Only the Heart Knows

by Lena Goldfinch

  At least, that was what he told himself. It was a motto he tried desperately to live by each day. And some of those days lately had been difficult ones.

  The muffled sound of men talking and laughing drifted up from the kitchen. Adam pictured them at the table, speckled tin plates and forks in front of them. Probably sharing the delicious news that his clothes had been “taken care of.” Probably eager to see what he’d patched together to wear.

  Adam paused. Maybe he should do a proper job of it and wear a black string tie and his suit coat too. Might as well. He meant to make an impression on a couple of boys who should’ve known better.

  Adam strode into the kitchen, struck first by the noise of his men and the sudden heat of the cook stove. Light slanted in from the back windows. Yellow calico curtains fluttered in the breeze, a sign that Cookee had propped open the window to let some fresh air in. The curtains were the older man’s touch, Adam was certain. Cookee liked things just so.

  The long farm table—fully occupied—hogged up the center of the room. Cookee stood facing the black cook stove in the corner, flanked by a big two-door ice-box with brass handles on one side and a deep wash basin with a red hand pump on the other.

  On the back wall near the door, a dozen cowboy hats hung from pegs. There was something about all those hats hanging there. Brown, black, straw.

  This was a real ranch kitchen. Huge and functional. Never empty.

  As Adam crossed to the head of the table, ten heads swiveled his way. Twenty curious eyes tracked his progress. The sound of laughter dying. A cough. A delayed bout of sniggering. Then silence as they waited for him to speak. Cookee turned, going wide-eyed at the sight of Adam in a full suit on a workday morning.

  Adam exchanged an amiable nod with him and took his usual place at the table. In his uncle’s seat. The seat of honor. Even then, no one around the table made a sound. Cookee quickly fetched a plate off the back of the stove and set it before him.

  “Thank you, Cookee,” Adam said clearly. He bowed his head for a silent word of prayer, then lifted his fork. As he took his first bite of fried eggs, he thought he heard a collective indrawn breath, all his men watching him, waiting.

  Wondering if he was going to explode. Or turn tail and run.

  He did neither.

  He was pretty sure they didn’t know what to make of him. Good.

  They watched as he polished off his bacon and eggs. And three buttered biscuits with blackberry jam. And one very large cinnamon roll, which he unrolled and devoured, the sweet flavor of cinnamon bursting in his mouth.

  No sense wasting a good breakfast over a few pairs of denims and work shirts.

  Well, all of them.

  Someone did have to pay. Somehow. He just hadn’t quite worked out all the details.

  His two prime suspects, Cal and Junior, hadn’t taken their eyes off him, except to elbow and wink at each other.

  He leveled a knowing gaze on them, and they froze. He stared long and hard until a red flush rose up their tanned necks and into their sun-browned faces. He opened and closed his mouth, and they simply stared back, clearly expecting him to yell.

  Let them wait, a small voice told him. So he kept his mouth shut and scanned the lean lot of cowboys before him. They all had rugged faces, with crinkles at the corners of their eyes when they smiled. Or frowned, like now.

  Every single one of these men had worked hard for his uncle. They were muscled from hard work, their skin weathered from the sun. A few had lost fingers in ranch accidents. A few had lost their friends to even worse accidents. They worked hard at a difficult job that taxed their strength.

  Every single day.

  And then slept in a bunkhouse hot as Hades on the worst summer nights.

  The reality of their lives sank in as Adam looked them over.

  And what was he? An outsider. A banker, for heaven’s sake.

  No wonder they hadn’t trusted him immediately.

  No wonder they’d resented his interference. To their minds, he’d been strutting around trying to do all the things they did. And failing most of the time.

  Then he’d let Old Pete go. A man they’d all looked up to for over a decade. Whether they’d liked him or not, Pete Callahan had worked with them. They’d respected him. And they deserved to hear straight from Adam why he’d fired their manager.

  He set down his fork and pushed his plate back.

  “I expect in many ways this ranch is your ranch,” he said, by way of admission.

