Only the Heart Knows

by Lena Goldfinch

  But I’m not that way. Mandy straightened. That’s not me—the real me.

  Most of the time, she flew around the property looking for the next thing to do or which horse she would ride... But today she was going into town. And, for whatever reason, going to town made her look like this: pinch-faced and ever-so-slightly frightened. Well, perhaps not frightened precisely, but hunted. The word just popped into her mind unbidden.

  Hunted?

  What an odd word. Why hunted?

  Because you’ve let all those old taunts in.

  The words slipped past her carefully constructed walls, and the truth was like a tiny silvery arrow, going straight to her heart.

  She’d allowed the hurts of her past to taint her view of herself. These days, she assumed people on the street—even people she knew, even people she liked—saw her as “too tall.”

  And, deep inside, another truth echoed: too tall and not good enough.

  She imagined Emma, with her perfect chestnut ringlets, a style that had required hours of toil with a hot curling iron. Her eyes the color of nutmeg, the darkest eyelashes. Her bubbly personality. Emma was the sort of girl who’d always attracted attention.

  And Juliana too, with her shiny black hair, so pretty and petite. Like Mama.

  Maybe she’d be good enough if she looked like either of them.

  Maybe she’d be good enough if she were like their mother too.

  Where did that little voice come from anyway? She didn’t believe that—did she? Of course she didn’t.

  Yet the voice sounded so very familiar. It was her own voice. And it spoke to her often. It told her things just like that, bad things about herself, and most of the time she didn’t even notice. It just passed through her mind, some stray little thought. She’d never thought to challenge it.

  The words felt so right. As if this voice knew the real truth and everything else was a lie.

  What a dangerous, dangerous little voice it was.

  Mandy reached for the stair rail, needing something to grip. Needing something real and tangible, something that wasn’t all in her head.

  You have to question it, Mandy, she told herself sharply. You have to talk back to it. You can’t let that little voice stomp all over you.

  She smoothed her hand over the polished wood, feeling how silky smooth the varnish was. This is real. And, even though she couldn’t always see it, God’s love was real too. He’d made her. He’d made her just the way he meant her to be. Who was she to question her maker for making her tall? Maybe he’d simply wanted her to be tall. Maybe he liked her tall. The possibility shook her.

  Maybe she was the only one who thought she’d be better off shorter, more petite.

  What if, all along, her own insecurities had pushed people away?

  What if she was pushing Adam away?

  What if she could just tell herself that she was who she was and that she should make the most of it? That she should stand tall and unafraid, unashamed. It sounded reasonable enough. It sounded right.

  But Mandy was shaking her head even as the thought crossed her mind.

  No.

  She might as well try to ride Cornelius, Papa’s fiery gelding, bareback and backwards. She’d just get thrown off and land in the dust.

  Or would she?

  What would happen if she stopped thinking of herself as Too Tall Mandy MacKenna?

  She wanted to. Was it even possible?

  She took a breath and straightened her spine, rolling her shoulders back.

  And in the mirror looking back at her, her image looked...tall. So very, very tall.

  She smiled experimentally. Her reflection smiled back, exposing that teensy gap between her two front teeth.

  Darby might say she was being difficult, that only she saw herself that way—some unflattering self-portrait she’d painted in her own mind—and there was more to her than that. He might say that. But Darby wasn’t here.

  “Papa’s waiting!” Mama called up from the direction of the kitchen, her voice cheery, completely unaware of the turmoil brewing within Mandy, still standing on the half landing. How could she know?

  The smell of fried chicken wafted up toward Mandy, waking her up to the fact that they were going to the social, that there’d be food, games, and dancing.

  “Time to go!” Mama called again.

  Time to go.

  Mandy compressed her lips and continued on down the stairs. By the time she reached the bottom and met her sisters in the foyer, the two of them giggling in pretty pastel gowns, she’d resolved one thing: if Adam asked her to dance, she would. And she’d talk to him too. No more looking away. No more staring down at her shoes. No. She’d look him right in the eye and hold a mature conversation with the man. Just like they used to.

