Only the Heart Knows (The Brides Series)

by Lena Goldfinch

  A banker in rancher’s duds.

  Lordy.

  All Mandy’s breath hitched up in her chest, making her lightheaded.

  “Miss MacKenna,” he said. She wondered if he was aware that he was idly smoothing his hands down her sleeves in a most familiar fashion. As if checking her for damage. Leaving a trail of tingles wherever he touched.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She shivered. Not from cold. For she wasn’t cold. Not in the least.

  “I’m fine, sir. I mean, Mr. Booker. Sir.” Oh, why had she said that? She’d called him sir. Twice. She sounded a fool, all breathless and overwhelmed with his closeness. Surely he could see right through her attempt to gather her composure. He must know she found him attractive. That she admired him.

  He hadn’t moved away.

  Mandy felt Miss Judith’s curious gaze resting on them from the post office doorway. Miss Judith, the only one besides Gus Proctor who knew Mandy’s secret. That she was the real face behind Ask Mack. Mandy had never revealed that Adam was Banks, but Miss Judith may well have figured it out. Banks had been a rather clever pseudonym, although not particularly effective at concealing his identity. Not that Mandy minded. She liked figuring out who was writing letters to Mack. It was part of the excitement, like solving a mystery. Or a puzzle. A fun puzzle. Not like the not-so-fun puzzle her life had become of late.

  Mandy had long since stopped posting her replies to Adam in the newspaper for all to see. She answered him privately now. And they’d become friends through their letters. A treasure she didn’t wish to share with all of Cross Creek.

  And here she was, Mack, standing with Banks on the boardwalk.

  With his hands clasping her shoulders. Which felt so...right.

  Something shifted inside Mandy. The usual butterflies danced inside her stomach, as they always did whenever she saw him, but this time Mandy also felt the tiniest of clicks. Like something broken coming together. And with it came a rush of awareness that just yesterday she’d felt something missing.

  Was it this? That she belonged with him, Banks? A rather romantic notion. Especially since they’d only shared a few lovely dances. Adam couldn’t possibly know when she looked at him, she saw a dear friend. And she could hardly expect him to view her with the same deep regard. Adam Booker didn’t see her as a dear friend. How could he? He was possibly no more interested in Miss Amanda MacKenna than he was in a grasshopper hopping down the middle of Main Street.

  He certainly didn’t know she was Mack.

  Not that she wanted him to know. He’d feel betrayed. Duped.

  By her.

  “I’m ever so sorry,” Mandy repeated. They used to talk about all sorts of things after church. They’d danced together several times at the socials. But these days she could barely meet his eyes. If he ever found out she was Mack...

  “I’m the one at fault,” Adam protested. “I should have been looking where I was going.”

  Mandy winced inwardly at his choice of words. He couldn’t possibly realize how “at fault” she was. And now she saw questions forming in his eyes as he looked at her. Evidently, her expression had revealed more than she’d intended, given away some of what she was thinking and feeling.

  She glanced away quickly. There on the boardwalk across the street, was a man walking in their direction. His head was bent, Stetson shading his face. At first he seemed intent on entering the grocers without looking up, but he paused before opening the door and glanced over at the post office.

  Russell Girard. It would be him.

  He took in the sight of Adam Booker holding Mandy in what must seem the most compromising way, and—in true Russell form—his lip curled upwards. He lifted one mocking brow.

  Mandy stiffened. Why, why did it have to be Russell? She shot a meaningful glare his way, but his smile simply widened.

  His glance shifted behind her to the post office doorway, and he gave a quick nod, presumably to recognize Miss Judith’s presence—a suitable chaperone if ever there was one—and then he disappeared into the grocers, leaving behind the cheery sound of his whistling. Curious. Infuriating.

  Mandy abruptly stepped from Adam’s loose embrace.

  Not that he’d truly been embracing her, but it might’ve appeared as if he was.

  “And I should have been looking where I was going,” Mandy said, still flustered by Russell’s mocking gaze. Flustered even more by the rush of guilt she felt toward Adam. How could she continue to betray his confidence? Her dear friend Banks.

