My Heart Remembers (25 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-S
EVEN

C
lancy drew such a sharp breath, two men turned around to stare. His bony hand grasped Matt’s arm, and Matt clamped his hand over Clancy’s. Matt’s knees nearly gave way as the meaning of the woman’s statement dawned on him. She continued, oblivious to the fact that she’d just turned his world upside down.

“I was born Molly Gallagher. And had it not been for Reginald and Rebecca Standler’s willingness to accept an orphaned baby into their home, I might have grown up like the children Jackson described for you earlier. I might have spent my days on the streets, selling newspapers to survive. No child deserves such a cold, harsh upbringing.”

Her green-eyed gaze swept across the audience. Matt held his breath as it skimmed past him, unaware. “Since coming to Shay’s Ford, I have encountered, face-to-face, the difficulties of being without a home, without a family. The children I’ve met are amazingly resilient, amazingly able, far beyond their years. Yet they are sacrificing something precious to be self-sufficient—they are sacrificing their childhoods and their opportunity for education. I believe they deserve more than a day-to-day existence, and I applaud you for sharing my belief.

“Although I was never formally adopted by the Standlers, my papa loved me enough to provide for my future. Since the inheritance he left me has made it possible to purchase this land and the materials to construct the buildings, it gives me great pleasure to dedicate the project to his memory.”

Matt rose on tiptoe to watch his baby sister move quickly to an object draped with a white cloth in the center of the platform. A deft flip of her wrist removed the cloth, revealing a brass plate. With a huge smile, she announced, “The Reginald Standler Home for Orphaned and Destitute Children.” She blinked rapidly and said in a tear-choked voice, “May the children who enter this home feel as welcomed and loved as I was made to feel by my dear foster parents.”

Wild cheers, whistles, and applause broke out. It continued, unfettered, for several minutes. But Matt didn’t join in. His trembling hands were incapable of connecting. His quivering legs threatened to collapse. His heart pounded so hard he feared it might leave his chest. Standing fewer than twelve feet away was his baby sister, Molly, holding on to Jackson Harders’ arm and beaming at the raucous crowd.

What if he’d given in to his fears and run away from Jenks? He’d be miles down the road, far away from his sister. Gratitude competed with the shock of finding Molly, and tears stung so sharply his nose burned.
Oh, Lord, you brought me to her. Thank you!

Eventually things quieted, and Jackson led Molly from the shaded platform into the bright sunshine. The crowd surged after the pair. Clancy herded Matt along, his whiskery face wearing a grin so broad it nearly split his face in two. When the group formed a circle around Jackson and Molly, Clancy planted his hands on Matt’s back and gave a firm shove that propelled him from the rear of the group to the front, where he had a clear view of Jackson Harders placing a shovel in Molly’s small hands.

Green ribbons tied to the shovel’s handle danced around Molly’s wrists as she pressed the blade against the grass. She smiled at the crowd before putting her petite foot on the blade’s shoulder. With a tiny grunt, she leaned her weight against the shovel, and the blade bit into the ground. Her lower lip between her teeth, she gave the shovel handle a jerk that turned the spot of soil. She laughed, her eyes shining, as another cheer broke out.

She passed the shovel to Jackson, who gave a bow before jamming the blade into the ground and turning a sizable chunk of sod. Molly patted her palms together, and then she shifted her gaze above the crowd. Raising one hand, she waved to someone.

Her sweet voice called out, “You’ve taken a sufficient number of photographs! Come and break ground, Maelle!”

Matt jerked his head so hard his neck hurt and he nearly lost his hat.

Maelle?!

Maelle

With a laugh, Maelle grabbed the edge of the wagon and leapt over the side. Her boots hit the ground, sending up a puff of dust. The crowd parted, allowing her passage, and she joined Isabelle and Jackson. Her piece of sod matched Jackson’s in depth and size, earning a rousing shout of approval from the onlookers.

Laughing, she enveloped Isabelle in a hug. Behind her, Jackson’s voice rang out. “That concludes our ceremony, gentlemen. Thank you for coming, and may God bless you!”

