by Cat Cahill
Celia glanced at Mr. Wendler’s letter under her hand. He had nice penmanship—hurried, as if he wrote frequently, and decisive. She liked it.
Faith gave Celia a tenuous smile. “There is nothing that will change your mind?”
Celia shook her head. It was as if God had ensured Mr. Wendler’s letter had reached her and her alone. As if he was meant for her.
“Then you should know this Mr. Wendler is already in town. He’s the one who delivered the satchel of letters to me at the post office.”
Chapter Three
Jack shoved his chilled hands into his pockets outside the church. He hadn’t been in this town a full twenty-four hours—if one could call this freezing speck on the plains a town— and he’d found nothing with which to entertain himself. The shops were all closed, as was the saloon. Even the sheriff’s office was locked up tight. The ladies of this town appeared to run everything, and they were all occupied.
From what he’d gathered, the majority of the men in Last Chance had all perished in a strange pair of blizzards that had arisen in September. It was the sort of thing that might make a man wonder if he oughtn’t get right back on that stage and head elsewhere, someplace he was less likely to be killed by the weather.
Uncertain what to do with himself in a town with nothing open, he’d ducked into the warm church rectory earlier and spent a strangely fascinating hour with the preacher. Pastor Barnaby Collins had strong enough opinions that Jack was sure he’d be just the sort to give a good sermon. But the man’s overly insightful thoughts about some of the women in town made Jack squirm. He’d quickly swallowed the last of the bread and cheese the preacher had offered him before making excuses about needing to meet someone else.
Now he wandered the empty streets of the town, likely to freeze to death and wondering what to do with himself.
He’d been the only person to disembark the stage in this desolate place yesterday. It wasn’t surprising. The entire bone-jarring ride, he’d questioned why anyone would ever look at this flat stretch of land and decide to settle here. Even the ground was a dull shade of tan in between the flood debris that lined each side of the Grand Platte River. The wide-open space felt suffocating, and the stage driver’s stories of the blizzards were downright terrifying. He nearly bought another ticket elsewhere—Oregon, California, Canada. It didn’t matter.
But then he’d spotted the bluffs.
He’d noticed them as the stage grew closer to Last Chance. Rising like a spire attempting to scrape the clouds, a formation the stage driver had called Chimney Rock stood south of the town like some sort of sentinel. And then off to the west, more flat-topped bluffs sat in the distance. It was one of the most strangely beautiful and unexpected things Jack had ever seen.
And that alone kept him moving away from the stagecoach, hauling not only his own case but a heaving satchel of mail he’d managed to acquire on his way out of New York. He’d run straight to the train station the night he’d left, only to discover the next train out didn’t leave until morning. And so, glancing over his shoulder every other second, he’d made his way to the offices of The Matrimonial Times on Fifth Avenue to drop off his letter instead of posting it. It was early when he arrived, but he’d found a harried and very overwhelmed clerk sorting through an entire stack of mail to the ladies of Last Chance, Nebraska. Fearing he’d arrive before his letter, Jack offered to deliver them all, and the clerk had happily filled a satchel and handed it to him—along with payment for his trouble.
Curiosity had gotten the better of him on the train west, and he’d poked through a few of the envelopes threatening to fall from the satchel. There were so many. That made for an awful lot of men for these women to choose from. What if the women pulled letters from the top and didn’t bother searching farther into the bag? If they turned him down, he wanted it to be on his merits, not because they simply didn’t get to his letter. He’d searched through the bag until he found his and made sure it sat near the top.
The bag had traveled with him when he’d left the train for the stagecoach, the other passengers eyeing it curiously. Uncertain where to find the post office in this town, he stopped a young woman near the depot.
“Pardon me, miss,” he said as he removed his hat. “Could you tell me where the post office is? I’ve been charged with delivering this mail.” He shifted the bag so she could see it.
The woman’s eyes widened as she took in how full the satchel was. “It’s right there.” She pointed to a small building immediately adjacent to the depot.
Jack thanked her and made his way toward the building. It looked like a house, built of timber likely from the trees that lined the river running by the town, and he wouldn’t have guessed it served any other purpose if it weren’t for the little wooden sign hanging by the door that read Last Chance Telegraph & Post and the wires that ran to the building from where the railroad had plans to build tracks.
His eyes were so fixed on the building that he didn’t see the woman he bumped into. “My apologies,” he said, taking off his hat. “It appears I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
The blonde woman scowled at him. “Well, you should pay better attention next time.” She moved in front of him and continued to the door of the post office building.
Jack followed her, wishing she were headed elsewhere. When she turned and glared at him, he said, “It appears we’re going to the same place.”
She shook her head and disappeared inside, closing the door behind her.
It felt odd to simply enter a place that resembled a home, so Jack knocked. When no one answered, he opened it himself and slid inside. The lady he’d bumped into was deep in conversation with another woman, this one with light brown hair and an angelic face. He stood there uncomfortably, in what appeared to be the front room of a house. It had been outfitted with a long wooden counter that split the room in two.
Jack held the satchel awkwardly in front of him, wondering what to do. He finally stepped forward and placed it on the counter.
