My Heart Remembers

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  The search kept her moving from town to town despite the desire to settle down and open a shop where the customers came to her rather than the other way around. But until she found Mattie and Molly, she knew she could never settle down. Her restless feet and seeking heart would press her ever onward. Let me be findin’ me brother and sister, Lord.

  She waited for a horseless carriage to wheeze by before crossing the final intersection that led to the hospital. Leaving Samson nodding in the spring sunshine, she retrieved her camera and headed inside. A woman behind a wooden desk directed her to Petey’s room, and she found the door open.

  Her heart turned over in sympathy when she entered the simple room. Petey lay, small and unmoving, in the middle of an iron bed. The little boy’s face didn’t hold much more color than it had the first time she’d seen him crumpled on the road. As she stood watching, his eyelids fluttered open.

  “Isabelle?”

  She leaned in close so he could see her face. “Nope. I’m Mike. And you’re Petey, right?”

  Tousled blond hair fell across his wide, unblinking blue eyes. “How’d ja know my name?”

  Gingerly, she sat on the edge of the bed and held her camera in her lap. “Jackson Harders told me.”

  “Oh.” The child nodded, nestling against his pillow. “I like Jackson. He’s my friend.”

  Maelle resisted running her hand over the child’s hair. “I bet you have lots of friends.”

  “Yep.”

  His nonchalant reply gave Maelle’s heart a lift. “Maybe I can be your friend, too.”

  Petey slipped his hands from beneath the covers and linked them on his chest. “Are you a lady?”

  She laughed. “Yes, I am.”

  “Mike’s a funny name for a lady.”

  “I suppose so.” She loved this child’s openness.

  His gaze fell to the camera. “Watcha got?”

  “My camera.” Maelle gave it a loving pat. “I take pictures with it, and I brought it with me so I could take your picture.”

  “My pitcher?” The boy’s brow pinched. “How come?”

  “Well . . . tomorrow some men are coming to Shay’s Ford. Powerful men—men who know how to get things changed for the better. Your friend Jackson wants them to help him change some laws so children like you go to school instead of having to sell newspapers all day.”

  Petey nodded slightly. “I know. Aaron an’ Isabelle say I’ll be goin’ to school when I get outta the hospital. I can’t sell newspapers no more ’cause I only got one leg.”

  The child’s blithe statement made Maelle’s nose sting. “I know. And I’m glad you’ll be going to school. But lots of other boys won’t unless the laws are changed. So Jackson thought if we had a picture of you to show the men, then they’d know what kind of fine boys they’d be helping by changing the law. So . . . is it okay if I take your picture?”

  Petey bit down on his lower lip, surveying her with a steady gaze. “All of me?”

  “You mean, do I want a picture of your leg, too?”

  He nodded.

  She took a deep breath. “It would help.”

  After a long moment, he gave a slow nod. “Okay.”

  Maelle carefully pulled the covers back to reveal Petey’s small form. She battled tears when she looked at his skinny legs sticking out from beneath the striped nightshirt, one ending with a bare foot and the other ending with a bandaged stump below his knee. The tears nearly blinded her when she put her camera in position and glimpsed Petey’s bright smile through the viewfinder.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The sharp tone stilled Maelle’s fingers around the bulb. She glanced over her shoulder to find the young, red-haired woman she’d photographed the day of Petey’s accident. Turning, she offered a smile of greeting. “You must be Isabelle.”

  Isabelle swept to the bed and deftly flipped the covers over Petey’s hips. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing?”

  Petey caught the woman’s hand. “She’s takin’ my pitcher for Jackson to show to the men. I told her she could.”

  Isabelle looked at the boy, and her expression grew tender. But when she turned back to Maelle, her green eyes sparked. “Jackson indicated a photographer named Mike Watts would be photographing Petey. Do you work for Mr. Watts?”

  Maelle stifled her grin. “Well, not quite.” She scratched her head. “I am Mike Watts.”

  Isabelle’s eyebrows shot high, and her gaze roved from Maelle’s head to her toes and back again. “Mike . . . and that is short for . . .”

