Free My Heart Remembers by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page A

will put you in one of our guest rooms.” He rose and called for a servant. The butler immediately appeared and received directions to retrieve Miss Isabelle’s bag and carry it to the Yellow Room. Turning back to Isabelle, Mr. Heaton said, “Now, no more worrying, my dear. Everything will seem brighter in the morning.”
    “Oh, I do hope so,” Isabelle murmured as the man strode out of the parlor.
    Glenn patted her hand. “See? You’re all taken care of now.”
    Isabelle fell into his arms, nestling her head on his shoulder.
    “Oh, Glenn, I was so frightened. And angry! Randolph and I have never gotten along, but I never dreamed he would disown me.” Still within the circle of his arms, she added, “Where could he have gotten that Bible? Why would he concoct such a story?”
    “Now, Isabelle, you’re upsetting yourself for no reason. Didn’t we tell you things will be all right?”
    Isabelle lifted her head, looking into Glenn’s eyes. “But you didn’t see or hear him, Glenn. He was so . . . cold .”
    “Miss Isabelle, your room is ready,” the butler said from the parlor doorway.
    Glenn rose, pulling Isabelle to her feet. “You go on upstairs, Isabelle. Sleep well.” He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering against her skin. “No worries. I’ll put everything to right.”
    She released a breathy sigh and thanked him.
    After allowing Mrs. Heaton’s personal maid to assist her into her bedclothes, Isabelle snuggled against a pile of pillows. Her scalp still tingled pleasantly from the brushing delivered by the maid. Her thick tresses, plaited into a shimmering red braid, fell across one shoulder.
    She held a teacup beneath her chin and frowned at the wellworn Bible lying open in her lap. Warm and snug beneath the downy comforter, the honey-sweetened tea soothing her from the inside out, she tried to set aside the odd sense of discomfort the Bible’s family record caused within her breast.
    A wedding date for Angus Gallagher and Brigid McCue on the first page led to a list of children’s names and birthdates on the second. She read the names written in a neat, slanting hand—Maelle Gallagher, Matthew Gallagher, Molly Gallagher.
    Isabelle’s brow pinched as she stared at the final name in the birth register. The youngest Gallagher would be her same age— eighteen—and the child’s birth date was only a few weeks from her own. It gave her a small, unexplained sense of connection with the name on the page.
    The discomfort grew.
    Closing the Bible with a snap, she set the book on the marbletopped table beside the bed. Staring at it, she blew out a dainty breath. What a lot of effort Randolph had gone to in order to convince her she wasn’t his sister. He must have searched every used bookstore in Kansas City to find that Bible. What a cruel, heartless trick.
    Cradling the teacup between her palms, she turned her attention to the amber liquid in the porcelain cup. Her heart ached. All her life she’d longed for a loving big brother, one like her schoolmates had, who would alternately protect and tease her. But instead, she’d had Randolph, who had tormented her, openly despised her, and broken the toys Papa brought home to her from his travels.
    Why, she wondered again, had Randolph always been so spiteful? Her heart pounded. Was it because, as he’d said this evening, she wasn’t truly his sister? Her hands began to shake, and she feared she would spill the remaining tea. She set the teacup on the little tray on the bedside table and pulled the covers to her chin.
    Ridiculous. Of course she was his sister. Hadn’t Mama and Papa always loved her? Hadn’t they called her their darling, their precious lamb, their sweet gift? Hadn’t they always said she looked just like her grandmother? Never, in all of her lifetime, had they given her reason to question her position in the family. She took a great breath, calming herself. Randolph’s nonsensical ranting was nothing more than