A Groom for her Wounded Heart (Preview)

Prologue

Redstone Valley, Arizona Territory 

1881

“It’s hot enough to give the flies sunburn today,” Pa commented. 

Clara threw him a wry smile. Nobody felt much like chattering, not crammed together as they were, all waiting for the stagecoach. But Pa, of course, could not keep quiet for more than five minutes at a time. 

She met Ma’s eyes, and they shared a smile. 

“I do not know what I’d do without your incessant talking, Harvey,” she announced, shaking her head and slipping an arm through his. “I’d go crazy in that silence all by myself.”

“You’re too clever to go crazy,” Pa shot back, quick as a wink. 

Clara hid a smile. Yesterday had been her parents’ twenty-first wedding anniversary. Clara herself had arrived exactly one year after their wedding day. They hadn’t done much in the way of celebrating the anniversary. Money was a little tight, a constant state of things when it came to owning a ranch, so they’d only cooked roast chicken and a few vegetables as a special meal. Her sister May had baked Pa’s favorite—apple pie—and Clara had made a little spiced punch, Ma’s favorite drink. 

It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. At fifteen, May was already the best baker in the family, so the apple pie was a success. And the spiced punch had lots of rum in it, so that was a success too. 

The stagecoach appeared in the distance, a heavy, lumbering thing which rattled so loudly that she couldn’t think of anything else. It was a fairly new coach, but already the sides were thick with dust and dirt.

“Here we go,” Ma sighed, picking up her baskets. “Let’s hope the afternoon is a little cooler once we get back from town. With all of these baskets full, they’ll be heavy, and I’m tired already.”

Other travelers prepared themselves to climb aboard. They were all in the same boat as Clara and her parents–left without horses or carts, but with a powerful need to get to town. Redstone Valley had a general store, of course, but there were a lot of things you couldn’t get there. At least once a month, most people made the trip to Bailiff’s Junction, which most people just called the Big Town. So, unless you were willing to wreck your own horse and cart on the rough, stony roads–to say nothing of risking bandits–it was generally best to take the stagecoach. 

The coach was already more than half full. It was driven by a grubby-looking coachman who wore a hat so dirty and sweat-grimed that it appeared to be striped. As Clara watched, waiting her turn, he surreptitiously withdrew a battered flask from his coat and took a long gulp. 

She frowned, shaking her head. 

Ahead of them, the coach was pretty much full by then. As always, she and Pa and Ma had been elbowed to the back of the queue. A few younger and stronger people had given up on finding a seat inside and just scrambled up onto the top of the coach. It was probably cooler up there, too. Some people even hung off the sides. The coach swayed on its wheels, the axles groaning. 

“Come on,” Pa urged. “Our turn. There are some seats just in the middle there.”

Some seats was an exaggeration. Realistically there was only one space left, right in the middle of the long, hard coach seat. Pa plunked himself down determinedly and shoved up against the people on either side until there was room for Ma to squeeze in beside him. 

Clara paused in the doorway, frowning. There really wasn’t room for her. 

“Should I go home?” she asked. “I could go back and look after May.”

May’s head cold was not bad enough to really need nursing, although Ma had laid the back of her hand on the girl’s forehead and proclaimed that she wasn’t coming to town today. May had complained nonstop about that. 

“Here, my dear,” an old woman spoke up before Ma or Pa could answer. She shuffled aside and lifted her basket onto her knee. “You can squeeze in beside me, if you like.”

The decision was made. Clara nodded grateful and clambered into the coach, sliding in beside the old woman and a thin, sour-faced man. She was the last person to get onboard, and the door slammed behind her. 

There was a moment of taut silence, just enough time to give Clara chance to notice how foul the air in the coach smelled. It stunk of bad breath, of fish and unwashed bodies and the stale, musty scent of a place which was never cleaned and seldom aired. It was hot, too, almost as hot as the oppressive, sun-drenched earth outside, made humid by all the bodies pressed together. 

In short, it was very uncomfortable. 