  And even if the Girard brothers came around and made any number of mocking comments—couched in the most polite language, of course—well, she would strive to ignore them. Indeed—she took a breath—she’d endeavor to forgive them.

  Chapter 7

  It was nearing noon when Adam arrived at the Cross Creek Bible Church, a small white-washed, one-room affair with a steeply pitched roof and a cross up top. It had a single flight of stairs and double doors, just like many small-town churches he’d seen in newspaper photos. Only these doors were painted a cheery red that shone against the bright white paint of the building. The church building itself was nestled on a large green lawn, set back from Main Street, with buggies and wagons lined up on the street’s edge. Leafy aspens provided a few welcoming spots of shade on the grass. Tables had been set up there, with colorful red-and-white-checkered tablecloths.

  A half-dozen married ladies were spreading white netting over baskets, platters, and pitchers of lemonade, swatting at horse flies as they chatted. In their gauzy white dresses and straw bonnets, they looked, in similar fashion, sort of gauzy to Adam. All that white against the backdrop of summer-green grass—it seemed so fresh and inviting. Ladies at a church function. Familiar, like his mother and her friends, and yet foreign.

  Other than seeing them in church, he knew little about these women. He’d never been to their houses for supper. Not that he had time spilling out of his hands. He was busy getting the ranch going. And it wasn’t as if he’d never been asked.

  Early on though, he’d been grieving for Uncle Joe and had craved solitude. He’d turned down a few offers back then, with his sincere regrets, and since then the offers had dried up. Had he burned his bridges?

  If so, how could he build new ones?

  They greeted him with friendly smiles as he approached. “Afternoon, Mr. Booker.”

  He smiled back and offered a polite, “Ladies.”

  Mrs. Annabelle MacKenna’s gaze rested on him a little longer than the rest of the ladies. She paused in her work to take a gander at his tan suit, shirt, and tie. The length of his stride. Or whatever it was she was measuring. And he had been measured. He knew that much.

  He swallowed and said, “Ma’am,” just as politely as he could and tugged on the brim of his hat in an extra show of respect.

  “Mr. Booker,” she greeted him.

  She looked not in the least discombobulated to have been caught staring. She was a lovely middle-aged woman, on the petite side, with delicately pleasant features, black hair, and a regal carriage. Since she was Mandy MacKenna’s mother, he’d had many occasions to see her in church, seeing as his gaze often strayed Mandy’s way. Her dress today, as always, seemed finer than the rest of the ladies, in keeping with her position as wife to one of the richest and most successful ranchers in town. As if Adam could ever forget who he was possibly—most likely—being measured against.

  Adam handed her the basket of fresh baked rolls that Cookee had sent along. The delectable scent of yeast had filled his nose the whole slow ride over from the ranch, with the basket wrapped in a kitchen cloth and tucked against the saddle horn.

  With a somewhat enigmatic expression, Mrs. MacKenna set his basket among the oth
ers. Then she returned her attention to the other women and to the task of protecting the delectable country banquet they’d laid out.

  As Adam continued past the tables, the women’s laughter blended with the sound of the younger children playing. Toddlers and older youths alike ran about the lawn, squealing and giggling. They were kicking around a large rubber ball and keeping it away from each other, it seemed. The men folk were gathered in small groups of four or five, talking in deeper tones, sharing news. Speculating about when it might rain.

  Adam recognized the usual folks from church, but at an event like this, with food and dancing, several less devout ranch hands had ventured out too, including, he saw, Cal and Junior. They were dressed in dark denims, with smart checkered shirts and string ties, their cowboy boots polished to a sheen. They stood on the outskirts of the church lawn, leaning back against the trunks of a couple of aspen trees. And somehow managing to look both awkwardly out of place and cocky at the same time.

  Adam could tell at a distance that they were eyeing the young ladies up ahead near the dance area.

  Which was precisely where Adam intended to head first. No time to waste.

  Except for one moment, he paused amid the bustle and gathered his nerve. It wasn’t that he was anxious around people. He never had been, but he could see the small band of instruments setting up by the dancing square, a patch of earth that had been used for this very purpose perhaps from the day the town was founded. The area was flat, beaten down over the years by many dancing feet. Soon the married ladies would stream over to join their husbands. They’d dance one or two sets as couples, then pair off with the single men to make numbers, since there were far more men than ladies in town.