  She stepped back, seeking only to escape.

  “Miss MacKenna,” Adam warned sharply. He grasped her hand.

  Mandy found herself a hairsbreadth from the edge of the boardwalk. If she had taken a longer stride backward she would have turned her ankle and fallen. Now that she was safe, Adam released her hand with what appeared to be a trace of reluctance. Although perhaps Mandy could attribute that to her overheated imagination.

  She suddenly felt other eyes on her. There was Gus, her editor, peering through the front window of the newspaper office next door, his hand cupped against one of the glass panes. It didn’t fully surprise her to see him. The newspaper and the post office practically shared a wall, after all.

  Another realization struck her. Adam must have come from inside the newspaper office to have collided with her. What had he been doing at the Cross Creek Gazette? Talking to Gus? About what... Ask Mack?

  Possibly inquiring about Mack’s identity?

  A chill swept over her.

  Gus wouldn’t have revealed her secret? No, he’d never. Even now as her editor saw her talking with Adam, his pale face tightened with concern. He needn’t worry though. Mandy would never give away their secret. Adam couldn’t know she was Mack. No one could. Especially not her parents. And, most especially, not her mother. It would put a stop to the column, just like that, if anyone in Cross Creek discovered Ask Mack was penned by Mandy.

  If Adam found out... It would be disastrous.

  It occurred to her that Banks’ most recent letter was on her person. Damaging proof of her true identity. The neatly folded square of paper was practically burning a hole clean through the pocket of her riding skirt. If it were to fall out...

  Mandy blinked at the imagery. How devastating that would be. Adam would not only discover she was Mack, he’d be able to surmise so much more. For instance, what she thought of him. That she treasured his letters. That she folded them up and carried them with her into town.

  “May I help you with your package, Miss MacKenna?” he asked, his tone warm. Inviting. But Mandy heard him as if from a great distance. Again she couldn’t meet his eyes. Eyes that made her get lost. So lost she might reveal her feelings for him.

  She stepped down from the boardwalk, mumbling her thanks, insisting she was fine. Without so much as a glance back at him, she quickly stowed her package in her saddle bag and unhitched her horse.

  “Miss MacKenna?” Adam had followed her. Stood right beside her. So close. “At least let me give you a leg up?”

  Mandy closed her eyes briefly. She couldn’t say no, couldn’t be so rude, even though there was a mounting block across the way at the livery. She swallowed and said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Sir. She’d called him sir again.

  Adam assisted her into the saddle. And for a moment after, his hand rested briefly against her knee to steady her. Polite. Kindly. Indifferent even, perhaps. But Mandy couldn’t help but read interesting things in his expression, things that likely weren’t even there. He stepped back, letting his hand fall to his side.

  Mandy’s face flamed as she adjusted her split riding skirt, though it already modestly covered her lower limbs. She mumbled her thanks again. With one more quick unfocused glance at his face, because politeness demanded, she trotted off in the direction of the sawmill.

  Well, that was a nice mess she’d made of things.

  How was she possibly going to face Adam next Sunday in church?

&
nbsp; Adam Booker stood at the edge of Main Street watching Amanda MacKenna until she disappeared from view. Now that was the genuine article, nothing at all like the young women he’d known in Denver. There was just something about her. The nice warm glow of her skin. The spattering of freckles across her nose that told him she often forgot her bonnet. Like today. And her hair—her hair was a nice warm shade too, not unlike the color of a gingersnap cookie. He could still picture it, pulled back in her usual style: twisted into a long loop at the nape of her neck. Attractive, but nothing fancy. That told him she didn’t like to fuss with her appearance and preferred to spend her time outdoors. Well, the freckles alone told him that.

  All in all, she was pretty.

  A bit on the tall side perhaps. But willowy, more like.

  Where he’d noted that her two younger sisters favored the latest fashions, bustles and tightly cinched waists, Amanda always seemed to possess a more natural elegance. Natural. That was it. The woman seemed entirely disinterested in employing artifice. Which was so...refreshing. He’d appreciated that quality from the first time he’d seen her in church, peering over the center aisle at him with an openly curious air.

