wasn’t assured. He gave her hand one more squeeze before stepping back and slapping his hat on his head. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am. I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet.”
Her husky chortle made him smile. “I will miss you, son.”
Son . . . That simple word propelled Matt forward three feet. He wrapped his long arms around Mrs. Smallwood in an impulsive hug that she returned with a strength that belied her advanced age and diminutive size. When he pulled back, he glimpsed tears in her eyes and knew he’d better get moving. Quick good-byes were always best.
But before he could turn away, she caught his coat sleeve. “Matthew, you keep walkin’ with your Savior, you hear? You might be leavin’ Spofford, but you aren’t leavin’ your faith.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know.” Of all the things he’d learned from Mr. Smallwood, leaning on Jesus was the best. He’d never lose sight of that. “I got the Bible you an’ Mr. Smallwood gave me, an’ I’ll read some on it every day, just like I promised him.”
Mrs. Smallwood smiled her approval. “You’re a fine man, Matthew. I pray you’ll find a special girl and settle down somewhere. You need a family.”
Matt’s heart lurched. If Mrs. Smallwood only knew how much he longed to find the two special girls who could give him all the family he needed.
With a final wave of his gloved hand, Matt spun on his heel and thundered down the street. It hurt to leave kind Mrs. Smallwood. Hurt to pull up stakes. Again. He set his jaw against the sting behind his nose. By now he ought to be used to moving on—after all, he’d been shuffled from pillar to post since he was no taller than a hitching rail. “Well, Lord,” he mumbled as he stepped onto the boardwalk fronting the city’s business district, “I’m just gonna have to trust that you got a place waitin’ for me. Sure would appreciate it if this time it could last long enough for Maelle to find me. She said she’d be lookin’, but I don’t make it easy for her, movin’ from hither to yon like I do.”
He reached the post office and stepped inside the small, dry building. Doffing his hat, he held the door for two women and then strode to the large board at the back corner where job opportunities were listed. He examined each in turn, scowling as he dismissed the ones seeking a cook, a wet nurse, a barkeeper. His finger paused at the advertisement for a stable boy, and he gave the sheet several thoughtful taps before releasing a sigh and lifting the bottom edge of the final listing, which was stuck by itself in the lower right hand corner of the board.
He straightened his shoulders, jerking the paper free of its tack and reading eagerly. Ranch hand needed for thriving ranch in Ralls County. Wages commensurate with experience, starting at 35 dollars/month. Every third weekend off. Only reliable applicants need reply. Contact Mr. Gerald Harders of Rocky Crest Ranch, Shay’s Ford, Missouri .
Missouri! His pulse quickened. He’d left Missouri almost ten years ago, and he’d vowed never to go back. Too many bad memories were associated with Missouri. Losing Molly and Maelle, losing the Bonhams, working for Jenks . . . Sweat broke out across his forehead. What if he returned to Missouri and Jenks found him? But there were no other positions listed for ranch work, and what else did he know?
His hands began to tremble. Then he noticed the date at the bottom, scrawled by the postmaster to indicate when the listing was posted. He whispered, “October second, 1902.”
Matt nearly sagged with relief. The decision was taken from him. Surely by now the position had been filled. The postmaster had probably just forgotten to take it down. He wadded the paper into a ball and turned to toss it into the brass spittoon beside the door.
“Hey!” a voice barked. “What do you think you’re doing, destroying government property?”
Matt’s hand froze midthrow. He looked over his shoulder at the angry
Her husky chortle made him smile. “I will miss you, son.”
Son . . . That simple word propelled Matt forward three feet. He wrapped his long arms around Mrs. Smallwood in an impulsive hug that she returned with a strength that belied her advanced age and diminutive size. When he pulled back, he glimpsed tears in her eyes and knew he’d better get moving. Quick good-byes were always best.
But before he could turn away, she caught his coat sleeve. “Matthew, you keep walkin’ with your Savior, you hear? You might be leavin’ Spofford, but you aren’t leavin’ your faith.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know.” Of all the things he’d learned from Mr. Smallwood, leaning on Jesus was the best. He’d never lose sight of that. “I got the Bible you an’ Mr. Smallwood gave me, an’ I’ll read some on it every day, just like I promised him.”
Mrs. Smallwood smiled her approval. “You’re a fine man, Matthew. I pray you’ll find a special girl and settle down somewhere. You need a family.”
Matt’s heart lurched. If Mrs. Smallwood only knew how much he longed to find the two special girls who could give him all the family he needed.
With a final wave of his gloved hand, Matt spun on his heel and thundered down the street. It hurt to leave kind Mrs. Smallwood. Hurt to pull up stakes. Again. He set his jaw against the sting behind his nose. By now he ought to be used to moving on—after all, he’d been shuffled from pillar to post since he was no taller than a hitching rail. “Well, Lord,” he mumbled as he stepped onto the boardwalk fronting the city’s business district, “I’m just gonna have to trust that you got a place waitin’ for me. Sure would appreciate it if this time it could last long enough for Maelle to find me. She said she’d be lookin’, but I don’t make it easy for her, movin’ from hither to yon like I do.”
He reached the post office and stepped inside the small, dry building. Doffing his hat, he held the door for two women and then strode to the large board at the back corner where job opportunities were listed. He examined each in turn, scowling as he dismissed the ones seeking a cook, a wet nurse, a barkeeper. His finger paused at the advertisement for a stable boy, and he gave the sheet several thoughtful taps before releasing a sigh and lifting the bottom edge of the final listing, which was stuck by itself in the lower right hand corner of the board.
He straightened his shoulders, jerking the paper free of its tack and reading eagerly. Ranch hand needed for thriving ranch in Ralls County. Wages commensurate with experience, starting at 35 dollars/month. Every third weekend off. Only reliable applicants need reply. Contact Mr. Gerald Harders of Rocky Crest Ranch, Shay’s Ford, Missouri .
Missouri! His pulse quickened. He’d left Missouri almost ten years ago, and he’d vowed never to go back. Too many bad memories were associated with Missouri. Losing Molly and Maelle, losing the Bonhams, working for Jenks . . . Sweat broke out across his forehead. What if he returned to Missouri and Jenks found him? But there were no other positions listed for ranch work, and what else did he know?
His hands began to tremble. Then he noticed the date at the bottom, scrawled by the postmaster to indicate when the listing was posted. He whispered, “October second, 1902.”
Matt nearly sagged with relief. The decision was taken from him. Surely by now the position had been filled. The postmaster had probably just forgotten to take it down. He wadded the paper into a ball and turned to toss it into the brass spittoon beside the door.
“Hey!” a voice barked. “What do you think you’re doing, destroying government property?”
Matt’s hand froze midthrow. He looked over his shoulder at the angry
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