Only the Heart Knows

by Lena Goldfinch

  “What? Who said that?”

  “I did.”

  Cal stared at Adam like he’d lost his wits.

  “I’ve got a pile of old denims and chambray work shirts I don’t know what else to do with. Can’t sew, you see...”

  Understanding lit Cal’s eyes. He looked ever so slightly horrified. Caught. He glanced uneasily at Cookee standing by the sink. Cookee didn’t offer any help back. He kept right on scrubbing whatever dish he was scrubbing.

  “Don’t know how to make no rag rugs, boss,” Cal said.

  “Guess you’ll learn then. Learning new things can better a man, I’ve heard. And I predict Junior will be happy to help out.”

  “Junior?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You want us to make you a rag rug. For the house?”

  “No, Cal. I want you to make a big ol’ rag rug for the bunkhouse.”

  “The bunkhouse?” Cal’s brow knit together. “You sure?”

  “Oh, yes. A big ol’ rag rug for all the men to benefit from. Gets cold up in that loft in the winter, I imagine.”

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  “Well, then. Come by later, and there’ll be a basket of rags for you by the back door.”

  “Yessir, boss,” Cal said, clearly still puzzled.

  “That’ll be all.”

  Cal slipped through the back door and shut it, quiet like, behind him.

  “Diabolic mind you’ve got, boss,” Cookee said, nodding in an impressed fashion.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, them boys’ll have to cut those rags into strips, braid ’em, stitch ’em. Make sure it winds up rug-shaped. Lay it in the floor. Step on it every day. All through winter, spring, summer, fall... Why they’ll think about you and what they did every morning, first thing, and every night, last thing.”

  “Huh,” Adam said, impressed with himself now too. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead. Thanks, Cookee.”

  “Diabolic.” Cookee shook his head and chuckled. “So, you really letting those boys stay?” He looked over his shoulder at Adam, a drippy sudsy skillet in one hand and a wire scrub brush in the other. “Even knowing what they did?”

  “I’m pretty sure there’s no real evil in them. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Cookee waggled his head in agreement and went back to his work. Adam pushed back his chair and stood. He gathered the envelope up and slid his letter inside, quiet as can be.

  “What you got there, boss? Bad news?” It appeared Cookee had eyes in the back of his bald head.

  Adam grimaced. “No, it’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. I’ll make sure you get your baking supplies well before dinner.”

  Cookee grunted his thanks and waved him out of the room. “Go on. Before you lose your light.”

  “It’s barely two o’clock,” Adam said as he strode toward the door, pausing a second before the threshold to look down at the dingy rag rug. Where had that idea come from? It had seemed to arrive fully formed with all those tiny details and repercussions already stitched into it. He could hardly let himself take credit for it. It had just come to him. Placed there by the hand of God, as it were.

  He tested the cushiness of the rug under his boots, nodded to himself and went out back. It felt good to have another little success under his belt today. Brandt had called him boss. And Cal had called him boss too, a couple or three times if he recalled right. He nodded and strode toward the barn that they kept the old wagon in, prepared to hitch it up and go into town.

  He had another man to talk to now. Gus Proctor.

  From behind him, out the open kitchen window, he heard Cookee singing as he washed dishes. That old trail song stayed with Adam all the way into town.

  Chapter 20

  After Adam stowed Cookee’s baking supplies in the wagon, he left the flour mill and crossed the packed-dirt road that served as Main Street and headed toward the newspaper office, feeling very much like a man on a mission.

  There before him, up the street a ways, was The Cross Creek Gazette, taking up residence in a little white-washed one-room building in the center of town, where it stood shoulder to shoulder with the post office and the train depot. In fact, the buildings were packed so tightly together they shared walls on either side.

  He took the one step up onto the small-town boardwalk and strode down it, steam practically rolling off every stride. His boots made a satisfying thwacking sound against the wood planks, his silver spurs jangling like he meant business. That was good. He did mean business. Irritation thrummed through him like a hive of stirred-up bees.

  Gus better be in.

  How dare he? How dare he post that ad?

