Maelle sighed. She might as well be honest with him or he might not give up. “Jackson, I’ve never eaten in a nice restaurant like you described. My uncle and I ate our meals in saloons or cooked over a campfire. Sometimes we’d go into some small diner where the same person who cooked the food slapped the plates onto the table. But what you’re talking about is a place with waiters and tablecloths and probably some words in the menu that I can’t even read. I wouldn’t fit in a place like that.”
He raised one brow, deliberately giving her an up-and-down glance that directed her attention back to her dress.
She felt a blush building. “Just because I put on a skirt and ruffled shirtwaist doesn’t mean I suddenly know how to behave in a fancy-pants restaurant. I’d probably stab the entire steak with the fork and nibble around it and embarrass you to no end.” She shook her head. “No. I can’t go.”
Jackson folded his arms across his chest. “So let me make sure I understand. You are refusing my dinner invitation because of a lack of etiquette?”
The unfamiliar word threw her for a moment. “If etiquette means manners, then, yes. I’m refusing because of that.”
“Well, that’s easy to fix, Mike. Manners can be learned.”
Maelle scowled. “Jackson, I’m not going into a fancy restaurant for the purpose of practicing manners. I’d need them before I went.”
“Of course you would.” He beamed at her. “And I know exactly how you can learn them.”
She lifted her shoulders in a silent gesture of inquiry.
“From Isabelle.”
“I hold to my personal opinion that by hiring youngsters and teaching them a trade, we do the young person a favor. When they reach adulthood, they will have a means of providing for themselves. I can see nothing detrimental in that.”
An answering murmur rose from several areas in the room.
Maelle snapped a picture of the man who had been most vocal about allowing employers to hire whomever they chose, regardess of the age of the worker. Although the man’s fashionable suit and slicked-back hair gave the appearance of a reputable businessman, there was something about him that made her believe he was untrustworthy.
Another man, several seats back, raised his hand and called, “If you make these laws, how will they be enforced? We all”— he swept his arm, indicating the gathered ranchers—“reside outside of city limits. Even if the legislation is passed, what are the guarantees the laws will be followed?”
Maelle looked again at the man with the slicked-back hair. His smirk gave her the clear impression he would do whatever he wanted to do, regardless of laws.
Jackson held the podium with both hands, his shoulders square, as he replied. “As with any law, it is only as good as the people who choose to obey it. You’re right that it will be easier to enforce in the cities, in the factories.”
Maelle noticed the glimmer of a gold tooth as the man with slicked-back hair openly grinned.
“But”—Jackson’s tone turned stern—“not impossible. And the children deserve our best efforts to secure their futures.”
As Jackson continued to implore the group to consider the potential positive ramifications for all children receiving an education and growing into productive citizens, Maelle looked at Mr. Gerald Harders. The rancher was an older, stockier version of Jackson—the family resemblance was easily seen. But the man lacked Jackson’s zeal. She wondered why he didn’t stand behind the podium, expounding on the need for child labor laws, instead of allowing Jackson to speak for him.
She shot another picture, capturing Jackson leaning forward, his hand outstretched, his face reflecting passion. Just as he had that day in the park, his exuberant persuasion brought applause. He finished the session by encouraging the men to complete a pledge card, committing financial or personal support toward electing Gerald Harders to the Missouri House of Representatives, where he would fight for laws dictating the end of child labor.
Maelle cushioned the slides between layers of burlap as an older, weather-beaten man and Aaron Rowley roamed the room, collecting cards. Jackson and his father also left the stage to mingle with the guests, talking quietly one-on-one with ranchers. A man approached her, a notepad and pencil in his hands. She recognized him as a reporter from the newspaper.
She straightened from arranging the slides and asked, “How soon will the paper need the photographs I took?”
He flipped the pages of his notepad. “I’ll turn in my article this evening. My boss may want it in tomorrow’s edition. It’ll be more effective the closer it comes to the one about the little urchin who lost his foot under the trolley.”
