Jackson replied as if she’d never moved, but his voice sounded tight. “There’s a real possibility this could carry over and create problems since the alleged attack on his character took place at a meeting centering on the child labor issue.” He sighed deeply, the brocade vest taut against his chest with the initial intake of breath. “I don’t want to put you through an unpleasant encounter, Mike, but it might be necessary for you to make a formal complaint against Jenks to show valid cause for my actions.”
Maelle sucked in her lower lip and stared at her clenched fists in her lap, considering Jackson’s words. She had involved herself in this fight by giving Jackson photographs and penning dozens of letters. She cared deeply about the plight of children trapped in dangerous, demanding occupations, but the thought of having to face the gold-toothed man who had coldheartedly treated her like a common strumpet made her want to close up her wagon and drive away as fast as she could.
“Mike?” Jackson placed his warm hand over her fists. When she raised her gaze to meet his, he continued. “I hope to work this out without involving the court system, but if Jenks ends up taking this before a judge, will you testify as to the reason for my verbal assault?”
Somewhere at the back of Maelle’s brain it registered that a man held her hands. Yet no fear filled her. She offered a slight nod. “I’ll do whatever’s necessary, Jackson. We can’t let him keep this legislation from being passed.”
His hand slipped away. “Thank you.”
Odd, unrecognizable emotions swirled through Maelle’s chest. Why had the touch of his hand on hers not created the same reaction as Jenks’s touch? She hopped off the edge of the hatch and closed it. Her fingers trembled slightly as she dropped the pins into place. She pressed her palms together as she faced Jackson and assumed a flippant tone. “Well, I’m stuck here until my camera arrives anyway. And I told Isabelle I would photograph the groundbreaking of the orphans’ home, so I might as well make myself useful while I’m still in town.” Flinging her arms outward, she concluded, “And speaking of useful . . . I’m sure Isabelle has more letters for me to write.”
She hurried away without giving him a chance to respond. Her boots thumped purposefully against the boardwalk as she walked in the widest stride her skirts would allow. She found it frustrating that she had to take smaller steps in a full-cut skirt than she had in trim-fitting trousers. But with trousers there were no layers of fabric to wrap around her ankles. Walking in skirts slowed one’s stride. A slower pace allowed racing thoughts to catch up and be acknowledged.
A warmth flooded her cheeks again when she remembered her response to Jackson’s simple touch. The last time he’d touched her—the hug in his office—she’d nearly knocked herself to the floor trying to get away. But this time there’d been no rush to escape. Instead, she’d sat meekly, her hands beneath his wide palm, allowing the contact to continue. For a fleeting moment she wished Jackson had tried hugging her, just so she could know if she still found it repulsive. The yearning to be held took her by surprise. When had the idea of having a man’s arms around her become desired rather than distasteful?
She pushed the strange thoughts aside as she stepped through the open doorway of Rowley Market and moved directly to the back of the store.
Petey, perched on a high stool beside the counter, broke into a huge smile when he spotted her. “Hi, Mike!”
Maelle glanced around the quiet store. “Where are the others? Did they leave you all alone?”
Petey giggled. “I’m mindin’ things. I’m s’posed to ring the bell if anybody comes to buy somethin’.” He gestured toward a tarnished brass bell standing on the counter, then crinkled his face in concentration as he began a recitation. “Papa Rowley’s in the storeroom. Mama Rowley’s takin’ a nap. She’s got a bad headache. Aaron went to the church to do some cleanin’. An’ Isabelle went upstairs to check on Mama Rowley.”
Maelle propped an elbow on the counter. “Well, I guess I’ll wait here for Isabelle, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” Petey imitated her position by resting his elbow on the wooden surface. “You got your camera yet?”
“Nope, not yet.”
The boy sighed. “Sure am wantin’ to have my pitcher took.
Isabelle says we’ll all get in it—me, an’ Mama an’ Papa Rowley, an’ Aaron an’ Isabelle. It’ll be like a family pitcher.”
