My Heart Remembers

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  His hands began to tremble. Then he noticed the date at the bottom, scrawled by the postmaster to indicate when the listing was posted. He whispered, “October second, 1902.”

  Matt nearly sagged with relief. The decision was taken from him. Surely by now the position had been filled. The postmaster had probably just forgotten to take it down. He wadded the paper into a ball and turned to toss it into the brass spittoon beside the door.

  “Hey!” a voice barked. “What do you think you’re doing, destroying government property?”

  Matt’s hand froze midthrow. He looked over his shoulder at the angry postmaster. Turning slowly, he glanced at the ball of crumpled paper. “It’s just an outdated posting.”

  The man’s scowl deepened. “Give me that.” He snatched it from Matt’s hand and flattened it on the wood counter that separated his office from the main floor of the post office. His brows knit together as he ran his fingers over the wrinkled paper. “This is not outdated. If a position gets filled, I put the word ‘filled’ and the date right under the date of posting. Then I file it.” He glared at Matt. “I’ll thank you not to tinker with my system.”

  Matt blinked rapidly, snatching his hat from his head. “I apologize, mister. I just figured with that date of October—”

  “Well, don’t figure, just ask.” The man pounded his finger against the paper three times. “As far as I know, this position’s open, and it’ll stay on that board until I hear otherwise.” He charged through a narrow doorway to the right of the counter, muttering under his breath. Matt watched the man yank a tack free and impale the paper. With the stab of the tack into wood, Matt felt as though something stabbed through his heart. He needed a job. A ranching job. And right now, the only job he knew about waited in Missouri. He took a great breath and said, “Take it back down, mister.”

  The man spun, giving Matt a fierce glare. “Didn’t you hear anything I said? I told you—”

  “I know.” Matt twisted his hat in his hands. “But I . . . I’m wantin’ to fill the position.”

  “Oh.” The man lost his crusty tone. “That’s different, then. Come over here.” He returned to the office area behind the counter and slapped the paper onto a desk in the back corner. Seating himself, he called, “That’ll be ten cents to send a telegram to this”—he looked at the paper—“Mr. Harders. Might take a day or two to get a response if he lives out away from town.”

  Matt withdrew a dime from his pocket and placed it on the counter. He had nowhere to go or anyone waiting for him. “I got a day or two to spare.” Maybe another job will turn up in the meantime.

  The postmaster picked up a pencil, licked its point, and aimed it at a pad of paper. “What do you want me to tell Mr. Harders?”

  Matt sucked in a deep breath. “Keep it simple. The name’s Matthew Tucker, I’m reliable, and I’m . . . available.”

  A few clicks on the telegraph machine sent Matt’s message winging across the country from Texas to Missouri. After the postmaster instructed him to check back the next day, he headed toward the livery where he’d boarded his roan, Russ, after Mr. Smallwood’s funeral last week. He could bed down with the beast until he received word on a job—whether it was the one in Missouri or someplace else. It didn’t bother him to sleep in a stable. Truth was, he’d slept in worse places.

  The worst of all was in Missouri.

  Russ greeted his master with a snort and nuzzled Matt’s shoulder with his moist nose. Matt wrapped his arms around the beast’s massive neck and pressed his face to the warm tawny hide. Eyes closed, he silently pleaded, Lord, I’m so tired of this movin’ around. I need a home—one that’ll last longer’n a year or two. I might’ve sent that telegram, but . . . Missouri, Lord? He swallowed, his hand convulsing on Russ’s neck.

  A snippet from his Bible reading sifted through his mind.

  He repeated the words aloud. “ ‘Thou has beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me.’ ” Lifting his gaze to the rafters overhead, he said, “Does that mean you’ll go ahead of me, preparing the way . . . even back to Missouri?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Molly

  Kansas City, Kansas

  January, 1903

  Isabelle Standler rested her head on the brocade back of the parlor settee and stared at the plaster ceiling. The crystal teardrops dangling from the chandelier sent out dozens of dancing rainbows. Her attention flitted from one splash of color to another, a feeble attempt to cheer herself as she had ever since she was twelve and Papa had installed the ostentatious light fixture.

