The family likely wouldn’t mark Mandy’s absence now. Her sisters had a few more household chores than she did, since she helped Papa with the ranch finances and barn chores. She also exercised the carriage horses on the days when no one was driving into town. Otherwise, the two mares became willful, mischievous beasts under harness.
“Gus said circulation was up,” Darby said.
“I’ll say.” Mandy hefted the bag, figuring there had to be a good twenty letters inside, if not more. There certainly weren’t twenty men in Cross Creek who’d feel the need to write Ask Mack in a single week.
Maybe there’d be a letter from Banks...
She cradled the bag to her chest, wishing she were already in her room, where she could shut the door and dump all these letters onto her quilt and spread them out. She always looked for Adam’s letters first.
Had he written about whatever was upsetting him this past Sunday?
“...said something about getting a letter from as far off as Manitou,” Darby was saying, his voice waking her up.
“Manitou?” Mandy echoed, amazed. Why, that was clear across the mountains. The railroad didn’t go direct. She didn’t even know how they’d deliver a newspaper there, by donkey? It was a wonder all right. How had this man heard of Ask Mack in the first place?
Darby waggled his eyebrows at her, sharing in her secret, sharing in her enthusiasm.
“I’m sorry I kicked you, Darby,” Mandy mumbled, mortified to have to admit to having done such a thing. Not that she hadn’t kicked him under the table in the past, when they were younger, but for her to do it now, when they were both grown and supposedly mature adults...that was awful. There was no other word for it.
“You didn’t have to do it so hard.” He grimaced.
“I know. I shouldn’t have done it at all.”
“Well, I could’ve waited, I suppose.”
“Yes, you could have. What were you thinking?”
“I guess I wasn’t. I just remembered all of a sudden.”
Mandy sighed. “Well, be more careful in the future.”
“I will, I promise.”
“I must say,” she said, “it is nice to have someone who knows—someone besides Gus and me. It’s a lot of letters.” She felt the weight of the bag again, then lifted the flap of the satchel and looked inside. She’d never seen so many letters all at once. “How am I going to answer them all?”
“If you need any help, just let me know.”
“You’d do that for me? After I kicked you in the shin?”
“Aw, that was nothing. Of course I’ll help.”
And that was why her orphaned cousin—a cousin who was practically a brother—was one of her most favorite people in the world.
“Darby MacKenna, what would I ever do without you?” she asked.
“You’d be lost, I suspect.” He grinned.
“I’d be lost indeed.” It didn’t even bear thinking about. “Thank you for your help today. And all those other times you brought my letters into town.”
“And here I thought you were sweet on Gus Proctor.”
“Gus.” Mandy shook her head in amazement. “Why would you ever think such a thing?”
“You could do worse.” There was a note of reproof in his voice that stung a bit.
“Now that’s the truth,” Mandy said quickly, lest her cousin think she’d judged Gus as inferior. She didn’t. “Gus is a good kind man. He’s just not… I’m just not...”
Should she like Gus Proctor that way? Mandy wondered. Was she biased against him because he was short?
Was she just as prejudiced against him as all those boys who’d called her names growing up?
Was she just like them?
She hoped not. Everything within her rebelled at the thought.
“You don’t have to explain,” Darby said. “He’s not the one for you.”
“No, he’s not.” Mandy’s shoulders relaxed. It felt like she’d set down a couple of heavy saddlebags. She liked Gus just fine. She admired him too, but there was nothing but friendship between them, and a professional friendship at that. If she did have to choose the one man who was right for her, it simply wasn’t Gus Proctor.
There was no spark there. No spark at all.
And she knew what a spark felt like.
A face popped into her mind, along with a pair of piercing blue eyes. The way he’d looked right at her at church this past Sunday. The way his dark hair curled a bit above his collar. The bare strip of smooth sun-browned skin at his neck. The way his suit jacket fit so snugly across those shoulders of his. Oh my. The way he moved. The way he’d held her so carefully when they’d danced. The way he’d plotted to win the three-legged race with her. His voice. Everything about him.
Adam Booker.
Her beloved Banks. She waved the image away, impatient with herself. It was useless to wish for something—or someone—she likely could never have.
Mandy tiptoed back into the house and made her way to the stairs. Soon, she’d be in her room, her door firmly shut, with all her new letters spread out over her quilt.
At the bottom of the stairs she paused, hearing the sound of a throat clearing above her. She jumped, guilty, and looked up to find Mama and Papa on the landing looking down at her. There was an interrogation waiting for her.
“Is something the matter?” she asked a little too breathlessly, which was certain to make them instantly suspicious. She wished she could pull her words back and try again—say something breezy, or make some teasing comment—but it was too late now. They’d caught her off guard. She tried to fix a most innocent expression on her face—making her eyes go blank.
“We were wondering the same thing...” Papa said in that leading way of his.
Mama titled her head inquiringly, a small wrinkle between her brows revealing a trace of worry. More worry, the last thing Mandy wanted. She wished she could tell them it was simply her Ask Mack letters and there was no reason for concern, but that very fact might make them more determined to send her off to Aunt Libby’s. Aunt Libby would be sure to keep her busy with all sorts of activities that would leave her no time to write something as inappropriate for a young lady as an advice column for men.