The crowd dispersed, the men moving toward their waiting vehicles, except for a tall cowboy, who remained as if rooted in place just a few feet from the three grayish brown clumps of overturned sod. Although his hat brim shaded the upper half of his face, Maelle made out two thin rivulets of moisture running toward his quivering chin.

Isabelle stepped from her sister’s embrace to dash to Aaron, and Maelle heard Jackson say her name, but she couldn’t take her gaze from the cowboy. Something in his stiffly held shoulders and clenched fists, his chiseled cheeks stained with tears, spoke of a deep emotion. A tingle raced across her scalp. The artist in her desired to capture the man’s posture on film so she could examine it later, understand its impact. Yet she couldn’t move.

She stared as his hand rose to remove his hat. Tawny brown eyes met hers. Thick locks of reddish-brown hair, tousled by the wind, fell across his forehead.

She gasped.
Oh, heavenly Father, can it be . . . ?

She took one hesitant step forward, her jaw dropping, her body straining toward him. She searched his face, her hands pressed to her thumping heart, and she uttered the question she had longed to ask for so long, “Would you still be havin’ your tie to home?”

The cowboy crushed his hat against his thigh. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he offered a slow nod. “I look at the photograph every night before I go to bed, hopin’ I might be seein’ you in my dreams.”

Maelle’s knees buckled, and she clasped her throat with both hands. “Mattie!” Did she speak his name or only think it?

From behind her, she heard Isabelle’s puzzled query. “Mattie? You mean . . . our brother?”

Before Maelle could respond, Isabelle raced past her and threw herself into Mattie’s arms. Maelle watched Mattie scoop their little sister from the ground, Isabelle laughing as she clung to his neck. Her chest ached with the effort of containing her joy as she witnessed the reunion between the two people she loved more than anyone else in the world.

Mattie swung Isabelle in a circle, trampling his hat beneath his boots, then set her back on the grass. His head lifted, his tear-wet gaze meeting Maelle’s. He held out one arm in invitation, and she staggered forward, her feet clumsy. A cry of delight left her lips as her brother crushed her to his chest in a hug that stole her breath. A strangled sob found its way from her throat, and she allowed her tears to flow. Tears of joy the likes of which she’d never shed before.

She wriggled loose enough to stand on her toes and kiss her brother’s damp cheeks and forehead, just as she’d done the last day she’d been with him. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, murmuring, “You’re real. I can’t believe you’re real.”

Maelle understood his wonder. To be in his arms was a gift she feared she’d never receive. The awe of the moment filled her and overflowed.

The world faded away, and all that existed was Maelle, Mattie, and Molly, floating on a plane of happy abandon. They clung, their arms entangled, alternately laughing and crying. Then they separated to all talk at once.

“How did you find me?”

“Did you know we were here?”

“Have you just arrived in Shay’s Ford?”

Laughter rang again, the answers unnecessary.

“Maelle . . .” Mattie’s hand convulsed on Maelle’s back. His voice—a voice so much deeper than the childish voice from their past—quavered with emotion. “You’re so beautiful . . . Still in trousers . . . Your hair long again . . .” He shifted his attention to Isabelle. “You’re all grown up an’ as tiny an’ lovely as our own mother. Lookin’ at you is like seein’ her all over again, Molly.”

Maelle corrected gently, “Her foster parents named her Isabelle.”

Isabelle shook her head wildly, making her silky red curls bounce. “He can call me Molly if he wants to.” She beamed upward, her slender fingers reaching to touch Mattie’s cheek.

“All my life I’ve longed for a big brother who loved me, and now here you are!” Fresh tears rained down Isabelle’s face.

They melted once more into a three-way hug. Maelle’s heart praised,
You’ve answered me prayers, dear Father. You’ve brought me Molly and Mattie. I thank you, Lord. I thank you . . .

“Maelle?”

Maelle jumped at the sound of Jackson’s voice. He stood a few feet away with his father, Aaron, Clancy, and two young boys. Unwilling to relinquish Mattie, she tucked herself beneath her brother’s arm before answering. “Yes?”

Jackson held out his pocket watch. “I hate to intrude, but we’ve got to get back to town or Aaron and Isabelle will be late to their own wedding.”

“Wedding?” Mattie gawked at Isabelle, who beamed at him from beneath his other arm. “You’re gettin’ married?”