  With the thought of Papa came a rush of sorrow so intense tears spurted into her eyes, making the miniature rainbows swim. Closing her eyes, she brought up her hand to cover her mouth and stifled a pained moan. Oh, how she missed Papa and Mama!

  “Isabelle?”

  Randolph’s query straightened her in the seat. “I’m in here,” she called in a weary voice, watching as her older brother strode through the wide doorway and crossed the carpeted floor to stand in front of her. He had not yet removed his mourning armband for the evening, and the black crepe band seemed to shout the reminder of what she’d lost. She forced herself to look into her brother’s face, and a chill went down her spine. Randolph’s expression was stern, as always, but today it seemed particularly grim.

  “There you are.” His tone indicated he believed she’d deliberately hidden from him. “We need to talk.”

  “All right.” She linked her hands in her lap. “What is it?”

  Randolph perched on a wing-back chair near the settee, his dark brows pulled into a frown. “As you know, Father made me executor of his will.”

  Pain stabbed. Isabelle swallowed, staring at her hands. How pale her skin appeared against the black of her full skirt. She knew they needed to discuss Papa’s will, but she wished it could be delayed. The longer they waited, the more she could pretend it was all a dream—that Mama and Papa were simply away for their annual New Year’s celebration and would be coming home with smiles and hugs and presents, as they had every year for as far back as Isabelle could remember.

  “I know,” she contributed in a strained voice, raising her face to meet his gaze again. “Papa believed it was your responsibility as firstborn, and I trust his judgment.”

  Randolph’s scowl deepened. “I’m more than the firstborn.”

  Isabelle pinched her brow at his harsh tone, but she offered a nod of agreement. “You’re also the only son. Of course, I—”

  “I mean,” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing to mere slits of snapping black, “that I’m the firstborn and the only true heir to the Standler fortune.”

  Isabelle bit her lower lip. Although she’d longed for a close relationship with her brother her entire life, she had come to accept he wished to remain distant. His resentment of her was as familiar as Mama’s tender care and Papa’s gentle guidance, but she wished he could set it aside. “Randolph, I don’t understand why—”

  Without warning he thrust something at her. A book. A small leather-bound volume, with a worn cover and curled pages. “This should help you understand. Open it.”

  Isabelle’s heart jumped into her throat. “W-what is it?”

  “I said open it.” Her brother’s icy glare demanded obedience.

  With trembling fingers, Isabelle turned the first page, bringing into view a record of births and deaths. Randolph leaned forward, pointing to the third name in a list. “This, my dear little sister”—the disdain in his tone made her scalp prickle—“is your true heritage. Molly Gallagher, born of Irish descent in County Meath, Ireland. You aren’t a Standler. And you’ll be receiving no inheritance.”

  Isabelle shook her head, a new sorrow striking. How could Randolph’s resentment carry him to the extreme of purchasing a used Bible and trying to convince her she had been born to some other family? She closed the book and held it out to him. “It won’t work, Randolph.” When he made no move to take it from her, she went on in a soft, pleading tone. “I’
m sorry I’ve never pleased you—heaven knows I’ve tried—but this is cruel. Please . . . can’t we set aside our past differences? We’re all the family we have left.”

  “I have no family left.” Randolph grated out his harsh words through clenched teeth. Rising, he paced to the fireplace, where he stood, his back to her, seeming to examine the portrait that hung in prominence over the mantel. Suddenly he snatched the portrait from the wall and threw it into the fire. The glass shattered as the frame struck the brick of the inner hearth, exposing the picture to the fire’s licking tongues.

  “Randolph, no!” Isabelle tossed the Bible aside and raced to the fireplace, reaching to retrieve the picture taken only three years ago of her with her parents and brother. Before she could grasp the frame, Randolph caught her arms and flung her backward. She fell into a table, knocking a lamp to the floor. It crashed into slivers of rose-colored glass.

  “See what you’ve done!” Randolph stood over her, his angry face only inches from hers. “You ruin everything, Isabelle; you always have! You took Mother’s love, Father’s attention. . . .

