“Legislation?”
“Yes. Children like Petey who work all day won’t have much of a life if they never learn to read or write. Jackson is tryin’ to get legislation passed making it illegal to hire children. He hopes that’ll make business owners pay adults a decent wage so they don’t need to send their kids out to work, and will put the children in school instead.”
Isabelle came to a stop and stared up at Aaron. “I had no idea you were . . . Why haven’t you ever said anything?”
“You didn’t ask.” He touched her arm, his expression serious. “Isabelle, what you’ve been doing is wonderful. Givin’ the children warm clothes, feeding them, providing shelter . . . Those are good things, but they’re temporary fixes. If the children are going to care for themselves as adults, they need schooling. That’s what Jackson and I are workin’ toward.”
Isabelle blinked rapidly, absorbing the truth of his statement. He was right—she’d worked valiantly to care for the children, but they needed more than what she’d offered. “It is very commendable, Aaron. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You really want to help?” He sounded incredulous.
She set her feet in motion and her tone turned tart. “Of course I do.”
“Good. You come with me tonight. Jackson will put you to work.”
The warmth in Aaron’s blue-green eyes gave her the courage to ask something she’d long wondered. “Aaron, I understand why you’re trying to help the children. But why are you so kind to me?”
His laugh startled her, and she frowned. “You find the question amusing?” Her cheeks burned as she hurried her steps, weaving past a street vendor and his circle of shoppers.
Aaron caught her elbow again, slowing her down. “Now, don’t get uppity on me, Miss Isabelle,” he said with a teasing grin. “I just wondered if you thought there was some reason I shouldn’t be kind to you?”
Isabelle calmed herself with a deep breath. “I find it perplexing, that’s all. Your parents offered me a job when they had only just met me. No matter how many times I blunder, no one ever berates me. And now, knowing that recovering my inheritance and my standing in my family would mean losing an employee, you still assist me.” She stopped, peering into his serious face. “Why do you do it, Aaron? Why are you so kind?”
Someone pushed past the pair, forcing Aaron to move closer to Isabelle. His breath brushed her cheek as he answered quietly. “The Bible instructs us to treat others as we’d like to be treated. If I were in need of help, I’d hope somebody would hold out a hand. That’s all I’m tryin’ to do for you.”
But something in his fervent expression made Isabelle wonder if there was something deeper—something more personal—that motivated Aaron. The thought brought another rush of heat to her face, and she shifted her focus to the plaid fabric stretched across Aaron’s broad chest. She became aware of the worn leather cover of the Bible in her hands. Standing on the busy sidewalk with Aaron’s sweet gaze warming her from the inside out, she held out the Bible and allowed herself to voice another question. “Could you show me where those words are found? I . . . I would like to read them for myself.”
Aaron’s face lit with pleasure. “Why, sure I would! As soon as we get back to the market, I’ll look it up for you.”
“Thank you.”
Isabelle trotted along beside Aaron, taking a step and a half to each of his long-legged strides. Her skirts swished across the walkway, and she kept her gaze on her toes to avoid stumbling on a warped plank. As they neared the market, Isabelle became aware of a change in the tone of the street sounds. There was a sense of urgency that made her look to Aaron in concern, although she wasn’t sure what had prompted the sudden rise of worry.
His brows pulled low and his mouth twisted, Aaron was focused on something ahead, and Isabelle turned to what held his attention. A bustle of activity on the curb outside the market made her heart leap to her throat.
“Aaron, what—?”
His fingers wrapped firmly around her elbow, he propelled her forward. “Come on!”
