My Heart Remembers (19 page)

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.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
IX

Mattie

Rocky Crest Ranch

April, 1903

M
att 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 somebody 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.”

“An’ your sisters?”

Pain stabbed Matt’s chest. “My baby sister got took by a fancy family.” He sent Clancy a brief, self-conscious grin. “Man probably still has a dent in his shin from where I kicked him. Clunked him good, tryin’ to keep him from takin’ her. But it didn’t help.”

Looking back at the photograph, Matt touched the image of Maelle. “My other sister went with a man who did photography. Always wondered what happened there. She was dressed like a boy at the time.”

Clancy’s brows pulled down. “A boy?”

Matt shrugged. “Hard to explain.” Shaking his head, he said, “Hope that man didn’t get too mad when he figured out he had himself a girl instead of a boy. Hope he was good to her . . .”

“Hoo-doggies, Matthew . . .” Clancy whistled through his teeth. “Wal, I’m glad a good family took you in.”

Matt nodded, raising his chin and peering into space. “Oh yeah, really liked those Bonhams. They treated me just like I was one of theirs—sent me to school and everything. Now, Mrs. Bonham, she was pretty strict about how things should be done—real particular, y’know? But never mean or spiteful about none of it. She was a nice lady.” His throat tightened. “But when I was nine or so, there was a bad drought. Crops failed, money was scarce, and they couldn’t afford to feed their own, let alone an extra. So they took me to an orphanage in Springfield.”

“An’ just left ya there?”

At Clancy’s derisive tone, Matt faced him. “I don’t hold a grudge. I knew they didn’t want to—the missus carried on somethin’ fierce as they left.” Remembering Mrs. Bonham’s distraught face as the wagon drove away caused an ache in Matt’s heart. He pushed the image aside and continued. “I stayed at the orphanage a couple years before a man took me in. He had a ranch in the Missouri River valley, an’ that’s where I learned cattle ranchin’.”

“A cattle ranch in Missouri . . .” Clancy’s voice turned pensive. “But I thought Gerald said you come to us from Texas.”

Matt stood and paced to the door. This was the part of the story he’d never told. “I did. I ran off to Texas from that ranch. It . . . it was owned by a fellow named . . . Jenks.”

Clancy’s head jerked. “Lester Jenks? Big feller, gold tooth in the front?”

Matt nodded. “That’s him.”

Clancy jolted to his feet. “You got adopted by Lester Jenks? Then why’n tarnation are you here ’stead of—?”

“No!” Matt rubbed the back of his neck, pacing back and forth in the small room. “He didn’t adopt me, Clancy. He just
took
me. Took me an’ worked me. Just . . . worked me.”

Slowly, Clancy lowered himself back to the bed.

Matt leaned against the wall, too tired to remain upright without assistance. “He worked me, Clancy, like you’d work a dog. An’ he never paid me. I’d see the other hands line up on pay day, an’ I figured I should, too. The first time, he laughed an’ told me to run along. The second time, he came around the table, took me by the shirt collar, an’ gave me a kick that sent me sprawlin’ in the dirt. The third time . . .” Matt’s mouth felt dry. He licked his lips. “The third time I could hardly put on a shirt for a week, what with the welts he left on my back. After that, I didn’t get in line. ’Course, he found plenty of other reasons to take that ridin’ crop to me.”

Clancy’s jaw clamped so tight the muscles in his cheeks bulged.

“But I kept track of what he owed me. I knew what he paid the other hands, an’ I knew how long I’d been there. So one night when . . . when he an’ the others headed into town, I sneaked into his office.” Matt’s legs began to tremble. He sank down on the edge of the bed. “I made up a bill on a piece of paper I found in his desk. Wages for forty-four months. Then I subtracted off the cost of one horse. I found the cash box in his bottom drawer, an’ I took what he owed me. I saddled the horse, an’ I rode out.”

“An’ you been on your own ever since?”

“Yes, sir.” A smile twitched Matt’s cheek. “Wasn’t so bad, really. I was tall for my age—most folks figured I was older than I really was, so they weren’t opposed to givin’ me a job. I knew ranchin’, thanks to Jenks. So I worked cattle ranches in Kansas, Oklahoma, an’ Texas. Worked my way as far from Missouri as I could get.

