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 s
ister, 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.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Molly
Shay’s Ford, Missouri
April, 1903
Isabelle closed the market door and turned the lock. Pressing her face to the glass, she squinted through the dim light, watching Mike—her sister, Maelle—climb into the wagon’s seat, lift the reins, and drive away through the gloaming. Only when she could no longer hear the click of the horse’s hooves against the cobblestone did she turn and lean against the door, closing her eyes and releasing a deep sigh of contentment.
Her long afternoon and evening with Maelle had revealed so much. She recognized anew the advantages she’d been given. Comparing her childhood to Maelle’s had brought a rush of guilt, but her sister hadn’t allowed it to take hold.
“Be grateful you were loved. It’s what I wanted for you,” Maelle had told her, holding tight to her hands. “It must be what God wanted for you, too.”
Isabelle had argued, “God wanted me separated from you and our brother?”
“God knew you would need the education and the financial means to provide help to children who need it,” Maelle had insisted. “He had a plan for you, Isabelle. Now see it through.”
Isabelle walked slowly through the dark market toward her little bedroom, reflecting on her sister’s strength and surety. When Isabelle had expressed dismay at the lost years, Maelle had proclaimed they mustn’t look back and think “what if.” Isabelle had set the questions aside while Maelle was present, but now she found it difficult not to let her mind ponder. What if the children had been allowed to stay together? What if she’d had Maelle and Matthew in her life instead of Randolph? What if—
A creak on the stairs stopped her thoughts. She spun, her gaze locating a shadowy figure moving toward her. “Who is it?”
“It’s me—Aaron.”
“Aaron.” She waited for him to approach. In the muted light, his blue-green eyes appeared almost black. “You startled me.”
“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a soft whisper. He was so close his breath brushed her cheek. “Did Mike leave?”
“Yes.” Isabelle hugged herself. “I think we could have talked all night.” She laughed lightly. “It is the oddest thing, Aaron. When I first met Maelle, I didn’t like her. She was so . . . different. I suppose she made me uncomfortable, because she is such a free spirit and I was raised to follow convention. But the moment I realized she was my sister, something inside of me opened up to her. And now, after only one evening together, I feel as though I love her.”
Aaron’s gentle smile let her know he understood.
“She really is amazing.” Isabelle shook her head in wonder. “Do you know the only home she’s had since she was a little girl is that wagon? She’s not lived in a house or attended school . . .” She blew out a delicate breath. “The stories she can tell of her travels . . .”
“You have lots of lost years to catch up on.”
“Yes.” A lightness filled her breast. “But we’ll have time. She says she’ll be staying in Shay’s Ford and opening a photography studio here. She doesn’t want to be far from me again.”
“Good.”
“But that means she’ll no longer be searching for our brother, Matthew.”
A long pause followed, during which Isabelle sensed that Aaron shared her heartache. Finally she said, “It’s late. Why are you still up?”
“I was waitin’ for you to—” He stopped for a moment, pressing his lips together. His hand found her arm. “I wanted to talk to you. Can we go . . . sit?”
Isabelle nodded, and he guided her with a hand on her back through the dark store to the stairway. A lantern glowed somewhere above, casting enough light for her to make her way safely up the stairs. But her limbs still quivered as if she were uncertain of her footing. A keen awareness of Aaron’s presence made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The spot on her back where his hand had rested still tingled, as if he’d left an impression in her flesh. The feeling both puzzled and pleased her.
When they turned the corner at the top of the staircase to go into the sitting room, Isabelle crossed directly to the sofa and sat on its edge. Aaron hesitated, seeming to examine each piece of furniture before seating himself on the other half of the sofa. Except at the dinner table, they’d not sat in such close proximity. Isabelle was certain her face glowed more brightly than the lamp on the table beside her.
Aaron linked his fingers and placed them in his lap before shifting his body slightly to face her. “The groundbreaking ceremony for the school is next weekend.”
For some reason, the words caused disappointment to wash over her. But what had she expected him to discuss? Giving herself a mental shake, she said, “That’s right.” She frowned, worry striking. “You don’t think that man . . . Mr. Jenks . . . will convince the owners to sell to him instead of me?”
Aaron shook his head. “Jackson said you’ve shaken hands on the deal an’ made a partial payment. That’s bindin’. If he were to break the deal, people in town wouldn’t trust him anymore.”
She blew out a breath of relief, her fingers at her throat. “Thank goodness.”
“Don’t worry. Jackson’ll take care of Jenks.”
Isabelle smiled, lowering her hand to her l
ap. “No worries. But I’m hoping for a good turnout from town and the surrounding communities. I’ve already heard from several businessmen who have committed to assisting with funding. Surely the school will be a success.”
“I have no doubt.” Although the topic was impersonal, Aaron’s warm tone lent the essence of intimacy. “And I’m sure proud of how you’re reachin’ out to the orphans.”
Isabelle lowered her chin, pleasure at his simple compliment rendering her speechless.
He continued. “I’ve been talking to Pa and Reverend Shankle, but I wanted to ask you . . .”
When his voice trailed off, Isabelle lifted her gaze to meet his eyes. “Yes?” The single word quavered.
“I wondered . . . if you might have need of . . . a man around the place.” Suddenly the hesitation disappeared. His words poured out as if dumped from a barrel. “It’s outside of the city limits, where any unscrupulous person could come by, but a man on the property would offer protection. The buildings’ll need maintenance and repairs, and a man should do those things. Plus the boys will need to be taught more than reading and writing. They need to learn to use tools an’ to plant crops an’ . . . man stuff. Things you can’t teach them. And—” he took a deep breath, as though running out of steam—“there may be need for a firm hand now and then. Kids’ll be kids, you know, and sometimes they need correction. I’m not so sure you’re up to that.”
Isabelle wanted to argue with him—to state quite adamantly that she was perfectly capable of handling the school on her own—yet she knew he was right. She had never learned to wield a hammer or plow a field. The boys would have need for such lessons. She had gotten so caught up in the planning of the school, she hadn’t considered its actual day-to-day running. Certainly she would need a staff. Not only a man to provide protection and maintenance, but someone to cook and clean, as well as teachers versed in subjects beyond the rudimentary. Her shoulders slumped as she realized how much more was needed than she could give.
My Heart Remembers Page 24