  You won’t take my inheritance!” Grabbing her by the arms, he shook her violently. “No longer will I continue the pretense of you carrying the Standler name! I want you out, Isabelle! Today, do you hear me? Out!”

  He released her with another shove. She stumbled but didn’t fall, clutching her arm where his fingers had bruised her flesh. Tears coursed down her face. “But . . . but this is my home. Where will I go?”

  Randolph spun around and stared into the fire as the last bit of the photograph was consumed by greedy flames. “That isn’t my concern.” The cold tone chilled Isabelle thoroughly. “I just want you gone.” Glancing briefly over his shoulder, his gaze dropped to the settee where the Bible lay, open, its curled pages seeming to invite examination. “And take that book with you. I need no reminder of you in my house.”

  Isabelle stared at his back for several moments, unable to believe he truly meant what he said. When he remained as if planted in front of the fireplace, she moved carefully past the shattered lamp—the sharp shards an ignominious picture of her shattered heart—and lifted the Bible. Clutching it to her breast, she walked out of the room, her steps measured, with the grace and dignity her mother had taught her.

  By the time she reached her bedroom, hurt had grown to anger. How dare Randolph treat her in such a reprehensible manner? Papa would be appalled—he would never allow her to be cast from her home. She would see that Randolph was taken to task and forced to apologize. She knew just who would accomplish it, too.

  Picking up the little brass bell that sat on her bedside table, she rang it furiously. In moments, her personal maid appeared in the doorway.

  “Yes, miss?”

  By the girl’s bright red cheeks, Isabelle knew she’d heard every bit of Randolph’s tirade. She swallowed her humiliation and assumed a tart tone. “Pack me a bag, Myrtle. I’ll need clothing for a stay of perhaps a week. Be sure to include all of the personal effects from my dressing table, as well as this Bible.” She held out the Bible, and Myrtle took it with both hands. “Then have Toby bring the carriage around.”

  Suddenly Randolph stepped into the doorway. “Myrtle, do not instruct Toby to bring the carriage. She can hire a cab. Here.” He threw a handful of bills and coins onto the carpeted floor of the bedroom. One coin rolled past Isabelle’s feet and disappeared under the bed. He swung around and disappeared down the hall.

  Myrtle looked uncertainly at the money flung across the floor.

  “Do . . . do you want me pick this up an’ put it with your belongings, miss?”

  Isabelle shook her head, her curls bouncing against her tearstained cheeks. “No. I want nothing from him. Just pack my bag as I’ve asked. I’ll be back after I’ve arranged transport.” With her chin held high, she swept from the room.

  She paused for a moment in the hallway, looking at the closed door of her parents’ bedroom. Randolph would never have dared to behave so high-handedly if Papa were alive. The pain of her loss struck again, bringing a new rush of tears. But she swished them away with trembling fingers and vowed in a whisper, “You’ll pay for this, Randolph. How dearly you will pay. . . .”

  Isabelle swung herself from the cramped area beside the hansom cab driver, then reached to retrieve the bag she’d wedged in at her feet. Shivering from the cold wind that lifted her cape and sent little particles of snow down the back of her dress, she dropped a few coins into the man’s outstretched hand. He gave no nod of acknowledgment, merely slapped the reins down on the horse’s back, forcing her to leap backward against the curb.

  Her heel caught in the hem of her dress, and she heard the fabric rip. Sucking in her breath in aggravation, she resisted the urge to check the damage. It was cold and dark—she needed to get inside as quickly as possible. Lifting her skirt with one hand and holding the leather handles of her bag with the other, she made her difficult progress along the dim, shadowy sidewalk that led to the Heatons’ stately home.

  Facing the eight concrete steps that led to the receiving porch, she chose to leave the bag behind. One of the Heatons’ servants could retrieve it after she’d been allowed entry. She climbed the slippery steps and twisted the brass key that sounded the bell. In moments the door swung wide and the Heatons’ butler invited her in.

  Her spine straight and chin angled high, she said, “I need to speak with—”

  “Isabelle!”

  Glenn Heaton approached in long, eager strides. Isabelle almost began to cry when she saw his sweet smile of welcome.