  This was clearly not what any of them were expecting him to say. Eyebrows shot up. A few of them stroked the scruff on their chins in a way that said they were either doubtful or just thinking it over.

  Only Junior moved. He grabbed up a biscuit. Without taking a bite, he broke it in half, then fourths, and then crumbled it in a pile next to his plate, seemingly unaware of what he was doing or the way Cookee was scowling at him. Junior’s laughing brown eyes had gone blank, but there was a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth that Adam didn’t like.

  Beside him, Cal sat in stony silence, his eyes cast down on his plate. His shoulders were stiff. He held himself as if the very act of staying still required all his energy. One of his hands was tucked under the table, presumably clenched into a fist against his chaps. The other lay with just the very tips of his fingers resting on the table, a little too close to the handle of his butter knife. A butter knife that had a good sharp edge for cutting steak on occasion.

  Cal.

  It occurred to Adam for the first time that Cal could possibly be short for Callahan.

  Old Pete.

  Pete Callahan.

  Were they related?

  A feeling of rightness settled over Adam, and he knew it must be true. Why hadn’t he seen the resemblance before? Not the hair color, obviously—for Cal’s hair was as blond as could be, and Old Pete’s was a wiry black streaked with silver. But there was a similar quality in the squareness of their jaws, their handsome features. Their blue eyes. They might not have been father and son—Adam doubted it—but Cal could easily have been Old Pete’s nephew. Or some such. It made sense. Especially so when Adam remembered how hard Old Pete had been on Cal at times.

  Adam cleared his throat and continued, “It can’t have been easy for any of you when my uncle died.” It was something he’d never said. He should have said it about six months ago—the day he’d arrived, even—but he’d been grieving himself and not thinking of anything but his own pain. The way his life had changed. “I lost my uncle, and that was all I knew. But you lost him too, and I’m sorry for that.”

  Cookee leaned back against a worktable, his arms folded over his chest, though not in any judgmental way. It just seemed he was listening intently.

  They were all listening.

  Adam didn’t know if he’d detected any appreciable softening in their expressions, but he felt the hostility in the room drop a few degrees. The air even felt cooler. Although maybe that was because the window was open.

  Cal looked up.

  His jaw was locked tight, his eyes hard.

  Adam tried to look back without letting any animosity drift into his expression. He hadn’t much liked having all his clothes cut up, but perhaps in some small way he’d pushed these two young men to act out.

  “Some things I’ve done since I moved here may have been perceived as...hostile acts,” Adam continued, “I assure you, I’ve felt nothing of the sort.”

  He paused to consider whether that was true. When he’d found out Old Pete was stirring up trouble and talking behind his back, he’d been angry. He’d tried to converse with the man, tried to forge some sort of equanimity, all to no avail. Pete Callahan had said some pretty ugly things, even to Adam’s face. And, to be honest, Adam knew his blood had boiled hot on more than one occasion. Even more so when he’d discovered the discrepancies in the books.

  “Mostly,” Adam allowed, for the sake of honesty. Cookee’s eyes twinkled with humor at his admission. “But I’ve trie
d to make things work. I’m trying every day to learn how to run this place the way my uncle would’ve wanted me to. I’ve failed plenty, and I want you to know I’m aware of that. I’m no expert at ranching. I’m not even half good at it. Any one of you can rope and ride circles around me.”

  A few chuckles broke free.

  Cal wasn’t one of the ones laughing, not nearly.

  “But...I’m no fool. I grew up the son of a banker. I could have easily taken over for my father one day. He’s always said I have a head for business, and maybe he’s right. I’d like to think so. And every businessman knows when he needs to let someone go. I made that decision. I believe it was the right decision. And I’m going to have to live with it.”

  All those eyes staring back at him might have been unnerving if Adam hadn’t faced down a boardroom of irate bank trustees in Denver more than once. He’d learned to breathe through it.

