Only minutes ago she had bid farewell to her sister and brother. After hugs and kisses, Isabelle and Aaron had departed in a gaily decorated buggy to a hotel at the river’s edge, where they would spend their first night together as husband and wife. Shortly afterward, Mattie had climbed into the Harders’ carriage. Remembering their last leave-taking, Maelle had clung to him extra hard, but he’d whispered in her ear that he would see her soon. The realization that he would only be a few miles away, at Rocky Crest Ranch, made the good-bye bearable.
She turned her head to admire her escort. In the soft light, Jackson’s dark hair became the color of midnight, his chiseled features more pronounced and masculine. She owed him so much. What if he hadn’t convinced her to stay and photograph the meeting at the opera house? She would still be alone—rolling across the landscape in her wagon, hiding from relationships in a pair of men’s trousers, longing to find her sister and brother.
God had used Jackson to begin healing in her heart and to answer her lifelong prayer to reunite with her siblings. Her fingers tightened on his firm arm, sending him a silent thankyou. Somehow, he must have understood the meaning behind her touch, because he turned his head and smiled down at her. Odd how they seemed to communicate without words. Maelle pondered the strange ability as they stopped in front of her studio and she removed the skeleton key from her reticule.
Jackson plucked it from her fingers and unlocked the door for her, then held it open for her entry. She giggled as she stepped across the threshold.
He dropped the key into her hand, his head tipped in puzzlement. “What’s funny?”
“You treat me like a lady.”
Confusion creased his features. “And you f ind that humorous?”
She offered a shrug. “Not humorous, just surprising.” She admitted something she’d never said out loud before. “Men have never treated me like a lady, Jackson.”
He met her gaze directly, his expression sincere. “You are one of the finest ladies I’ve ever known.”
Uncertain how to respond, she turned mischievous. Grasping her skirt, she dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”
He caught her arm and drew her upright. Cupping her cheek, he said, “I’m not playing, Maelle. Even in a pair of trousers and a worn-out shirt, you are every bit a lady. Will you remember I said so?”
Looking into his face, his expression fervent yet tender, Maelle knew she would never forget his words. Or the look in his eyes. She gave a nod, and his hand slipped away.
“Good.” He ran his hand through his hair.
Even in the minimal light coming through the uncovered window, she could make out the ridges left behind by his fingers. She wished she had the courage to touch his hair just once, but she knew doing it now would be folly. The air fairly crackled with tension.
“Well, I suppose I should—” she began.
“Maelle, I find myself—” he began.
They both stopped. She waved her hand at him. “Go ahead.”
He dropped his gaze, seeming to examine the toes of his shoes for long moments before lifting his head and looking into her eyes. “I find myself wanting to say . . . more. To make promises. To extract promises. But . . .”
She nodded, reading the unspoken words. “It’s all right, Jackson.” Taking a step forward, she rested her fingers on his forearm. “God has plans, and He’s given you the task of helping children few others care to help. If you didn’t see the work through, you’d never be happy with yourself. You must go. It’s your fight, so go do battle.”
He placed his hand over hers, his fingers warm and strong. “I appreciate your confidence in me.”
“It’s well placed,” she assured him. “And I’ll eagerly await reports on your progress when you travel through.” She tipped her head, her heart pattering hopefully. “You will travel through, won’t you?”
“Of course. And the first time I come back, you and I will go to dinner at the restaurant on the river. You can wear your trousers and stab your steak. It won’t bother me a bit.”
His lighthearted banter made her laugh. “That sounds fine.”
“Until then . . .” His hand slipped away, but he made no move to go. “Maelle, I wish—”
She placed her fingers against his lips. “No, Jackson. No wishes. Just prayers. You see, God has plans beyond your work with the children, but He also has a perfect time. I know that better than ever now.”
He kissed her fingertips before taking a wide backward step to the door. Then he remained there, one hand on the doorknob, one hand half reaching toward her. “But do you believe the time will come for us?”
Maelle closed her eyes, reliving the moments when she, her sister, and her brother shared an embrace under the Missouri sun. Opening her eyes, she curved her lips into a smile. “I think the time will come.”
Jackson’s fingertips grazed her cheek—a whisper touch that spoke more eloquently than words could. His gaze held her captive, his dark eyes conveying longing and . . . something more. And then, with a gentle nod, he slipped out the door.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
It is estimated that one million Americans are descendants of the 150,000 children who were sent from crowded cities in the East to new homes in the West between 1854 and 1929 on what were eventually termed “orphan trains.” I am proud to say I am among those descendants. Not by blood, but by heart.
In 1968, my paternal grandfather married a woman I already loved. Helen Haak had been my babysitter from the time I was born until our family moved from Hillsboro to Garden City, Kansas, in mid-1963. So many of my favorite childhood memories involve this sweet-faced woman whose arms seemed designed to bestow hugs.