  Her proud posture dissolved. She needn’t maintain the façade of strength now that Glenn was here. She stretched her hands toward him, relishing the secure feel of his long, cool fingers wrapped around hers.

  “Mother will be so disappointed. She’s already retired for the evening. What brings you out on such a frosty night?” Then his brows thrust downward, and his blue eyes narrowed in concern. “My dear, something is wrong.” With an arm around her waist, he guided her to the parlor and assisted her to a chair. He knelt and grasped her hand. “What is it, darling? Are you missing your parents terribly?”

  She sniffed, blinking hard against more tears. “Yes, but it isn’t that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Isabelle’s chin quivered from the effort of containing both anger and grief. “It’s Randolph. He—”

  Glenn’s father entered the parlor at that moment, crossing quickly to the pair. “I was told we had a guest, but I didn’t expect to see you out at this hour unescorted, Isabelle. Your father—God rest his soul—would be distraught by your wandering the city alone at night. I trust you have good reason for this late visit.”

  “Father, my fiancée is the one who is distraught,” Glenn said, his tone severe. “Something is wrong. Perhaps you should sit down and listen.”

  Mr. Heaton harrumphed but seated himself on the edge of the sofa without another word.

  Glenn turned back to Isabelle, his expression attentive. “Now, there. Tell me. What has happened to Randolph?”

  “Nothing has happened to Randolph, but . . .” Isabelle explained as best she could the odd discussion that had taken place between herself and her brother. Glenn’s face changed from concerned to puzzled to indignant as she finished. “The Bible he gave me is outside in my bag, at the base of the porch stairs with the few belongings he allowed me to bring from my home. I . . . I don’t know what to do, Glenn.” Her voice broke on a sob.

  “You did the right thing, coming to me, Isabelle.” The sweet brush of his knuckles on her cheek was as intimate as a kiss. “I’m sure Randolph is merely so distressed by your parents’ untimely deaths he is not within his right mind. He’ll come to himself in a few days and invite you back.”

  Isabelle blinked away her tears. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Heaton inserted. “People do odd things in times of grief. In the meantime, we will put you in one of our guest rooms.” He
rose and called for a servant. The butler immediately appeared and received directions to retrieve Miss Isabelle’s bag and carry it to the Yellow Room. Turning back to Isabelle, Mr. Heaton said, “Now, no more worrying, my dear. Everything will seem brighter in the morning.”

  “Oh, I do hope so,” Isabelle murmured as the man strode out of the parlor.

  Glenn patted her hand. “See? You’re all taken care of now.”

  Isabelle fell into his arms, nestling her head on his shoulder.

  “Oh, Glenn, I was so frightened. And angry! Randolph and I have never gotten along, but I never dreamed he would disown me.” Still within the circle of his arms, she added, “Where could he have gotten that Bible? Why would he concoct such a story?”

  “Now, Isabelle, you’re upsetting yourself for no reason. Didn’t we tell you things will be all right?”

  Isabelle lifted her head, looking into Glenn’s eyes. “But you didn’t see or hear him, Glenn. He was so . . . cold.”

  “Miss Isabelle, your room is ready,” the butler said from the parlor doorway.

  Glenn rose, pulling Isabelle to her feet. “You go on upstairs, Isabelle. Sleep well.” He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering against her skin. “No worries. I’ll put everything to right.”

  She released a breathy sigh and thanked him.

  After allowing Mrs. Heaton’s personal maid to assist her into her bedclothes, Isabelle snuggled against a pile of pillows. Her scalp still tingled pleasantly from the brushing delivered by the maid. Her thick tresses, plaited into a shimmering red braid, fell across one shoulder.

  She held a teacup beneath her chin and frowned at the wellworn Bible lying open in her lap. Warm and snug beneath the downy comforter, the honey-sweetened tea soothing her from the inside out, she tried to set aside the odd sense of discomfort the Bible’s family record caused within her breast.

  A wedding date for Angus Gallagher and Brigid McCue on the first page led to a list of children’s names and birthdates on the second. She read the names written in a neat, slanting hand—Maelle Gallagher, Matthew Gallagher, Molly Gallagher.