  “Brandt,” he said, looking to the most senior ranch hand down the length of the table. Brandt sat at the foot of the table next to Old Pete’s old spot, now empty. “I’m going to need you to fill in as ranch manager.”

  “What?” Brandt’s head jerked back. He cast an uneasy glance around the table, perhaps feeling the gazes of all the men suddenly on him now. “I’m no manager. I can’t take Old Pete’s place.”

  “I’ve heard nothing but good things about your work—”

  “But I don’t want to boss nobody around,” he protested.

  “All right,” Adam said, not wanting to stir up the waters, especially not when he sensed the attitudes around the table were beginning to shift in his favor, if ever so slightly. “I’ll get somebody new in. Unless anyone wants to put themselves forward for the job...?” He let the offer hang in the air.

  Silence.

  “None of us wants that,” Brandt said, looking back at him in a resolute fashion. “We’re ranch hands, and we’ll die ranch hands. That’s just the way things are. None of us wants Old Pete’s job.”

  Evidently they’d talked prior to this, because no one blinked in surprise at this rather sweeping statement. Perhaps at night in their bunks they’d hashed out this very question: who was going to take over for Old Pete?

  “All right, but I’m going to need you to step in for a week or two. It’ll take that long, I expect, to find someone qualified, perhaps a bit longer.”

  Brandt glanced around again and, seeing no forbidding frowns, he nodded. “I guess that’d be all right.”

  “Thank you,” Adam said. He took another look around the table himself, trying to imagine what these faces would look like a few years from now and failing. “In the meantime, if anyone here”—he paused to look right at Cal and Junior—“wants to leave and find a position elsewhere, well, they’re more than welcome to do so.”

  He gave it to them straight. No arguing. No fights. No yelling. But his message was clear: be a working part of my ranch or leave. If his words hadn’t communicated that, he made sure the determination in his eyes did.

  He stood, pushing back his chair.

  “Anyone?” Adam asked.

  His men looked around at each other. Cal stared back at him, then lowered his eyes.

  “Well, I don’t expect an answer now. But, if any one of you should sleep on it and decide he doesn’t belong here, then come collect your check in the morning, and I’ll send you off with a letter of reference.”

  “Any one of us?” Junior spoke up.

  Adam nodded.

  Cal raised his head and repeated, “Any one?”

  “I said ‘any one of you,’ and I meant it. Now, I’ve got some work to do in my office. Ledgers and such. You’ll know where to find me.”

  He left without another word, feeling the eyes of ten ranch hands—and one cook—boring a hole straight through the back of his suit coat. Cookee at least didn’t bear him any ill will, and he was grateful for that. It was the closest thing he had to friendship right then.

  But the others... He simply didn’t know.

  The morning dragged by. It seemed a lifetime until Adam heard the sounds of the men returning for their midday meal. When Cookee stuck his head inside the office to ask if he wanted a plate, Adam simply waved him away. While everyone else ate, he sat at his desk, one fingertip holding his place in the ledger as he tried to concentrate. The truth was, he wasn’t hungry. Inactivity did that to him. Sitting in one place wore on his nerves. The suit had begun to chafe him. The collar seemed higher than he’d remembered. The string tie too tight. The walls of his office closing in. The ceiling pressing down on him.

  It seemed like hours dragged by before he heard the sounds of the men heading back out again.

  after a morning cooped up inside, Adam wanted nothing more than to step outside too.

  Surround himself in high grass. With nothing but open sky above him.

  Sitting here dressed like a bank manager felt like a form of punishment. The inactivity left him with too much time to think about the events of the morning. Too much time to go over what he’d said.

  He’d said what he needed to say, but in all honesty he didn’t want any of his men to leave. His heart sank a little just thinking about it. It would be one more small failure if any of them decided to go. Even Cal and Junior. Especially Cal and Junior. If those two left and started spreading stories about how Adam was difficult to work for, he might never be able to replace them. Or find a new ranch manager. And he desperately needed a new ranch manager.

