My Heart Remembers

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Although she’d determined to remember it, her inability to write it down—and Richard’s refusal to allow her to talk about it—had erased the name from her mind. She opened her eyes and stared at the cheese in her hand. She couldn’t remember their name, but she remembered their attitude when they’d taken Molly away. Heartless. The wealthy were heartless.

  She bit off a chunk of cheese, her thoughts returning to Jackson. He was certainly wealthy, but could she call him heartless? He seemed very concerned about children caught in terrible situations. The speech he’d given at the park had been flowery, but he’d also sounded sincere. And he’d given her a safe place to park, allowing her the unlimited use of his office building. Maybe she shouldn’t call him heartless.

  Finishing the last bite of cheese, she reached for her jacket. She held it over her head as she slid out of the wagon and walked to the front of the law office, where she could look across the street to the park. Through the light veil of rain, she spotted the wooden platform where Jackson had eloquently lectured his audience. Her memory replayed an image from her viewfinder: Jackson’s fervent face, his brow creased in concentration, his hands raised in supplication. Yes, he certainly cared about the children of whom he spoke. He wanted to make a difference in their lives.

  Dashing across the street, she made her way to the rise where she had set up her camera. A smile tugged her cheek as she remembered the grumpy man and the shrill-voiced woman. It had felt good to stand on that wooden stage and let them know how ridiculous they were being. If they’d seen what she’d seen over the years, maybe they’d set their petty concerns aside and join Jackson in his fight.

  “Take care o’ the wee ones.”

  Her pa’s voice from long ago still echoed through her heart. Maelle closed her eyes for a moment, battling the tears that always accompanied the memory. Hadn’t she tried to take care of the wee ones? How many fights had she gotten into, protecting smaller kids from bigger ones? She hadn’t kept count, but surely she’d set some record for pounding bullies into the dust. Richard never approved of her fighting—especially after he’d discovered her true gender—but she’d felt obliged to follow her father’s last directive.

  Now Jackson’s words seemed to be pulling her into another battle for the wee ones. A battle with legislation and politicians. She chuckled ruefully. A sock in the nose wouldn’t do much good there. It would take something more. It would take many people working together. It would take evidence of the harm being done.

  She straightened her shoulders. She had evidence. Photographs. Dozens of them snapped at various work sites across the United States. She’d kept them in one of Richard’s discarded cigar boxes and had gotten them out now and then to pray for the children projected on the paper. But now she could do more than pray. She could put the photos into the hands of someone who could use them for a greater good.

  Maelle gave Jackson a half hour to settle in before she entered the law office and marched to his door, the cigar box under her arm. Without asking permission from the scowling secretary, she raised her fist and banged on the paneled door.

  “Come in.” His aggravated voice barked the invitation.

  She pushed the door open and crossed quickly to the desk where Jackson sat blotting several ink-splattered pages with a stained handkerchief. “Accident?”

  He snorted. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t do something like this on purpose.”

  She resisted the urge to laugh. “No. I suppose not.” She tipped sideways to peer at the papers. “Looks like you’ll be redoing those.”

  A noisy breath whooshed out of him. “Yes. As if I have time to redo these. Ah, well . . .” Tossing the handkerchief aside, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “What can I do for you this dismal afternoon?”

  She plunked the cigar box on the desk right in front of Jackson. “It would be better to ask what I can do for you.”

  “All right, then . . .” He glanced at the worn box, his lips quirked in puzzled query. “What can you do for me?”

  Reaching across the desk, she flipped open the lid on the cigar box and waited expectantly.

  Jackson looked into the box, his eyebrows jerked up, and he sat upright. “Mike . . .” He lifted out the top photograph, which showed a little girl with bare feet and a dirty apron, stretching her tiny hand toward the thread bobbin of a massive machine. His gaze slowly followed the photo as he set it aside; then his chin jerked as he turned again to the box. He reached for another, which showed a boy slumped, asleep, in a narrow patch of floor between machines.

  “You took these?”