  Single ladies were always in high demand. And the three MacKenna daughters in particular generated the most interest since they were of marriageable age. His eyes sought out Amanda MacKenna first to see what she was wearing. She wasn’t hard to find for she stood about a head taller than her younger sisters. She stood taller than a good number of the men milling around too. His possessive gaze swept over her, then over the men. If they’d had any good sense, they would have noticed his intimidating expression and given way, but the young men who circled around the three sisters seemed unaware of his presence. He squared his shoulders purposefully.

  One fiddler sawed his bow several times across his strings, warming up.

  The two younger MacKenna sisters startled at the sound, laughing. Other folks stirred as well, scurrying to find a partner for the first set.

  Adam elbowed his way past the Girard brothers, two men close in age to himself, though a bit younger. He nodded to them affably enough as he brushed by, but they gave him a cold eye, as if sensing he was stealing their spot. Amanda’s eyes met his, but she immediately looked down at the ground and off to the side, anywhere but at him it seemed. He swallowed his disappointment.

  Amanda. Her family called her Mandy...

  He’d like to call her that as well, but he hadn’t been invited to.

  Yet.

  If ever. The way things were going.

  This could very well be their last dance, he thought, if she accepted. As much as he wanted her to take an interest in him, he couldn’t make it so just by wishing for it. She had a will of her own, and evidently he was lacking something she was searching for. It didn’t take his fine university degree to figure out what. He was a newcomer here, about as green a rancher as anyone in Cross Creek had ever seen. Still, he couldn’t drag his eyes away from her. Her gingersnap hair was wound up special on top of her head, with ringlets trailing down her neck, bouncing whenever she moved. She wore an airy white-and-peach-striped gown and fancy straw bonnet.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

  Adam wasn’t used to seeing her so prettied up. It was like she’d made an extra special effort for this event, when she normally preferred simpler hairstyles and dresses.

  Had she dressed for anyone in particular? he wondered with a slightly sick feeling. It was bound to happen sooner or later, especially since she was the eldest of the three MacKenna girls and the most sparing in her attentions. In fact, she never overtly encouraged any of the eligible men in town, which was why he’d clung to hope so long. She might not have looked at him with any real interest as yet, but she hadn’t looked at anyone else that way either. He’d hoped it left the field open, so to speak.

  The dulcimer player plucked out a few twangy harp-like cords—one-two, one-two-three—and the fiddler again drew his bow across the strings. The sound sent another stir through the assembly. Those waiting to dance drew in closer. Adam felt the Girard brothers muscling in beside him. Darby MacKenna, the girls’ cousin, had his hand on Russell Girard’s shoulder and his attention fixed on Mandy. Adam narrowed his eyes, noting how Darby was saying something to Russell. Was he doing a little matchmaking? It seemed so. He was urging his friend to dance this set, and he obviously had Mandy in mind.

  Not if Adam had a say in the matter. Before any official announcement could be made to pair up, he edged in right next to the MacKenna girls. Emma and Juliana smiled at him, and he gave them each a cordial nod, while keeping his focus on Mandy.

  “Ladies,” he greeted them.

  “Mr. Booker,” the two younger sisters replied in near unison, the sound of girlish pleasure in their voices. They were sweet and young and pretty—a little too young to Adam’s mind. And they weren’t Mandy. Meanwhile, there she was, not looking at him at all. Though he was standing right there and obviously addressing her and her sisters, she kept her gaze pinned to the toes of her dancing slippers.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Booker,” she murmured so softly he almost didn’t hear.

  Adam balled his hands into fists and flexed them, wondering what kind of fool he was to continue to seek her out. The kind who liked ginger-colored hair and intelligent eyes, evidently. Feeling the approach of Russell Girard on his heels, practically breathing hot air down his neck, Adam took a determined step closer to Mandy.

  “May I have this dance, Miss MacKenna?” he asked.

  She glanced up at him, seemingly startled. “Me?” she asked.

