He aimed an icy stare across the room. “Love . . . has nothing to do with it.” His emotionless words pierced Isabelle. “Ours was an agreement based on financial advancement for both of our families. I must consider what is in the best interest of my future heirs. Marrying a woman with no dowry, with no social status . . .” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his taut neck. “It can’t be done. It simply . . . cannot . . . be done.”
The tears Isabelle had held back now spilled forth. The room swam through her distorted vision, but she managed to stumble down the hallway. She clamped her jaw against the sobs until she’d fled up the stairs to the Yellow Room, but the moment she closed the door behind her they burst out in harsh, wracking gasps that crumpled her to the floor.
Discarded . . . Glenn had discarded her, just as Randolph had. Perhaps even as her birth parents had. After all, how did she know for sure she was an orphan? She’d heard of parents abandoning babies, selling babies. Who was to say she hadn’t been left on the doorstep of an orphanage by parents who chose not to care for her any longer?
Certainly her heart had shattered, so great was her pain. She lay on the thick carpet, wailing until every tear was spent. And even then, when all that was left was dry, shuddering sobs, she remained on the floor, her mourning dress wrinkled and sodden from the tears.
A nightmare . . . Surely it was all a nightmare. She would close her eyes, slip away to sleep. When she awakened, Mama and Papa would be alive. She would be in her childhood home, anticipating her upcoming wedding and the establishment of a new home as Glenn’s wife.
Hugging herself, she coiled into a ball and drifted into unconsciousness.
A firm knock jolted Isabelle awake. She sat up, then grimaced as pain sliced between her shoulder blades. She blinked, squinting against the deep gray shadows of midevening. Where was she? Her fingers pressed the plush Persian rug beneath her, and suddenly realization swept over her.
It hadn’t been a nightmare. Fresh tears stung her raw eyes.
“Oh, Mama and Papa, I need you . . .” The words groaned out on a low note of despair.
The pounding came again, followed by a voice. “Isabelle?
Are you in there?”
Glenn. Her heart leapt into her throat. Surely the shock of discovering her true birthright had ended. Surely Glenn had come to his senses and realized he couldn’t throw away their plans based on something that had happened seventeen years ago. Everything would be all right now.
She scrambled to her feet, tripping on her skirts as she staggered toward the door. Twisting the crystal knob, she flung the door open and fell into Glenn’s arms. “Oh, I knew you’d come to me!”
He held her, his hands contorting on her back, before clasping her upper arms and setting her aside. “We must talk.”
Although his tone was terse, Isabelle believed she glimpsed compassion in his eyes. She allowed him to guide her to the bed, where she seated herself on the edge and smoothed her hopelessly wrinkled skirts over her knees. Glenn snapped on the bedside lamp, which sent out a gentle yellow glow. She blinked in the sudden light, meeting Glenn’s gaze.
He shook his head, his brows low. “Gracious, you’re a mess.” Reaching inside his pocket, he withdrew a handkerchief. “Clean your face, please.”
Isabelle followed his directions, then held the handkerchief in her lap, continuing to peer up at him. Questions hovered in her mind, but she held them back, eager to hear what he would say.
“I’ve been thinking. . . . Despite Standler’s duplicity in misrepresenting you as his biological child, he and my father maintained a business relationship as well as a friendship. Out of respect for their long-standing relationship, I—”
She sprang from the bed and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, I knew you wouldn’t be able to call off our wedding.” Pressing her face to his cologne-scented collar, she released a sigh of relief. “It was just the shock of it all. I understand, and I forgive you for your hasty words downstairs. All will be well now.”
“Isabelle.” He caught her wrists and tugged her arms away from his neck, then pushed her back onto the mattress. “Allow me to finish, please.”
Isabelle’s heart raced once more. She licked her lips, her mouth dry. “A-all right, Glenn. Please proceed.”
