Only the Heart Knows

by Lena Goldfinch

  “Us?”

  “Me and your father.”

  “Papa too?” Mandy challenged, knowing Papa had no part in this. This was all Mama’s doing. It had to be. Her father appreciated all Mandy’s help. He said so constantly. He wouldn’t cast her out of the house.

  “Yes, Papa too.”

  “Oh,” Mandy said, wilting a little. But, no, it couldn’t be. Not Papa. Surely. She’d make her appeal to him. Next time she had time with him alone. Away from Mama. She had to try. He had to listen. Didn’t he? Mandy dropped onto the corner of her bed, perched there like a stone. At least, that’s how her heart felt, hard and small. Not even the sound of papers crinkling under her could rouse her. Not even with Mama at her side, facing nearly opposite, but close enough to bump shoulders with.

  “If there was someone here,” Mama said, not unkindly, “then we’d consider delaying perhaps, but as it is... Well.”

  A vision of Cross Creek arose in Mindy’s mind—the actual creek the town was named for. Its lively waters flowed happily over a bed of rocks, but in her vision an ugly line of very real-looking smoking bridges spanned it. Bridges she’d torched because she’d been so horrible as a child.

  She could barely bring herself to mention Adam Booker again. Though her heart gave a little flutter whenever she thought of him, what did that mean? So she found the man attractive. So she felt she knew him as close as a friend because of his letters to Ask Mack. What sort of relationship did they have? He didn’t know she was the Mack in Ask Mack. He didn’t know anything about her, not truly, only what she looked like. And that her father was a wealthy rancher, of course. They’d danced together. They’d shared conversation. They’d laughed a bit. But that wasn’t the most solid of foundations for a courtship, was it?

  Even if Adam was interested in courting her, and there was no saying he was.

  “This Adam Booker...” Mama said thoughtfully, as if reading her thoughts, “has he given you any reason to believe he has an interest in...courting you?”

  “What?” Mandy sat bolt upright, nervously tightening the knot of her dressing gown belt.

  “Has he ever asked to come calling?”

  “We’ve danced.”

  Mama nodded, weighing this and perhaps finding it lacking. “But not a single request to come calling?”

  “No,” Mandy admitted.

  “Or to take a drive out in his buggy?”

  “No.” Again.

  Mama fell silent, then after a moment she sighed. “I think Denver then.”

  “Please, Mama, no. I’m not meant for the city. I’d die.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” Mama sent her a reproving glance. Her lips twitched ever so slightly, as if her eldest daughter’s fate was somehow amusing.

  But it wasn’t.

  Why must Mama treat her like a child?

  Mandy knew who she was and what she needed and wanted. Mostly.

  “I’d die inside, Mama. You know I would.”

  Another sigh. “I’ll talk to your father.”

  With that, Mama got up, smoothed down her dressing gown and touched her sleeping cap as if to remind herself it was there, doing its job properly. As if she were returning to her own life now, her own troubles. She left, closing the door behind her. The action seemed so final. She said she’d “talk to Papa,” but in the end the answer would be the same. That’s what she really meant. If Mandy didn’t do something—something drastic—she was likely going to be shipped off to live with her Aunt Libby in the city of Denver. The city.

  She’d lose her home.

  She’d lose Cross Creek. The ranch.

  Everything she loved.

  Daisy even.

  Mandy sucked in a breath.

  She needed Daisy—right then—for a proper hug, to lean against her side and listen to her heart. What would she do without Daisy? Uncle Mitch couldn’t keep dogs. They gave him hives.

  She got up from the bed, tempted to sneak downstairs and let Daisy in through the back door, sneak her all the way upstairs to her room. The old hound dog was probably sleeping on the porch by the back door, as she normally did, ready for the moment anyone might step out. Or try to come in.

  But if Mandy went downstairs she might wake Darby. His set of rooms were off the kitchen.