Papa circled his arm about Mama’s waist in a supportive fashion. It seemed he’d taken his resolve to be more affectionate toward Mama seriously. Mandy would have been thrilled to see it if they weren’t currently frowning down at her as a united pair.
“It’s nothing, really. Simply Darby being Darby—you know how he is.” Mandy held her hand behind her back, fingers crossed—feeling the burn of a good conscience telling her she was fibbing to her parents, who didn’t deserve to be lied to.
“Paper and ink?” Mama asked.
“Paper and ink. That’s all. Nothing at all to be concerned about. I promise,” Mandy said. Mama’s delicious dinner soured in her stomach.
“That’s what’s in the satchel there?” Papa asked
Mandy had hoped they wouldn’t notice. She’d pressed it close to her side, hoping the fabric of her wide shirt would hide it. Evidently not.
She nodded in the most innocent fashion.
“That’s a lot of paper and ink...” Mama said, her voice doubtful.
“You don’t believe me?” Mandy said. She took a few steps up. “I’ll show you if you like?”
“Nope,” Papa said. “It’s not that. We just wanted to make sure everything was all right. Isn’t that so, Belle?”
“If you’re certain nothing’s troubling you....” Mama said, her manner inviting a confession. Her motherly intuition was not to be ignored so easily apparently.
“Only that I want to stay here with you and Papa,” Mandy said, advancing a step toward them, filled with a sense of earnestness that hopefully they’d see. “I’m a help on the ranch. Aren’t I, Papa?”
“Mandy,” Mama warned.
“Of course you’re a help, Mandy,” Papa said, his expression frightfully reassuring. “But you’
re not meant to stay here living in the shadow of your parents for the rest of your life. No matter how much we love you. We love you too much to let you give up on marriage.”
They meant it. Every word that Mama had said that night in Mandy’s room.
They meant to send her away.
“I haven’t ‘given up,’” Mandy protested weakly.
“It’s just that we believe you’re a lovely girl, dear,” Papa said, his voice wavering. Was he weakening? Mandy lifted her head a bit, wondering if she dared to hope. Her father continued, “You have prospects.”
“Why can’t those ‘prospects’ be working on the ranch? With you, Papa?”
“Well...” Papa glanced at Mama, asking her one of those silent questions that parents frequently shared.
Mandy took another step up, her heart lightening with the first inklings of hope.
“Perhaps now isn’t the time to discuss this,” Mama said quickly, taking Papa’s arm and threading it through her elbow.
“I don’t want her thinking we don’t want her here,” he said, looking down the stairs at Mandy in concern.
“She doesn’t think that—do you, Mandy?” Mama gently tugged Papa backwards down the hallway, as if in retreat.
“Well...” Mandy was preparing to say precisely that, sensing Papa’s rapid weakening. He doesn’t want to send me away! He doesn’t truly want me to leave.
She knew it. At least, she’d hoped it.
“Not something we need to discuss now,” Mama said firmly. “Goodnight, Mandy.” Her smile seemed a trifle tight. She turned then, tugging Papa along with her, complaining in low tones as she marched him down the hall, resisting, into their room. Their door closed with a loud thump.
Mandy pursed her lips thoughtfully, wondering what Mama was up to, but then she shrugged and continued to her room, eager to spread her letters across her bed and look for one from Banks.
Chapter 16
Mandy walked as sedately as she could to her room and shut the door behind her with a decided click. She resisted the urge to lock it just in case Mama had stepped back into the hall. She paused as long as she could bear, listening. There was no sound outside her room, no hushed breathing of someone who’d stopped and had their ear pressed to her door.
When she couldn’t wait any longer, she padded over her thick Oriental rug to her bed, listened once more, her heart pounding, then dumped her precious letters over her quilt. She spread them out into one layer, hunting for a distinctive shade of cream paper and equally distinctive handwriting.
There it was!
She snatched it up.
Banks had a tightly cramped but legible scrawl. His was the handwriting of someone who rushed to get his thoughts down before he forgot them. At least that’s how it seemed to Mandy. She always pictured him bent over a big walnut desk in a man’s study, the type of room with dark paneled walls, heavy manly furniture, and a neat work surface, with ledgers stacked beside him, awaiting his attention.
She pictured his longish dark hair falling forward over his creased brow.
Today’s letter seemed rather worn—crumpled and with the ink smudged and generally not as tidy as usual, as if he were particularly bothered. But nothing in the contents of his short letter revealed any unusual distress. It was simply a rather mundane question about ranch management—in particular a question asking if Mack had ever had trouble managing his own ranch hands. He seemed in need of a personal anecdote, a friendly sort of reply intended to keep him company.
Mandy pursed her lips. How to share something personal but not too revealing... That could be tricky.
Though not more troublesome than any of her replies.
More troublesome was the smudgy ink of Adam’s letter.
