Perhaps God listened to the prayers of liars at times, for Mama placed her hands primly in her lap and fixed Mandy with a curious stare that made her swallow.
“Mandy?” Her mother clasped her hands together in a way that made Mandy entirely more nervous, if such a thing were possible. “What’s been bothering you these days? I know there’s something...”
Mandy released the breath she was holding slowly, trying hard not to make an audible huff. “Well, I have been thinking about this one thing.”
“What is it? You can tell me. Is it a...man?” Mama asked, stumbling a bit over her words, which was not like her. “Is it...Gus Proctor?”
“What? Gus Proctor? No, Mama.” Where had she gotten that idea? Maybe from all the whispering Darby had done in Mandy’s ear earlier, right before dinner. Or when he’d passed the letters to her under the table. Under the table. Or during dessert when he’d announced, with a none-too-subtle air of import, that he’d run into Gus Proctor while he was in town. That wouldn’t have been so bad, in and of itself, except he’d snuck a wink in Mandy’s direction after he said it. She’d been sorely tempted to throttle him then and there. To say Darby wasn’t the most accomplished secret keeper would’ve been an understatement.
“No,” Mandy repeated, for emphasis. “It has nothing to do with Gus Proctor.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Mama laid her hands flat in her knees and flexed her fingers, as if she’d been in a state of high-tension. As if she’d been worried about Gus Proctor.
Something about that small action didn’t sit well with Mandy, and she couldn’t leave it be—even though a thousand tiny bells in her head were clamoring a warning: Don’t! Don’t say anything!
“Why?” she asked. “Why is that such a relief, Mama?”
Mama looked uncomfortable, her lips pinched in that way of hers when she was holding back some unpleasant thoughts.
“Why?” Mandy persisted.
“It’s nothing.” Her mother tucked a strand of dark hair under her lacy white nightcap, a strand that didn’t need tucking.
So prim, so proper. So different from me.
“Mama...”
“Well, if you must know, it was a little disconcerting to think of— Well, to think of you with Gus. He’s simply— You’re simply—”
“He’s what? I’m what?” Mandy asked in a tone that hopefully communicated to her mother that she had better be very selective in her next choice of words.
“Short. Tall.” Mama blurted the words out, then pressed her lips tightly shut. In her blue silk dressing gown and matching house slippers, all lined up neat and trim, her toes barely touching the floor because she was so petite, Mama looked almost like a porcelain statue, something pretty and elegant that Aunt Libby might collect and set on the edge of a curio shelf.
“I see,” Mandy said tightly, her chest so constricted she could barely speak. Why did it hurt so much to hear Mama say it aloud? Mandy had known she’d been thinking it. She’d known. She also knew how much Mama worried about appearances. She probably worried about any future offspring as well. Perhaps she thought her grandchildren would be horribly misshapen in some way because Mandy and Gus were so vastly different in height. Or some such.
Not that Mandy thought about Gus in that way.
Gus Proctor. Her editor.
It felt so strange: Darby thinking she was interested in Gus, and now Mama. Mandy supposed it was her own fault for masquerading as Ask Mack. These sorts of misunderstandings were an unwanted complication. But she loved her column, and she never wanted to give it up. Mama certainly wouldn’t approve of the endeavor, so it had to remain a secret, for eternity and perhaps even longer. Just to be safe.
“But you have been thinking about other prospects?” Mama asked. “For marriage, I mean.”
Mandy choked on nothing. “Marriage?” she managed to utter the word, but her voice was so faint she wouldn’t have been surprised if Mama couldn’t hear her.
“Yes, marriage,” Mama said crisply, sounding much more like her mother now. She’d properly labeled and shelved whatever pesky discomfort she was feeling earlier, and now she was fully in command of herself. She smoothed another strand of hair back from her face, though it needed no smoothing. Her hair was loosely pulled back into a sleeping braid, like Mandy’s, to keep it from getting too unruly overnight. Her nightcap—hardly more than a delicate scrap of lace tied under her chin—only added to the effect of her looking like a porcelain figurine. “I’ve been thinking about your prospects.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Now, Mandy,” Mama warned, gathering steam. “It’s something that must be talked about. Now that the matter of Gus Proctor is satisfactorily settled, there’s a greater issue at hand.”