Glenn seated himself beside her on the bed, his knees brushing her skirts. “It’s no secret I find you attractive. When Standler first approached my father with the suggestion we begin courting, I was not opposed. Of all the marriageable women in our families’ circle of acquaintanceship, you are by far the most desirable. I could envision a lifetime of your face across the breakfast table, of you serving as hostess for dinner parties, of squiring you to operas and having you accompany me on business trips to England. Having you on my arm is a pleasure I have long anticipated.”
His breath stirred her hair as he continued. “I still greatly desire to have you on my arm.” His face twisted into a scowl of displeasure. “Of course, many of the places I mentioned wouldn’t be a possibility, given the fact that there can be no marriage. Your lack of dowry and absence of social status create an impenetrable barrier to marriage, but that doesn’t mean—”
Isabelle gasped and leaped from the bed. Spinning to face him, she stared at him in horror. “Are you suggesting I become your . . . your . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
Glenn held out his hands in supplication. “It isn’t uncommon.” His lurid tone caused Isabelle to break out in a cold sweat. “Consider the positive aspects. I would purchase a little house for you, give you an allowance. You’d be able to travel, as I would take you on business trips outside of Kansas City. I could even locate someone to come in and clean and cook for you. In view of your background, I’d say it’s a fine opportunity.”
In view of her background? Isabelle quivered from head to toe with indignation. How dare he assume that simply because she had been taken in and raised by parents other than her own she had no scruples? Did the humbleness of her birth eradicate every remnant of the previous seventeen years?
Straightening her shoulders, she raised her chin and pinned Glenn with a smoldering glare. “I shall never degrade myself by becoming intimately involved with a man other than my own husband! It’s morally repugnant, and I am appalled you would even suggest something so distasteful!”
He pursed his lips and lowered his head. Isabelle took a step backward, putting more distance between them. She had loved this man, but now she viewed him as nothing more than a lecher. Had he hidden his true character from her all this time? Perhaps her parents’ early demise had saved her from a life of heartache. . . .
At last Glenn raised his face and looked at her. “Suit yourself. It was merely a compromise.” His eyes seemed devoid of all feeling. “Father has a suggestion, as well, if you’d care to hear it.”
Isabelle hugged herself and waited for him to continue.
“He could arrange transport to Shay’s Ford, Missouri, where he has a business acquaintance—a Mr. Mason Drumfeld. The man will house you, clothe you, and see to your immediate needs until which time you believe you can care for yourself.”
Isabelle pressed a hand to her throat. Her pulse pounded beneath her shaking fingertips. Fear nearly made her swoon. How would she manage on her own in a strange community? Perhaps she should consider Glenn’s compromise. . . .
She stared into his unemotional face, imagining a life of waiting for his visits, spending time in secret, having the community point and whisper behind her back, calling her “the mistress.” Isabelle’s mother had spoken with disdain of such women. Despite her fears, she could never lower herself to such depths.
Glenn rose from the bed and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Shall I tell Father you choose to travel to Shay’s Ford?”
Isabelle could give only one answer. “Yes.”
“Very well.” Glenn’s calm response showed no evidence of the magnitude of the conversation that had taken place between t
hem. He barely glanced at her as he said, “I’m sure a train will be leaving yet this evening given the busyness of the station. It will take you to St. Louis, and from there you will travel by barge on the Mississippi River. Of course, Father will purchase the necessary tickets since you are without resources. Prepare your bag. I’ll send the driver for you when the carriage is ready.”
He crossed the room without looking at her and closed the door behind him. Isabelle stood in the middle of the floor, her gaze on the wooden door, her heart in pieces at her feet.
CHAPTER TEN
Mattie
St. Louis, Missouri
January, 1903
Thank you, boy.” Matt tossed a quarter to the pock-faced teen who handed off Russ’s reins. He could see at a glance that Russ had been well cared for in the cattle car, which eased his mind considerably.
It had pained him to be separated from the animal for the past week. He and Russ had boarded the new Burlington–Rock Island train to cut some time off their journey from Spofford to Shay’s Ford. Although he’d visited Russ at each stop, it wasn’t the same as their usual sunup to sundown togetherness. But Russ didn’t seem to hold a grudge for having to ride in that slatted car with three cows and a bawling calf. The loving nuzzle on the back of Matt’s neck told him Russ still considered him a friend.
