My Heart Remembers (22 page)

“Yes. How many more are there?”

A gleam appeared in Isabelle’s eyes. “Enough to keep you quite occupied this morning.”

Maelle released an exaggerated groan that made Petey giggle. She headed to the table tucked in the corner of Isabelle’s tiny bedroom, uncapped the ink pot, and began the message she now knew by heart.
Dear Sir . . .

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-O
NE

Mattie

Rocky Crest Ranch

April, 1903

M
att, his belly full from breakfast, rounded the back corner of the big house on his way to the horse barn. He and Russ would spend the morning taking the ewes to the north pasture for feeding. An approaching surrey caught his attention, and he paused, tilting his hat brim to block the sun.

He recognized Jackson in the driver’s seat, and he lifted his hand in a wave. Jackson pulled the surrey beside Matt and peered down at him with a serious expression. “Matt, could you find Clancy and bring him to the house? We need to talk.”

Jackson had skipped a polite good morning, and that made Matt worry. Something must be wrong. “Sure, I know where he is. Everything okay?”

“No.” Jackson rubbed the back of his neck. Lifting the reins, he said, “Hurry, would you, Matt?” He clicked his tongue, and the bay obediently heaved forward.

Matt waited until the surrey turned toward the house before he trotted in the direction of the sheep barn. He found Clancy in the first stall, rake in hand, clearing soiled straw. But he dropped the rake immediately when Matt told him Jackson was at the house looking for him.

“Gotta be about that letter from Jenks,” he growled, his arms pumping as he headed for the wide opening. “Gerald tol’ me Jackson’d take care of it.”

Matt thumped along beside Clancy. “Jackson didn’t look too happy. Do you reckon he isn’t gonna be able to fix it?”

Clancy shot a quick glare in Matt’s direction. “Course he c’n fix it. He knows the law, an’ the law won’t hold nothin’ against me fer doin’ the right thing.”

Matt put his arm around Clancy’s shoulders. “You’re right, Clancy. It’ll all work out.”

They reached the back door, and Clancy paused for a moment, rubbing his chin. “I’d say come in, but—”

“Nah.” Matt backed up. “I got work to do. You can tell me at lunch how it went.”

Clancy bobbed his head in a brusque nod, opened the door, and stepped through.

Matt headed to his duties, but even while he watched the dogs herd the sheep to a grazing area, his thoughts remained back at the big house. How would Jackson keep Jenks from following through on filing charges against Clancy? What would Mr. Harders do if Jenks managed to send Clancy to jail? The two men were more than boss and employee; they were good friends. The other two hands, José and Parker, were closer to Matt’s age and had only been on the ranch a few years. Mr. Harders and Clancy had worked together for more than Matt’s lifetime.

Matt jerked in the saddle, forcing away the unpleasant thought. “Need to quit thinkin’ the worst’ll happen,” he muttered, smoothing his gloved hand along Russ’s shiny neck. “The Bible says things work for good if a person’s committed to God and doin’ right. Clancy surely fits that. It’ll be okay.” Saying the words aloud offered an element of peace, and the rest of the morning passed quickly.

When he met up with the others for lunch, Clancy’s sullen expression washed away the morning’s calm. “Clancy? You okay?”

Mr. Harders passed a tin plate of corn muffins. “We’ve had a rough morning, Matt. Lester Jenks is not only filing trumped-up charges, he’s made an offer on the land a young woman from town wanted to purchase to establish an orphans’ home.” He heaved a sigh. “I must admit, I’m not eager to have him as a neighbor.”

Matt put a muffin on his plate even though his appetite suddenly fled. His hands shook as he passed the plate to Clancy.

Clancy snorted, jerking the plate from Matt’s hands. “That man’s nothin’ but a peck of trouble!”

Mr. Harders set his mouth in a grim line. “You’re right, Clancy, but I’m afraid he has an upper hand in this situation.”

Clancy shoved the plate on to José without taking a muffin and sent Matt a disbelieving look. “He’s got some fellers gonna say he was just offerin’ to help that lady carry her camera—that I started a squabble ’cause I wanted to carry it myself!”

Matt gawked at Mr. Harders. “Can he do that?”

The boss shrugged, scooping beans and ham onto his plate. “He’s already done it. According to Jackson, each of the men who supposedly witnessed the altercation between Clancy and Jenks have borrowed money from Jenks in the past. They owe him, and he’s calling up their debts by requesting their support.”

“But that’s not right!” Matt automatically ladled a scoop of beans onto his plate when Mr. Harders handed him the pot, but he didn’t pick up his spoon to eat. “Somebody’s gotta stop him. He can’t just keep doing harm to folks!”

