Only the Heart Knows

by Lena Goldfinch

Since Darby had posted her reply to Adam’s letter she hadn’t had a moment of peace.

  And today was the day. She’d sent instructions along to Miss Judith to have it delivered directly to Adam’s place today, figuring she needed to allow some time to pass to give the illusion of it having arrived from back east. At that time, late at night—with her disturbing dream hanging heavy in her mind—her plans had all made sense.

  Now, she found her actions confusing. And the repercussions worrisome.

  All the embarrassment and discomfort she’d experienced after roping Adam in the Blind Man’s Bluff had transformed into much bigger worries: What had possessed her to answer Adam’s ad? And what was going to happen next? In fact, the roping incident seemed almost trivial now—childishness even—after some time had passed. Why had she been so mortified?

  That momentary embarrassment—no matter how real it had felt at the time—paled to nothingness compared to sending Adam her letter.

  Had it been delivered first thing this morning? Had he received it? Had he opened it? Had she remembered to change her handwriting so the lettering didn’t look like the replies she sent as Mack? Had she?

  Was he reading it even now?

  The questions were choking her.

  Her chest constricting.

  Heart racing.

  She needed to take in another deep breath. She needed to pace about the open fields, kicking tall grass out of her way.

  She needed something.

  A distraction.

  She headed down the dirt driveway toward the hen house. As she checked for new eggs, other problems rose up in her mind, troubles with the latest batch of letters she’d received for Ask Mack. She needed to discuss one in particular with Gus. The letter was obviously from Russell Girard on a very personal, romantic nature, involving, quite obviously, the postmistress, Miss Judith. Mandy couldn’t possibly advise Russell on such a private matter. Despite the fact that she’d resolved things with him herself, Miss Judith was a friend of sorts. And Mandy had no wish to see her married to Russell Girard. Russell, of all people. But then perhaps Mandy’s history with him as a child had clouded her view of him? That would be only natural.

  No matter what, she’d resolved early on in her role as Ask Mack to never reply to certain queries—nothing about manly health concerns, for instance, and certainly nothing about courtship matters—only ranch affairs. To do otherwise, she was convinced, would be a violation of privacy. Not to mention the fact that she herself wasn’t a man and had no experience to draw from. It hadn’t been an issue until now, with Russell’s letter.

  She couldn’t possibly answer him.

  She’d tried the usual methods of sending a note to Gus via Darby, but she’d only received a short response back expressing his confidence in her abilities. Which wasn’t helpful in the least. So perhaps it was time to go into town herself. And she could buy a gift for Papa while she was there—the perfect excuse. Now, where was Darby? He’d said he was going into town later this morning...

  Chapter 19

  That same morning, Adam worked on his ranch with the men, rounding up some loose cattle.

  In what should have been mind-numbingly boring hours of tedious work, Adam felt none of that. Where perhaps at one time he might have, now he just worked among them, at home with himself and them. His heart might not have been entirely at peace, but his role as rancher fit better now than ever. Like a pair of broken-in boots.

  Brandt reined in his horse and nodded to Adam. He tipped his hat up and tugged down the red handkerchief protecting the lower half of his face from the sun and dust. “That’s the last of ’em.”

  Adam nodded. “All right, men, let’s head back.”

  They turned the cattle—about ten grunting and lowing beasts—back toward pasture land, the steers’ large boney heads lowered from sheer weariness.

  Adam felt it too. All he wanted was to finish here, get home, and wash up to get the morning’s sweat and dust off him. Very first thing after that, he was going to eat. His belly rumbled in anticipation, and he wondered what Cookee had cooked up for them, what should’ve been the noon meal, though noon was well past. A feast, hopefully. Lots of it. Delicious would be nice, but quantity was going to be more important than quality with this bunch right now.

  In the midst of his thoughts, Adam saw one steer break free from the others, intent on escape behind an outcropping of rocks taller than a barn. From experience, he knew there was a gully further uphill with a dried-up creek bed below. Nothing but rocks now. All the potential for a bad fall...