  “Michael.” It was devilish, Maelle knew, yet she enjoyed needling the snippy young woman.

  Isabelle pursed her lips and stared at Maelle for several silent seconds while Maelle waited. Then Petey tugged her hand.

  “Isabelle? You gonna move so Mike can take my pitcher?”

  The woman sucked in a mighty breath, as if holding back an unpleasant barrage. When she released it, the semblance of a smile flitted across her face. “Very well.” Folding the covers over the foot of the bed, she stepped aside. “Please proceed quickly. Petey needs his rest. He’s been through quite an ordeal.”

  As if I didn’t already know that. Maelle lifted the camera, focused, and squeezed the bulb. “All done.”

  “Good.” Isabelle covered Petey once more, then stood beside the bed like a guard.

  Petey said, “Am I gonna get to see the pitcher?”

  Maelle tucked the camera beneath her arm and crossed to the bed. “Well, Petey, I can make a copy of it for you and bring it to you, if you’d like. I won’t be able to come tomorrow, but I could come Sunday afternoon.”

  The boy’s eyes lit with delight, but Isabelle said, “We are hoping to transport Petey to Rowley Market on Sunday, so that probably wouldn’t be a good day to visit.”

  Maelle looked at Isabelle in surprise. “He’s being released so soon? He must be doing well, then.”

  Isabelle sighed, stroking Petey’s hair. “The Lord has certainly answered our prayers.”

  Maelle found the comment odd. Given Isabelle’s cold treatment, she wouldn’t have taken the other woman as a Christian. Yet her statement deemed otherwise.

  “You can come see me at the Market, though, right?”

  Maelle couldn’t say no to Petey’s hopeful question. “Sure I can! And I’ll bring lots of pictures. Have you ever seen the Grand Canyon? Or the Pacific Ocean? Or Pikes Peak?”

  Petey’s eyes widened. “Pikes Pete?”

  Maelle swallowed her amusement. “Peak. It’s a mountain. A very tall mountain first glimpsed by a man named Zebulon Pike. He didn’t actually climb it, but I did.”

  Petey shook his head, making his hair flop. “I never seen none o’ that stuff.”

  “Well, then, I’ll have to show you the pictures before I leave town.”

  “Really?” His voice became high-pitched with excitement. “You’ll really show me?”

  “Sure I will. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  To her surprise, Petey lost his sunny expression. “You ain’t teasin’ me, are ya? Sometimes people say they’ll do somethin’, but then they don’t. You aren’t just sayin’ it an’ not meanin’ it, are ya?”

  “Take care o’ the wee ones.”

  Maelle squeezed Petey’s thin shoulder, then stepped back, aware of Isabelle’s disapproving stare. “I mean every word, Petey. I’ll meet you at Rowley Market on Sunday.”

  Isabelle turned from Petey and pinned Maelle with a regal glare. “May I have a word with you, please? In the hallway.”

  Maelle shrugged and followed Isabelle.

  The woman closed Petey’s door before addressing Maelle. “It was kind of you to offer to share your pictures with Petey.”

  Maelle shifted her camera to her other arm. “He’s a great kid.”

  “Yes, he is. But I’m not sure . . .” For a moment the younger woman seemed to falter, her brow creasing and gaze dropping to the floor. Then she squared her shoulders and face
d Maelle again. “I’m not sure spending time with you is a wise idea for Petey.”

  Maelle frowned. “Why not?”

  “Well . . .” Isabelle’s gaze drifted from Maelle’s braid to her brown boots. “You are hardly . . . conventional. Your motivations may be pure, but . . .” Isabelle’s brow crinkled. “Your abnormal appearance leads one to see you as less than respectable. Petey has enough challenges, having been abandoned by his parents, living on the streets, and now facing life as a cripple. He doesn’t need any more strikes against him. An open friendship with you might not be in his best interest.”

  Maelle carefully digested Isabelle’s words. “So if I were to dress . . . differently . . . you would have fewer concerns about me spending time with him?”