Silence fell after Matt’s outburst. José and Parker ate quietly, their furtive glances flitting around the table. Clancy’s plate remained empty, his fists clenched in his lap. Mr. Harders held his fork, but he didn’t stab it into the mound of beans on his plate. He met Matt’s gaze. “You feel pretty strongly about this.”

Matt’s thudding heart proved his boss’s words.

“Want to tell me why?”

Matt could feel Clancy’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look at his cabin mate. His gaze on his plate, he forced through clenched teeth, “Just . . . ain’t right.”

Mr. Harders pulled his lips to one side, making his mustache twitch. He pinned Matt with narrowed eyes. “I agree with you, son. Jackson’s going to do everything he can to help Isabelle purchase that land and to disprove Jenks’s charges. He’s also facing a lawsuit brought by Jenks.”

Matt’s jaw dropped open. “A lawsuit? What for?”

“For defamation of character.”

“Man’s got no character,” Clancy muttered.

Matt agreed.

“So there’s a lot at stake. But I’m hopeful. And I’d appreciate it if all of you would join me in praying”—his fervent expression touched each man at the table—“that when Jenks comes here next week to discuss his claims, we’ll be able to work things out without involving the court.”

Suddenly the air seemed to be sucked from Matt’s chest. He gasped for breath. “He . . . he’s comin’ here?”

“On Tuesday.” Mr. Harders frowned. “Matt, are you all right?”

Sweat broke out across Matt’s back. His scarred back. He pushed his chair away from the table, the legs screeching against the floor. “No, sir. I gotta be excused.” He dashed out the back door, careened around the corner of the house, and bent over the bushes while his stomach emptied its meager contents. A hand touched his back, and he jerked upright, his eyes closed, gulping air.

“Matt?” Clancy’s voice.

“I’m sorry, Clancy.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned slowly to face his friend. The ground seemed to tip, and he grabbed the cool rock wall of the house for support. “I wanna help you out, but . . . I can’t be here when Jenks comes. If he recognizes me . . .”

Clancy nodded, his lined eyes sad. “I know, Matthew. If ’n you need to ride on, I’ll ’splain things to Gerald after yore gone. He won’t hold a grudge against ya. He’s a fair man.”

Matt nodded miserably. He knew Mr. Harders was a fair man, and it pained him to let his boss down, but how could he stay?

Oh, Lord, I wanted a home here so bad. . . .

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-T
WO

Maelle

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

April, 1903

F
rom the high seat of the wagon, Maelle flipped the reins and encouraged, “All right, Samson, let’s go get that picture taken.” She smiled as Samson pulled the wagon over the cobblestone street toward Rowley Market. Not only was the day beautiful, with a scented breeze pleasing her nose and the bright sun warming her hair, her new camera had arrived. It now sat in a specially made carrying case in the back of the wagon.

Jackson had purchased an Eastman Century View camera, the best model available from the catalog. Maelle had spent most of the morning reading the instructional book to familiarize herself with its use. Her old camera had used dry plates, but this model made use of non-curling film, which Maelle hoped would be easier to store and use. The portrait of Petey and his surrogate family—her first one on the new camera—would let her know whether or not she could successfully use the new, modern equipment.

She tugged the reins, drawing Samson to a stop outside the market. The entire Rowley family waited on the boardwalk. Aaron held Petey in his arms, and the boy lifted his hand from Aaron’s broad shoulder to wave at Maelle.

“Mike! You came! Mama Rowley wants us to take our pitcher out here in front of the market. Can we do that?”

Maelle climbed down from the wagon and crossed to the family. “Sure. We can take the picture wherever you like.”

Mrs. Rowley touched the cameo pinned in the center of a flurry of ruffles beneath her double chin. “Just don’t seem natural, standing in front of some painted backdrop. We want our photograph to show us like we really are, just humble shopkeepers.”

Maelle smiled. She’d never seen Helen Rowley minding the store in a white ruffly blouse and black pleated shirt, nor did Mr. Rowley and Aaron wear suit coats to stock shelves. But she had to admit, they made a handsome family, right down to Petey, who wore a Little Lord Fauntleroy suit with the right pant leg folded back and pinned out of the way. He had more ruffles beneath his chin than Mrs. Rowley.

She flicked the brim of his hat. “Aren’t you fine-lookin’ in your suit!”

The boy grimaced. “Mama Rowley made me wear it. Ruther be in my shirt an’ britches.”

The Rowleys joined Maelle in a laugh at Petey’s expense. Aaron lowered him to the ground, and the child positioned his crutches beneath his armpits. Petey’s bright eyes flashed as he looked around. “Where’s Isabelle? I want her in the pitcher, too.”

“I’ll get her,” Aaron said, and headed inside.