  He angled toward the beast just as it broke into a run. The rest of the cattle stirred with interest. They’d have mutiny in an instant—possibly disaster—if someone didn’t move fast.

  Adam was closest to the runaway steer.

  He had to move.

  So he did.

  Something inside him clicked into place.

  He was a horseman. The rope in his hands, a lasso. He didn’t stop to think or wonder what to do. Instincts kicked in and he nudged his horse forward.

  The horse knew what to do.

  They moved together in unison. A dance of practice and effort, now effortless.

  His men took a collective breath, it seemed. Adam saw them all, saw everything, the placement of every steer, but then they all faded away. All he saw was a clear path to the runaway steer. Time stilled and relaxed into something new, where he was more alive. More aware of everything, more so than he’d ever been in his whole life.

  He moved, knowing with ease where to go, how fast, how to bend the horse into every turn. They were upon the steer.

  The lasso sprang from his hand, perfection in the air, and landed around its thick neck.

  He reeled it in, the beast fighting at first, then with a huff of breath turning docile. Perhaps it too felt the perfection of this moment.

  Adam had no idea how long it had taken him or how much time had passed, for only now did the clock spring forward again. It was done. He had the steer back among the herd.

  His men were watching him, silent. Doing their jobs, keeping the other cattle in line.

  Adam recovered his rope and looped it over his saddle horn, hiding a grin of satisfaction behind his handkerchief.

  He wanted to let loose a cry of victory, but he kept that to himself. He merely pulled down the cloth and said, “Let’s get back. I’m starved.”

  The men looked back at him. They looked to each other, and some silent ranch hand communication passed between them. Whatever it was, they worked it out quick, and soon the rest of the work was done.

  Once they got back to the ranch house, they fell upon Cookee’s feast: a simple but hearty pot roast, which seemed to Adam oddly fitting. He’d never been so hungry or more satisfied by a meal. He’d never felt more satisfied, ever. Though on one hand he was completely spent, the leftover success of his lassoing still hummed pleasantly through him.

  Adam polished off two helpings of pot roast, with thick brown gravy, and potatoes and carrots. He followed that with a generous helping of fried eggs and ham on toasted oat bread—and one big slice of delicious, hot-out-of-the-oven blueberry pie that tasted like heaven.

  “Almost forgot. This came for you,” Cookee said, digging into the wide single pocket of his apron. He drew forth a white envelope.

  Adam looked up at his cook and frowned as he took the letter. It looked like a reply from Ask Mack, but he wasn’t expecting one. He’d had his reply to his last letter, and he hadn’t written another since. One of the ranch hands normally picked up the mail in town. So this one must have been delivered, special. That was curious in itself.

  Although the men were still finishing up their food and looking down the length of the table at him with openly curious expressions, Adam opened the seal. He set aside the envelope facedown and discreetly unfolded the letter inside. It could be slightly embarrassing to be caught corresponding with Ask Mack, but he suspected a good number of the men wouldn’t be able to read Mac
k’s rather ornate script well enough to know what it said anyway.

  Adam scanned the page quickly, then read it again, his stomach going cold.

  What was this, a joke?

  He flipped the single page front to back, but there was nothing on the back. And, no matter how many times he read the front side, it still read the same.

  Some lady from back east—Massachusetts it looked like—had responded to his mail-order bride ad.

  An ad he’d decided not to place.

  He stared down at the envelope where he’d carefully placed it, sitting next to his metal plate. There was his fork, the handle angled across the plate haphazardly, tines poking up to the ceiling, because he was done eating.

  The envelope looked so white and pristine beside the circle of his plate. One perfect white rectangle, lined up perpendicular to the edge of the farm table. Stark against the dark golden tones of the polished wood. He’d placed the lettering down, not wanting the men to see what was written there. In truth there had only been his name and direction, with no return address, not unlike his letters from Ask Mack, which had resulted in his momentary confusion.