“There is?” Mandy asked, her mouth going completely dry. What now? Had Mama guessed about her newspaper column? Had Darby spilled it out? But surely Mama would have said something about that straight off, if that were the case.
“I’m afraid—and your father agrees—that your prospects in Cross Creek are severely limited.”
Mandy exhaled. She wondered briefly if she should pretend to be surprised, but in the end she simply nodded. “I know, Mama. It’s my height.”
Mama blinked at her. “It’s not your height, Amanda darling.”
“It’s not?” Mandy couldn’t have been more surprised.
“No, dear. It’s your...”
“My what?” Mandy asked in some alarm now. Was there some other defect she was unaware of? Something potentially worse than being so tall she could see over a good number of men’s heads when they were standing up?
Icy fingers grasped her heart and squeezed.
And squeezed.
Her mother fell silent, the awkward silence of someone who must impart an uncomfortable truth.
“Mama?” Mandy prompted. A stone-cold sensation spread out from the center of her chest. She had to pry her hands open they’d fisted so tightly.
“You’ve chased them all away,” Mama said finally, letting out a resigned sigh, “ever since you were a girl.”
“I’ve what? No I haven’t. I’ve never.”
“Oh, Mandy.”
“‘Oh, Mandy’ what? When have I ever done that—chased any man away?”
“Well, no man, you’re right about that. I’m afraid you laid the ground many years before now.”
Laid the ground? What did she mean by that? Mandy wrapped her arms around her middle and held on, fearing she was about to hear something that could shatter her and steal what little feelings of self-worth she had left.
“You always were a very sporting girl, dear.”
“Sporting?” What did sports have to do with any of this?
“You delighted in winning. You delighted in their losses.”
“But, I didn’t. I never.” Mandy paused. She had liked to win, but surely there was no sin in that? “I never delighted in their losses. Never.”
“You did.”
“No, Mama. I only wanted them to like me.” Mandy’s fingertips dug into her sides, holding ever tighter. “But all they ever did was make fun of me. Called me names.”
“Oh, Mandy.” Mama sighed, her expression softening. She shook her head, as if she knew something Mandy didn’t, something that was obvious to everyone but her. “Your intentions may well have been good. As your mother, I’d hope as much. But what you did—perhaps unwittingly and in the innocence of your youth—was shame them.”
For an instant, the room seemed to tilt strangely. Mandy blinked to clear her vision.
“How? How did I ‘shame’ them?”
“When a boy is beaten so badly by a girl, in front of all his friends, in front of her sisters... And the way you—you behaved.”
“But I only won.” What did she mean behaved?
“Running, horse racing, roping, and on and on,” Mama said. “Yes, dear, you won them all.”
“But, would you have had me lose—on purpose?”
“Of course not, but...
but it was the way you made them all feel, I’m afraid.”
“I didn’t make anyone feel anything. I simply did my best,” Mandy protested. A spark of indignation stirred within her, chasing away the horrible chill that had encased her body.
“You gloated, I’m afraid.” Mama shook her head sadly.
Gloated? So that’s what she meant by the way Mandy behaved.
“I tried to talk to you.” Mama reached across the bed to place her hand over Mandy’s knee, a reassuring touch. “But the words never seemed to penetrate.”
Mandy didn’t remember any conversations of the sort. Or...perhaps she did, but it had made no sense to her then. It made little sense now.
“You see, Mandy, you stepped on their pride,” Mama added.
“Well, pride’s a sin.” Mandy lifted her chin. Mama certainly couldn’t argue with that, could she?
“Not that sort of pride.”
“There are ‘sorts of pride,’ Mama?” Mandy felt the need to protest. “Surely, there is only one sort of pride—the pride the Bible describes as a mortal sin.”