Isabelle’s skirts tangled around her ankles, making rushing impossible. She jerked loose of Aaron’s grasp. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Without hesitation, he broke into a run, pushing his way to the center of the circle. Even over the other sounds, Isabelle heard his cry of distress. Disregarding propriety, she snatched up her skirts and raced forward, pushing her way to his side. And when she saw what lay on the dirty street, her heart nearly stopped beating.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Maelle
Shay’s Ford, Missouri
April, 1903
Maelle pulled back on Samson’s reins. A chattering circle of people stood in the street, blocking her passage. Her scalp prickled. Setting the brake, she leapt over the side of the wagon and dashed to the back to retrieve her camera. After her week of portrait shooting, her supply of plates was low, but if she could manage to push her way to the inside of that circle, she might capture one or two worthwhile photographs.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” she murmured, crushing the camera to her chest and working her way slowly through the throng. When she reached the center, her throat felt tight, and for a moment she forgot about operating the camera.
A small, white-faced boy lay on the cobblestone street. A gray-haired man knelt on the ground beside him, holding a bundle of rags against the child’s leg—a leg that was notably shorter than its mate. A young, distraught couple hovered over the man’s shoulder. She read in their expressions the same horror that gripped her, and her gaze returned to the child. He lay perfectly still, his mouth open in a silent cry of agony. Newspapers scattered across the ground identified him as one of the many little newsboys of the city.
Suddenly she realized the opportunity that lay in front of her. Right before her eyes existed inarguable proof of the danger these children faced on the streets. The voices of the crowd faded into the distance as Maelle swung her camera into position. She centered the boy and his benefactor in her viewfinder. But she didn’t push the shutter.
The picture, although telling, fell short of expressing the whole story. Her mind raced as she processed the best way to reach the hearts of those who would view this photograph. A close-up of the child’s pale, motionless form might repulse some people, but empathy could be achieved by capturing the genuine distress on the faces of the onlookers. She needed a broader view.
“Please . . . back up for a moment,” she directed, looking right and left. But no one budged, their focus on the child rather than her.
Someone in the throng yelled, “I hear the ambulance comin’!”
The crowd shifted, people turning to peer down the street. Maelle dashed into a narrow opening between onlookers, aimed her camera, and shot. There was only time for the one picture, but the glimpse through the viewfinder sent a quiver of awareness from her scalp to her toes. If the picture turned out, it would be a masterpiece of emotion.
The child, arms outflung, helpless in the street. The older man, his chin quivering in despair, his bloodstained hands cupping the boy’s bloody stump. The younger man, leaning forward, his hands fluttering uselessly over the boy’s still frame. And the young woman, her red hair disheveled, tears raining down her cheeks, her fingers covering her lips, appearing to be holding back a scream of anguish. The woman even wore black and clutched a Bible, as if ready for the child’s funeral.
She heard the pounding of horses’ hooves along with a harsh shout, “Get back!” People scurried from the cobblestone street to the boardwalk, jostling Maelle along with them. She cradled her camera, her focus riveted on the man and boy who remained alone in the street. The crowd, which had been jabbering in nervous excitement, now fell silent, all eyes aimed toward the fast-approaching vehicle.
The moment the horses drew to a stop, two men leapt out of the back of the black enclosed wagon. The men carried a canvas stretcher, which they spread on the street beside the boy. Tenderly yet deftly, they tr
ansferred the tiny, unresisting form onto the stretcher. The older man released his hold on the rags as the men lifted the stretcher, but he remained on his knees in the street as if too tired to rise.
The men pushed the stretcher bearing the child into the back of the ambulance and hopped in behind it, closed the doors, and the driver slapped down the reins while calling, “Giddap!” With a clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the horses turned the vehicle in a sharp U and galloped down the street.
The crowd slowly drifted away, muttering in excited tones, leaving only Maelle and the three people who had closely surrounded the boy. The young man, who had been holding the woman in his arms, released her to step into the street and offer his hand to the older man. Maelle waited until the pair stepped back onto the walkway before approaching them.
“Excuse me? Can you tell me what happened to the boy?”
The woman stumbled toward the building and leaned against the slatted siding, her head low. The young man crossed to her, and the older man turned to answer Maelle’s question.
“He jumped from the trolley, like he always does—like I’ve told ’im a dozen times not to do—an’ he slipped.” Tears glimmered in the man’s faded gray eyes. “The trolley took his foot clean off, then just kept goin’. It never stopped.”