Maelle glanced at the large pendulum clock on the back wall of the room. If she hurried, she could have the photographs turned in by early evening. “I’ll make sure the photographs will be ready by tonight.”
“Good. I’ll tell the boss.” He pointed at the box of slides. “Would you like me to carry that for you?”
“No, thank you. I can take care of it.”
He gave a nod and strode away.
Maelle returned to her tripod and released the camera from its perch. She turned to place it in the box with the slides, but her progress was halted by a man stepping into her pathway. Her blood chilled when she glimpsed the flash of a gold tooth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mattie
Rocky Crest Ranch
April, 1903
Shucked down to his long johns and holey socks, Matt paced the cabin floor, his head swiveling with every turn as he kept his eyes on the door. Clancy and Mr. Harders had set out just after dawn broke this morning, and he knew they’d be back sometime tonight. Curiosity about how the day had gone, and whether Jackson had drummed up support for his cause, and whether Clancy had seen Jenks, and whether Mr. Harders had an update on Petey had kept him awake well past bedtime. He knew he wouldn’t sleep until he’d had a chance to talk to Clancy, so he waited.
The moon was high and bright in the black sky when the doorknob finally turned and the hinges’ creak announced Clancy’s entrance. The older man crept in, boots in hand, shoulders hunched. He nearly threw his boots over his head when he spotted Matt in the middle of the floor.
“Land sakes, boy, what’re ya doin’ up in the middle of the night? You pret’ near scared the life outta me!”
Despite the late hour and the worries that had kept him awake, Matt released a chuckle. Folding his arms across his chest, he drawled, “Only other time I saw a man sneak into a room like you just done, he had a farm girl by the hand.”
Clancy harrumphed, dropping his boots with a clatter. “As if any woman worth her salt’d be seen with the likes of me.” He shook his head, drawing in a deep breath. “Wal, now that we’ve established I’m not sneakin’ in with some farm girl, what’re you doin’ paradin’ around here in yer underdrawers?”
Matt scratched his chin. “I just wondered how things went. If you’d seen . . .”
Clancy raised one bushy eyebrow. “Jenks?”
Matt nodded, his throat dry.
“Yep. I seen him.” With a snort, Clancy crossed to the little table in the center of the room and yanked out one of the chairs. After seating himself, he sent Matt a knowing look. “That man don’t exactly try to endear himself to folks, y’ know?”
Matt knew. Jenks probably figured his money covered a lot of sins. Sitting across from Clancy, he said, “He didn’t offer support?”
“He didn’t fill out no pledge card. An’ his carpin’ about how kids’ll learn a good trade if they take jobs while they’re still young’uns kept a whole passel of others from offerin’ support.” Clancy’s derisive tone echoed Matt’s feelings about Lester Jenks. “An’ not only that, I had to keep him from accostin’ a lady newspaper reporter.”
Matt’s mouth fell open.
Clancy nodded. “That’s right. Pushed this lady right into a corner. Scared her into droppin’ her camera, an’ then he didn’t even apologize—just said it was her own clumsi
ness what caused it to fall.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Felt right sorry for her. Nobody deserves to be treated thataway. That man’s bad news, Matt. You was right to get away from him.”
Having been on the receiving end of Jenks’s ill treatment, Matt’s heart turned over in sympathy for the unknown woman. “That lady . . . is she okay now?”
“Oh yeah. Jackson—he seen it, too, an’ he said he’d be sure her camera got replaced. Seems Jackson had invited her there to take pitchers, so he felt responsible.” A low chuckle rumbled in Clancy’s chest. “He shore let ol’ Jenks know how he felt about his shenanigans, too. Don’t reckon Jenks’ll show his face around Shay’s Ford again too soon.”
Matt couldn’t express any regret for that, yet he wished it hadn’t taken something so extreme to make Jackson turn on the man. He said, “I hope Jenks won’t cause trouble for Jackson or Mr. Harders now. He’s used to getting what he wants.”
“Reckon he is,” Clancy agreed, stifling a yawn, “but the way I figure, that lady could turn him in for lascivious behavior. He’d be wise to just slink away an’ not come back.”