“That last one—the Triple E in Spofford, Texas—that’s where the boss let us off on Sundays for church. Grateful for that—came to know Jesus. Now He’s with me all the time, so no matter where I’m travelin’, I’m not alone.” He sighed. “Prob’ly woulda stayed at the Triple E, ’cept the boss took sick an’ died. His wife had to sell, an’ the new owner brought in his own men. Left me lookin’ for a job again. I saw Mr. Harders’s ad, applied, and”—he flipped his palms outward with a smile—“here I am.”

“And you ain’t seen your sisters since you were a little boy?”

Matt shifted his head to look at the photograph. “Nope.”

“Don’t ya want to find ’em?”

“Sure do. But I don’t know how. I don’t even know what their names are now. Surely not Gallagher anymore . . .”

“Gallagher?” Clancy’s tone echoed confusion. “Your name’s Tucker.”

Matt scratched his chin, grinning. “Well, now, I made that up when I left Jenks. Went from Bonham to Tucker ’cause I was plumb tuckered from him workin’ me so hard. Figured it’d be harder for him to track me if I had a different name.” His grin faded. “’Course, also makes it harder for my sister to find me.”

He blinked hard, looking at the photograph. “My older sister, she made me a promise. Said she’d find me someday. I keep hopin’ . . . ’Course, all my movin’ around . . . could be she’s tried an’ just couldn’t catch up with me.” He paused. “I gotta stay put. But if Jenks sees me at the meetin’ tomorrow, he could sic the law on me, accuse me of stealin’. I could end up in jail.” Panic welled. “I can’t let that man see me.”

“Don’t worry.” Matt had never heard Clancy use such a harsh tone. “You won’t be bothered by Jenks. I’ll go in tomorrow, give Jackson a hand. Gerald won’t mind who goes an’ who stays, so long as the chores git done around here. You stay put.” He snorted. “It’s no secret how Jenks feels about sheep. He won’t come out here—not for nothin’. So you’re safe long as you stay here.”

Matt drew a deep breath and let it out by increments. “Thanks, Clancy.”

Clancy’s brow creased. “You oughtta talk to Gerald, though. He could maybe—”

“No.” Matt shook his head. “I don’t want him thinkin’ he’s hired a thief. The fewer people who know, the better. It’ll keep Jenks from gettin’ wind of my whereabouts.”

“But Jackson bein’ a lawyer . . . he might could help ya, Matthew.”

But Matt set his jaw. “You know what they do to horse thieves, Clancy.”

The older man’s face paled.

“Even if Jenks owed that horse an’ pay to me, it wouldn’t be hard for a man with his money an’ power to convince a judge otherwise. You . . . you gotta stay quiet, please?”

Clancy nodded. “Don’t you worry none. I won’t say nothin’.”

“Thanks, Clancy.”

“Let’s go get us some supper, huh?”

Matt rubbed his stomach, surprised to discover his hunger had returned. Knowing he wouldn’t need to face Jenks tomorrow, the weight of dread had lifted. “Sounds good.”

Clancy gave Matt’s arm a light punch as they walked to the big house together. “You know what I’m hopin’, Matt? That ol’ Gerald’ll get into office, an’ them laws’ll get changed, an’ men like Jenks won’t be takin’ advantage of no more orphans.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

Maelle

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

April, 1903

A
s Maelle walked into the building Jackson had told her was used for town meetings, she chuckled softly. For one of the first times in her life, she was attired appropriately for an opera house. The flaring gray skirt and trim-fitting shirtwaist felt peculiar after the years of wearing trousers and men’s shirts, but no one should look askance at her today.

Balancing the box that held her camera and several blank plates, she walked down the center aisle toward the well-lit stage. Red velvet curtains, hanging from ceiling to floor, bunched at both sides of the stage. The shining wood floor of the stage was empty except for a row of three straight-back chairs behind a simple podium. Her gaze scanned the dim room for the best place to set up her camera. Although electric sconces were placed above shoulder level all along the side walls, none were lit. She hoped someone would light them before things got started or the room would be too dark for photographs.