The brunette glanced at the letters peeking out from the top of the bag and promptly burst into tears.
What was he supposed to do now? Comfort her? Was she the town’s postmaster? The woman with the pale blonde hair glared at him as if he were the reason the other lady was crying. She wrapped an arm around the woman who was sobbing.
“Who are you?” the blonde lady demanded, still glaring at him.
“I’m Jack Wendler,” he replied. “I brought the mail satchel. The, uh, newspaper office asked me to deliver those letters.” Her gaze softened when she glanced at the bag on the counter.
He took a few backward steps toward the door, eager to escape. But the gentleman in him couldn’t simply leave a woman crying. “Will she be all right? Should I fetch someone?”
“She’ll be just fine,” the blonde woman said. “Thank you for delivering the letters.”
Jack took that as his cue to exit. He tipped his hat at the ladies, and slid out the door as quickly as possible. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it in disbelief. If that wasn’t just the oddest thing. Hopefully there were a lot of women in this town, and hopefully most of them were not like either of those ladies.
Stepping away from the post and telegraph office, he wondered if he shouldn’t inquire into a boardinghouse or a hotel. He’d wandered up and down the Stage Coach Road and Main Street until he found a likely place.
Exhausted from his journey, Jack had never slept so well—or so late. When he finally emerged from his room earlier that afternoon, too late even for lunch at the boardinghouse, he went in search of a restaurant. Surely this town had someplace in which a man could get something to eat, or at least a cup of coffee to ward off this cold air. But he’d barely gone a block when women began appearing from all over, moving quickly toward the church. Jack plastered himself against the side of a building to stay out of their way. The weeping woman from yesterday strode by with another lady—this one dressed like a man. It wasn�
��t long before the town was seemingly empty, and he stood alone on the sidewalk.
A half hour had passed, during which Jack had made a circuit of the town at least four times. He found himself standing in front of a closed restaurant called Dawson’s Diner, dreaming of soup and hearty slices of bread, when the ladies streamed out of the church at the far end of the main street, each of them clutching a stash of letters. Jack strode back up the street, watching them curiously. Some hid smiles while others looked resolute, and many seemed sullen. He recognized the sharp blonde, and then the weepy woman from the post office, now arm-in-arm with a stunning redhead. They all disappeared yet again into various buildings and houses, some of them riding out of town on horseback or in wagons. That was when Pastor Collins had appeared from seemingly nowhere and invited him in for a refreshment.
Now, belly full of food and mind full of Pastor Collins’ strange ramblings, Jack hesitated. A few women had begun emerging from the buildings again, and the town seemed to slowly be reopening for business.
But something strange had started to happen as the women reappeared.
A plain-looking woman passed and smiled shyly at him, while a lady across the street had been watching him for a few minutes. In fact, all the ladies who’d reappeared on the streets of Last Chance glanced at him curiously, some more blatantly than others. He felt like some sort of oddity on display.
It made Jack want to race back to the depot and inquire about the next stage out. What was he doing here? He’d never lived outside the city. He had no experience in anything other than convincing men of means to invest in one of his business ideas—all of which had fallen through. He’d never even gotten to the point of running one of those businesses. And now he was here, in the middle of nowhere, presenting himself as an accomplished businessman. And now all these women were looking at him as if he was someone they might marry.
Jack almost laughed out loud. He’d be someone’s husband. He might even become someone’s father, if the woman who chose him had children.
Trepidation crept up his spine. Was he ready for that? In his twenty-four years, all he’d managed to accomplish was barely scraping by on his affable nature.
The depot sat not too far down the street. He could walk there now and purchase a ticket with the last of his remaining funds. He could go to Oregon and get work cutting timber. It wouldn’t be his first choice, but at least no one would expect him to marry and provide for a wife, much less an entire family.
Fear made him take a step in the direction of the depot—until someone called his name.
“Mr. Wendler?” a hesitant female voice said again from behind him.
He turned to find the hysterical woman from the post and telegraph office standing with the redheaded woman she’d left the church with earlier. They were about the same height, but if Jack thought the woman from the post office was pretty, he had no words at all for the lady next to her.
“Pardon me, I don’t mean to bother you,” the redhead said, her cheeks tingeing to the same shade as her hair. “But are you Mr. Jack Wendler?”
Jack’s heart pounded erratically when she said his name again, and he swallowed, trying to find his voice. What was wrong with him? He generally had no trouble at all when it came to speaking with women. He’d managed to capture Miss Rogers’ attention in New York within just a few words. And now it seemed words had escaped him entirely. Perhaps it was all this thinking about marriage, or the other women he could feel watching him at that very moment.
The brunette, her eyes again red from tears, eyed him suspiciously. “That’s what he said his name was.”
“It was. I mean, it is. I’m Jack Wendler.” He tripped over his words like a young boy noticing a pretty girl for the first time in his life.
“Hmm.” The woman from the post office narrowed her eyes at him, as if he’d failed some test she’d given him. Meanwhile, her companion’s blush deepened even further, and Jack couldn’t draw his eyes away.
“I’m Mrs. Thornton,” the pink-cheeked woman said. Her voice trembled and she clutched her hands together as if she were nervous.