“Besides Jenks stirrin’ up trouble, did everything else go all right?”
“Oh yeah.” Clancy propped his elbow on the table edge and then rested his whiskery chin in his hand. “Got some pledges for money for Gerald’s campaign. Some fellers said they’d donate to the orphans’ school Jackson’s friend is plannin’.”
“Orphan school?”
Clancy squinted at him. “Didn’t nobody tell you ’bout that? Jackson helped Isabelle—the one who’s been takin’ care o’ Petey—claim her inheritance, an’ she’s usin’ it to start a live-in orphan school. Bought some land outside of Shay’s Ford, an’ she’s plannin’ to put up a dormitory with a schoolroom, a carpenter’s shop, an’ some stables. That way kids’ll learn to read an’ write an’ get a trade.”
Clancy pointed a bony finger in Matt’s direction, his chin tucked low. “Real ambitious little gal—an’ real educated. Says she’ll be the teacher out there, but I reckon she’ll need some other workers, too. Cain’t imagine a little thing like her handlin’ it all by her lonesome. Jackson’s been helpin’ her ’cause he hopes other cities’ll do the same once they see it’s a good way to keep those abandoned kids off the street an’ give ’em a good start in life.” A yawn split the man’s face after the final word.
Matt had other questions he wanted to ask, but Clancy looked about ready to tumble from the chair, so he simply smiled. “Go on to bed. We can talk more tomorrow.”
Clancy gave Matt’s shoulder a hearty thump, then shuffled to his room and closed the door. Matt blew out the lamp and went to his room, but in spite of the late hour and his weariness, he remained awake. Thoughts of the orphans’ home played at the edges of his mind, holding sleep at bay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Maelle
Shay’s Ford, Missouri
April, 1903
Dressed in a flannel shirt and her usual tan trousers, Maelle curled on her side on her bunk and stared at the flickering light cast by her lantern. Her eyes burned, but she waited as long as possible between blinks, fearful the shadows might overtake her the moment her eyes slipped closed. The city had long since gone to sleep, but she was restless. Every noise—the call of a night bird, the fierce yowl of a tomcat, the whistle of the wind—seemed magnified. And malicious.
Not since that night in Littleville, New Mexico, had she experienced such fear. Remembered moments from Richard’s last day on earth bounced back and forth with moments from today’s encounter with the gold-toothed man, becoming a confusing jumble in her mind.
A green-sprigged muslin dress on her girlish form; a dove gray shirtwaist hugging her womanly bodice; two drunken men in rough clothing grabbing her arm, sneering in her face, their breath foul as they paid lewd compliments; a man in a fancy suit running his fingers over her arm, leaning close, his heavy-lidded appraisal offensive as he murmured unwanted invitations. Then a dark alleyway, sounds of saloon music and men’s laughter filling the air; a well-lit opera house, squeaks of chair seats and men’s low-toned voices providing background noise; Richard’s yell, “Run for the sheriff, Mike!”; the Harders’ hired man’s demand, “Take your hands offa that lady, Jenks!” . . . The flash of a silver knife blade; the flash of a gold tooth. Richard crumpled on the dust-laden ground, lifeless; her camera shattered on the rose-printed carpet, useless.
Such different events, yet so much the same.
Maelle swallowed the lump in her throat, pressing her fists tightly beneath her chin. Both times she’d received unwarranted attention. Both times she’d lost something precious.
The sting of tears forced her to blink several times. Her heart ached afresh at losing Richard, and it ached anew at the loss of her camera. Nothing would bring Richard back, but Jackson had offered to replace her camera. She appreciated the gesture, but it wouldn’t be the same. Carrying her old camera—Richard’s camera—was like having a piece of her past with her. It represented security and stability. A new camera would take photographs, but it could never be as meaningful as the one she had inherited from Richard.
Inheritance . . . She turned the knob on the lantern, raising the wick. The interior of the wagon immediately brightened, dispelling shadows and giving her a small measure of reassurance. She located the cigar box that held her only tie to her life as Maelle Gallagher and carried it to the bunk. After sitting, she placed the box in her lap and lifted the lid. The oncebright pink ribbon had faded to a dingy peach, decorated here and there with rusty-looking splotches. But the writing on the envelopes that held her parent’s love letters was the same—her father’s name in her mother’s script.