  Besides, Mama was already awake. She had sensitive ears and would surely hear the moment Mandy cracked open her door. Normally, Daisy was welcome inside, but Mama forbade dogs in the house during the muddy season. That’s what she called it, with good reason. These nights of constant rain weren’t about to let up any time soon, evidently. The drops were steady against the glass of Mandy’s window, rolling down in shiny rivulets in the lamplight. The constant sound of rain pinging off the tin roof of the porch below set up a mind-numbing rhythm that she normally found soothing. A good noise to fall asleep to. But not so good for mud. Or for dogs coming into the house.

  Mandy unfurled her quilt instead. The letters to Ask Mack lay there, crumpled beyond flattening. That normally would have bothered her, but now it didn’t seem to matter. She plucked them up in a haphazard pile, shoved them deep under her bed, then crawled beneath her bedding, tugging her pillow to her face. She rested her cheek against its downy white softness. It smelled nice and fresh, but was a poor substitute for Daisy.

  She couldn’t leave home.

  She couldn’t.

  Chapter 5

  As soon as the days of rain let up, Adam rode into town and collected several new pairs of denims and half a dozen chambray shirts. Enough to fill two big saddlebags.

  On the ride back, a swarm of tiny bugs decided to follow him, circling incessantly about his head. He swatted at them now and then, a fruitless task. The concerns at the ranch buzzed around his head too. He’d been cooped up in Uncle Joe’s office for what seemed like countless hours. It wore on his nerves. In his last letter, Mack had urged Adam to persevere. And Adam wanted to. But that didn’t mean it was easy.

  The midday sun bore down on him now without mercy. Steam rose up out of the damp earth. Adam wiped a film of sweat from his face.

  When he’d determined that he just might melt with the heat, he stopped at a nice shady spot alongside the road to strip off his suit coat and unbutton the top two buttons at his collar. As he did so, he had a memory of Uncle Joe bringing him here the summer he’d stayed at the ranch when he was thirteen.

  It was a pleasant place. Just ahead, he could see where the creek fed into the lake upstream. Golden reeds surrounded the still water of the lake. Aspen trees with spindly white trunks stood out against the wall of majestic pines in the distance. The mountains crested above the woods even further in the distance.

  Everything lit by the sun.

  The view had stuck in Adam’s memory even after so many years. Though Uncle Joe had avoided town for the most part—being content to let his ranch manager handle any transactions with the train, loading cattle and such—he’d taken Adam to the general store a couple of times for peppermint sticks and sarsaparilla.

  And on the way home, they’d stopped here to swim.

  Years washed away, and Adam remembered walking along the creek bank to a swimming hole down a ways, where the trees and heavy brush provided a discreet changing area. He could picture a couple of short dead trees very clearly, their bare spindly arms extended like coat tree hooks, where you could hang your clothes.

  Yet another bead of sweat trickled down his neck.

  He tugged off his new black Stetson, which he’d bought on impulse, and had the sudden urge to strip off everything else as well. The pull was so strong he found himself climbing down to the creek’s edge, leading his sturdy stock horse, Penny, behind him.

  The soothing sound of water splashing over rocks drew him further down the bank. He saw the swimming basin ahead. The trees hung out over the creek’s edge and dipped long leafy branches into the pool, making an inviting curtain of shade. The dark water was the inviting color of shade itself, not blue, not brown, not green, but s
omehow all those colors, reflecting sky and trees. The kind of water you could sink into and lose all your worries.

  “All right,” Adam answered aloud, glad no one was around to hear him talking to himself. “I’m coming.”

  He gave Penny’s coppery coat a pat, and then left her resting in a shady spot in the trees along the bank, where she could dip her head and get a drink if she wanted. He tethered her there loosely, not fearing she’d break free and run off unless she needed to—say, if some wild animal threatened her. He considered removing her saddle, but decided to leave it on, on the off chance that he had to leave quickly for the same reason. He wouldn’t stay long, Adam promised himself. Just long enough to cool off a bit.

  Soon, he’d hung his sweat-soaked shirt and oppressive suit trousers on the branches of the coat-hook trees and was chest high in the coolest, most refreshing water he’d ever experienced.

