My Heart Remembers

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Father!” The eager call interrupted Petey’s chatter.

  Matt looked up to see two men approach from the chapel porch. One was Jackson Harders. The moment Jackson neared, Mr. Harders stepped forward and embraced his son, delivering several enthusiastic thumps on his back. The sight made Matt’s chest feel tight. How many years had passed since he’d known the warmth of a father’s arms around him? He turned away to see the man who had accompanied Jackson Harders curl his hand around the back of Petey’s neck.

  “Petey, it’s time to head in and sit down. The service is going to start.” Although the words could be considered a command, the man’s voice sounded kind.

  Petey puckered his face. “Aw, Aaron, I wanna talk to my friend.” Pointing at Matt, he added, “He’s the one I tol’ you about who saved me from Dave.”

  The man called Aaron sent a brief smile in Matt’s direction. “And you’ll be able to talk to him after the service. But come on now. We don’t want to be late, and you don’t want to make your friend late.”

  For a moment it appeared Petey would argue, but then he sighed. “Okay.” Peering up at Matt, he waved. “Bye, mister. I gotta go now.”

  Petey took Aaron’s hand. The pair headed up the sidewalk and stepped into the chapel. Mr. Harders said, “We better head in, too. We’ll have lunch following the service and get caught up.”

  Matt followed Mr. Harders and his son into the chapel, and they slid into a pew just as the minister stepped behind the simple lectern. Reverend Shankle delivered an excellent sermon based on a passage from Jeremiah. Matt listened intently, filing away bits and pieces to chew on later. He liked the idea that God had made plans for His children, and that the plans were to give His children hope.

  Hope . . . A beautiful word. He held hope that one day he would be reunited with Maelle and Molly. He held hope that he’d have his own place, his own family. Leaning forward, he listened carefully to the minister’s next words.

  “How do we discover God’s good plans for us? By seeking Him. Just as the Good Book says, we will find Him if we seek Him with all our hearts.”

  Matt nodded. Sure enough, the moment he’d followed Mr. Smallwood’s prompting and sought God, he’d found Him. Now he was a part of God’s family—an adopted son, Mr. Smallwood had said. Glancing at Mr. Harders and Jackson, seated side-byside on his right, he felt a twinge of regret that he couldn’t sit in a church service with his father. How he missed Da. . . .

  When the sermon ended, he rose for the final hymn and the reverend’s closing prayer, and then he followed Jackson and Mr. Harders into the churchyard. People milled in small groups, visiting, and he looked for Petey. But to his disappointment the boy seemed to have disappeared.

  Mr. Harders clapped his shoulder lightly. “Shall we go get some lunch?”

  Matt faced his employer. “I was hopin’ to talk to Petey before we left.”

  Jackson scanned the crowd. “I don’t see the Rowleys. I’m sure Petey went with them. If Father has time, I could take you by their market before you head home. It’s likely Petey will spend the afternoon there.”

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t want to hold anybody up. I got to see the boy is doin’ well. That’s all that matters.”

  Mr. Harders hauled his bulky frame into the driver’s seat of the carriage, and Matt and Jackson climbed into the back. Once they were seated, Matt asked, “How long has Petey been livin’ with the Rowleys?”

  The carriage hit a rut, bouncing the seat. Jackson grimaced, but Matt wasn’t sure if it was due to the road condition or the question he’d asked.

  “He’s not exactly living with the Rowleys.”

  Matt frowned. “Then, where is he living?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Petey spends his nights at the market. The Rowleys have set up several pallets in their storeroom for some of the street children, and Petey is there nearly every night. He eats one meal at the market each day, but most of his time is spent on the street, selling newspapers.”

  When Matt had seen the boy walking hand-in-hand with Aaron Rowley, he had assumed the child was being cared for. The realization that he was still without a home generated an uneasy feeling in the pit of Matt’s stomach. “He’s just running wild?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The carriage rolled past the business district, and Matt turned to watch the passing buildings. Despite Petey’s cheerful appearance, he wondered if the boy were any better off in Shay’s Ford than he’d been in St. Louis. Then he thought of Dave’s strap, and he decided at least he wasn’t being abused. Turning back to Jackson, he said, “You said the Rowleys take care of several boys like Petey?”

  “That’s right.”

  Blowing out a frustrated breath, Matt growled, “Well, at least somebody’s tryin’ to do something to help.”

  Mr. Harders glanced over his shoulder. “The Rowleys aren’t the only ones trying to help the street children, Matt. Jackson here has quite a campaign going to find a way to get those kids off the streets and into school.”

  Matt shot Jackson an interested look. “Oh yeah?”

  Facing forward, Mr. Harders continued. “He wants to change the laws that allow children to work all day. If the laws change, then it will be illegal for people to hire boys like Petey to sell newspapers. He believes the children need to be in school if they’re to have any chance for a decent future.”