  There’d been instructions at the end of the letter to return his reply to the Cross Creek postmistress, and to mark the front of the envelope with a cryptic code—AGM61854—which struck him as a bit strange. But perhaps that was how things were done with The Marriage Papers? He certainly hadn’t submitted an ad before. Could be this was how things were done—with a code to protect the woman’s identity should their match not end up a match. Imagine if he said no, and she ended up married to his neighbor? Could be embarrassing.

  It would seem all The Marriage Paper letters were routed through local post offices, wherever the man lived, and from there were forwarded to wherever the woman lived. Which meant the postmistress in town must have directions on how to proceed when she received his reply... Seemed reasonable enough, when looked at with an eye to a woman’s privacy, he supposed.

  But he wasn’t supposed to be getting any replies.

  And how had they known to send replies to him?

  It was a mystery. He must have sent it in by accident. He must have written his name on it somewhere. Must have.

  Adam’s head spun. He placed his palm flat over the folded letter and held it against the surface of the table, as if it had a mind of its own and might decide to fly into the air where his men could grab it and read it. Adam felt like someone had taken him and shaken him upside down.

  How?

  How in the world?

  Who? Why?

  He couldn’t have sent in that ad. He couldn’t have. He distinctly remembered crossing it out, several times.

  The faces at the table swam before him.

  “You all right, boss?” Brandt asked. He still wasn’t sitting in his new place at the foot of the table where Old Pete used to sit, insisting instead to stay put in his old spot. He’d evidently taken the notion that if he took Old Pete’s chair his position as temporary ranch manager would become permanent.

  Adam blinked to clear his hazy vision, wondering if his face was as ashen as it felt.

  He also belatedly realized Brandt had called him boss. His gaze quickly swept over the men lined up one side and down the other, including Cal and Junior. He saw their expressions: the raised eyebrows, how they glanced from Brandt to him and back again, as if waiting.

  “I’m fine.” Adam straightened in his chair, the letter—the letter—still flat under his palm. “Go on out if you’re done eating. I’ll join you in a moment.”

  “Brandt,” Cookee said, stopping the other man before he rose to his feet. “I got an order needs picking up in town—got eight bags of flour and oats waiting at the grain shop, sugar and soda powders too at the grocers—you got a man free that can do that today before dinner?”

  Brandt paused with his hand braced against the edge of the table. Before he could say anything, Adam spoke up, with an air of decision that sent a jolt of lightning through him.

  “I’ll go,” he said, causing the room to go suddenly quiet. Had he said it too loudly, too forcefully? “I need to go into town anyway.”

  “You do?” Cookee asked, clearly puzzled, clearly well-aware that he’d just moments ago asserted that he was planning to join the men on the ranch.

  Adam nodded without adding any explanation. His jaw tightened and tightened.

  He’d go see Gus at the newspaper office in town. He’d demand answers.

  “You’ll need to take the wagon...” Cookee said.

  “Not a problem. I can pick up your supplies before I run my errand.” Might give him time to cool off, Adam thought.

  He had a reply to his ad, an ad he hadn’t placed. An ad for a bride. And this lady had said she was from Massachusetts. That his ad had been published and answered in such a short time caused confusion enough. Perhaps it had been telegraphed to Boston and the handwritten reply sent straight back on the train? Was that even possible? How long had it been since he’d written it? One week? His last reply from Ask Mack had been about a week ago. If he was counting up right. To tell the truth, he’d lost track. They’d exchanged so many letters, they all sort of blurred together.

  This young lady—this “Miss A.” as she’d signed herself—would be expecting a reply.

  He didn’t want to write back to her. He didn’t want to tell her there’d been a mistake and that he wasn’t looking for a bride. That he hadn’t even meant to place the ad. He’d look like a fool, not that her opinion of him mattered all that much. She didn’t know him and never would.

  His head ached and there was only one person to blame: Gus Proctor, editor of The Cross Creek Gazette. Had to be.