  “I am truly trying not to be judgmental,” the younger woman said, “but you must admit, those—those britches . . .” Her face puckered in distaste. “They are quite distracting.”

  Maelle took a step back. Her heart pounded. She wore the pants for a number of reasons from practical to personal. She’d grown accustomed to people looking at her askance, and she’d never really cared what others thought. Now, for the first time, she wondered if wearing them created more than mild disapproval. Did they create a barrier to relationships?

  She’d tried so hard to keep the promise to her da to look out for little ones who needed protection. It was a lot easier to dive into a fight while wearing a sturdy pair of trousers. But she’d made another promise, too—to her heavenly Father to share His love with those she encountered. Would her clothing prevent people from seeing her Father in her?

  As much as Maelle hated to admit it, Isabelle had hit a raw nerve. She gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “I’ll think about what you said. Thank you for your honesty.”

  Isabelle tipped her head, her red hair shining in the electric lamps that lit the hallway. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

  Maelle felt bruised, but she wouldn’t admit it. She forced her lips into a grin and quipped, “I’m right as rain. Don’t worry about me.”

  Maelle returned to her wagon and lowered the hatch. She put the camera safely in its box, then pulled herself onto the driver’s seat. As she picked up the reins, she looked down at her trousers and frowned. “Let’s go, Samson,” she encouraged the big bay. She nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully as the wagon rolled back to Jackson’s law office. Guiding Samson to the alley behind the building, she parked in the same spot she’d occupied the previous weeks.

  She freed Samson from his rigging and walked him to the livery. She hung a bag of oats around his neck and scratched his ears while he munched. Stepping back from the horse, she brushed her hands on her pant legs. And frowned again.

  With a deep sigh, she returned to the wagon and climbed in. Father, help me . . . Kneeling beside the drop-down bed, she pulled a trunk from beneath the bunk. It filled the middle of the wagon floor, and she had to wiggle around to its end before she could lift the heavy lid.

  Clothing came into view. Trousers. Shirts. Some Richard’s, some hers. Her heart doubled its beat as she reached inside with hands that had become unsteady. She moved aside the neat stacks, creating a valley through the center. And there, wrapped in crumpled tissue, she located the source of her trembling hands and palpitating heart.

  Lifting it from the tissue, she rose and shook out the folds of pale green muslin. A musty odor rose from the fabric—a scent of neglect. For several seconds she held the garment out, vivid details of that evening assailing her. When the pain became too intense, she crushed the dress to her chest and closed her eyes.

  A picture of Richard’s sheepish look as he’d given her the dress appeared behind her closed lids. His voice echoed through her mind. “I know it’s not one of those two-piecers the ladies are wearing today, but the lace is real pretty, and the color will go good with your fallcolored hair.” Though his voice was gruff, his expression gentled as he finished, “You’re a right attractive girl, Mike, and it’s time to start dressing like a lady.”

  Richard had seldom praised her. Those words had meant so much. She savored the memory as she cradled the dress. But then, unbidden, his final words charged through her mind—“Run, Mike! Run for the sheriff!” She’d run, holding up the skirts of that green muslin dress. And when she’d come back, sheriff in tow, Richard lay dead in the alley with a knife in his chest.

  She’d worn britches and one of his shirts to his burial. The dress had gone into the trunk and remained there for the past eight years. Never had she planned to put on a dress again. If she hadn’t been wearing a dress that evening, Richard might still be alive. She couldn’t help him fight while wearing a lacy muslin dress. She wouldn’t have gotten the kind of attention that had warranted the fight had she not been wearing a lacy muslin dress.

  A tear crept from beneath her lid, sliding down her cheek. Maelle shoved the dress roughly into the trunk and swiped the tear away with the back of her hand. She started to slam the lid, but Isabelle’s words made her pause.

  Leaving the trunk yawning wide, she turned to her bunk and picked up the Bible a minister had given her when she’d made her way to the front of the sanctuary to ask him how to invite Jesus into her heart. Somewhere in this book she’d read about being a stumbling block.