A sad smile tugged at Maelle’s cheeks. While it was gratifying that this small waif had found his place to belong, his simple words stirred a longing to revisit the photograph she’d given to Mattie. To remember when she was part of a family. “That sounds like a good idea. And I’ll have to make sure to come back through Shay’s Ford again in a year or two and take another picture to show how you’ve grown.”
Petey sat up straight, his eyebrows high. “You’re leavin’?”
“I’m afraid so, Petey.” Maelle discovered she truly was sorry to think of leaving this community. Her lengthy stay had stirred her long-held desire to settle in one place. Yet she knew she could never settle down until she’d finally located her brother and sister. “I’m a traveling photographer. I have to travel on.”
Without warning, Petey launched himself from the stool into Maelle’s arms. She staggered backward a step with the unexpected weight, but she caught him and scooped him close.
He wrapped both skinny arms around her neck and held tight. “I sure wish you wouldn’t go, Mike.” His breath teased her ear, his voice quavering with emotion.
Maelle swallowed the tears that rose in her throat. “Oh, Petey . . .” She inhaled the scent of the boy, relishing the feel of his body in her arms. Only a few minutes ago she’d longed for someone to hold her. Holding Petey was just as good as being held, she decided. His hands on her neck released the string that confined her hair, and thick strands cascaded around her shoulders as she lowered him to the stool.
Tipping forward to bring her face only inches from his, she said, “I promise to come back, Petey. You’re my friend, and I’ll want to check on you.”
With the resilience of a child, he brightened. “An’ see my new peg leg? I should be gettin’ it afore too long.”
Maelle chuckled. “And see your peg leg. Just think . . . you’ll be running when I come back next time!”
Petey flashed a bright, endearing grin.
A clatter on the stairs alerted them to someone’s approach. Isabelle winged around the corner, her face flushed. “Petey, I’m sorry I took so long. Are you—” Her gaze found Maelle, and she stopped so abruptly it looked like she’d come into contact with a brick wall. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Mike . . . Oh my . . .”
Maelle frowned, glancing at Petey.
Isabelle glided forward, her hand reaching. She caught a strand of Maelle’s hair and let it drift through her fingers. “You have lovely hair. Such a rich color—the burnished red of an oak leaf in late October. Are those waves natural? With it always twisted into a braid, I didn’t realize . . .”
She took hold of Maelle’s shoulders and turned her around, and then Maelle felt Isabelle’s fingers stroke the length of her unfettered waves. The gentle touch sent a tremor through her entire body. Isabelle’s finger must have caught on the second stroke, because she felt a slight tug, reminding her of Da’s habit of giving a little pull on her curls to tease her. A lump formed in her throat.
“It’s just hair,” she said, stepping out of Isabelle’s reach. She searched the floor for the piece of string.
Isabelle clasped her hands beneath her chin. “It reminds me so much of my mama’s hair, although hers wasn’t as thick as yours, nor as long. She used to allow me to brush it out and then fashion it into a knot on the back of her head.”
Isabelle’s blithe comment sent Maelle backward in time to Ireland, to a tiny cottage, to a fireside stool and the remembrance of her mother seated in front of flickering flames, twisting pink ribbon through her own waist-length braid of shimmering red . . .
Her scalp tingled at the memory, and she shook her head, dispelling the image. “I prefer a braid.” She quickly plaited her hair and tied the end securely.
The expression of longing in Isabelle’s green eyes faded. She squared her narrow shoulders and said briskly, “Well, then, are you prepared to write letters?”
“Yes. How many more are there?”
A gleam appeared in Isabelle’s eyes. “Enough to keep you quite occupied this morning.”
Maelle released an exaggerated groan that made Petey giggle. She headed to the table tucked in the corner of Isabelle’s tiny bedroom, uncapped the ink pot, and began the message she now knew by heart. Dear Sir . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mattie
Rocky Crest Ranch
April, 1903
Matt, his belly full from breakfast, rounded the back corner of the big house on his way to the horse barn. He and Russ would spend the morning taking the ewes to the north pasture for feeding. An approaching surrey caught his attention, and he paused, tilting his hat brim to block the sun.