I won’t be here for long, she reminded herself, just as the coach lurched forward. 

They picked up speed quickly; the brown, scrubby landscape shooting by. Conversation was impossible, even if Clara hadn’t been focused on pushing down nausea. The road was uneven, with stones jutting out here and there and deep divots in the roadway that would never be filled in. Most people would slow down, carefully maneuvering around them, but not their coachman. Careless of the comfort of his passengers, he flew over the potholes and rocks, jolting them all painfully around. They went over a particularly nasty divot, jolting Clara so hard that her teeth clacked together. 

“He’s going too fast,” Pa remarked, frowning, and stood up, wobbling, to knock on the coach roof. “Slow down! Slow down!”

The coach did not slow down. Clara wasn’t sure whether the coachman hadn’t heard or wasn’t listening. She thought uneasily about the flask the driver had been sipping from. Was he drunk already? It was mid-morning, and it seemed unbelievable that somebody could already be drunk. But then, what about the drunks at the saloons? They were drunk by this time of day, so obviously it could be done.

On cue, the coach bounced across a deep pothole so hard that everybody cried out. Several people were jolted out of their seats, and somebody by the window smacked his forehead against the side of the coach and shouted in pain. 

Swallowing hard, Clara glanced across the coach to where her parents sat. Ma’s eyes were huge, heavy with worry. Pa stood up again, clearly planning to bang on the roof of the coach once more. Clara opened her mouth to tell him to sit down, that it was no good, that their only choice was to hang on and hope. 

At that moment, she distinctly felt one of the front wheels go into another deep pothole, with a jolt and an echoing, sickening crack. People screamed, and the world seemed to spin. 

Later, Clara couldn’t remember the details of what happened. Perhaps that was for the best. 

She opened her eyes and found that she was lying on something hard, face down, her cheek pressed painfully against the ground. All around her came the sound of weeping and moaning, with voices crying out, their words unintelligible. 

I’m lying on the roof of the coach, she realized, with faint disinterest. The roof had become the floor, with pieces of shattered, vengefully sharp glass resting only inches from her nose. The coach itself seemed to be crumpled, all pressed in around her. Something warm pushed her foot. It was a person, she thought, but when she lifted her head to look, a breathless pain tore through her, following the line of her spine. 

Is my back broken? She thought, trying to suck in a breath. Some half-forgotten instinct screamed inside her head, warning her not to move, not to move an inch. She lay entirely still, hardly daring to breathe. Licking her lips, Clara managed to speak. 

“Ma? Pa? I…I’ve hurt myself. Where are you?”

She could hear voices around her but could not move enough to see them. There were shuffling and grating sounds, as if heavy objects were being pushed around. Somebody was crying, a slow, helpless sound of misery. 

The pain was unbearable, even when she did not move. Clara was not used to pain. The worst pains she’d experienced were the cramps from her monthlies, or the occasional headache. Even those didn’t come often. This pain felt as though she was being torn apart. It throbbed, ripping through her. It was her back, of that she was certain. Did people survive broken backs? She could move her fingers and hands, if she wished, but did not dare try her legs. She could feel them, but the pain got worse when she tried.

“Ma?” Clara tried again. “Where are you? It’s me, it’s Clara. Pa?”

Were they trapped under something? The entire coach had been crumpled like a piece of tin. She thought briefly about the people clinging onto the top and sides of the coach, and of the poor horses, harnessed up. It wasn’t their fault their driver was a drunken fool. 

Why weren’t Ma and Pa answering her? She tried to shift again, in such a way as not to move her spine at all. 

Well, that was impossible. The pain came raging back, forcing Clara to lie entirely still, her eyes pressed closed. A hot tear leaked out from under lashes. 

“Ma? Pa?” she whispered again, but this time she had no hope at all that they would answer her. She knew exactly what had happened. 

“Don’t leave me. Please.” 