  Her trousers didn’t bother her. She had good reason for wearing them. But if her clothing provided a stumbling block to those in the community and kept them from seeing her heart and her Christian witness, then maybe it was time to change. Setting the Bible aside, she looked back at the crumpled dress draped over the edge of the trunk. Her stomach trembled.

  “I can’t wear that dress, Lord,” she moaned aloud, tears threatening once more. She took the two steps needed to reach the trunk, lifted the dress, and folded it with great care. Setting it aside, she retrieved the tattered tissue and spread it as flat as possible on the bunk. She tenderly wrapped the tissue around the dress before returning it to the bottom of the trunk.

  She couldn’t wear that dress. Never again would she wear that dress. Her hand drifted to the pocket of her trousers, and her fingers pressed the money clip that held several bills. There were at least three stores in town that sold ready-made garments.

  Sucking in a big breath, she spoke aloud. “God, I don’t want to be a stumbling block. I want people to see the light of your love in my eyes. Give me the courage to put on the trappings that will enable people to look at my heart.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Mattie

  Rocky Crest Ranch

  April, 1903

  Matt hung his hat on its hook, thumped to his bed, and plopped down on the mattress. The ropes squeaked in protest, but he ignored the sound. With a deep sigh, he plucked up the photograph that rested on the little table beside his bed and fingered the edge, his lips pulled between his teeth.

  “You gonna skip supper again?” Clancy leaned against the doorjamb, one thumb caught in the pocket of his trousers. The man’s leathered face looked concerned.

  Returning his eyes to the photo, Matt grunted a reply.

  “Maybe.”

  Clancy took two steps into the room and stood looking down at Matt. “Ever since Jackson’s visit, you haven’t hardly ate enough to keep body an’ soul on good terms. When a man don’t eat, it’s ’cause his gut’s already filled up.” Clancy propped his fists on his bony hips. “What’s fillin’ ya, boy?”

  Heaving another sigh that lifted his shoulders, Matt put the photograph on the table and met Clancy’s gaze. “I made a promise, Clancy, but now I’m not so sure I can keep it.”

  Clancy sat on the bed. “What promise is that?”

  Matt swallowed. “To help Jackson at that big meetin’ he’s got planned.”

  “The one with all them ranchers?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Wal, why can’tcha go? Gerald’s approved it. He’ll even take ya on in to Shay’s Ford. Can’t see no problem there.”

  Matt looked at Clancy. “Problem is, there might be so
mebody there that I . . . I can’t see.”

  Clancy chuckled. “Somebody gonna be invisible?”

  Matt let his head drop, and he blew out a breath. He’d never trusted anybody with the story of his past—not even the Smallwoods, who were the best people he’d known up until coming to Rocky Crest Ranch. But if he didn’t tell now, he’d end up being in the same room with Jenks tomorrow, and the thought made him break out in a cold sweat. Oh, Lord, protect me. . . .

  Clancy reached past Matt and picked up the photograph. “Does it have somethin’ to do with the family in this here picture? Seems to me you been spendin’ a lot of time starin’ at it this week.”

  Matt looked at the photograph pinched between Clancy’s gnarled fingers. His chin quivered as longing flooded him. How long until Maelle’s promise to find him would be fulfilled? “That family . . .” He swallowed the lump in his throat and took the photograph to cradle it in his palm. “That’s my family, Clancy. And I haven’t seen any of ’em since I was six, maybe seven years old.”

  Clancy’s brow puckered, and he released a low whistle. “That’s a long time.”

  “Yeah . . .” Matt closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. And then, haltingly, in a hoarse voice, he opened his past to Clancy. “My folks died when I was pretty small. Me an’ my folks an’ my sisters, we was livin’ in New York. After the folks died, there wasn’t anybody to take care of us kids. So some people—can’t rightly remember who—put us on a train and sent us west with a bunch of other kids who didn’t have folks.”

  Clancy’s jaw dropped. “Orphan trains? You come from them?”

  Matt nodded. “We went to some little town here in Missouri, an’ people came to the church to look us over. I got given to a family by the name of Bonham. Good folks—lived in Shallow Creek.”