My Heart Remembers

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Swallowing, she focused on Petey. The child looked at her out of the corner of his eyes, his chin quivering. Ignoring Isabelle, Maelle sat on the edge of the feather bed and put her hand over Petey’s much smaller one. “Did you really think I forgot you?”

  Petey shrugged, his gaze dropping. “Sort of.” The words were mumbled so softly, she almost didn’t catch them.

  “I’m sorry I was late. My camera got broken, and your friend Jackson wanted to buy me a new one. We went to every store in town, and it took longer than I thought it would. But I didn’t forget you, Petey. I came as fast as I could. And I brought Pikes Peak with me.” She held out the cigar box.

  Petey smiled. “The big mountain?”

  Maelle opened the lid. “Do you want to see it now?”

  The child nodded, but he looked up at Isabelle. “Is it okay if I look at the pitchers?”

  Maelle met Isabelle’s frosty glare. For a moment, Maelle feared the woman would demand she leave. But Isabelle offered a small, abrupt nod and said, “Yes, you may.” Angling her chin, she fixed Maelle with a challenging expression. “And I shall look, too.”

  Maelle ducked her head, hiding her grin. If Isabelle wanted to intimidate her, she would have to do a lot more than look down her nose. Maelle was an expert wrestler, bully-buster, and champion of the underdog. Those snooty looks might grate on her nerves, but they wouldn’t chase her away. She set the cigar box on the bed next to her hip and invited, “Well, sit down, then. You’re in for a treat. I’m a very good photographer.”

  With a sweeping of her black skirts, Isabelle seated herself gracefully on the other side of Petey’s bed. They spent a half hour examining each photo in turn, with Maelle telling little stories about some of the pictures. Petey laughed especially hard when Maelle confessed she tripped over a rock and accidentally sat on a cactus when backing up to get a better view of the Great Salt Lake.

  She fought her own giggles at his unbridled mirth. “It’s not that funny!” Truthfully, the situation had never seemed as amusing as it did now, seen through the eyes of this little boy.

  Petey covered his mouth with both hands, his eyes sparkling merrily beneath his mop of blond hair. “You got prickles in your backside? How’d ya get ’em out?”

  Maelle glanced at Isabelle. The other woman looked as though she’d swallowed a pickle, her lips were pursed so tight. Instead of giving Petey an accurate answer, she said, “It wasn’t easy. But the picture was worth it. Isn’t it pretty?”

  Petey’s attention returned to the photograph. The mountains rising in the background, reflected in the flat pool of water, was one of Maelle’s favorites. He puckered his brow. “Did ya do any fishin’ while you was there?”

  Maelle chuckled. “No. Fish can’t survive in that lake. It’s too salty.”

  The child’s eyes grew wide. “Then, what’s it good for?”

  Giving him a gentle smile, she said, “It’s beautiful to look at.”

  He looked once more at the picture in Maelle’s hand and nodded. “Guess you’re right.” He stretched, bumping the box into Maelle’s knees. “Thanks for showin’ me the pitchers, Mike.”

  Maelle rose, picking up her box. “You’re welcome, Petey. I’m glad you liked them.”

  He adjusted the covers across his chest. “An’ I bet you take real good ones of people, too. Will you take one of me and Isabelle?”

  Maelle looked at Isabelle, who remained perched on the bed with her hands folded in her lap, her back straight as a poker. “Maybe . . . If Isabelle likes.”

  The younger woman’s fine brows rose. “Can I assume from your reply to Petey that you were successful in securing an adequate camera?”

  “There wasn’t anything in town that was suitable, but we found one in the Sears and Roebuck catalog.” Maelle stifled the sigh that longed for release. “So now I have to wait for it to be shipped, and I don’t have anything to do in the meantime.” She chuckled ruefully. “I’m not accustomed to doing nothing.”

  Isabelle pinched her chin between her thumb and fingers, her expression thoughtful. “Do you have neat penmanship?”

  “Penmanship?” Maelle peered at Isabelle. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Isabelle rose and rounded the bed with a graceful sweep of her full skirts. She clasped her hands at her waist and tipped her head to the side. “I am in need of a . . . secretary of sorts.”

  Work for Isabelle? Maelle took a step backward. “I’m not so sure I—”

  “Has Jackson spoken to you of the orphans’ home being erected north of town?”

  The abrupt question stirred Maelle’s curiosity. “No, he hasn’t.”

  Isabelle glanced toward the bed. Petey’s eyes were closed, his lips slack. She looked to the hallway, giving a nod of her head that communicated her desire for Maelle to follow her. When Isabelle had closed Petey’s door, she spoke in a soft tone.

  “In a few weeks, there will be a ground-breaking ceremony for a school for orphaned and destitute children. The school will provide room and board, a proper education, and opportunities to give the children skills that will meet their financial needs when they graduate from the program.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “Oh yes.” Isabelle’s voice, though whisper soft, held fervor. “It is reprehensible that children are left unattended day and night, living on the streets and facing hardships. Our Petey would probably have two good legs right now had a school like this been available to him. My hope is that no other child in Shay’s Ford shall ever suffer the way little Petey has.”

  Maelle folded her arms. “Well, I’m in favor of a school like you’re describing. But where does a secretary fit in?”

  “As I said, ground-breaking is only a few weeks away. I have sufficient funds to construct the appropriate buildings and begin its operation, but there will be a need for consistent financial support to keep the school in service for the long term.” Isabelle pursed her lips for a moment. “There are many wealthy businessmen in Missouri who contribute to worthy causes. I believe this cause is one of the worthiest, as it involves the future well-being of children. But these businessmen won’t know about the opportunity unless they are informed.”

  “So you need someone to inform them,” Maelle stated for clarification.

  “Yes. I require assistance in penning letters inviting businessmen to commit to a monthly contribution. Time is of the essence, and I simply do not have enough hours between helping in the market and seeing to Petey’s needs while he recovers.”

  Maelle lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Can’t you go to the newspaper office and have some fliers printed up to send out?”

  Isabelle’s fine brows pinched together, and she clicked her tongue against her teeth. “A printed flier might present the information, but it is highly impersonal. A handwritten invitation to contribute is much more likely to garner a favorable response, don’t you think?” A sly smile teased the corner of her lips. “I know the wealthy enough to understand that they like to believe they are the only ones being asked to participate in a specific cause. Then they can gloat a bit, adding to their feeling of importance.” She touched Maelle’s sleeve. “Believe me, Miss Mike, a handwritten invitation is the only acceptable means of communication.”

  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?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Mattie

  Rocky Crest Ranch

  April, 1903

  What’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.