Chapter One

Two Years Later, Willow Ridge Ranch

As usual, the familiar dull, twinges of pain woke Clara from a fitful sleep. Sighing, she took stock of her own body before opening her eyes. 

It was just her back which hurt that morning. The pain radiated up and down her spine, a quiet reminder that all was not well. The weather had been damp lately, which generally made the pain worse than usual. 

Lying still in bed would not do any good, so Clara sighed hard again and sat up. 

She’d overslept, but not by much. Pale early morning sunlight filtered in through the window, sneaking in through the cracks in the curtains. Yawning, she stretched her arms above her head. Stretching tended to help the pain. 

She got up, moving stiffly around the room at first, then more fluidly as her limbs and muscles woke up and stretched out. 

I am twenty-two years old, and I hobble around my bedroom like an old woman. 

The thought was not a pleasant one, nor was it a new one. Clara had plenty of experience in pushing it aside. She washed quickly, pulled on a worn old calico dress, and tied a clean apron around her waist. 

Movement caught her eye, and she glanced up to find her own reflection staring at her. The only mirror in the room was placed above her dressing table. A picture of Ma and Pa sat there, each picture carefully swathed in black crepe. Out of habit, Clara reached out, touching a forefinger to each of her parents’ faces in turn. 

“I wish you were here,” she whispered. “I wish we’d never taken the coach to town that day. I wish…” she broke off. Empty wishes would do her no good, none at all.

Clara had always been proud of how equally she resembled both of her parents. She had Ma’s honey-blonde hair—a rare color, she was learning—and Pa’s large, laughing brown eyes, fringed with thick black lashes. Her skin freckled and turned olive in the sun, just like Pa’s, and she had her mother’s long, vulpine nose which somehow seemed to pull all of her features together. 

She was pretty, just like Ma had been. 

When Ma was my age, she didn’t limp around the house on bad days, Clara thought grimly, turning away from her reflection. She didn’t chew willow bark for pain and put hot bricks on the small of her back to ease the discomfort. 

She wasn’t an invalid at the age of twenty-two. 

That was enough. Clara left her room, closing the door behind her. Her old room had been up in the attic, a sprawling, sunlit space which she had been so proud of. In the early days after the accident, there was no question at all of her getting all the way up there. Even now, she would struggle with the ladder, so the attic room now belonged to May, and Clara turned an old back parlor into her bedroom. 

A long, thin corridor connected the back parlor to the front of the house, where the large parlor and the kitchen were. The big parlor—they’d always called it the ‘good’ parlor—had been Ma’s pride and joy. Ma used to spend some time every single day sweeping and dusting the room, polishing up her beloved China ladies and cleaning the brass. They hadn’t used the good parlor very often, of course, and even though the back parlor was now Clara’s room, in the last two years they hadn’t used the space at all. During the long, cold evenings, Clara and her sister sat in the kitchen, staring meditatively into the stove. 

It wasn’t exactly how she’d imagined her life at twenty-two years old. 

Clara slipped into the good parlor first, running her eye over the place. She would dust it later and get some cobwebs down from the ceiling. 

“Breakfast is nearly ready,” a male voice called from the kitchen. She withdrew and headed that way. 

A man stood at the kitchen table, preparing lunch pails for the day. Clara briefly remembered a time when he had prepared up to two dozen lunch pails a day to feed all of the Winslow ranch workers. More, when there were seasonal workers to feed. Since Ma and Pa were gone, however, those two dozen workers had disappeared, dwindling down to only two. Jonas Pike and Caleb Rouke were the only ones who hadn’t left when the money dried up.

“Is May down yet, Pike?” she enquired. 

Pike snorted. “She certainly is not. She’ll be down once she smells food, of course. There are bacon and eggs for breakfast and dripping for the bread. Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

He shot her a quick, calculating look. “Well, you barely touched supper last night, so you must be hungry. I’ll make you a plate and you’ll eat it.”