Stopping at the apron of the stage, she turned to face the shadowy rows of velvet-covered seats. She wanted to be able to photograph the attendees as well as the presenters today, but she didn’t want to move around and draw attention away from the proceedings. She tapped her lips, considering her options.

“Mike?”

The single word exclamation startled her so badly she nearly dropped her box. She spun to face the voice, her skirts swirling around her ankles. Jackson stood at the back edge of the stage, gawking in open-mouthed amazement.

She clutched the box like a shield. Her heart pounded as he crossed quickly to the apron and stared down at her, his gaze sweeping from her toes to her eyes. “You look wonderful.” The words rasped out. “Just . . . wonderful!”

Her skirts shifted as she took a backward step. Spiders of wariness scurried down her spine. Lifting her chin, she inhaled through her nose and pinned him with a fierce glare. “I had a little chat with Isabelle, and she convinced me that my odd mode of dress might give some people the wrong impression about my character. I only put this on to convince the fine people of Shay’s Ford that I’m not a reprobate.” She deepened her scowl. “I didn’t do it to impress you.”

Jackson looked like he was holding back a grin. “I would never have suspected as much.”

She lowered her gaze, her trembling arms still hugging the camera’s box. A sigh escaped. “I apologize for my snappishness. I . . . I just feel conspicuous, I suppose.”

His laugh burst out. She glared at him, and he pursed his lips, stifling the sound. “I’m so sorry. I’m not laughing at you, honestly. It’s just that you feel conspicuous in a dress that would blend in with every other woman in town. Yet in your trousers, which stuck out like a crow in a flock of redbirds, you didn’t.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Mike.”

Heat filled her cheeks, and she looked to the side. “It’s a matter of feeling comfortable.” Her voice seemed oddly intimate in the empty, echoing room. “I’ve worn trousers since I was very young. And I feel . . . safe . . . in them. In this dress . . .” She brought her gaze around, meeting Jackson’s once more. Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away. “I don’t feel like me.”

Jackson squatted, resting his elbows on his thighs and linking his fingers together. “So be yourself. If you’re more comfortable in trousers, wear them. Don’t let Isabelle tell you what to do.”

He smirked. “She likes to tell everyone what to do. Aaron’s working on her penchant for bossiness.”

Maelle felt a grin grow on her lips. “I’m pleased to hear it.” But then she sobered. “However, she made a valid point, and I certainly don’t want my attire to be a stumbling block that keeps others from seeing my true character. I want people to see Jesus in me. If they’re put off by my clothes, they won’t see my heart. So . . .” She took in another deep breath. “The pants will be set aside. At least while I’m in polite company.”

Jackson smiled, his dark eyes shining in approval. “Mike, do you have plans for this evening?”

She shifted the box a bit. It was growing heavy. “Why?”

Still hunkered a mere few feet away, he said, “There’s a restaurant in a hotel on the edge of town. It has a view over the Mississippi so you can watch barges and paddleboats coming in to dock. Very relaxing. Would you like to join me there this evening?”

Another dozen spiders raced up her spine, causing her breath to come in little spurts. “Is it me or the dress you’re asking out to dinner?”

He jerked to his feet. “I . . . I . . .”

“That’s what I thought.” She turned and headed down the aisle toward the back of the room.

An echoing thud told her he’d hopped off the stage. “Mike, wait!” A hand curled over her shoulder, bringing her to a halt. “Please, don’t run away from me.”

Ducking from his grasp, she fixed him with a fierce glare.

“I’m not running away.”

“Are you sure?”

Maelle took two steps backward, putting distance between them. “I’m not
running
away. I’m just
getting
away.”

“But why?”

“Suddenly you ask me to dinner, pay me compliments. Well, that makes me uneasy. I don’t know whether you’re asking me— Mike—to dinner, or if it’s just the dress giving you ideas.”

Jackson frowned. “Now, wait just a minute. I—”

“I put on this dress so my trousers wouldn’t be a distraction to the people in this town. I didn’t put it on to invite attention from men. So keep your invitation, Jackson Harders, and leave me alone!”