A small crowd gathered to watch as Maelle set up her tripod at the curb. Accustomed to an audience, she ignored the whispers and stares as she measured how far away from the market’s window she would need to position the family to keep them out of the awning’s shadow yet still ensure the market’s front would be evident in the final photograph.

In her mind’s eye, she envisioned a balanced placement of subjects and decided to put Petey in the center, the two men behind him, and the women on the outside of the group. Their faces—the focal part of the image—would form a rough M.

“Over here,” she directed, pointing to spots on the walkway, “and here.” Ralph and Helen Rowley obediently stepped into position. “Okay, Petey, you’ll be in the middle.” The boy brought his crutches forward and swung his body after. She made him giggle by catching him under the arms and moving him over a few inches. Just as she released him, Aaron and Isabelle stepped outside.

Isabelle held a small, leather-bound book. “May I hold my Bible in the picture?”

Maelle barely glanced at it. “Certainly. Now, Aaron, you’ll be next to Petey, and—”

“No!” Petey’s face reflected dismay. “I want Isabelle by me. Please?”

Maelle frowned. Placing Isabelle on the inside would disrupt the balance. But looking into Petey’s face, she couldn’t deny his request. She sighed. “All right. Mr. and Mrs. Rowley, please switch places.” They did so, with Mrs. Rowley clucking and adjusting her ruffles. Then Maelle turned to Isabelle. “Beside Petey, please, and Aaron can stand on the outside.”

Petey grinned. “Thank you, Mike!” He beamed up at Isabelle, and she returned the smile. Something in the younger woman’s profile—the curve of her jaw, the sweep of her vibrant red hair, the gentleness in her green eyes—sent a prickle of awareness across Maelle’s scalp. She shook her head to dispel the feeling.

She stepped back and surveyed the arrangement, her brows low. A lumpy shadow intruded next to Aaron’s feet, formed by the heads of several onlookers who blocked the sun’s rays. “Could you folks move back?” She watched the walkway, frowning. “A little more, please.” The area around Aaron’s feet cleared. “There, that’ll do. Thank you.”

Satisfied, she stepped behind the camera and peered through the viewfinder. One eye squinted shut, she zeroed in on each subject with the open eye, shifting her gaze from left to right across Mr. Rowley to Mrs. Rowley to little Petey to Isabelle’s hands cupping the Bible . . . and she froze.

Her scalp came alive, as if struck by lightning. Her ears buzzed with the intensity of the reaction. A memory flashed in her mind—her own hands, young and smooth, holding out a worn black Bible to a tall man. The echo of her childish voice whispered through her mind:
“Will you take me family’s Bible . . . for Molly?”

She jerked upright, staring over the top of the camera at Isabelle, at her exquisite profile as she smiled down at Petey. Her hands began to tremble as Isabelle’s image flashed in and out, competing with another image. A black-and-white image. Printed on paper. Of another woman, in another place—another country—holding a baby in her lap and smiling in just the way Isabelle was now smiling.
Oh, Heavenly Father, why did I not notice before?

Her breathing erratic, Maelle stepped to the side of the camera. She feared her quivering legs might collapse. But somehow she stumbled forward three feet, her gaze bouncing between the book in Isabelle’s hands and Isabelle’s face.
Could it be?
Hope rose in her heart as she forced her tongue to form a single word:

“M-Molly?”

Mattie

Rocky Crest Ranch

Matt buttoned his shirt, his gaze on the photograph lying on the little table beside the bed. He sighed deeply, his heart heavy. “Maelle,” he spoke aloud, “I don’t make things easy for you, do I?”

Although he needed to return to the sheep barn—he’d been given permission to change shirts after catching his sleeve on a piece of barbed wire and ripping it nearly in two—he took an extra minute to sit on the edge of the lumpy mattress and pick up the photograph of his family. Staring at the faces printed in black and white, he tried to bring them to life in his memory. But too many years had passed.

What might Maelle look like now, he wondered as he traced his rough fingertip down the length of the child-Maelle’s tumbling curls. He shifted his focus to baby Molly. He remembered the baby had flaming red hair and eyes as green as a clover leaf. Did he recall his da saying the baby was as beautiful as their mother, or did he only imagine it?

At least he could confirm for himself his mother’s beauty. He held the evidence in his hand, and he spent several minutes staring at the image of Brigid Gallagher.

Another sigh escaped, laden with regret. How different his life would be had Ma and Da not perished in that fire . . . No orphan’s home, no train ride, no separation from Maelle and Molly, no Jenks . . .

Worry hit hard with the remembrance of Jenks’s planned visit to the ranch tomorrow. He couldn’t stay, not with Jenks coming. He pressed the photograph to his chest, closing his eyes as a familiar question rose in his heart in the form of a prayer. “How will Maelle ever find me, Lord, if I keep pickin’ up stakes an’ movin’ on?”