He recognized Jackson in the driver’s seat, and he lifted his hand in a wave. Jackson pulled the surrey beside Matt and peered down at him with a serious expression. “Matt, could you find Clancy and bring him to the house? We need to talk.”
Jackson had skipped a polite good morning, and that made Matt worry. Something must be wrong. “Sure, I know where he is. Everything okay?”
“No.” Jackson rubbed the back of his neck. Lifting the reins, he said, “Hurry, would you, Matt?” He clicked his tongue, and the bay obediently heaved forward.
Matt waited until the surrey turned toward the house before he trotted in the direction of the sheep barn. He found Clancy in the first stall, rake in hand, clearing soiled straw. But he dropped the rake immediately when Matt told him Jackson was at the house looking for him.
“Gotta be about that letter from Jenks,” he growled, his arms pumping as he headed for the wide opening. “Gerald tol’ me Jackson’d take care of it.”
Matt thumped along beside Clancy. “Jackson didn’t look too happy. Do you reckon he isn’t gonna be able to fix it?”
Clancy shot a quick glare in Matt’s direction. “Course he c’n fix it. He knows the law, an’ the law won’t hold nothin’ against me fer doin’ the right thing.”
Matt put his arm around Clancy’s shoulders. “You’re right, Clancy. It’ll all work out.”
They reached the back door, and Clancy paused for a moment, rubbing his chin. “I’d say come in, but—”
“Nah.” Matt backed up. “I got work to do. You can tell me at lunch how it went.”
Clancy bobbed his head in a brusque nod, opened the door, and stepped through.
Matt headed to his duties, but even while he watched the dogs herd the sheep to a grazing area, his thoughts remained back at the big house. How would Jackson keep Jenks from following through on filing charges against Clancy? What would Mr. Harders do if Jenks managed to send Clancy to jail? The two men were more than boss and employee; they were good friends. The other two hands, José and Parker, were closer to Matt’s age and had only been on the ranch a few years. Mr. Harders and Clancy had worked together for more than Matt’s lifetime.
Matt jerked in the saddle, forcing away the unpleasant thought. “Need to quit thinkin’ the worst’ll happen,” he muttered, smoothing his gloved hand along Russ’s shiny neck. “The Bible says things work for good if a person’s committed to God and doin’ right. Clancy surely fits that. It’ll be okay.” Saying the words aloud offered an element of peace, and the rest of the morning passed quickly.
When he met up with the others for lunch, Clancy’s sullen expression washed away the morning’s calm. “Clancy? You okay?”
Mr. Harders passed a tin plate of corn muffins. “We’ve had a rough morning, Matt. Lester Jenks is not only filing trumped-up charges, he’s made an offer on the land a young woman from town wanted to purchase to establish an orphans’ home.” He heaved a sigh. “I must admit, I’m not eager to have him as a neighbor.”
Matt put a muffin on his plate even though his appetite suddenly fled. His hands shook as he passed the plate to Clancy.
Clancy snorted, jerking the plate from Matt’s hands. “That man’s nothin’ but a peck of trouble!”
Mr. Harders set his mouth in a grim line. “You’re right, Clancy, but I’m afraid he has an upper hand in this situation.”
Clancy shoved the plate on to José without taking a muffin and sent Matt a disbelieving look. “He’s got some fellers gonna say he was just offerin’ to help that lady carry her camera—that I started a squabble ’cause I wanted to carry it myself!”
Matt gawked at Mr. Harders. “Can he do that?”
The boss shrugged, scooping beans and ham onto his plate. “He’s already done it. According to Jackson, each of the men who supposedly witnessed the altercation between Clancy and Jenks have borrowed money from Jenks in the past. They owe him, and he’s calling up their debts by requesting their support.”
“But that’s not right!” Matt automatically ladled a scoop of beans onto his plate when Mr. Harders handed him the pot, but he didn’t pick up his spoon to eat. “Somebody’s gotta stop him. He can’t just keep doing harm to folks!”
Silence fell after Matt’s outburst. José and Parker ate quietly, their furtive glances flitting around the table. Clancy’s plate remained empty, his fists clenched in his lap. Mr. Harders held his fork, but he didn’t stab it into the mound of beans on his plate. He met Matt’s gaze. “You feel pretty strongly about this.”