  Adam dunked himself under and came up gasping. The water flowed down over him. Fresh and cold. Just as the pool had promised.

  “Phew!” He dunked himself again, feeling suddenly almost lighthearted, his worries about the ranch, the ruined work clothes, and Old Pete—and Cal and Junior too—falling away along with the water.

  Tranquility.

  Peace.

  Then into the stillness came a small watery splash. A hair-raising sound, not even as loud as a fish jumping. And a movement upstream alerted him to the fact that he wasn’t alone.

  In a flash—like lightning in Adam’s mind—every leaf on every tree stood outlined and numbered in the sun. Every sparkle of light off the water froze in time, there for him to see. It was a moment of unprecedented mental clarity.

  Colors glowed brighter, richer, deeper.

  The sky floated impossibly high above him—so blue.

  The mountains stood high above the treetops. They seemed higher, taller. Something. Perhaps simply different.

  But one image in particular flew out at him.

  Arrowing into his eyes and crystallizing there.

  A canoe.

  A canoe in the water, and a paddle ever so slightly dipped in, creating a silvery trail across the lake.

  The lake too seemed closer, but he supposed it was the same. Only he had changed.

  In that moment, he realized there was someone in the canoe, an Indian boy—in red face paint—watching him. His long black hair fell back behind his bare shoulders. A strong older boy, maybe seventeen. Old enough to know how to fight.

  A whisper of unease blew over Adam.

  He let his arms hang out by his sides and slowly spread his fingers.

  I’m unarmed. No gun. No weapon.

  I’m no threat to you.

  Newspaper headlines about the Indian wars flashed through his mind. Both sides had reportedly arrived at some sort of peace, but what did that mean here in the middle of nowhere?

  Without overtly moving, Adam scanned the tree line behind the boy, searching the reeds surrounding the lake for movement. And then closer to the tree-lined creek as well. All the way down its rocky banks to his swimming hole. His gaze traced over the familiar shape of Penny at the end of her loosely tethered reins. Seconds ago, this place had been a paradise. Now he felt exposed.

  He felt watched, as if by many eyes.

  Was a deadly arrow or razor-sharp tomahawk even now trained on him?

  He kept his hands extended until his shoulder muscles ached. If he held this position much longer, his arms would begin to shake and eventually give way. Funny how he could lift bales of hay and move crates for hours and yet mere minutes had ticked by holding his arms out at this awkward angle and already his shoulders burned. Still, he kept his hands out, sending his silent message: I’m no threat to you.

  The boy lifted and dipped his paddle in the waters. Perhaps he was saying the same.

  I am one with you. We are both afraid of one another.

  Let us part ways. I will go my way. And you will go yours. Unharmed.

  A silent conversation, where Adam didn’t know who was saying what. He only knew he needed to remain completely still even as his shoulders turned to fire. Finally, the boy dipped his paddle with stronger and deeper strokes until he disappeared behind a cloak of tall reeds. He was gone.

  Adam remained absolutely still. Waiting. Thinking about what he knew of the lake. One end fed into this creek. The other fed into a larger stream, a branch that led out to the river.

  The river.

  Was that where the boy was going? It seemed likely. Perhaps he’d wandered off from a fishing party. Perhaps he had a mother and father somewhere upstream looking for him now.

  There was no movement anywhere now. Nothing.

  Adam finally folded his arms across his chest and rubbed at the sore spots where the tendons met the shoulder joint. Pain.

  For some reason, he thought of his own mother and father at home in Denver, the house where he’d grown up. They didn’t know where he was right then. Neither did his brother or sister. As far as his family knew, he was at home on his ranch. But he wasn’t. No one knew exactly where he was. He could have died here and no one would have known. Cookee and the men would have noticed when he didn’t come home for dinner, of course. But how long would it have been before they sent out a search party?