  Matt swallowed. A decent future . . . Matt hadn’t had much schooling. He’d spent most of his growing-up years working all day. Oh, the Bonhams had sent him to school, but they’d only had him those two years. And there was a little schooling at the orphanage, but after that, Jenks had made sure his days were filled with hard work. And hard knocks.

  Without conscious thought, he zipped a glance over his shoulder. Of course Jenks was nowhere in sight. Jackson’s voice pulled his attention back.

  “As long as laws allow employers to hire children, the childhoods of countless youngsters will continue to be lost. We’ve got to get these children out of jobs and into classrooms. And we’ve got to do it now.”

  Matt nodded thoughtfully. He knew why children were hired in place of adults. Children worked for lower wages, and often they could be bullied into continuing longer hours. During his years with Jenks, he’d rarely gotten more than six hours of sleep a night. Jenks hadn’t been concerned about working him to death—he could just go to the orphanage and pick out another worker. But if Jackson managed to change those laws . . .

  Mr. Harders drew the carriage to a stop in front of the Riverside Hotel and Restaurant. He set the brake and then turned in the seat to face his son. “We’re doing our part, son. We’ll make people listen. But for now, let’s eat.” With a smile in Matt’s direction, he added, “You’re in for a treat. The cook here sears the best steaks in the state of Missouri.”

  During the meal, Matt sat quietly while Mr. Harders and Jackson visited. The restaurant’s wide windows faced the Mississippi River, providing a beautiful view. The décor inside was fancier than anything Matt had ever seen. But he couldn’t really enjoy the surroundings. His thoughts were too jumbled.

  He replayed Jackson’s words about changing the laws concerning children’s labor. What if laws had been in place when he was still a boy? What might he be doing now if he’d had the chance to finish school? Would he still be a ranch hand, or might he be something else—even a lawyer like Jackson Harders? He almost chuckled at that thought. No, being a lawyer meant college. College cost a lot of money, and orphans didn’t have money for college.

  Money . . . His fork paused on its way to his mouth. It was rich folks who had taken his baby sister away all those years ago. Had baby Molly been given the chance to go to school? Probably. But not Maelle. The photographer had said he wanted an apprentice. He lived in a wagon. Maelle probably hadn’t gotten any more schooling than he had. He hoped Maelle had at least been treated okay. The food lost its appeal, and he put his fork on his plate.

  “Matt, are you finished?�
� Mr. Harders’ voice cut into Matt’s thoughts.

  Matt pushed his reflections aside. “Yes, sir. I’m finished.”

  The older man dropped several bills on the table and rose, sending a smile at Matt. “I hope you don’t feel ignored.” He flung one arm around Jackson’s shoulders and the other around Matt’s and began guiding them toward the outside doors. “Jackson and I see one another so seldom since he went away to college, we tend to forget anyone else is around when we are together.”

  “I’m just fine,” Matt assured him, “but I was thinkin’ on what Jackson said. About changing the laws?”

  The three men paused on the wooden walkway outside the restaurant. A cool breeze that smelled of rain curled around the building, filling Matt’s nostrils. The clean, fresh scent seemed to awaken something inside of him.

  “I’d like to do my part, too, in gettin’ those laws changed.Kids like Petey”—and Maelle and me— “they deserve a better chance at life.”

  Jackson grinned. “I can use your help next month, Matt, if you’ll still be at the ranch.”

  Matt looked from one man to the other. Clancy had indicated Mr. Harders had a hard time keeping hands—the sheep ran them off. But it took no effort to promise, “I’ll be around.”

  “Father is planning to run for a seat in the Missouri House of Representatives. If he’s elected, he’ll be our voice for the children. But it takes a great deal of financial support to fund a campaign.”

  Matt raised his shoulders in a shrug. “How can I help?”

  The three walked together toward the carriage as Jackson continued. “I’m hosting a meeting in Shay’s Ford the eleventh of April to discuss Father’s candidacy. I could use an extra pair of hands that day, handing out information and collecting pledges.”

  Matt nodded. “If your father can spare me, I’d be proud to give you a hand.”

  Jackson formed a fist and punched the air in excitement. “It should be a rousing meeting! I’ve invited every influential rancher in the state to attend.” He released an exultant whoop before climbing into the carriage. “And nearly all of them have accepted my invitation.”

  Matt’s mouth went dry. Every influential rancher in the state? His hands began to tremble. Then that meant Lester Jenks would be coming to Shay’s Ford.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Molly

  Shay’s Ford, Missouri

  March, 1903

  Isabelle heard a shuffle outside her door and glanced over her shoulder. Aaron stood framed in the doorway, a wide box in his arms and a helpless expression on his face. She put her hands on her hips and chided, “That box is more narrow than long. Turn sideways and come on in.”

  With a sheepish grin, Aaron angled his body perpendicular to the opening and eased through. The moment he entered the room, she said, “Set it on top of the one marked soup. That will prop it high enough for me to sort through the contents easily.”