There was no room for discussion there. Clara’s back twinged, and she lowered herself into a kitchen chair. They’d once had a much larger table and chair set, pretty and highly polished, but she had sold it along with some other bits of furniture. Caleb had cobbled together a smaller, rougher table to replace it, and had gotten four rickety, mismatched chairs from somewhere. 

Part of the perks of being a Winslow ranch worker was that food was included. Pike had cooked two meals a day for their workers, as well as preparing a lunch pail. Now, he only fed the four of them and worked in a local diner to get his money. Clara couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to pay either of them their proper wages. He and Caleb shared the big, empty old workers’ building, as it was cheaper than taking up lodging in town. Caleb was a young man, with a young man’s energy and his whole life ahead of him, but Clara felt guilty over Pike. Pike was coming up to forty-five years old, with graying black hair, a heavy brow, and dark, narrow eyes. He’d lived a varied life and undergone a lot of hardships. It didn’t seem fair that his loyalty should be rewarded with more hardship. He’d earned a good wage when Pa lived, but now Clara could barely scrape together the money to pay him a few dollars. Some months he didn’t even get that, and he never complained.

Perhaps he should have complained, but then what would she do without him? The ranch had always had its creditors. That was normal. But when Pa died, the bankers and their creditors panicked. The grocery store and the butcher’s called in their bills. The bank pressured Clara to sell the ranch, and when she refused, they raised the interest rates. A woman couldn’t run the ranch alone, they said. 

Most of the ranchers left, afraid that their work would dry up. Some of the more loyal workers stayed, but with their workload doubled or even tripled and all the uncertainty hanging over their heads, they left too, one by one. 

It just wasn’t enough. Men couldn’t work for lodging and food alone. That was what each of the ranch workers had said to her before they quit. It made perfect sense. 

A plate of steaming bacon and eggs plopped down in front of her with a clack, making her flinch. The savory, salty scent of the food went straight to Clara’s stomach. Maybe she was hungry, after all. 

“Caleb’s talking of repairing the southern-most paddock fence today,” Pike said, turning back to the skillet. “He took breakfast early. I’ll help him, if I have time, but I can’t help but wonder whether we could put his energy to work elsewhere. After all, that paddock’s empty.”

“If I can get a good price on some cows come market time, we’ll need a place to put them,” she responded. 

Pike said nothing, but Clara could imagine what he would have said anyway. He would have pointed out that it very likely she’d be outbid at the market. Again. And some of the sellers were apprehensive about selling to a woman. A crippled woman, at that. 

“Your back’s bothering you today, isn’t it?” Pike said after a moment. 

She cleared her throat. “It’s just because the weather’s damp.”

“No, it’s because you helped your sister carry all those heavy baskets in from the market. You’ve got to be careful, Clara.”

She sniffed. “I am careful.”

Pike lifted the skillet off the fire and placed it on the table, with a wooden block underneath to prevent burning the table. Heaven knew they couldn’t afford another one. At this point, Clara wasn’t even sure that they could afford to spare the wood. 

“May told me that the grocer’s getting antsy again,” he said pointedly. “Soon, he’ll request that you pay off everything you’ve bought on credit. Once he does that, the butcher will do the same. Do you have that money?”

Clara said nothing, which was an answer in itself.

“I thought not,” Pike said brusquely. “We need more help on the ranch if we’re to start making money from it. Caleb needs help, more than I can give him.”

He tapped his right thigh to make a point, indicating an old war wound. Clara had seen Pike limp around the house when he was tired. Once or twice, when he’d tried to help Caleb carry something heavy, his leg had given way altogether, folding at the knee like a jack-knife, and he’d collapsed. Pike couldn’t help with the heavy work on the ranch any more than Clara could. 

“Well, we can’t afford more ranch workers,” Clara said at last, meeting his eye. “I could hire a few seasonal workers for cheaper. Maybe some drifters, although the last one emptied the pantry and ran after doing only one day of work.”

Pike grunted. “Don’t I know it. Look, Clara, I’ve been thinking. I can’t bear to see you and May lose this ranch.”