Throwing the saddle over Russ’s broad back, Matt shivered. The temperature was considerably cooler in St. Louis than what he’d become accustomed to over the past few years in Texas. Or, he acknowledged with a quick glance over his shoulder, maybe it was a fear-shiver rather than a cold-shiver. Ever since he’d crossed the border into Missouri, he’d had trouble shaking the worry that Jenks might be lurking around the corner, ready to grab him and insist he work off his debt, or worse.
Russ snorted, blowing steam into the air. Matt gave a final yank to tighten the saddle’s flank cinch, buckled it, and swung into the seat. Russ nodded his head as if eager to get going. With a pat on the horse’s thick neck, Matt said, “Easy now. We’ll get movin’ soon enough. I gotta make a quick stop, though, an’ pick up a few supplies for the trail. Be at least three days yet to Shay’s Ford.”
As Russ clopped down the street toward the business area, Matt patted the hidden pocket inside his jacket. He’d spent a sizable portion of his money on the train ride. Judging by the snow that dusted the ground, he might need to purchase some warmer work clothes. He hoped he had enough money left to cover his needs. It’d be a while until he received his first pay from Mr. Harders.
In his saddlebag, he carried the telegram giving him approval to join the crew at Rocky Crest Ranch. The reply had come four days after his inquiry. By then Matt had decided the position was no longer open and had reconciled himself to taking the stable hand job until something better came along. Even with the approval in his hand, he’d considered working at the stable rather than traveling to Missouri.
But the wording of the telegram had changed his mind. He’d read it so many times he had it memorized: Mr. Tucker, please plan to make Rocky Crest your home.
Home. Hadn’t he prayed to God for a home? Must be God had something planned for him here in the state he’d done his best to avoid for the past ten years.
Bringing Russ to a stop in front of a place called Dave’s General Store, Matt murmured, “I’m trustin’ you to know what you’re doin’, Lord, bringin’ me back here. . . .” He wrapped the reins around the rail, gave Russ’s nose a brief rub, and then stepped up onto the rickety walkway fronting the store. As he pushed open the door, he heard a noise that chilled him from his hairline to his toes.
A woman stood behind a dusty counter, counting coins, while wails and a repetitive swish-whack filled the small room. The woman seemed oblivious to the sound that made Matt tremble like a willow branch in a Texas norther. Unpleasant memories tried to surface, and Matt slammed the mercantile’s door, chasing them away.
With the bang of the door, the woman looked up. “Howdy. What can I do for you?” She raised her voice to be heard above the pained cries carrying from somewhere beyond Matt’s sights.
Matt crossed the floor in three long strides. “Who’s makin’ that ruckus?”
The woman grimaced, glancing toward a planked door at the far left corner of the store. “Petey. That boy’s not worth the clothes Dave puts on his back, but Dave keeps tryin’ to whip some sense into him.”
Even before she finished speaking, Matt stomped to the door and pushed it open. His stomach churned at the sight of a man— Dave, he assumed—with a strap in hand, holding a small, squirming boy over a barrel. Matt cringed as the strap landed squarely across the boy’s back. He felt the sting of a lash and had to resist releasing his own yowl of pain with the child’s.
Dave’s arm lifted for another blow, but Matt strode forward and caught it midswing. The strap dangled uselessly from the man’s hand. “Hey!” Dave jerked his arm free, spinning to face Matt. “What do you think you’re doin’?”
Matt balled his hands into fists. He kept his focus on the man, although the boy’s shuddering sobs made it hard. “Stoppin’ you. What right’ve you got to be whalin’ on that boy?”
Dave snorted, looking Matt up and down as if deciding whether or not to start a tussle. “Got every right, for as much good as it does. Kid’s absolutely useless.”