  Aaron followed her instruction. Isabelle’s chest puffed up in satisfaction at the stacks of crates lining the wall. Over the past two weeks, she’d worked tirelessly and accomplished a great deal. It gave her heart a lift when she thought about making the lives of the newsboys a little brighter. Aaron’s willingness to aid in her efforts had been a great help, too.

  Last Tuesday she had convinced him to squire her all through the Lyndon Hill area, holding an umbrella over her head to protect her from the drizzling spring rain while she solicited contributions from every household in the neighborhood. His smile of approval as she’d valiantly presented her case to the wealthy families of Lyndon Hill, arguing the advantages of keeping the children healthy and well fed so the city would not be burdened with medical expenses or losses to thievery, had spurred her onward.

  Aaron popped open the top crate on the stack and then turned to face her, brushing his palms together. “Are you finished with me now?”

  Isabelle crinkled her brow, thinking aloud. “If that crate of shoes arrives, as Mr. Wallace promised, I shall require your assistance in constructing a shelf where I can arrange them by size. But we can do that tomorrow afternoon.”

  A scowl marred Aaron’s normally placid face. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “So you’re intendin’ to work tomorrow instead of comin’ to chapel service?”

  Isabelle swallowed a sigh. She hadn’t gone to a service since the day she’d met the Rowleys and moved into this humble room. Mrs. Rowley had spoken with her about the importance of keeping the Sabbath day holy, but when else did Isabelle have time to herself? “Yes, I’ll be working here.” She rested the tips of her fingers on the crate’s edge and gave a dismissing nod of her head. “But you’re free to go, as I have no further need of your assistance right now.”

  Aaron stood beside the stack of crates, arms folded and eyebrows high in silent query.

  Isabelle stared back. “Did you need something else?”

  “Well . . .” He scratched his chin. “I was hopin’ maybe you’d give me a thank-you.”

  Her cheeks flamed, and she turned sharply away, biting down on her lower lip. Odd, the feeling of remorse his simple statement created. She hadn’t been raised to express gratitude for every act of servitude offered by those in her family’s employ, so conveying appreciation made her tongue stiff and awkward. Yet she realized Aaron had given up his free time and often delayed completing his own tasks to assist her. She battled with herself, seeking appropriate words to offer thanks for the endless help he had cheerfully given.

  Suddenly he chuckled.

  She fixed him with a pointed look. “You find something amusing?”

  He leaned his elbow on the top crate. “Oh, I s’pose not. I was just thinkin’ maybe instead of you thanking me, I should be thanking you. After all, you’ve been the busy bee on behalf of our newsboys.” His eyes shone with admiration, creating a flutter in her heart. “Why are you doin’ it, Isabelle?”

  Raising her chin, she answered honestly. “I was raised to understand the duty of caring for the less fortunate.”

  A frown creased his brow, bringing a hint of apprehension to his eyes. “So you’re doing all this”—he swept his arm, indicating the stacks of crates—“out of duty?”

  “Of course.”

  “You do confuse me sometimes, Miss Standler.”

  She tipped her head, and a strand of hair slipped from its knot to curve beneath her chin. She pushed the errant coil back into place. “I confuse you?”

  “Yes. You were working as a house servant when I met you, but you don’t act like any servant I’ve met before. You just said you were raised to look out for the less fortunate, but there are some who would say you’re part of the less fortunate, considerin’ this room an’ the job you’ve got. So . . .” He lifted his hand in query. “How do you explain all that?”

  Aaron’s question dredged up unpleasant reminders of how much her life had changed. She set her lips in a grim line and began digging in the crate.

  Taking a step forward, Aaron touched her arm. “And why do you only wear black dresses, Isabelle? What are you mourning? The loss of a person . . . or the loss of somethin’ else—like a way of life?”

  Her gaze jerked to meet his. Heat climbed her cheeks, and she wished she could hide. “You’re prying, Aaron.”

  He stepped back, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. “I s’pose I am. I apologize if I offended you.”

  Turning away once more, she sighed. “You needn’t apologize. Sometimes I . . . I’m not sure what I mourn the most.” Her final words came out in a pained whisper.

  “Isabelle . . .”

  Before he could ask anything else, she took in a quick breath, clapped her hands together, and announced, “Well, I have much to accomplish here. I thank you”—she forced a teasing smirk to her face—“for your kind assistance, but as I said, you may go on to your own duties now. I intend to have these long johns organized by size before suppertime. I told Petey to bring every homeless boy i
n town to the storeroom at dusk so they may each be issued a warm pair.”

  Aaron headed toward the door. “Well, it’s a kind thing you’re doin’.”

  Isabelle, her hands full of long johns, raised her brows at him.

  “Yes, I know.”

  Something flickered in Aaron’s eyes—not approval, certainly, but something unreadable. Almost a worry. But before she could question it, he stepped out of the room.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Maelle

  Shay’s Ford, Missouri

  March, 1903

  Maelle 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.