  The church social was coming up soon. Which meant he could ask her to dance again. A thrill of anticipation shot through him.

  Now if only she’d say yes.

  If only she’d look at him.

  She puzzled him. She’d seemed to enjoy their last dance so much, but now she barely held his gaze for longer than a second. Same as today. They used to be able to chat at length about all sorts of topics. But lately that seemed to have dried up. A disappointment. He couldn’t quite work out where he stood with her.

  And if it had anything to do with a certain young rancher, Russell Girard.

  Well, Adam guessed the only way to proceed was to ask her to dance. Either she’d dance with him or she wouldn’t.

  A delivery wagon trundled past, and here he was practically standing in the street.

  Luckily, Cross Creek was a small town. So different from Denver, where he’d grown up. Where once he’d been accustomed to crisscrossing paved streets, sidewalks with granite curbs, and the bustle of thousands of buggies, now he might only see a few people about their business.

  In all actuality, the sum total of buildings in Cross Creek would fit neatly on one city block in Denver, but somehow that only gave Main Street an air of import. Every building had a function, and every business was a necessity. Take one out and the whole town might fold under.

  It felt...cozy.

  Looking around with fresh eyes, Adam realized that at some time over the past year he’d adjusted to life in a small town. For the most part, living in a place where everyone knew him by name was nice. If only he could say the same about his experience taking over his uncle’s ranch.

  Now that was one area where things weren’t going so well.

  Chapter 3

  A couple of mornings later, Adam dumped a laundry basket of clean clothes onto his bedroom floor, disgusted. All his work clothes were ruined. Every last pair of denims. Every last nicely-worn chambray shirt.

  What a way to start the day.

  He yanked on a pair of suit pants from his dresser drawer. And a freshly-pressed white dress shirt.

  He already had a pretty good idea of who must’ve snuck out to the wash line and taken a pair of shears to his clothes. It didn’t take much guessing. Cookee could easily have done it since he washed the laundry, but he wasn’t that sort of man. He liked things clean and orderly—and besides, he was the only one who’d seemed pleased to see Adam when he’d come to take over Uncle Joe’s ranch. He’d shared a few memories of Adam’s summer at the ranch when he was a boy. He’d even made roasted chicken that first dinner, Adam’s favorite.

  No, it wasn’t Cookee. Cookee had made him roasted chicken. And fragrant hot cross yeast rolls too. Topped with melted butter. Chopped currants, a hint of orange zest. Drizzled with white icing. Another of Adam’s favorites. And Cookee had kept it up every day since, filling Adam’s belly and ten ranch hands’ too. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  Adam eyed his ruined clothes thoughtfully as he buttoned up his shirt. Every pair of denims cut straight through the seat. Every shirt with a crooked slit up the back.

  He couldn’t get over it.

  Any number of the ranch hands would’ve wanted to do it—they were all mad at him for firing Old Pete, the ranch manager—but only two were young enough and rascally enough to have actually done it: Cal and Johnny.

  Heavy footsteps approached from down the hall.

  Cookee paused in Adam’s doorway, a veritable wall of a man. Barrel-chested. Solid. The son of a sailor. Adam often pictured Cookee with a red bandana wrapped around his bald head, staggering sure-footedly across a ship’s listing deck. In his late fifties, Cookee was a true set-in-his-ways bachelor. That wasn’t so unusual. Finding a good woman to marry wasn’t the easiest thing in one of the newer states like Colorado. With so few women, the odds were stacked against a man. More so in remote towns like Cross Creek.

  Adam knew that well enough.

  A woman’s face crossed his mind. Ginger hair. No bonnet. Miss Amanda MacKenna.

  Mandy.

  The woman who apparently couldn’t bear to be in his company for more than a second or two...

  Was he wasting his time even thinking about her?

  “You’ve seen then?” Cookee entered, casting a glance at the pile of dumped clothes. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d rushed up the stairs.

