My Heart Remembers by Kim Vogel Sawyer Read Free Book Online Page B

swung over her shoulder as she leaned forward, and she observed the clerk’s face flood with red. “I’d like a room with a private bath, if possible.”
    “Of . . . of course, m-miss.”
    The stuttering had no effect on Maelle. She’d grown accustomed to people’s reaction to her masculine mode of dress. She signed the guestbook— Mike Watts —tucked the key into the pocket of her shirt, and picked up her belongings. Before turning away from the desk, however, she asked the question she always asked: “Do you know of any Gallaghers in town? Mattie or Molly?”
    The clerk frowned, tapping his chin with a narrow finger. “Gallagher . . . I don’t believe so.” His brows quirked. “Kin o’ yours?”
    “Yes.” She didn’t elaborate. “Thank you.” She strode away from the desk. A porter met her at the bottom of the stairs and offered to take her bags, but she shook her head. She was capable of carrying her own items, and she wouldn’t relinquish her camera to anyone.
    Jerking her chin toward the front doors, she said, “If you’d have someone see to my horse—out front, the wagon has Watts Photography painted on its side—I’d be obliged.” The porter bustled off.
    In Room 106, she placed the camera box in the corner farthest from the window, then moved toward the bed. Her boots clumped against the wood floor, creating a hollow thud. A louder thud sounded when she dropped the carpetbag. Seated on the edge of the creaky mattress, she tugged off the boots but left her thick wool socks in place. Opening the battered carpetbag, she rummaged for her nightshirt. She thought she detected a slight essence of bay rum caught in the fabric of the bag, bringing with it the bittersweet memory of her surrogate uncle.
    Maelle’s eyes drifted shut. He’d been gone almost nine years now, and she still missed him. In many ways, he’d been less than ideal. His penchant for visiting saloons, his gruff tone when speaking, and his expectation for perfection were sometimes difficult to abide. But she’d grown to love him.
    An unwilling chuckle built in her chest as she remembered her third Christmas with him. As had become their custom, he’d rented a hotel room for Christmas Eve night.
    The hotel was a fancy one, with a view of the Gulf of Mexico and a private bathing room right off the bedroom. Uncle Richard had told her to bathe before bed. She’d eagerly filled the elongated tin tub with steaming water straight from a brass spigot and climbed in.
    The once-a-year comfort of hot water up to her armpits had lulled her to sleep, but she’d startled awake when Richard pounded on the door and then stepped in. Shocked by the unexpected intrusion, she’d leapt to her feet, slipped on the slick bottom, and then fell backward with a splash that displaced half the water in the tub. Richard had discovered her secret.
    She could still see his look of open-mouthed surprise and hear his hoarse yelp, “Mike? You—you’re a girl ?” The word girl had exploded like a curse word, and she’d hunkered in the tub, quivering with fear. He’d spun, presenting his back. His neck glowed bright red, the way it did when he was very, very angry. She’d stared at the thin band of exposed crimson skin between his shirt collar and thick hair. Her tightly held breath made her chest ache. It seemed hours passed before he finally stomped toward the doorway.
    Her stiff fingers clutched the rolled tin lip of the tub. “W-what’re you goin’ to do?” she asked.
    He came to a halt, his face aimed away from her. Her heart pounded as she waited to hear him say he was throwing her out or taking her to an orphanage.
    “Gettin’ a second room for you for tonight. And tomorrow I’ll put up some kind of privacy barrier in the wagon. Clean up the water on the floor before it leaks to the room below.” The slam of the bathroom door ended their conversation.
    And Maelle had melted into the remaining tepid water with a sigh of relief. Despite the