  She nodded. “From Maine to the Carolinas to California . . . My uncle allowed me to practice on whatever I chose as he taught me to use the camera. Since I was a kid, I picked kids to photograph.”

  He held up a picture of a row of young boys leaning over some sort of chute and tapped the photo with the backs of his fingers. “Breaker boys?”

  Maelle gave a grim nod. “They sit there all day, watching the coal come out of the chutes. Their job is to pick out the rocks. Somewhere in that box is a picture of a foreman striking one of the boys on the back with a club because he dared to take his eyes off the box and stretch.” She didn’t mention the same foreman had chased her away, waving the club.

  She shook her head, staring at the picture. “Can you imagine sitting like that for ten hours at a time? Some of those kids have permanently humped spines from it.” With a shrug, she added, “But at least those boys are in the fresh air. A lot of kids work inside the mines, inhaling coal dust. That’s a lot less healthy than a curved spine.”

  Jackson looked at every picture, clear to the bottom of the box, then leaned back and stared at her in wonder. “These are unbelievable. And I thought our little newsboys had it rough! But this . . .” He gestured toward the stack of photographs. “This is beyond imagination. Children should not spend their childhoods like this.”

  “I agree.” Maelle rested the heels of her hands on the edge of the desk. “I spent my childhood working as my uncle’s apprentice. But I had it good—I was never overworked or mistreated.

  He taught me to read and write, and I learned a trade that lets me take care of myself now that my uncle’s . . . gone. I’ve carted those pictures around for years. I used them as reminders to pray for the kids. But I think you could put them to better use.”

  Jackson let out a whoop as he came out of his chair. Rounding the desk in three bounds, he captured her in a hug. “You’re marvelous!”

  Bile rose in her throat. With a cry of alarm, she shoved her palms hard against his chest. He released her abruptly. She stumbled but quickly regained her footing and made a show of adjusting her shirt, refusing to look at him even though she sensed his confused stare.

  A few tense moments ticked by while she fingered the buttons of her shirt and he remained motionless beside his desk. Then, finally, he walked slowly behind the desk and stood there, his fingertips resting on the wooden surface.

  She lifted her chin slightly and peered at him through her fringe of lashes. “Kindly keep your hands to yourself.” Deliberately, she maintained an even, almost friendly tone, but she felt certain the warning came through.

  “I apologize. I just wanted to thank you for . . .” His hoarse voice drifted off, and he shook his head. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

  She sucked in a deep breath and released it by increments, bringing herself under control. She offered a nod of acknowledgment before pointing to the scattered photographs. “Will those speak loud and clear to the politicians who need to change the laws?”

  Jackson’s brows pulled down. “Mike, are you sure you want to part with these?”

  His penetrating gaze sent a buzz of awareness down her spine. Backing up, she said, “I’m sure. Like I said, I just used them as a reminder to pray. But those images . . .” She tapped her forehead. “They’re in here, too.” Along with other images, other memories, that were just as difficult to dislodge. She swallowed.
“I can pray without the pictures.”

  Jackson nodded. Putting the photographs down, he offered a hesitant smile. “Thank you, Mike.”

  “You’re welcome.” She turned toward the door. “I best be heading out now. Take care, Jackson, and thanks again for your hospitality.”

  “Wait!” He started to come around the desk, then stopped. “You’re leaving town?”

  Her hand on the doorknob, she gave a slow nod. “Yes.”

  “But you’ve only been here . . . what? Three weeks?”

  “Yes.”

  “But aren’t there more pictures to take?”

  Maelle sighed. “Jackson, I live in a wagon because I’m a traveling photographer. Well, the time has come to travel.”

  “But if you leave now, you’ll be missing an opportunity to capture history in the making.”

  His impassioned tone made her pause. “What opportunity?”

  He took two steps closer but still maintained several feet’s distance. “On April eleventh, approximately thirty ranchers are meeting in Shay’s Ford to discuss providing financial backing to a potential new member of the Missouri House of Representatives. If elected, this candidate plans to use his position to change the labor laws of our state to exclude the employment of children.”