  “So you know?” Adam paused mid-tuck, then belted his trousers.

  “Of course, I know. I brought ’em up, didn’t I? Saw you was busy shaving, and I didn’t want to make you cut yourself.” He nodded toward Adam’s bathroom. Sudsy water could still be heard slowly gurgling down the basin pipes. “And the biscuits don’t make themselves. Neither does the bacon—”

  “All right.” Adam held up his hand in surrender.

  The delectable scents of bacon sizzling wafted up the stairs. Biscuits too, as described, and the homey aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  Adam sniffed appreciatively.

  “You could get them sewn up in town, maybe,” Cookee suggested. There was an air of doubt about him.

  Adam pictured himself wearing denims and shirts with seams and patches where they shouldn’t be. A constant reminder to himself and his men. The sniggering. Perhaps it would be best for all concerned to have a clean slate.

  “Do you fault me for firing Old Pete?” Adam asked outright, then braced himself for Cookee’s answer. Weeks had gone by since he’d fired his ranch manager, but Adam still hadn’t gathered the nerve to ask the cook what he thought.

  Cookee scratched at the gray stubble on his chin.

  “Can’t say as ‘fault’ is the right word,” he finally said, “but Old Pete was a friend. We’d known each other for years. And, well, I liked the man.”

  Adam took a breath, preparing to say something—anything—to appease Cookee, but before he could form a reply, the older man kept right on.

  “Can’t say he was fair to you, if I’m being honest. He straight off set himself against you. Told the men you didn’t know nothing about ranching. Said the ranch was gonna fail because of you. That sort of thing.”

  Adam was well aware what his manager had been saying about him, but to hear it put so baldly was a fist to the gut. Pretty much the same words circled his head as he stared up at the ceiling at night, trying without much success to sleep. Was he going to fail? Was he going to run the ranch into the ground?

  It could happen.

  The thought of disappointing his uncle, who’d left him the ranch—and his family back home—made Adam tense up. He didn’t want to fail. He didn’t want to ruin things.

  If not for Ask Mack’s timely advice, he would’ve already failed any number of times.

  “I couldn’t let him stay on,” Adam said in his own defense. He tamped down on a stinging sensation high in his chest th
at felt uncomfortably like guilt. “Not like that.”

  He could’ve said a whole lot more, but he didn’t want to be the one to tell Cookee he’d found discrepancies in the ranch books that pointed squarely to Pete Callahan. The man Adam’s uncle had trusted so implicitly for years. Cookee didn’t need to hear that. Not from Adam.

  Cookee scratched at his jaw. “I expect you’re right. Still, I miss him. He liked to listen to my old stories.”

  “There’s a lot to be said for a friend who listens,” Adam agreed, swallowing his personal distaste for Old Pete. It took a lot out of him to say anything kind about the man who’d set out to knock him down repeatedly in the eyes of the men.

  He heard the back door slamming shut downstairs. Boot heels thudded across the kitchen floor, the familiar sounds of the ranch hands coming in for breakfast.

  Adam caught another whiff of Cookee’s delectable food, the same as before but with a hint of something more.

  “Is that cinnamon?” he asked hopefully.

  “My cinnamon rolls,” Cookee said in dismay and rushed off.

  Cinnamon rolls and biscuits? Adam flattened his hand over his empty stomach. As he did so, he was reminded he was wearing one of his best Sunday shirts and a pair of suit trousers. Suit trousers. And a starched-up white shirt. On his ranch. And he was supposed to be the ranch boss. The one everyone looked to for direction. He was supposed to lead by example: riding, herding, roping... Doing all the things ranchers could do.

  How was he supposed to do that in his Sunday best clothes?

  He’d look a fool.

  It didn’t bear thinking about. Especially when all he wanted to do was dive back into ranch work. He enjoyed working outdoors. Now he’d have to take time this week to ride into town and buy all new work clothes.

  He sighed and tucked his pristine white shirt in more smoothly. He tugged at his collar. No sense wallowing. There was only moving forward.