  Granted Adam had been thinking about placing an ad in The Marriage Papers. The thought of a mail-order bride had crossed his mind. He’d even drafted an ad—in a moment of weakness. While he was attempting to “get a fresh view,” as Cookee had advised him. But it had never felt like a good idea. And he’d decided not to post it even while he was writing it. Hadn’t he crossed it out? Hadn’t he burned it? He’d meant to burn it...

  How in the world had Gus gotten a hold of it?

  Unless...had he slipped up and sent it in with his Ask Mack letter? It wasn’t possible. Was it? Had he?

  Maybe he had. He had been running short on paper...

  The momentary doubt didn’t slow him down. The fact was, even if he had slipped up and sent it in with his letter, he’d crossed the dang thing out. That had to mean something. Only someone with malicious intent would have posted the thing anyway. He’d thought better of Gus, but perhaps he’d been wrong. He’d been wrong about Old Pete at first, hadn’t he?

  Whatever had happened, he needed answers—now.

  “Gus!” He practically barked the name as he flung open the door to the newspaper office, addressing the editor, who was seated at his desk facing the door.

  “Mr. Booker,” Gus greeted him with a swallow, his Adam’s apple visibly rising and falling above his tight collar.

  “Oh, just call me Adam, Gus.” Adam hadn’t meant to frighten the poor man, but now he saw he had.

  Gus Proctor’s face looked as white-washed as the outside of his office. He was a smallish man, especially eclipsed by the bulk of the printing press, a one-man-operated contraption comprised of a big black iron arch—taller than Adam—and two weighty metal plates. One stationary like a tabletop, the other operated by an enormous arm-like lever. Framed issues of the Gazette hung on the walls around the editor, all dusted with a film of inky soot.

  “Adam,” Gus repeated dutifully, smoothing down his suit lapels, his manner brisk and businesslike. As usual, he was dressed in a black suit, a pressed blue shirt, and a wide black ribbon tie, with the ends tucked under. Professional. He was affable but didn’t say a whole lot, even when spoken to. The type of man Adam’s father would have possibly hired as a bank manager.

  “How can I help you, Adam?” Gus added. He swallowed again.

  “You—” Adam stopped himself, striving to moderate his temper. He pulled off his Stetson and raked a hand through his hair. He inhaled the stale office air and grimaced. Even with its soaring white-washed rafters, the office felt small. If he were to walk into the bank back home, right then, would it too feel small? He suspected it would.

  Ranch life had changed him—made him unable to spend a day surrounded by walls. Life felt bigger now, as if he’d become part of God’s creation. Before, he’d worked in boxes. In an entire city of boxes. Buildings with square walls and roofs. Sharp-edged granite curbs. Hard lines everywhere. Here, mountains and streams had more meaning. A field wasn’t just green—it was food for cattle and sheep. If it turned yellow it wasn’t just an eyesore—it meant drought. The cattle had to eat. The grass needed rain.

  And a man needed to breathe.

  Adam caught a rustle of movement in the corner, past a row of waist-high filing cabinets and the hulking form of the printing press, near a cabinet of shelves filled with newsprint paper. Now that hi
s temper had settled down to a gentle simmer, he was appalled to find he wasn’t alone with Gus Proctor, the Cross Creek Gazette editor. They had company.

  Very particular company.

  He swallowed uneasily, embarrassed to have his display of temper witnessed by one Mandy MacKenna. Of all people. Mandy MacKenna. Her mouth had dropped open, forming an appealing little O.

  Why—why her? Why here? Why now?

  Gus cleared his throat. He too cast a quick glance at Mandy, clearly uncomfortable.

  Wait, why was she here? Was she here to see Gus? As in romantically?

  What had happened to Russell Girard?

  Adam thought again of the connection he’d felt with Mandy at the dance. Maybe he’d made too much of how he’d felt twirling her around. He’d gotten his hopes up too high.

  “What can I help you with?” Gus asked patiently.

  Adam simply stared at him, his thoughts swirling. Did she love Gus? The editor didn’t seem quite enough for her. Not because Gus was shorter than she was. She was simply more.

  “What?” Adam asked, confused.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Again Gus glanced at Mandy. She’d busied herself with stacking papers in a neat pile—two piles actually, one turned one way, and one turned another, stacked perpendicular on top of each other. Two choices.