Jack drew in a breath, trying to steady himself, and gave her what he hoped was an easy smile. “Well, Mrs. Thornton, it is quite the pleasure to meet you.”
“This is my sister,” she replied. “Also Mrs. Thornton.”
Jack raised an eyebrow, wondering what the explanation was for that, but didn’t press for it. He was far more interested in getting to know more about the first Mrs. Thornton. Her hair sat in fiery swoops at the back of her head, and curls fell from her pins, framing her heart-shaped face. She regarded him with pale green eyes, and her skin . . . It was so perfect he was tempted to raise a hand and run his fingers across her cheek. He clenched his hands to squelch the desire and tried to summon the old Jack, the one who could think straight even in the presence of a beautiful woman.
“Tell me,” he said, “are you among those ladies in Last Chance looking to marry again?” Where had that come from? He’d nearly just run out of town at the thought of marriage, and now here he was, willingly bringing it up.
But it worked. Mrs. Thornton ducked her head, a tiny smile making her features even more intriguing.
“Why do you ask?” her sister inquired, her eyes fixed on him. She watched him as if he were there to take everything they owned and skip town.
“Faith!” the other woman said in a quiet voice. “Why don’t you get back home? You don’t want to leave the telegraph unmanned for too long.”
Her sister stared at her a moment while Jack looked between them, trying to read their silent conversation. Finally, the woman from the post office sighed loudly and mumbled something about being inappropriate before stalking off across the road.
With her gone, Jack turned his smile back toward Mrs. Thornton. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh, well, I . . .” She looked at her hands before sneaking a glance back up at him. “We received letters. My sister and I, that is. All the ladies in town received letters.”
“Perhaps you don’t need a letter to find an interested gentleman.” Nervousness bubbled under Jack’s words, but he forced it down. More than anything, he wanted this girl to be taken with him, not with some desperate man who wrote a letter.
You’re a desperate man who wrote a letter, a voice in the back of his head reminded him.
“I don’t?” Mrs. Thornton peered up at him through her eyelashes. She seemed a bit shy, this one. He liked that. It was so unlike the women he’d known in New York. What would it take to convince her to set her letters aside and give him a chance? He could stay in town, pay her visits, get to know her better. She must live with her sister at the post office. Maybe he could set up work in one of these shops and continue to pay for a room at the boardinghouse. They could forget this entire letters-and-marriage thing and he could court her normally. And if he decided this place was too small for his liking, he could move on, unencumbered.
“You ought to give those letters to one of the other ladies in town,” he said. “You don’t need them.”
“But why should I do that?” She fished a piece of folded paper from the pocket of her faded blue skirt. “When one of them is from you?”
Chapter Four
Mr. Wendler’s eyes went wide as she held up the letter. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Celia doubted he was a man often rendered speechless.
“Ah,” he finally said. His flirtatious smile had disappeared, and he glanced toward the stage office.
Celia chewed her lip, a bad habit her mother had always gotten after her for. Doubts began to flutter in her stomach. Mr. Wendler wasn’t entirely the man she’d expected, with his smooth words and flirtatious manner instead of the gallant gentleman his letter had made him out to be. But his dark eyes made her throat go dry, and he’d paid her more attention than he did to Faith, which was something that never happened.
But now he looked as if he wanted to race back to the depot. What would
she do? Who knew if any more letters were to come. And if they did, they might all be as pitiful as the others she’d received. She needed a man at the farm, as soon as possible. It was too much to handle by herself, and she couldn’t afford to hire anyone on—if there were even anyone to hire on.
He finally drew his eyes back to her, and watching her for a moment, a warm smile returned to his face. It pulled at the scar at the corner of his mouth and lit up his dark eyes.
Celia exhaled in relief. For a brief moment, she’d feared he only wanted to flirt with her and nothing more. His smile was genuine, much kinder than any of the few Ned had ever given her. And he had written a letter after all, and in it, he’d said he wanted to marry.
Something told her to give him a chance.
Jack swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing even as he held tight to that grin. He appeared nervous, but at least he was still here. “Might I be so bold as to inquire whether you chose my letter?”
She glanced down at the letter still in her hand. “I did,” she said quietly. When she glanced up at him, he was still watching her, his smile even more dazzling than before. Perhaps this was how all men from big cities acted toward women. Celia wouldn’t know. She came from a small town in Mississippi, and no man had ever reacted to her this way before. Even when Aaron began courting Faith, he behaved . . . well, normally. Of course, her sister and Aaron had known one another since childhood, so perhaps that wasn’t the most accurate comparison.
“Did you mean what you wrote in your correspondence?” she asked. She felt bold, asking such a thing, but she refused to marry another man like Ned. She’d rather live alone, penniless with only the barest scraps of food, than subject herself to another loveless union.
He held her gaze. “Every word.”
Celia’s heart seemed to stutter but she couldn’t look away. Her mouth felt parched, as if she’d gone without water for days. She tried to swallow, but it didn’t much help. She gave him a tentative smile as his letter crumpled in her hand. What was she supposed to say next? That they ought to get on over to the church? She felt as if she should offer him refreshments first, or at least sit down in the parlor and get to know him better.