  Jackson snatched up one of her photographs and waved it. “If things go the way I plan, these pictures will be a memento of the past rather than a current-day happening. And you could be the one to record it for history.”

  The familiar tingle in her scalp signaled her interest. She licked her lips, considering Jackson’s words.

  Apparently he took her silence for a lack of interest, because he threw his arm outward and implored, “At the very least, wouldn’t you like another opportunity to be published in the Shay’s Ford Progress? You do keep a portfolio of your work, don’t you?”

  A slight grin trembled on her lips. Jackson would be stunned by her “portfolio.” She cleared her throat. “Oh yes. I’ve made use of several cigar boxes.”

  Jackson chuckled. “Quite the filing system.”

  “Simple, but effective.”

  “And in the meantime,” he went on, “surely there are more families in town who could benefit from your services.”

  Jackson was a good lawyer—he’d managed to change her mind, which was no mean feat. She sighed. “All right, Mr. Fancy Pants. I’ll stick around for your meeting. A follow-up in the newspaper would make a nice addition to my cigar box of articles. And there is one section of town I haven’t visited yet.” The wealthiest section . . .

  Jackson smiled. Her hand on the doorknob, Maelle nodded toward the desk and the cigar box, which sat open on top of the ink-stained pages. “Take good care o’ me wee ones,” she said, and then she slipped out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Molly

  Shay’s Ford, Missouri

  April, 1903

  Isabelle stared with longing at the remaining bit of cinnamonladen bread on her plate. The delectable flavor of spices on her tongue made her want to snatch up the last bite and eat it. All of the Rowleys cleaned their plates at every meal. Mr. Rowley even used a piece of bread to mop up any crumbs, leaving his plate looking as though it hadn’t been used.

  Mrs. Rowley reached for Aaron’s empty plate. “Are you finished?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and thank you.”

  Isabelle glanced up to watch Aaron rise and deposit a kiss on his mother’s plump cheek. The familiar, affectionate gesture sent a second, more intense spiral of longing through her chest.

  Mrs. Rowley then turned to Isabelle. “You done, too?”

  Isabelle sighed, giving her plate a little push. “Yes. Your cinnamon buns are the best I’ve ever eaten.”

  Mrs. Rowley’s hand fluttered at her throat in pleasure. “Why, thank you. Don’t you want to finish it?”

  Isabelle drew herself straight in the chair and rested her hands in her lap. “My mother taught me that to completely clean one’s plate appears gauche and gluttonous.”

  Mr. Rowley choked on his coffee, and Aaron quickly patted him on the back. Mrs. Rowley’s face mottled with red. She smacked Isabelle’s plate on top of Aaron’s. “Well, around here, dear, we try not to waste food. So don’t worry about appearing gluttonous. If the food tastes good and you’re hungry, eat.”

  Isabelle licked her lips, peering at Mrs. Rowley with her head low. “I . . . I shall try to remember.”

  The older woman’s face relaxed into a gentle smile. Setting aside the stack of plates, she touched Isabelle’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I scolded. It’s clear you was raised a bit different than my scamp here.” She sent a teasing grin in Aaron’s direction, which he returned with a wink. “We’re all learning to put up with each other, and with God’s help, we’ll manage fine.”

  Isabelle’s lips twitched into a half-hearted smile. “I suppose.”

  Mrs. Rowley gave a bright smile. “Maybe later this morning, if things are slow, we can come up here and I’ll show you how to make the buns. Then, when you have your own house, you can still enjoy them.”

  Pushing back her chair, Isabelle said, “I appreciate your offer, but I don’t see the need. I am certain I shall have a cook to see to the baking in my home.” The moment the words were out, she recognized how ungrateful and superior they sounded. Heat filled her cheeks. Sinking back into her chair, she covered her face with both hands and released a muffled groan.

  Warm, sturdy arms surrounded her, and Mrs. Rowley’s tender voice whispered, “Tell us what’s troubling you, Isabelle. We’d like to help, if we can.”