  Now, why had he thought that? Because at one time he’d thought she was his only choice? And then he lost hope? He’d written that ill-advised advertisement for The Marriage Papers. Spent one too many lonely nights, likely, wondering what he’d done wrong... Had he offended her? Had she somehow discovered how very inept he was as a rancher?

  Everyone likely knew that by now.

  Especially now that he’d let Old Pete go. Pete was a talker, and he wasn’t to be trusted. He was spreading stories. Maybe Mandy had heard.

  Adam tapped his Stetson against his thigh, restless. Wishing he’d stayed home.

  “I’m here about an ad, Gus. My...new ad. Remember?” Adam said, trying not to reveal too much. He was acutely aware that Mandy was listening, her expression openly rapt, her fingers paused over her stack of papers.

  Did she work here? With Gus?

  Why—why was she here?

  Adam couldn’t get it off his mind.

  Couldn’t get her off his mind.

  “A new ad?” Gus asked blankly, then his expression cleared, as if the problem were solved. “Your ad for a ranch manager.”

  “No...” Adam said slowly. “Not that ad.”

  “You’re hiring a new manager?” Mandy leaned forward, with one hand resting on the edge of the cabinet. She hadn’t spoken one word to him since the church social, but now it seemed as if she couldn’t hold herself back from asking. She was interested in his ranch. That in itself was intriguing.

  “I had to let Old Pete go,” he said, careful to inject an air of regret into his voice. He suspected the news was common knowledge by now, but maybe she hadn’t heard. And she might have liked Old Pete. In such a small town, she likely knew him. She’d known Uncle Joe too. Adam wondered if she’d been puzzled by his uncle’s choice of an heir: a banker’s son, a city man, once an up-and-coming banker himself.

  He had a head for math and figuring. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known anything about ranching. Most of what he’d learned had been from his own mistakes and from the good sense he’d shown in sending letters to Ask Mack. The man had saved him from quite a number of costly blunders. But he wasn’t here about Ask Mack.

  “Yes, I was sorry to hear that,” Gus said, frowning. “Pete was with your uncle how many years?”

  “Twelve, I reckon,” Adam said. He turned his Stetson over in his hands, feeling a twinge of guilt.

  “He wasn’t to be trusted,” Mandy said, clear as a bell and without the slightest trace of discomfort.

  “He wasn’t?” Gus asked. His chair creaked as he swiveled to look at her. He lifted his brows, looking rather like an English tutor Adam had once had when he was young. Adam had never liked the man. Too starched up and negative all the time, constantly criticizing. Now why, all of a sudden, had his impression of Gus soured? He’d liked Gus. Until now. Until he’d seen Mandy here, straightening the man’s papers. Looking so at home in this space.

  Almost as if she lived here.

  As his wife.

  Or some such.

  Adam had to take care not to squash his hat.

  “You did the right thing, Mr. Booker,” Mandy said, giving Adam a very small smile of encouragement.

  “I did?” Adam straightened to his full height, his spirits lifting a bit.

  “I believe your uncle would’ve done the same one day—if he hadn’t been so sick.” She looked sorry to say it. “Please accept my sympathies for your loss,” she added. “I don’t think I ever said that.”

  “Thank you.” His eyes caught hers and held. How kind she was. Thoughtful.

  He couldn’t seem to look away. A vision of her suddenly swam before his eyes. He saw her face, her sun-kissed cheeks, her ginger hair bouncing loose about her shoulders. In the vision, she was standing at his place, with the mountains behind her, a big clear blue sky above, and a light breeze tugging at her serviceable brown work skirt—the kind women who worked on a ranch wore. She had on a pretty billowy white blouse too, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She looked so fresh and clean-washed, and he bet she smelled nice. Like flowers, maybe. But it was the way she was looking at him, inviting him to come right on over and give her a kiss that made him stop and swallow.

  She wasn’t looking at him in precisely that way now, was she?

  No, of course not.

  Adam gave himself a forcible shake.

  Where had his thoughts run off to?