Matt’s thudding heart proved his boss’s words.
“Want to tell me why?”
Matt could feel Clancy’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look at his cabin mate. His gaze on his plate, he forced through clenched teeth, “Just . . . ain’t right.”
Mr. Harders pulled his lips to one side, making his mustache twitch. He pinned Matt with narrowed eyes. “I agree with you, son. Jackson’s going to do everything he can to help Isabelle purchase that land and to disprove Jenks’s charges. He’s also facing a lawsuit brought by Jenks.”
Matt’s jaw dropped open. “A lawsuit? What for?”
“For defamation of character.”
“Man’s got no character,” Clancy muttered.
Matt agreed.
“So there’s a lot at stake. But I’m hopeful. And I’d appreciate it if all of you would join me in praying”—his fervent expression touched each man at the table—“that when Jenks comes here next week to discuss his claims, we’ll be able to work things out without involving the court.”
Suddenly the air seemed to be sucked from Matt’s chest. He gasped for breath. “He . . . he’s comin’ here?”
“On Tuesday.” Mr. Harders frowned. “Matt, are you all right?”
Sweat broke out across Matt’s back. His scarred back. He pushed his chair away from the table, the legs screeching against the floor. “No, sir. I gotta be excused.” He dashed out the back door, careened around the corner of the house, and bent over the bushes while his stomach emptied its meager contents. A hand touched his back, and he jerked upright, his eyes closed, gulping air.
“Matt?” Clancy’s voice.
“I’m sorry, Clancy.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned slowly to face his friend. The ground seemed to tip, and he grabbed the cool rock wall of the house for support. “I wanna help you out, but . . . I can’t be here when Jenks comes. If he recognizes me . . .”
Clancy nodded, his lined eyes sad. “I know, Matthew. If ’n you need to ride on, I’ll ’splain things to Gerald after yore gone. He won’t hold a grudge against ya. He’s a fair man.”
Matt nodded miserably. He knew Mr. Harders was a fair man, and it pained him to let his boss down, but how could he stay?
Oh, Lord, I wanted a home here so bad. . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Maelle
Shay’s Ford, Missouri
April, 1903<
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From the high seat of the wagon, Maelle flipped the reins and encouraged, “All right, Samson, let’s go get that picture taken.” She smiled as Samson pulled the wagon over the cobblestone street toward Rowley Market. Not only was the day beautiful, with a scented breeze pleasing her nose and the bright sun warming her hair, her new camera had arrived. It now sat in a specially made carrying case in the back of the wagon.
Jackson had purchased an Eastman Century View camera, the best model available from the catalog. Maelle had spent most of the morning reading the instructional book to familiarize herself with its use. Her old camera had used dry plates, but this model made use of non-curling film, which Maelle hoped would be easier to store and use. The portrait of Petey and his surrogate family—her first one on the new camera—would let her know whether or not she could successfully use the new, modern equipment.
She tugged the reins, drawing Samson to a stop outside the market. The entire Rowley family waited on the boardwalk. Aaron held Petey in his arms, and the boy lifted his hand from Aaron’s broad shoulder to wave at Maelle.
“Mike! You came! Mama Rowley wants us to take our pitcher out here in front of the market. Can we do that?”
Maelle climbed down from the wagon and crossed to the family. “Sure. We can take the picture wherever you like.”
Mrs. Rowley touched the cameo pinned in the center of a flurry of ruffles beneath her double chin. “Just don’t seem natural, standing in front of some painted backdrop. We want our photograph to show us like we really are, just humble shopkeepers.”
Maelle smiled. She’d never seen Helen Rowley minding the store in a white ruffly blouse and black pleated shirt, nor did Mr. Rowley and Aaron wear suit coats to stock shelves. But she had to admit, they made a handsome family, right down to Petey, who wore a Little Lord Fauntleroy suit with the right pant leg folded back and pinned out of the way. He had more ruffles beneath his chin than Mrs. Rowley.
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