  Her face still hidden behind trembling hands, Isabelle shook her head. “There—there’s nothing anyone can do.”

  A gentle tug brought her hands away from her face, and Isabelle found herself under the sympathetic scrutiny of the entire Rowley family.

  Aaron leaned forward. “Isabelle, why are you in Shay’s Ford? What brought you here?”

  She straightened in her seat, disengaging Mrs. Rowley’s embrace, and fixed him with a fierce glare. “Nothing brought me here. I was forced here against my will!”

  “Forced?” Mrs. Rowley asked. “To Shay’s Ford?”

  Isabelle grabbed the older woman’s hand. “My brother kicked me out of our home after our parents were killed. My fiancé broke our engagement and trundled me away in disgrace. They say—they say I’m not Isabelle Standler. They say I’m an orphan named Molly Gallagher, but I’m not! I tell you, I’m not!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Rowley looked at each other. Mr. Rowley shook his head and emitted a puzzled chuckle. “You’re gonna have to slow that down a mite. I’m not so sure we follow ya.”

  Tears flooded Isabelle’s eyes. She brushed them away with an impatient swipe of her hand. “I was raised in Kansas City, in the Chesterfield area.” From their blank expressions, she could tell they knew nothing of Chesterfield. She offered a simple explanation. “My father co-founded the Western-Continental Railroad.”

  Mrs. Rowley plunked back into her seat. “Railroad tycoon?” she clucked, pressing a hand to her bodice. “Why, little wonder you carry yourself like a princess.”

  Isabelle grimaced and hurried on. “When he and my mother were killed in a paddleboat explosion, my brother, Randolph, took ownership of the business. At the same time, he disowned me.”

  Her chin quivered, but at that moment she couldn’t decide if she felt more distraught or indignant. “He gave me a Bible, which originally belonged to a family named Gallagher. Randolph insists I am one of the Gallagher children listed in the Bible’s record. He also displayed a packet of papers he asserts prove I was not born to my parents but was taken in as a baby. I’m certain all the documents are forgeries, concocted by Randolph to lay claim to my share of the inheritance, but no one believes me. When my fiancé learned I no longer had my promised inheritance, he cancelled our wedding plans. Then he—” She paused, pursing her lips. “He suggested something immoral in lieu of a marriage.” Her chin shot up. “I refused.�
��

  “Good girl.” Mrs. Rowley gave Isabelle’s shoulder an emphatic pat.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Isabelle continued. “The only other option given was for me to travel to Shay’s Ford and assume the position of house servant for a business associate of my fiancé’s father. I had no place to go, so I accepted the position with great reluctance.” She shuddered. “It was a deplorable situation. You all saved me from that, but . . .” Tears stung again.

  From below, a banging erupted. They all jumped, and Mr. Rowley shot to his feet. “Customers thumpin’ the door. Gotta open up.”

  Aaron started to follow. “I’ll help you, Pa.”

  But Mr. Rowley waved a big hand. “No. You stay here—get Isabelle taken care of. I can handle things for a while.”

  Aaron sat back down and gave her an encouraging smile. “Go ahead. We’re listening.”

  One tear spilled down Isabelle’s cheek. “But I don’t belong here.” She pressed her palms to her heart, her expression fervent. “I’m certain I’m Isabelle Standler, but the Bible mocks me with the idea that perhaps I’m Molly Gallagher. I miss my home in Kansas City so much it is a constant ache in my heart, yet I can’t return to that life until my brother relinquishes his allegation that I’m not his sister. And the only way he’ll do that is with irrefutable proof. Yet how do I prove it?” A deep sigh escaped. “It’s all so very hopeless.”

  “It isn’t hopeless,” Aaron said. “I think I know how you can prove it.”

  Isabelle gaped at Aaron. “How? How can I prove it? Tell me.” She heard the command in her tone yet refused to apologize for it.

  Aaron shrugged. “I have a friend—Jackson Harders—who’s a lawyer. He could look at those papers you were talking about and figure out if they’re real or not.”