  Adam barely registered the screech of wood on wood as the ranch hands pushed both benches back at the same time. Everyone was leaving, in the process of either setting their hats on their heads or dropping their plates and utensils into the sudsy water in the basin, some with more care than others. He heard the clank and swish of metal on metal, the sound of water splashing. Forks hitting the bottom of the basin with a sharper clang.

  Cal and Junior were the last in line, waiting for the rest of the men to file out the back door one by one.

  “Cal,” Adam said, without knowing precisely why.

  “Sir?”

  “Could I have a minute?”

  Cal and Junior shared an uneasy glance. “Yessir,” Cal muttered.

  Junior looked like he might be thinking of staying too, so Adam sent him a curt nod of dismissal. Junior shoved on his hat and gave Cal a sympathetic glance, clearly expecting to not ever see his friend on the ranch again.

  “Should I leave?” Cookee asked, elbow deep in sudsy water.

  “No, you can stay. This won’t take but a minute.”

  “What’s this all about?” Cal asked, still hanging by the door, his hat in his hands, a simple straw cowboy hat that had obviously seen better days. The boy was poor. Wherever his family was, he hadn’t come from money. Not that Adam expected a ranch hand to be wealthy. Cal just seemed a little worse off than the others.

  Adam wondered if he was paying the boy a decent wage. He’d have to check the books again. Seems like, from what he remembered, Cal got paid less than Junior, who got paid less than the older men. It made no sense, especially if what he’d begun to suspect was true, that Old Pete and Cal were related.

  “Just wondered how Old Pete’s doing?” Adam asked, following his hunch.

  “How should I know?”

  Cookee kept his back to them, but angled his head so he could hear better.

  “You related?”

  Cal scratched behind one ear, taken aback. “How’d you know that? Ain’t nobody knows that. Uncle Pete—my great uncle—he said it would be better that way. Didn’t want the men thinking I was getting any special treatment.”

  “Seems to me you weren’t. He was pretty hard on you.”

  Cal ducked his head. “Uncle Pete’s all right. He’s moved back to Texas. Got
a new job down there.”

  “You thinking of joining him?”

  “You letting me go?” Cal glanced up, suspicious.

  “Nope.”

  Cal’s fingers loosened their strangle-hold on the brim of his hat.

  “Then I’d like to stay,” he said, “if it’s all right with you, boss.”

  “I’d like you to stay. If you promise to never take shears to my clothes again—you or Junior. You think you can manage that?”

  “I can manage.” Cal swallowed, then some thought must have struck him as funny, for his eyes lit with amused relief.

  “Just one more thing,” Adam said.

  Cal paused with his hand on the door jam, a question on his face.

  “Is it short for Callahan—your name?”

  He gave a jerky nod.

  “Why not just use your first name?”

  “My mama called me Uriah, sir.”

  Adam inclined his head, accepting that answer.

  He saw Cal standing there, so eager to escape. His boots planted on the dingy rag rug that sat there by the kitchen door. That particular rug saw lots of dirt and mud. It was worn out from boots treading on it and from frequent beatings to get it clean. Or mostly clean. Who knew what color it had been originally. It was sort of a brownish-green tinged thing now.

  Cookee had just beaten it out the other day, in fact, outside near where he hung the laundry. In that moment, a connection occurred. Like strands braiding together of their own accord. Adam could feel it happening and recognized it as something he’d felt before, working in the bank. It was an unplanned moment of...connection. An epiphany of sorts.

  He latched onto it before it slipped away, off to visit some other more self-aware man or woman.

  Let the punishment fit the crime.

  Words Uncle Joe used to say. In a blink, they came to the front of Adam’s mind. Delivered from some far-back part of his brain. He could even hear his uncle’s dry-as-dust raspy voice saying them. Ever practical. Like he was right here.

  “Cal,” Adam said, stopping the younger man again, “before you go... I’ve heard you’ve taken a sudden interest in making rag rugs.”