  Adam glanced over at the bank where he’d left his clothes, and there they hung on that dead tree, empty. As if he’d left a shell of himself hanging out to dry. That empty shell might’ve been all he’d left behind. It made him wonder about his life. Had he done enough, done things that held true meaning? Lived fully. Loved. How much more was there for him to do? Everything seemed to matter more now, as if in some small way his experience today had changed him. He didn’t want to waste his life. He didn’t want to waste even one day.

  Another thought leapt into his mind. The church social was Saturday. It was time to cast his doubts aside. And ask Amanda MacKenna to dance.

  Chapter 6

  On Saturday before the church social, Mandy dressed with care in her new dress, made from the fabric she’d fetched from town: a summery white lawn with thin peach stripes. Mama had made it so the stripes ran up and down from the scooped neckline all the way down to the hem. She’d also made Mandy’s straw bonnet—with Mandy’s help—an elaborate affair, with fancy white lace edging under the brim, and peach silk flowers and bows. Mandy tied the long peach ribbon beneath her chin. The full effect of all that finery made her feel...not precisely different, but more feminine than usual.

  It seemed like forever since the night Mama had come into her room for her little “motherly chat,” but it had only been a few days. Days that dragged on mercilessly. Days in which she hadn’t found a single moment alone with Papa.

  And every day Mama’s words haunted Mandy’s thoughts:

  Words like burned bridges.

  Words about how she’d shamed the boys.

  Gloated over them.

  Words about all her many mistakes and failures.

  And theirs, an insistent voice whispered to her over and over.

  But now it was finally Saturday, the day of the dance.

  Her chance to see Adam Booker again.

  Any other time her stomach might have tightened with anticipation and nerves. She might have had to place a calming hand there, her senses swimming with thoughts of his eyes, his smile, the breadth of his shoulders—all the normal things girls thought of, she imagined—but today she felt a little lost.

  It was a strange hollow sort of feeling. And with it, a now familiar clawing sensation in her chest that she was missing something very important in her life. Something hovering just outside her grasp.

  And that she’d soon lose all she loved. Moving to Denver. Leaving Cross Creek.

  She already missed it.

  If only she could do something. But what? She had to talk to Papa. She had to convince him to sway Mama. Surely, he’d want her to stay.

  Mandy closed the door to her room with a sense of finality. It was time to go. Papa was
outside with the horses. He’d get impatient soon, making his team wait in their harnesses so long. She didn’t much like making them wait either, so she hurried for the stairs. As she turned on the half-landing, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. It was one of her mother’s gilded hall mirrors, an elaborate head-to-toe affair, where you were supposed to check your hair and the color in your cheeks one last time before you went downstairs. The mirror itself was over a hundred years old, an heirloom from her great-grandmother.

  How many young ladies had stopped to look at themselves in this silvery glass? How many faces had stared back at themselves, perhaps caught unawares as she was now?

  The mirror had always been there—like the wall, like the velvety embossed wallpaper her mother had chosen, which had always seemed to Mandy a bit too formal for a ranch house. All those roses and stripes, the color of a dark wine. It made the stairway feel too dark, even with the light coming from the front windows into the foyer below. She usually hurried down as fast as she could. She rarely stopped to look at herself. It seemed such a vain thing. Most of the time, she forgot the mirror was even there.

  But now she saw it.

  She came to a full stop, her striped skirts swaying. For a moment she forgot Papa waiting with the horses and the carriage, and she turned more fully toward the glass, angling this way and that, deciding she’d leave her expression intact, no putting on a quick smile, no adjusting her skirts or even tucking her hair behind her ear.

  Did she always hunch her shoulders forward like that? Was her expression always a bit apprehensive? Was she truly the girl—that girl—she saw looking back at her?

  She almost looked shy. When had that happened?

  She’d never been shy as a very small child. In fact, her mother told stories about how she used to talk to every person they’d meet on the street, how she’d pick roses from her mother’s garden and give them to passersby.

  That little girl wouldn’t have walked around with such a downcast expression. She wouldn’t have let her shoulders droop like that either.