Maelle didn’t bother to untie the ribbon. Just holding the stack was enough for now—creating a sense of her parents’ presence. She closed her eyes, hugging the letters to her chest, her chin quivering.
“Oh, Da, if you’d been there today, that man would never have touched me.” Her words groaned out, the remembered panic causing her heart to pound erratically. “You would have protected me.”
You were protected.
Her eyes popped open with the thought. The letters still snug against her heart, she considered this new idea. Had she been protected? Her lips parted with the realization that, even though Da wasn’t there, she’d been given assistance. The Harders’ hired man had pulled that rich rancher away from her. Jackson had given the man a tongue-lashing and sent him away.
Bits and pieces of a Scripture recited from the pulpit only last Sunday flitted through Maelle’s mind: “In him will I trust . . . my refuge . . . thou savest me from violence . . .” As she remembered those words, peace washed over her. Lowering her head, she whispered, “Oh, Father, forgive me. How could I forget your presence? I allowed my fear today to take my focus from you. Neither Da nor Richard is here—but you are. You always will be.”
Tears crept from beneath her closed lids, running in warm rivulets down her cheeks. “Thank you for sending help today— for not allowing that man to hurt me. And, Father, please let me set the memories aside so I can have peace. That day in Littleville has a . . . a hold on me. . . .” She held her breath, pushing down the wave of panic that threatened once more to rise in her breast. “I want to be whole again, Lord. Please. . . .”
With her arms clasped across her chest and her eyes tightly closed, Maelle absorbed the warmth and comfort that overcame her. In time, her grip loosened as her muscles relaxed, peace finding its way around the edges of her heart. At long last she opened her eyes, surprised to find the lantern had burned out. The wagon was bathed in darkness, yet the deep shadows held no threats.
With a cigar box tucked under one arm and her free hand holding her skirts out of her way, Maelle walked through the front door of Rowley Market. A cowbell hung above the door clanged out a warning, and Mr. Rowley immediately appeared from between tall shelves.
“Can I help you?”
&n
bsp; Maelle held up the cigar box. “I told Petey I’d come by and share some photographs with him. Is he up to company?”
The big man’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, Petey’s been keepin’ himself awake, waitin’ for you. He’s in my daughter’s old room—go through that door an’ up the stairs. Second room on the left. Door’ll be open.” He returned to his tasks.
Maelle moved quickly past the tall counter at the back of the store, smiling at the middle-aged woman who stood behind it counting coins into a tin box. She passed through a wide doorway and located an enclosed staircase immediately on the left. At the top, she found herself in a large room that was obviously the Rowleys’ kitchen and sitting room.
For a moment she stared, openly envious, at the functional kitchen and the spaciousness of the room. She could probably fit a dozen wagons in the sitting area alone! Lord, when will I be able to give up my meandering ways and settle into a home that isn’t on wheels? Then, remembering the purpose of her visit, she forced her feet to move through the hallway on her right. The second door was open, as Mr. Rowley had indicated, and she spotted Petey propped up on a pile of bed pillows in a large bed. She charged through the door.
“Hello, Petey! I’m sorry I’m late. I—” She came to a halt when she realized Petey wasn’t alone. Her steps faltered, her smile fading. “And hello, Isabelle.”
The younger woman rose from her chair in the corner of the room and pinned Maelle with a glare. “He’s been sitting here patiently for nearly twenty minutes, wondering if you forgot about him. If you make a promise to a child, you should keep it.”
Angry words pressed in Maelle’s throat. How dare this little snip take her to task? But rising above the anger was a rush of guilt so strong her knees nearly buckled. Isabelle’s words rang in her mind, bringing back memories of another little boy, another promise made nearly twenty years ago. Did Mattie ever wonder if she’d forgotten about him? Did he resent her for not keeping her promise to find him?
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