Apparently this man wasn’t a stranger to the child. “You know the boy?”
“His name’s Petey . . .” The man’s round face twisted into an expression of pained fondness. “He’s a scrappy mite. If anyone could come out of somethin’ like this with a grin an’ a whistle, it’ll be Petey.”
“And what’s your name?”
The man sent her a wary look.
She held out her camera. “I’m hoping to sell the photograph of the accident to the newspaper. A reporter will probably need to ask some questions. Since you witnessed it, it would be best if you gave the information.”
The man heaved a sigh. “My name’s Ralph Rowley. I own Rowley Market, right here.” He gestured to the whitewashed two-story building. “But I don’t know about talkin’ to some reporter.”
Maelle offered a quick, silent prayer for his cooperation. “Mr. Rowley, your explanation, along with the picture I took, could do a lot of good in trying to get children like Petey off the streets. People need to be aware of the dangers these wee ones face.” Sighing, she admitted, “I don’t know whether or not someone will even care enough to do an article. It doesn’t seem that many are concerned about the plight of the newsboys, but—just in case—would you talk to a reporter?”
The big man gave a slow nod. “If it’ll help Petey, an’ others like him, I’ll talk.”
Maelle smiled her thanks. She backed up, patting her camera. “I’m going to go develop my photograph now. Can I come by your store later to find out how Petey’s doing?”
The man nodded. “My wife’s the one who ran for the ambulance. She’ll be stayin’ with the boy at the hospital, I’m sure, but she’ll send word.”
“Thank you.” Maelle turned and strode to the back of her wagon. After carefully removing the plate and placing it between layers of burlap, she put the camera away and closed the hatch. Stepping back around to the front, her gaze fell on a scene that brought her up short.
There in the street, with newspapers riffling in the breeze around them, Mr. Rowley and the young couple knelt in a tight circle. With their heads bowed and hands clasped beneath their chins, they obviously were praying for Petey. A lump of longing rose in Maelle’s throat, and for a brief moment she considered joining them. But then she remembered she didn’t know Petey. She had no connection to the child. She didn’t belong in their circle.
As quietly as she could, she climbed onto the driver’s bench and picked up the reins. She whispered, “C’mon, Samson.” The wagon rolled alongside the silent trio, and Maelle glanced at them again as she passed. Even without a photograph, she knew the image would be forever burned into her memory.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Molly
Shay’s Ford, Missouri
April, 1903
Isabelle opened her eyes and immediately focused on Mr. Rowley’s clasped hands. Hands stained with Petey’s blood. Tears distorted her vision. “Petey . . . Oh, Petey . . .” The child’s still, silent form appeared in her mind. How tiny and helpless he had looked!
An unexpected feeling filled Isabelle’s breast, a feeling so intense it threatened to topple her. Love . . . She loved Petey. When had she grown to love that little mop-headed urchin? She didn’t know, but in those moments she realized he was important to her—as important to her as anyone had ever been.
Aaron rose, gently lifted her to her feet, and escorted her to the curb. Mr. Rowley stood, too, and followed. He gave her a tender look. “You okay, Isabelle? That wasn’t a pretty thing to see.”
Isabelle’s stomach churned, and she wasn’t altogether sure she would hold down her breakfast. But she said staunchly, “I’m fine. But I’m concerned about Petey. Should we go to the hospital? He shouldn’t be alone.”
“Helen is there now,” Mr. Rowley said. “She ran for the ambulance when . . . when it happened.” He shook his graying head. “Won’t be able to pull her home ’til that child is on his feet again, I’m sure.” He winced. “His foot . . . Oh . . .”
Aaron stepped forward and embraced his father. Looking on, Isabelle felt fresh tears sting her eyes. Their shared torment, while heartrending, somehow seemed beautiful. If only she still had a father . . . or a brother . . . to embrace her and offer comfort.