“Don’t forget the Bible also commands us to take pride, as well.”
“Where? I’ve never heard that.”
“To take pride in our low position, to take pride in good deeds done with a pure heart. Not to boast above others, but to honor the good in oneself. But that is neither here nor there.”
She was right. It did say that. But—
Mandy jumped up and padded across the cushiony softness of her blue Oriental rug to her window. She did remember those scriptures. What an odd paradox. There was good and bad pride? There must be. The Bible implied there was.
She peered outside. The sky was full dark. Only a few lanterns were lit in the bunkhouse below, casting golden squares of light across the paddocks. Even then, Mandy could barely make out the shapes of a few workhorses, the ones content to stay out all night during a storm. Rain pelted against the tin roof of the porch below her window. A sudden crack of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the rivulets of water as they slid down the glass.
Her confidence slid down along with them.
“What you did,” Mama continued, “violated another sort of pride, a manly pride.”
“Manly pride?” Mandy turned to her mother and leaned against the windowsill, putting her back to the rain. She saw that her mother had angled herself slightly toward the window.
“Perhaps I should say honor,” Mama said, wrinkling her brow a bit. “They may rib one another at times, but it’s done with a wink and an elbow to the ribs. That sort of thing. When a woman does it—or, rather, a young lady, in your particular case—it’s like she’s knocking their legs out from underneath them. It hurts.”
“What? That makes no sense,” Mandy protested. She’d never meant to hurt anyone. How could her winning a game have hurt anyone? That wasn’t fair.
“I saw it in their faces, Mandy. They saw you laughing at them. Yes, you did. Don’t deny it. We all saw it. You belittled them. That’s not something that’s easily forgotten. They all felt it. It hardened them against you. And...well, I believe those feelings linger. You’ve dug a hole for yourself, as it were. You’ve built a wall around yourself, a wall not one of them can climb over. You don’t want them near you. They know it too. And, I’m afraid, my dear, they don’t want you either.”
That stung. But Mandy couldn’t argue. She wanted to. She wanted to repeat all the ugly things those boys had said to her. How they’d taunted her about something she couldn’t change. Though she’d desperately wished she could. Their vile names had hurt. Names that sunk in deep. They lay heavy inside her even now.
Too Tall Mandy MacKenna.
Perhaps she had hurt them, perhaps she had, but what Mama didn’t realize was they’d hurt her far worse.
“Well,” Mandy said, clearing her throat, which had grown uncomfortably thick, “that’s all the more reason for me to stay here at home and work with Papa on the ranch.”
Mama visibly recoiled. “No.”
“But I’m good at ranch work. I’d be happy.”
“Would you? With no husband, no family of your own? You adore children, Mandy. Anyone can see that. And, well, you’re twenty-one years old now.”
She made it sound as if Mandy were nearing eighty, very much like Darby had earlier. Too old.
A small unhappy sound escaped Mandy’s lips. It wasn’t much of a response, but Mama must have taken it as her cue to continue, for she said, “That is where we stand, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have other options.”
“Options,” Mandy echoed flatly, not liking the sound of that. The strain in her mother’s voice showed in her face too. Something very unpleasant was coming.
“We think—your father and I—that you should move to Denver with Aunt Libby and Uncle Mitch.”
“Denver?”
“Well, you don’t have to say it like that—like it’s a disease. It’s a lovely city.”
“It’s a city. And it’s not home. It’s not Cross Creek. It’s a city.”
“And in that city are men who’ve never met you. Many young men. Cross Creek is small. Everyone knows you. There’s comfort in that, but what we have here is a problem of...burned bridges.”
Burned bridges.
Mandy shriveled up inside at the sound of that.
Burned bridges, dug holes, built walls...
Mama had said a lot tonight that wasn’t very flattering, hadn’t she?
