My Heart Remembers by Kim Vogel Sawyer

be a while until he received his first pay from Mr. Harders.
    In his saddlebag, he carried the telegram giving him approval to join the crew at Rocky Crest Ranch. The reply had come four days after his inquiry. By then Matt had decided the position was no longer open and had reconciled himself to taking the stable hand job until something better came along. Even with the approval in his hand, he’d considered working at the stable rather than traveling to Missouri.
    But the wording of the telegram had changed his mind. He’d read it so many times he had it memorized: Mr. Tucker, please plan to make Rocky Crest your home .
    Home. Hadn’t he prayed to God for a home? Must be God had something planned for him here in the state he’d done his best to avoid for the past ten years.
    Bringing Russ to a stop in front of a place called Dave’s General Store, Matt murmured, “I’m trustin’ you to know what you’re doin’, Lord, bringin’ me back here. . . .” He wrapped the reins around the rail, gave Russ’s nose a brief rub, and then stepped up onto the rickety walkway fronting the store. As he pushed open the door, he heard a noise that chilled him from his hairline to his toes.
    A woman stood behind a dusty counter, counting coins, while wails and a repetitive swish-whack filled the small room. The woman seemed oblivious to the sound that made Matt tremble like a willow branch in a Texas norther. Unpleasant memories tried to surface, and Matt slammed the mercantile’s door, chasing them away.
    With the bang of the door, the woman looked up. “Howdy. What can I do for you?” She raised her voice to be heard above the pained cries carrying from somewhere beyond Matt’s sights.
    Matt crossed the floor in three long strides. “Who’s makin’ that ruckus?”
    The woman grimaced, glancing toward a planked door at the far left corner of the store. “Petey. That boy’s not worth the clothes Dave puts on his back, but Dave keeps tryin’ to whip some sense into him.”
    Even before she finished speaking, Matt stomped to the door and pushed it open. His stomach churned at the sight of a man— Dave, he assumed—with a strap in hand, holding a small, squirming boy over a barrel. Matt cringed as the strap landed squarely across the boy’s back. He felt the sting of a lash and had to resist releasing his own yowl of pain with the child’s.
    Dave’s arm lifted for another blow, but Matt strode forward and caught it midswing. The strap dangled uselessly from the man’s hand. “Hey!” Dave jerked his arm free, spinning to face Matt. “What do you think you’re doin’?”
    Matt balled his hands into fists. He kept his focus on the man, although the boy’s shuddering sobs made it hard. “Stoppin’ you. What right’ve you got to be whalin’ on that boy?”
    Dave snorted, looking Matt up and down as if deciding whether or not to start a tussle. “Got every right, for as much good as it does. Kid’s absolutely useless.”
    Matt glanced at the boy, who remained draped over the barrel. His little body jerked with hiccuping sniffles. The total defenselessness of the child raised a wave of empathy Matt couldn’t ignore. “Nobody’s got the right to beat a child.” Glaring at Dave, he added, “There’re better ways to teach him whatever it is you’re wantin’ him to do.”
    Dave released another derisive snort. He grabbed the boy’s arm and yanked him to his feet. The boy cried out, flinging his free arm upward to shield his face. Dave gave a shove that sent the boy scuttling sideways into a stack of lumpy, well-filled burlap bags. “Go finish stacking those boxes, like I told you, an’ don’t you drop another one”—he brandished the strap—“or you’ll know what to expect!”
    The boy dashed out the back door into the cold. Without a jacket, Matt noted. As soon as the door slammed, Matt faced Dave. “That your son?”
    “Ha!” Dave headed for the door leading to the store. “No. I took him in