After a long moment, the men separated. Mr. Rowley looked at his hands and grimaced. “I better go wash up.” He headed for the store.
Aaron called, “Pa, do you want me to stay here an’ help you, or can I take Isabelle to the hospital?” He glanced at her, understanding in his eyes. “I think she’ll be happier there with Ma.”
Mr. Rowley paused in the doorway, looking back at them. “I can handle the store on my own—people will be patient, considerin’ what happened. You go ahead an’ take her.”
Looking down at Isabelle, Aaron asked, “Do you want to put the Bible away before we go?”
Isabelle clutched the Bible to her breast, hugging it the way she longed to be hugged. “No, I’ll take it with me. Let’s just hurry.”
Aaron placed his hand on her back and turned toward the hospital. They had gone only a few yards when they heard someone call Aaron’s name. Turning, they spotted a teenage boy running toward them. He waved a brown envelope in the air.
“Mr. Rowley! Hold up!” The boy panted to a halt beside them and thrust the envelope into Aaron’s hand. “Jackson Harders sent it. Said it’s for Miss Standler—something about those papers she brought in.”
“Thank you.” Aaron withdrew a coin from his pocket and offered it to the boy.
The boy grinned, curled his fist around the coin, and shot off down the street.
Aaron held the envelope toward Isabelle. “Well, that was quick.”
Isabelle stared at it, her heart pounding.
His brows pulled down. “Don’t you want to open it?”
Isabelle licked her lips as confusion filled her. A part of her wanted to rip it open, devour its contents, and discover that the documents were all fake and her life would return to normal. But another part of her—the stronger part, she realized—feared discovering that she could return to Kansas City and her old life.
Taking the envelope, she slipped it inside the cover of her Bible. “I’ll look at it later. Right now I want to get to Petey.”
Aaron nodded, a soft smile on his face. Although Isabelle turned her gaze forward as they moved quickly in the direction of the hospital, the image of Aaron’s smile lingered in her memory. The feeling that had struck as she’d knelt in the street, near the spot where Petey had lain, returned. Only this time it centered around Aaron Rowley.
Isabelle leaned her head against the hard back of the wooden chair and sighed. The room was dark, the shades drawn. A cup of coffe
e, long grown cold, sat on a little table at her elbow. On the bed, Petey lay silent and motionless, not even the familiar whistle-buzz of his snore keeping her company.
Aaron and Mrs. Rowley had left about an hour earlier. Mrs. Rowley’s exhaustion from the long day had finally caught up with her, and Aaron insisted she must go rest. Isabelle’s promise to stay near Petey had convinced the older woman she could leave. So now Isabelle sat alone, waiting for Petey to rouse.
She tried to keep her eyes on the child’s face rather than the lumps under the blanket. Earlier she had glanced at the place where his foot should have created a bulge, and the smoothness of the plain blue blanket had turned her stomach. Her heart ached at the child’s loss. How would he support himself now? Begging? What kind of life would that be? Why, she wondered with a hint of bitterness, had God allowed such a horrible thing to happen to this sweet little boy?
A slight rustle captured her attention. She jerked upright, fingers grasping the edge of the seat, her gaze on Petey’s face. The child grimaced, and the blanket shifted slightly, indicating a movement. She looked toward the middle of the bed and saw the lump created by Petey’s left leg begin to shift—he was thrashing his good leg, she realized.
Afraid he might bump his injured leg, she jumped up and crossed to the edge of the bed, placing a hand on Petey’s forehead. “Shh, darling, lie still.”
His eyes still closed, the child moaned, “Hurts . . . Foot hurts . . .”
Isabelle swallowed and placed her hand on his left foot, massaging through the covers while murmuring soothing sounds.
But Petey shook his head violently, his face pinched into an expression of discomfort. “Nooo, t’other one.”
Tears spurted into Isabelle’s eyes. The doctor had mentioned the probability of phantom pains—a hurt in a limb that no longer existed. But he hadn’t told her how to explain it to Petey.
My Heart Remembers Page 17