Matt slapped the photograph onto the table and stood up. Despite his need to stay put, he had no choice. If Jenks was coming, he must be far away. Clancy had said Mr. Harders would understand. He headed out of the cabin, determination straightening his shoulders. He’d perform his very best for his boss during his final hours at Rocky Crest Ranch.

Maelle

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

Isabelle tilted her head, her brows coming down in puzzlement. “What did you call me?”

Maelle licked her dry lips, searching Isabelle’s face. The younger woman’s confusion was evident. Embarrassment flooded her. Her years of wishing, praying, hoping had made her see things that didn’t exist. She shook her head. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” She turned to go back to her camera.

A small hand on her arm stopped her. She stared at the hand— Isabelle’s work-roughened hand. The fingers slim and feminine despite the dry skin and rough nails. Her gaze lifted to Isabelle’s face, and Isabelle’s deep green eyes bored into Maelle’s.

“Did . . . did you call me . . . Molly?”

Hardly daring to breathe, Maelle forced her head to offer a nod of admission.

“How do you know her—Molly?”

Maelle closed her eyes, tears stinging. She didn’t know her. Not anymore. Not like she should—not the way sisters should know one another. But oh, how she longed to. “I don’t know her. I thought . . . I saw . . . She’s my . . .” She shook her head again, twisting her face into a grimace. “It doesn’t matter.”

Isabelle’s eyes implored. “Please tell me. If you know Molly, then, maybe . . . maybe you also know—” she lifted the Bible and flipped the cover open—“Maelle and Matthew?”

Maelle stared at the exposed page. A family register bearing her and her siblings’ names in her father’s penmanship. Her knees buckled, and the world spun. Somehow she managed to remain upright. Her hands groped and found Isabelle’s—Molly’s—arms. She clung, her mind whirling with the realization that she held her flesh-and-blood sister in her trembling fingers. Real. Not imagined.

Oh, Father, thank you! Only you could have reunited us.

“Mike?” Isabelle’s cheeks flushed red in her pale face and her tone became insistent. “How do you know Molly?”

“I know her because she’s my wee sister, the baby I carried from the burning tenement, the tiny lass I was forced to hand to a fancy family although I begged them not to take her from me. I know her because I am Maelle Gallagher.”

Isabelle’s eyes grew wider as Maelle spoke, her jaw dropping into an expression of astonishment. Maelle released her sister’s arms to cup her face. The face that was as beautiful as her mother’s had been. She finished in a rasping whisper. “And I’ve been longing for you my whole life long.”

“My . . . Maelle . . . ?” On the quavering note of wonder, Isabelle fell into Maelle’s embrace. Maelle wrapped her arms around her sister, unable to hold her closely enough. The Bible in Isabelle’s hand pressed against Maelle’s spine, providing the presence of their parents to the encirclement and reminding Maelle of God’s answer to prayer. For long moments they simply clung, with tears flowing.

But then a small voice interrupted. “What’re ya doin’, Mike? I thought you was gonna take our pitcher.”

With a laugh, Maelle pulled back. She tapped the top of Petey’s hat. “I am. But you’ll have to let me catch my breath. I’ve just had a surprise.”

Isabelle snuffled, rubbing her hand beneath her nose. “I can’t possibly have my picture taken now. I must look a sight!”

Maelle touched her sister’s cheek. “You’re as lovely as our mother was. Our da always said our mother was more lovely than springtime.”

Isabelle smiled and clasped Maelle’s hand. “Oh, I want to know about our mother and . . . da. You will tell me, won’t you?”

“I can do more than that.” Maelle smiled through her tears. “I can show you letters written by our mother to Da, in her very own words.” Her voice caught. “I’ve held on to them in the hopes that one day I’d be sharing them with you.”

“And our brother, Matthew?” Isabelle’s eyes lit with eagerness. “Will you introduce me to him, as well?”

A stab of sorrow pierced Maelle. “Isabelle . . . about Mattie . . .”

“Are we gonna take a pitcher or not?” Petey’s cranky voice intruded once more. The little boy shifted impatiently. “My armpits is hurtin’! Let’s hurry up!”

“Oh, Petey,” Mrs. Rowley scolded, her voice quivering with emotion, “let these sisters have their moment. The picture can wait.” Her eyes glistened with tears as she leaned down and touched the little boy’s shoulder. “It’s a special blessing we’ve just witnessed, seeing Isabelle find her sister.”

Petey shrugged. “Wasn’t that hard to find her. Mike was standin’ right on the boardwalk.”

The adults laughed, washing away the tears. Maelle hugged Isabelle once more—briefly, firmly, wholeheartedly—and set her aside. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up. Let’s take the picture.”