“Today,” she confirmed. “Maelle is my attendant.”

Mattie shook his head. “Married . . . My baby sister . . .”

“To Aaron Rowley.” Isabelle gestured him forward. Then she pressed her hand to Mattie’s chest. “And you must come.”

Catching Maelle’s hand, she joined the three of them together.

“Will you walk me down the aisle, Mattie?”

Her hand tucked into the bend of Jackson’s elbow, Maelle walked slowly along the city’s boardwalk. He tempered his stride to match hers, slowed by the full skirt of her dress. For once she didn’t rue the slower pace. She was in no hurry to leave his side.

Streetlamps cast a golden glow, lighting their path, and their shadows provided company as they made their way to Maelle’s studio. The empty streets and darkened places of business lent an intimacy to the setting. She and Jackson might have been the only two people in the world.

Only minutes ago she had bid farewell to her sister and brother. After hugs and kisses, Isabelle and Aaron had departed in a gaily decorated buggy to a hotel at the river’s edge, where they would spend their first night together as husband and wife. Shortly afterward, Mattie had climbed into the Harders’ carriage. Remembering their last leave-taking, Maelle had clung to him extra hard, but he’d whispered in her ear that he would see her soon. The realization that he would only be a few miles away, at Rocky Crest Ranch, made the good-bye bearable.

She turned her head to admire her escort. In the soft light, Jackson’s dark hair became the color of midnight, his chiseled features more pronounced and masculine. She owed him so much. What if he hadn’t convinced her to stay and photograph the meeting at the opera house? She would still be alone—rolling across the landscape in her wagon, hiding from relationships in a pair of men’s trousers, longing to find her sister and brother.

God had used Jackson to begin healing in her heart and to answer her lifelong prayer to reunite with her siblings. Her fingers tightened on his firm arm, sending him a silent thankyou. Somehow, he must have understood the meaning behind her touch, because he turned his head and smiled down at her. Odd how they seemed to communicate without words. Maelle pondered the strange ability as they stopped in front of her studio and she removed the skeleton key from her reticule.

Jackson plucked it from her fingers and unlocked the door for her, then held it open for her entry. She giggled as she stepped across the threshold.

He dropped the key into her hand, his head tipped in puzzlement. “What’s funny?”

“You treat me like a lady.”

Confusion creased his features. “And you f ind that humorous?”

She offered a shrug. “Not humorous, just surprising.” She admitted something she’d never said out loud before. “Men have never treated me like a lady, Jackson.”

He met her gaze directly, his expression sincere. “You are one of the finest ladies I’ve ever known.”

Uncertain how to respond, she turned mischievous. Grasping her skirt, she dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”

He caught her arm and drew her upright. Cupping her cheek, he said, “I’m not playing, Maelle. Even in a pair of trousers and a worn-out shirt, you are every bit a lady. Will you remember I said so?”

Looking into his face, his expression fervent yet tender, Maelle knew she would never forget his words. Or the look in his eyes. She gave a nod, and his hand slipped away.

“Good.” He ran his hand through his hair.

Even in the minimal light coming through the uncovered window, she could make out the ridges left behind by his fingers. She wished she had the courage to touch his hair just once, but she knew doing it now would be folly. The air fairly crackled with tension.

“Well, I suppose I should—” she began.

“Maelle, I find myself—” he began.

They both stopped. She waved her hand at him. “Go ahead.”

He dropped his gaze, seeming to examine the toes of his shoes for long moments before lifting his head and looking into her eyes. “I find myself wanting to say . . . more. To make promises. To extract promises. But . . .”

She nodded, reading the unspoken words. “It’s all right, Jackson.” Taking a step forward, she rested her fingers on his forearm. “God has plans, and He’s given you the task of helping children few others care to help. If you didn’t see the work through, you’d never be happy with yourself. You must go. It’s your fight, so go do battle.”

He placed his hand over hers, his fingers warm and strong. “I appreciate your confidence in me.”

“It’s well placed,” she assured him. “And I’ll eagerly await reports on your progress when you travel through.” She tipped her head, her heart pattering hopefully. “You
will
travel through, won’t you?”