Mandy rubbed her arms to warm herself for she’d gone cold again. It wasn’t so long ago that she’d participated in the games. Why, she still did. Had she truly belittled the boys she’d grown up with—all of them young men now? Maybe she had. How awful. She knew how it felt to be belittled. It felt like the world had ended.
But hadn’t they started it by mocking her? By taunting her? Or had she been first, squashing their pride... Had she gloated? If she had, she was fairly certain they’d taunted her first. But, in the end, what did it matter who did what first?
It seemed there should be some forgiveness for the misdeeds of youth.
Should there? a small voice asked. Are you willing to forgive them?
Mandy immediately quailed.
There were too many hurts. Too much pain.
Scars.
It seemed impossible.
But Denver? No.
Was there any man in Cross Creek she would ever want to marry? Not a single face came to mind—not from any of the boys she had grown up with, anyway—all her burned bridges.
However, there was one face that did swim into clear view. Just days ago he’d caught her in his arms, if ever so briefly, and she’d felt something soul-shaking occur within her. If she left Cross Creek she might not ever discover if there could have been more between them.
If she moved to Denver, she might not ever see him again. Not that Denver was that far, and surely she’d come back for the holidays...
But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
“What about Adam Booker?” Mandy asked softly, her voice trailing off as Mama’s eyebrows rose.
“Joseph Booker’s nephew? The banker?” Mama asked, plainly surprised.
As if Mandy had proffered up the idea of taking up with a rattlesnake.
“Yes, Adam Booker,” she said defensively. “The former banker.”
“Well”—Mama clasped and unclasped her hands—“he fired Pete Callahan.” One delicate, straight-up-and-down line appeared between her eyebrows, indicating her displeasure. Even in her wrinkles, Mama was refined. “Pete worked for Joe Booker for years—decades.”
“Old Pete?” Mandy echoed, feeling a hot spurt of anger. “Old Pete’s been biting at Adam’s heels—saying terrible things. And—and he’s dishonest.”
“What? How would you—” Mama bristled with displeasure. “Has Adam Booker been telling you stories?”
Mandy bit her lip. She’d slipped and called him Adam. She couldn’t very well admit how she knew what she knew. She’d hav
e to say the where, the when, and the why. Even Adam didn’t know she knew. In near anonymity, as “Banks,” he’d told her—or rather he’d told Mack—in his letters. He never would have confessed his personal troubles to her, Mandy. He didn’t know her well enough. More to the point, she was a young lady and not the benevolent older rancher he most likely envisioned when he wrote to Mack.
“No.” Mandy looked down.
“Then how would you know? Rumors?”
Mandy could hear her mother’s disapproval.
She floundered for a moment. “I just know. And, no, I don’t pay any mind to rumors.”
“Then how?” Mama clearly wasn’t going to let it go.
How?
It was impossible to answer.
Adam had told Mack once, in strictest confidence, that his manager had been skimming profits off the cattle sales for years. He’d found out while going over the books. If Mama knew that she’d think differently about both Old Pete and Adam. But there was no way Mandy could tell her mother that. It would be a breach of faith with Adam.
She shouldn’t have even said what she said, Mandy realized with a twinge of conscience.
If only she could back up, turn around, and stick those words right back into her mouth.
Mandy waved her mother’s question aside, too tired to think let alone lie. And far too tired of lying. At first, it hadn’t seemed like lying. It had been a wonderful secret adventure, writing as Ask Mack. But it had grown. And now she didn’t always know who she was.
“You can’t send me to Denver,” she said, changing topics. That was what they most needed to talk about anyway.
“You have relatives there.”
As if that were any sort of reason.
“But I want to stay here with you and Papa, on the ranch.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”
“It’s not an option only because you choose to say it’s not an option,” Mandy retorted passionately, hurt and angry. She couldn’t stand still any longer. She paced to her dresser, taking a shepherdess figurine into her hands, then setting it back lest she break it in her current mood. Her hands were shaking.
“Mandy,” her mother said in a warning tone, “you have to believe better of us than that.”
Only the Heart Knows Page 5