Storming between two rows of seats, she charged to the side aisle. She made her way to the front of the room, stopping at the left side of the stage. A quick glance confirmed her opinion that she would have a view of the entire room and the stage from this location. After setting up her tripod, she plunked her camera into place. Once it was secure, she stepped behind it and made a show of perusing the room for the best views. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Jackson stomp up the middle aisle, catch the stage lip with his hands, and lift himself onto the platform. He disappeared behind the curtains.

The moment he was out of sight, she lowered her head and closed her eyes. Tears pressed behind her lids, but she held them at bay. Tears were for sissies. No one could ever call Mike Watts a sissy. She’d always been the toughest kid in every town she entered. She’d fielded punches and verbal assaults and always came through unscathed.

So why did Jackson’s invitation to dinner leave such a bruise on her heart? Because she expected better of him. She’d thought he was different—that the external didn’t matter to him like it did others. But then he saw her in a dress, got all bug-eyed, and nearly tripped over himself asking her to spend the evening with him.

“Why, Jackson, did you have to remind me of those other men?” The words were a groan that nearly wrenched her heart from her chest.

“What other men?”

Her hand flew up to press against her pounding heart. Jackson stood in the center of the stage, one hand in his trousers pocket, his weight resting on one leg. The tenderness in his brown-black eyes brought a new sting of tears.

She focused on her camera, fiddling unnecessarily with the lens. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?” Her body quivered from head to toe, and she hated herself for appearing so weak.

The squeak of floorboards warned her of his approach. Maelle’s heart doubled its tempo, and she whirled around, ready to demand he leave her alone.

But he only sat on the edge of the stage, several feet away, his legs dangling. “I didn’t intend to sneak up on you. I actually stomped pretty hard just so you would hear me coming.”

“Well . . .” She shifted the camera a few inches to the right and peered through the viewfinder. Anything to keep herself occupied and avoid making eye contact. “I didn’t hear you. And I think it’s rude to listen in on someone’s private conversation.”

“But you asked me the question,” he reminded her.

A hint of teasing underscored his tone, but Maelle refused to let him dissuade her from her anger. The anger kept the hurt at bay. “I was thinking out loud. I wasn’t talking to you.”

Jackson leaned sideways, resting his palm on the stage floor. “Mike, I didn’t intend to offend you by asking you to dinner, but I suspect that’s what I did. I apologize.”

She pinched her brow and examined his face. His expression remained open, kind, with no trace of insincerity. Yet she still wondered . . . She jabbed her finger in his direction. “I find it interesting that you never asked me to dinner when I was wearing pants.” Lifting her chin, she challenged, “So why now?”

Jackson shrugged, holding out both hands in surrender. “Because you have to eat?”

The twinkle in his eyes undid her. She snorted, then giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. His chuckle joined hers, and they enjoyed a moment of shared mirth.

Then he turned serious again, tipping his head and looking directly into her eyes. “Truly, Mike, I know I scared you, and I didn’t mean to. I’m not even sure why you found my invitation so frightening.” Leaning forward slightly, he added softly, “If you’d like to talk about it, I’ve got two good ears for listening.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He raised his eyebrows at her quick answer, but he didn’t push her as he rose to his feet. “All right. But the invitation to listen remains open, whenever you’re ready to talk.”

She didn’t answer.

One side of his lips raised in a smile. “The invitation to dinner also still stands. They serve a pounded beef steak covered in grilled mushrooms that I highly recommend.”

Maelle’s stomach rolled over, her tongue creeping out involuntarily to lick her lips. Then she squared her shoulders and shook her head. “Thank you, but no.”

Jackson frowned. “Are you still afraid of me?”

Afraid? Of Jackson in his three-piece suit and silk jabot, the stage lights slanting across his face and highlighting his chiseled features? The shadows on his face brought a reminder of other faces, other shadows, but Maelle fought the bad feelings. Swallowing, she replied firmly. “No, I’m not afraid of
you
. But I can’t go.”

He tipped his head, his expression turning boyish. “Why not? You have to eat. Why not eat with me?”

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.