warning, Petey launched himself from the stool into Maelle’s arms. She staggered backward a step with the unexpected weight, but she caught him and scooped him close.

He wrapped both skinny arms around her neck and held tight. “I sure wish you wouldn’t go, Mike.” His breath teased her ear, his voice quavering with emotion.

Maelle swallowed the tears that rose in her throat. “Oh, Petey . . .” She inhaled the scent of the boy, relishing the feel of his body in her arms. Only a few minutes ago she’d longed for someone to hold her. Holding Petey was just as good as being held, she decided. His hands on her neck released the string that confined her hair, and thick strands cascaded around her shoulders as she lowered him to the stool.

Tipping forward to bring her face only inches from his, she said, “I promise to come back, Petey. You’re my friend, and I’ll want to check on you.”

With the resilience of a child, he brightened. “An’ see my new peg leg? I should be gettin’ it afore too long.”

Maelle chuckled. “And see your peg leg. Just think . . . you’ll be running when I come back next time!”

Petey flashed a bright, endearing grin.

A clatter on the stairs alerted them to someone’s approach. Isabelle winged around the corner, her face flushed. “Petey, I’m sorry I took so long. Are you—” Her gaze found Maelle, and she stopped so abruptly it looked like she’d come into contact with a brick wall. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Mike . . . Oh my . . .”

Maelle frowned, glancing at Petey.

Isabelle glided forward, her hand reaching. She caught a strand of Maelle’s hair and let it drift through her fingers. “You have lovely hair. Such a rich color—the burnished red of an oak leaf in late October. Are those waves natural? With it always twisted into a braid, I didn’t realize . . .”

She took hold of Maelle’s shoulders and turned her around, and then Maelle felt Isabelle’s fingers stroke the length of her unfettered waves. The gentle touch sent a tremor through her entire body. Isabelle’s finger must have caught on the second stroke, because she felt a slight tug, reminding her of Da’s habit of giving a little pull on her curls to tease her. A lump formed in her throat.

“It’s just hair,” she said, stepping out of Isabelle’s reach. She searched the floor for the piece of string.

Isabelle clasped her hands beneath her chin. “It reminds me so much of my mama’s hair, although hers wasn’t as thick as yours, nor as long. She used to allow me to brush it out and then fashion it into a knot on the back of her head.”

Isabelle’s blithe comment sent Maelle backward in time to Ireland, to a tiny cottage, to a fireside stool and the remembrance of her mother seated in front of flickering flames, twisting pink ribbon through her own waist-length braid of shimmering red . . .

Her scalp tingled at the memory, and she shook her head, dispelling the image. “I prefer a braid.” She quickly plaited her hair and tied the end securely.

The expression of longing in Isabelle’s green eyes faded. She squared her narrow shoulders and said briskly, “Well, then, are you prepared to write letters?”