  Gus straightened in his chair, seemingly unable to tolerate them staring at one another for more than those few seconds, which seemed rather telling. Evidently, he was interested in Mandy. He’d adopted a protective air toward her, leveling a warning glance at Adam.

  “You’re not here about your ad for employment...” Gus prompted.

  Adam shook himself mentally.

  He reminded himself that these days Mandy usually looked right through him to the other side—or stared at one of the stained glass windows depicting Bible stories from the life of Jesus.

  So it didn’t matter that she liked fresh air and sunshine. It didn’t matter that he suspected she rode horses on her father’s ranch—he’d noticed many times that she walked with the easy grace of an accomplished horsewoman. No mincing, tripping steps for her. It didn’t matter that she was practically perfect for him.

  If she knew just how inept he was as a rancher. If the truth came out...

  Well, that didn’t really matter either, did it?

  She was more interested in stained glass windows than in him anyway.

  He’d do well to remember that.

  Was he here about his ad for a ranch manager?

  “Not precisely,” he said, answering Gus’s question.

  Gus lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I wish I could help you.”

  Chapter 21

  Despite the host of fireflies dancing circles in her stomach, Mandy felt her lips twitch. She strove to maintain a solemn expression. Not precisely?

  Adam’s ad had been for a mail-order bride.

  Not precisely, indeed.

  Looking at Adam now, Mandy realized he didn’t look much like a banker anymore. He looked more like a rancher. As soon as he walked in, she’d noticed how he’d taken to wearing his new black Stetson pulled low over his eyes, a little detail that produced an unsteady bump in her heartbeat. He also wore a chambray work shirt in a pale dusty shade of blue. It looked soft to the touch. At which point, she imagined plucking the fabric of his sleeve and testing its softness between her thumb and forefinger. He also wore dark denims, chaps, and a pair of brown leather boots layered up with dust from whatever ranch work he’d been doing earlier.

  Her mouth went a little dry
just looking at him.

  “It was the other ad, Gus,” Adam was saying, his manner careful, choosing his words. “Perhaps we can discuss it another time. When you haven’t got company.”

  “Company? Miss MacKenna’s not ‘company,’” Gus said. “And I’m sorry to say I don’t know of any other ad.”

  “I see.” Adam’s gaze pierced through Mandy, and she held back a little shiver. Oh, those eyes of his. They saw so much. Maybe too much? It was really quite thrilling to be looked at so thoroughly. If only it weren’t in these circumstances, for he looked quite suspicious.

  And he deserved some sort of answer to his question, Mandy thought with a twinge of guilt.

  “Would you like to place a new ad now?” Gus asked. “I have a form.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” Adam turned his Stetson in his hands. “It was a mistake. A misunderstanding, you might say.”

  A mistake?

  Mandy lifted her head slightly. Had she heard him right?

  “Well, then...” Gus stood, paperwork in hand, and skirted the edge of his desk by stepping sideways around it. Clearly having decided his interview with Adam was over, he proceeded around the room in this familiar manner, edging past the printing press and filing cabinets, each filled with letters to the paper, articles, clippings, and such. Finally, he made his way around to Mandy and added a stack of papers to her “to be sorted” pile.

  It was a ruse they’d worked out when she’d arrived with her question this afternoon. This way, they could work while Gus pondered Mandy’s dilemma. Should anyone walk in—why, Mandy was obviously helping the editor with some filing. A perfectly respectable occupation, if a little odd for the daughter of a wealthy rancher.

  Mandy also suspected Gus didn’t particularly like filing.

  At any rate, with the length of the office between her and Gus, there was no impropriety to complain of, especially since they were in full view of a big square nine-paned window, should any passersby on the boardwalk wish to press their noses up against the clouded glass.

  With Gus next to her, Mandy felt suddenly taller than usual. She’d worn her town boots for the occasion, which had a higher heel than she normally wore. From this vantage point, she could see the top of the editor’s head. She hadn’t noticed before, but he had a little bald circle forming. She wasn’t sure he would know, based on where it was located, so far back from his forehead, and she wondered, briefly, if she should mention it. He might like to know such a thing, after all. Perhaps there was some hair tonic he could begin to apply?