  Chapter 4

  Late at night several days later, Mandy sat on her bed with a dozen new Ask Mack letters spread before her on her quilt. A steady rain pelted the roof above her, and she could hear the cracks of summer lightning in the distance. Another stormy night.

  She scanned each page quickly, looking for the latest letter from Adam.

  Adam Booker. The young rancher she’d recently bumped into outside the post office. Who had—possibly—held her just a moment too long for propriety’s sake.

  The young rancher whose letters she treasured, even though he didn’t know she was Mack. Even though they could hardly be called love letters. Most often, he had some basic question about ranch life, but his words also revealed a little about himself. He might not have much experience with the running of a ranch—having inherited his place from his uncle about eight months ago—but he applied himself to learning with a doggedness that impressed her.

  It hadn’t been easy for him. He’d come from the city, after all, and been on his way to becoming a successful banker like his father.

  Darby returned earlier today with a folio of letters from Gus. Mandy had been looking forward to this moment all day, when she could curl up with Banks’ latest letter...

  But tonight there was none.

  She leafed through the papers again and let them fall to her lap.

  None. Her heart sank. She usually received at least one letter from him each week, if not more. And she wanted to know how Adam felt now after firing Old Pete, his uncle’s dishonest, back-stabbing ranch manager. His ranch hands hadn’t been pleased with his decision. Would he persevere as she’d urged him to do? In his last letter, he’d expressed his friendship to Mack, but hadn’t mentioned whether he was staying on or not.

  Was he?

  A tap at the door made Mandy jump nearly a foot off the bed. The layer of papers fluttered slightly with the disturbance.

  The letters.

  They were everywhere.

  She had to hide them, quick. But how? It was too late to shove them under her bed, plus it might make too much noise. Would it?

  She didn’t have time to ponder. If whoever knocked decided to barge right in, her secret would be out. So she rolled her quilt—rolling the letters along with it—making a lumpy cocoon of tufted cotton and papers at the foot of her bed. To someone walking in, it would hopefully just look like her quilt rolled up. She prayed it would.

  “Yes?” Mandy called in a controlled voice, hopefully loud enough for the person on the other side of
the door to hear, but not loud enough to wake the entire household.

  “Mandy?” Mama said softly, opening the door a crack and then all the way. She glanced first at the two lamps lit then at Mandy, who was sitting on the edge of her bed in her dressing gown and slippers. “I saw a light under the door.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Mandy said truthfully.

  “Neither could I,” Mama admitted. She sat on the end of Mandy’s bed. The quilt end. There was the distinctive sound of paper crinkling, and Mama wrinkled her nose. “Is there paper in your bed?”

  “Oh”—Mandy tried to think quickly—“I was just doing some letter writing. I must have forgotten a page or two.”

  “Letter writing?”

  And now a lie. “I thought I’d send birthday wishes to Aunt Libby.” Mandy’s fingernails dug into her palm.

  Aunt Libby was really her mother’s aunt, but Mandy and her sisters called her Aunt Libby. Even Darby did, though technically he was no relation to Mama’s side of the family. If not for Aunt Libby they might’ve never moved to Colorado. Mama hadn’t wanted to at first, as the story went. Papa was the one who’d suggested it. He was the one who’d found the land. He was the one who’d wanted to make a new start. He was more adventurous than Mandy’s mother by nature, and only the promise of being near her beloved aunt had prompted Mama to agree to the move.

  “Her birthday isn’t until September.” Mama shifted forward off the quilt, her hand resting over the fabric as if she were debating whether she should fish the paper out for herself.

  “I was just thinking about her is all,” Mandy fibbed, feeling herself go pink in the cheeks. “Don’t worry about that, Mama. There’s only a page or two on the bed, and I haven’t written on them yet. So there’s no wet ink getting on my quilt. I promise.”

  “It’s sweet of you to think of your Aunt Libby.” Mama’s hand still hovered over the folded quilt.

  Time hovered too, breathless.

  Please, please don’t lift the edge of that quilt.

  Please, please don’t.