Taking care of children was nothing new to Helen. Although she desperately wanted children of her own, she was unable to carry a baby to term. So she became a surrogate mother to children whose parents were unable or unwilling to care for them, fostering more than a dozen. She could reach out to these children with empathy since she knew the pain of being parentless. When she was still a toddler, her mother passed away and her father chose to relinquish her. Helen rode an orphan train and was taken in by a foster family.
Hers, unfortunately, wasn’t a happy-ever-after story. Like many of the train riders, she was never formally adopted, and she grew up feeling as though she didn’t quite fit in. Yet, rather than wallowing in bitterness, she chose to open her heart to other people’s children.
I can only hope she found a measure of acceptance from the love of those for whom she cared. I do know there was never a happier little girl than I the day my dear “Tantie” (my childish attempt at the German word tante, meaning “aunt”) married my grandpa and officially became my grandma. Although she passed away in 1979, Helen lives on in my memory as my grandmother—not by blood, but by heart.
So, Tantie, grandmother of my heart, this story is my gift to you. Thank you for the love you freely poured into me. It is reciprocated a hundred times over.
Kim Vogel Sawyer
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
At an American Christian Fiction Writers’ conference in September of 2003, three other authors and I planned an anthology project—four novellas under the title Ties to Home, which would tell the stories of four orphan-train riders reuniting in adulthood. The anthology project was declined, but the idea wouldn’t leave me alone. I asked these three ladies if they would be opposed to my using the initial idea with different characters for a single, full-length story. They graciously offered their blessings, and away I went. It delights me to no end to thank Lena Nelson Dooly, Susan K. Downs, and Lisa Harris for their excitement when the idea was presented and their words of encouragement as I forged forward alone. Your belief in the story made me believe in it, too. Thank you!
And Susan, extra thanks and a super-sized hug for the research materials you willingly shared. What a blessing your friendship is to me!
None of my stories would find their way from my thinker to the computer without the support o
f my family. Thank you, Don, and my beautiful daughters, for sharing this journey with me.
I owe a huge thank-you to my parents, Ralph and Helen Vogel, for indulging my curiosity about things past and always encouraging my imagination. A child never had two better parents than the ones God gave me.
As always, my critique group deserves praise for their great suggestions. I wouldn’t survive without Eileen, Ramona, Staci, Margie, Crystal, and Donna. Thanks, ladies, for your continued efforts on my behalf. ( Jill and Ramona, thanks for the advice on the Irish brogue—what a huge help you were!)
Prayer support is invaluable, and I’m so grateful for my prayer warriors—Kathy, the choir at First Southern, Don and Ann, Rose, Carla, Cynthia, Connie . . . You bless me every day.
Special thanks to my agent, Tamela, for believing “someday” would come.
I am always grateful for the support from my editor, Charlene, and the staff at Bethany House. What a great bunch of people you are!
Looking back, there are a number of authors who have inspired me either through their novels or through their words in e-mail or in person. I’d like to thank Deborah Raney, Tracie Peterson, Brandilyn Collins, Joyce Livingston, Judith Miller, and Janette Oke for reaching out to a nervous, wannabe author and making her feel as though she could find her place in this writing business. I appreciate you more than words can say.
Finally, and most importantly, thanks be to God. He alone brings dreams to reality and makes them sweeter than the dreamer imagined. May any praise or glory be reflected directly back to You.
KIM VOGEL SAWYER is fond of C words like children, cats, and chocolate. She is the author of eleven novels, including the bestselling Waiting for Summer’s Return. She is active in her church, where she teaches adult Sunday school and participates in both voice and bell choirs. In her spare time, she enjoys drama, quilting, and calligraphy. Kim and her husband, Don, reside in Kansas and have three daughters and four grandchildren.
MORE HEARTWARMING HISTORICAL FICTION FROM
Kim Vogel Sawyer
Torn between his Mennonite roots in Kansas and his love for the city of Boston—and a girl in each place—Thomas’ future seems uncertain. When his prayers are answered with silence, can he trust his heart to lead?
Where the Heart Leads
Orphaned and separated from her siblings, eightyear-old Maelle vows she will reunite with them one day. Seventeen years later, time has washed away her hope…and memories. What are Mattie and Molly doing now? Will she ever see her brother and sister again?
My Heart Remembers
When money gets tight, Harley takes a job with the Works Progress Administration away from home.
But when the promised money never arrives, his wife fears Harley may be gone for good. Is the distance between them measured by more than miles?
Where Willows Grow
After losing her family to illness, Summer Steadman is hired by a Mennonite farmer to teach his young son. But widower Peter Ollenburger soon discovers that helping this outsider may have troublesome consequences.
Waiting for Summer’s Return
Looking for More Good Books to Read?
You can find out what is new and exciting with previews, descriptions, and reviews by signing up for Bethany House newsletters at
www.bethanynewsletters.com
We will send you updates for as many authors or categories as you desire so you get only the information you really want.
Sign up today!
My Heart Remembers Page 28