  He held his hand out to her, palm up, making his intention plain.

  “Mandy,” Darby interrupted, moving in with Russell Girard. Adam noticed how her eyes widened in alarm. Perhaps she was overwhelmed by the sudden attention. Perhaps she was as aware as he was that his hand was stuck out before her, empty.

  “Russell here was saying how much he’d like the first dance with you, but you know how shy he is around the ladies...” Darby’s voice trailed off as he took in Adam standing there, with his all-too empty hand still extended, feeling heavier and emptier by the moment.

  Adam kept his gaze on Mandy, willing her to accept him. He’d asked first, after all. But, more than that, he wanted to dance with her. He certainly didn’t wish to be left hanging, his invitation drying up in the air.

  He stretched his hand forward invitingly, a barely perceptible motion. Take it—take my hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, meeting his eyes, and his heart fell, “but I’ve promised this dance to Mr. Booker.” She slipped her hand in his and the world stopped and held its breath. He folded his fingers over hers and gave her hand a slight squeeze.

  “Thank you,” he told her softly, with no small relief.

  Soon they’d joined a four-square set that included both Girard brothers, Mandy’s sister Emma, and the town’s spinsterly postmistress, Miss Judith. His ranch hand Cal—of all people—had paired up with Lacy Holland, a rather shy young lady of fifteen.

  Adam felt Cal’s glare cutting into him whenever they faced center or when the men passed through the middle of the set. The music hummed along joyfully, but Cal seemed oblivious. He seemed brusque in his manner toward Miss Lacy as well. Adam could ignore his ranch hand’s pointed glares at him, but not that. Disrespecting a young lady.

  On one shoulder-to-shoulder pass, Adam issued Cal a warning, his voice only loud
enough for the young ranch hand to hear, “Have a care for your partner.”

  Cal frowned and quickly averted his gaze, his face a mask of stony silence.

  Mandy wondered what Adam had said to the young man dancing with Lacy to make him scowl so fiercely. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was one of Adam’s ranch hands. In Banks’ letters to Mack, he’d mentioned troubles with his men. Perhaps what she’d just seen was one small taste of the lack of respect Adam experienced on a daily basis. The ranch hand’s hostility practically threw off sparks.

  She followed the surly young man with her gaze a little longer than she should have and nearly missed her next promenade with Adam. She should have made a slight turn, and because she hadn’t she came nearly nose to nose with him. She blushed and turned quickly so he could circle his arm around her back and take her hand.

  And immediately all felt right again.

  Before Adam’s hand even touched hers, Mandy felt his presence. It wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t a tingling sensation. It was just a—a knowing. She knew he was close. Felt it so intensely it stole her breath.

  Then his arm was around her, his fingers wrapped securely around hers. For a moment, that was all she could feel. Her hand had found its home. Where it was meant to be. God had fashioned her hand to be held by Adam’s.

  What a fanciful thought.

  How ridiculous.

  How...

  Wonderful.

  Adam Booker was holding her hand, and they were dancing again. They could dance all day and all night, and it would never be enough. She wanted to continue dancing always. Only with him.

  A warning bell rang in her mind, somewhere far off, calling for her attention.

  Don’t think about him so much.

  Don’t let him become too important.

  Don’t fall in love.

  Don’t do it.

  Only another lighter, much happier bell was ringing too. It didn’t say anything. It only rang, pure and clear. Her heart melting. Her fingers closing around his. How could something so simple feel so amazing?

  She got caught up in Adam’s gaze, felt herself floating away, disconnected and lost. The music suddenly sounded distant, suspended even. This moment couldn’t be real. She was dreaming. Imagining it all. And yet the air she was breathing was real. The sun was warm. The sleeves of her dress a bit too tight. The ribbons on her bonnet tied a bit too snugly beneath her chin. She felt the ground crunching beneath her dancing shoes. She smelled delicious aromas wafting over from the tables of food. Fried chicken. She heard the music, a joyous sound flying around her. She’d been so pleased to see Miss Judith, the postmistress, here dancing—although, with Russell Girard, of all people. She saw Emma dancing, and Darby and Juliana too, in another set.