Matt glanced at the boy, who remained draped over the barrel. His little body jerked with hiccuping sniffles. The total defenselessness of the child raised a wave of empathy Matt couldn’t ignore. “Nobody’s got the right to beat a child.” Glaring at Dave, he added, “There’re better ways to teach him whatever it is you’re wantin’ him to do.”
Dave released another derisive snort. He grabbed the boy’s arm and yanked him to his feet. The boy cried out, flinging his free arm upward to shield his face. Dave gave a shove that sent the boy scuttling sideways into a stack of lumpy, well-filled burlap bags. “Go finish stacking those boxes, like I told you, an’ don’t you drop another one”—he brandished the strap—“or you’ll know what to expect!”
The boy dashed out the back door into the cold. Without a jacket, Matt noted. As soon as the door slammed, Matt faced Dave. “That your son?”
“Ha!” Dave headed for the door leading to the store. “No. I took him in about six months ago. Caught him rummagin’ through my lean-to, lookin’ for food. He said his folks kicked him out—had too many mouths to feed and it was time for him to take care of himself.” Hanging the strap on a nail beside the door, he said, “I can see why they didn’t want him. Never met such a worthless boy.”
The boy’s story made Matt’s heart ache. He followed the man back into the main part of the store. “Then why keep him?”
The man huffed. “I need somebody to unload goods an’ clean up.” With a shrug, he added, “One of these days he’ll figure out I’m not gonna spare the strap until he does the jobs right. He’ll straighten up.”
“You ain’t got no right to beat him,” Matt muttered.
Dave glowered at him. “You come in here just to pester me, or did you need somethin’?”
Although the last thing Matt wanted to do was give business to the man whose treatment of the hapless Petey had conjured too many painful reflections of his own childhood, he said, “I need supplies for a three-day journey.” If he kept the man occupied for a few minutes, Petey would get some peace.
“Just for yourself?”
Matt hesitated. A plan formed of its own accord in the back of his mind. “Me an’ my . . . partner.” He hoped the good Lord would forgive him for stretching the truth.
“You travelin’ on horseback?”
“That’s right.”
Dave nodded. “I’ll set ya up. Give ya a good price, too—better than the big mercantile down the block.”
“Fine.” Matt ambled toward the front door. “I’m gonna go check on my partner, make sure he’s finishin’ his dealings.”
“Gimme ten minutes,” Dave said.
“Ten minutes is ju
st fine.” Matt hitched his collar around his jaw and stepped out the door. He took a moment to take a few calming breaths and let Russ nuzzle him before slipping behind the building. He located Petey easily—there was only one small boy in the alley.
The sight of that miserable child—in tattered clothing, his nose red and eyes watery, moving very gingerly—was like looking into a mirror. It took great self-control not to rush forward, snatch the boy up in his arms, and run off with him. But if he did that, he’d only frighten the child. First he had to earn Petey’s trust. Then he could help him.
Petey lifted a crate from the lowered hatch of a wagon. He stumbled backward with the weight, but surprisingly, he didn’t fall. Turning, he shuffled into a lean-to attached to the back of the store. A thud let Matt know the crate had been released. Then the boy stepped back into the alley. He came to a halt when he spotted Matt. His eyes grew wary, and he rubbed a finger along his nose.
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.” The words could have been an accusation.
Matt twitched his lips into a grin. He rested his elbow on the side of the wagon. “Appears to me you’re doin’ fine, but I’ve got a few minutes to spare. Wondered if you could use a hand.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Matt raised one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Why not?”
Petey stared at him silently for several seconds before he imitated Matt’s one-shoulder shrug. “Suit yourself.”
Matt and the boy worked in silence, unloading and stacking the last few crates. Then, without a thank-you, Petey brushed his chapped hands together and headed for the back door. Matt called, “Hold up there.”
Petey turned around and folded his arms across his chest, shivering. “I gotta get back in. Got sweepin’ to do.”
Matt crossed the hard ground to hunker on his haunches in front of the boy. “You like workin’ here?”
My Heart Remembers Page 8