It wasn’t unusual for him to press his pen nib firmly into the surface of the paper, making lines on the other side. The impressions gave the paper a rich texture, and she often stroked her fingertips over those embossed lines, imagining him holding that same paper, perhaps blowing lightly over the surface to dry the ink before he folded it.
It was somehow an intimate, very personal act—a communion between them—this passing of letters. Of course, he had no idea who she was. He never held her letters and imagined her perched on a chair over her smaller, more feminine writing desk. He never imagined her skirts falling to either side, or her feet perched on a pillow.
Not that Mandy needed a pillow with her long legs, not like her more petite sisters and her mama.
In fact, she often wrote in bed in her nightgown, with several pillows stacked behind her back and a portable writing desk made of cherry wood and slate resting on her knees. How many times had she dripped ink on her sheets? She’d lost count.
Adam certainly didn’t know that. He couldn’t even begin to imagine who Mack truly was.
Mandy sighed and flipped his letter over. She blinked, startled to find there wasn’t just his letter to Ask Mack, but on the other side, more bold streaks of indigo ink. Was that writing underneath? She moved over to her desk and smoothed the paper out under her lamp.
There was indeed writing on the back. It was written in the same cramped script as his letters, but this writing was crossed out so many times she had to squint to read it. And when she finally made out what he’d written, she simply couldn’t breathe.
Adam—her Adam, her Banks—had drafted an ad for a mail-order bride.
He wanted to marry.
He wanted to marry a stranger. Evidently anyone.
Just not her.
What else could it mean?
She’d long known Adam was Banks, nearly from the first. But now she knew more than she was supposed to know. He was advertising for a mail-order bride. Or thinking about it at least, for his ad had been struck out several times. So this page in her hands was either an early draft, and the final version had gone to Gus for The Marriage Papers. Or Adam had simply drafted it and then changed his mind.
Had he sent an ad to Gus?
Was it only a matter of time before some East Coast beauty arrived on the train to become his bride? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Why hadn’t Adam tried to court one of the women in Cross Creek? Like her. Surely he knew by now that she watched him every Sunday. She often had to fix her gaze on the stained glass windows behind him when he caught her looking. Or he could have courted one of her younger sisters. Although it would have killed her to have Emma or Juliana married to the man she secretly thought was the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on.
Why wouldn’t he have thought to court her? They’d danced several dances together at the last church social alone: the Reel, for one, and three square dances. That made four altogether. She’d practically held her breath for the duration of each one. Four dances. It was more than she’d ever danced with any other man in town.
They’d won the three-legged race together. Didn’t that count for something? Maybe it didn’t. Especially not after the Blind Man’s Bluff, when she’d roped him. She couldn’t blame him for being put off by that.
But there were still a few eligible young women in Cross Creek... Miss Judith, for one, although it appeared she had her eye on Russell Girard, of all people. And Lacy Holland, though admittedly she was still a bit too young. For a spell of about three years, a slew of the local men—mostly men who’d gotten desperate—had sent off for brides. It made Mandy wonder if there was something wrong with her and the others that they all weren’t married up by the age of eighteen. Had they offended in some way? Were they too high-minded or...or something?
She didn’t like to think she impressed them as being “too good” for the likes of Cross Creek, but her father and mother had come from money back east...
Besides her great height, was there something else?
Was it—as Mama had said—that she’d shamed the men when she was young?
Had she shamed Adam in some way?
Prayerfully not.
Why then hadn’t he sought out Emma or Juliana
?
Why then had he danced four dances with her, Mandy?
Not once had he invited her to ride in that fancy black-and-gold buggy he’d brought here from Denver. From the first, it had been obvious that he’d grown up in the city before he moved to Cross Creek. That’s what had tipped her off as to his identity early on when she first started getting his letters for Ask Mack.
Mandy heard a tap on her door and froze, Adam’s ad clutched in her hand.
“Mandy?” It was Mama.
Chapter 17
There were still several pages of letters on the bed, though Mandy had resolved not to repeat the near discovery the last time her mother had come to her room at night. She’d planned to keep the bulk of them in the satchel under her bed, but she’d been distracted. A testament to her state of mind. Adam’s advertisement had shaken her that badly. Otherwise, she never would have left so much evidence of her secret out on the loose like this. She snatched up the pages closest to her, thinking she could roll them up in the quilt again. Or would that be tempting fate, doing it twice? She bit her lip, deliberating, then stuffed every last letter under her pillow. She sat back against it for good measure.
“Come in,” she called softly.
Mama opened the door and peeked inside, her brows raised in inquiry. “I thought I heard you up.”
“I—” Mandy moistened her lips and tried to smile.
Mama had heard her up.
She wanted to know what Mandy was doing wide awake with the lamp on so late at night. Should she say she was thirsty, that she’d gone downstairs for a cup of warm milk? Yet more lies? She wished she’d thought to actually sneak downstairs for a sip, so she could truthfully say she had. But even that felt like it would have been a lie.
It felt like pitch stuck all over her, all these small deceptions, no matter how worthy her calling felt or how much she wished she could simply tell her mother everything.
Only the Heart Knows Page 14