“But Pike, we…”

“No, don’t interrupt, let me finish. We don’t have the money we need to pay our bills, let alone make improvements. We need help. We need…”

“Morning!” May chimed skipping into the kitchen. Pike stopped speaking as sharply as if he’d bitten off his tongue and turned aside. 

“Good morning,” Clara said, feigning brightness. 

May was Pa’s daughter, through and through. She had his drooping brown eyes, the same as Clara, but her hair was thick and black, curling at the ends. Her irrepressible cheerfulness and constant chatter were all Pa, too. 

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, eyeing Clara closely. “Does your back hurt?”

“Oh, no,” Clara lied. “I feel fine.”

Pike glanced briefly at her, but Clara was careful not to meet his gaze. 

“I was wondering, could we afford for me to get a new bonnet? I saw the loveliest straw one in town the other day. It’s got all this pretend fruit on it…” May trailed off. “Never mind,” she continued, rallying. “I can tell by the look on your face that the answer is no.”

“I’m so sorry, May,” Clara said gently. “Things are tight this month.”

Things are tight every month. 

May nodded. She didn’t complain or wheedle, like any other seventeen-year-old girl might do. 

“Well, that’s okay. Could I get a ribbon to spruce up the one I have?”

“I… I’m not sure. Ask me again later.”

“Okay. Okay.” May leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Clara’s head. “I’ll get the cows milked. I won’t be long.”

She went skipping out of the kitchen, humming as she went. Clara watched her go, heart sinking. 

May was beautiful. She was funny, charming, and clever. She’d admitted that she hoped to get married one day. But who’d marry her when she was the heir to a crumbling old ranch like this one? A girl with no money and only debts behind her? An orphan? 

“I see that you’re lying to your sister, then,” Pike said flatly. 

Clara pressed her lips together. “I’m not going to tell May how bad our finances are. I’m not. She shouldn’t be worried about this sort of thing at her age.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “She’ll worry about it when the bailiffs come to take the house.”

Clara’s face twisted, and she turned away. 

“Look, look, I’m sorry,” Pike continued, his voice softening. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to make you understand how bad things are.”

“You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t thought of this, Pike? You think I haven’t thought of what I might do to save us?”

“Yes, but have you thought of everything?” he asked pointedly. 

Clara folded her arms, narrowing her eyes at him. “I feel like you’re getting at something.”

Pike briefly closed his eyes. “You need a husband, Clara. If you were married, that would help matters.”

He had to be joking. He had to be joking. She stared at him for a long moment, waiting for his heavy face to crinkle up into a smile at his own joke. 

It didn’t happen. 

“Well,” Clara said at last, “unless you’re secretly rich and you are offering to marry me, marriage won’t help. Nobody in town would marry me, not with the ranch in the state it’s in.”

“A man will get a better price at the markets,” Pike answered bluntly. “Rage at the unfairness all you like—we both know it’s true. A man will be able to help Caleb on the ranch, freeing you up to manage the business side of things. If we can get a little breathing-space, then we can think about making money. A husband will give you respectability. Again, it might not be fair, but respectability matters.”

“I know that,” she responded sharply. 

“And most men who are thinking of marriage have got at least a little money saved up,” he added. 

“Oh, and he’d just hand that over to me, would he?”

“No, he’d hand it over to help a ranch he partly owned.”

This was a decent point. Clara was quiet for a moment, thinking it over. 

A year ago… no, only six months ago, she would have laughed aloud at the idea of marrying simply to save the ranch. She would have been sure, absolutely sure, that she could summon up something, some plan, to save the ranch herself. 

Well, no help was coming. No magical idea was going to turn their fortunes around. There was some major flaw in every plan Clara had conjured up. No money, no leverage, no one to help her. 

There was a flaw in this one, too. 

“Weren’t you listening?” she said at last. “Nobody will marry me. I’ve got no money, no prospects, and I’m crippled. I probably can’t even have children.”

“You are not crippled,” Pike responded, somewhat sharply. “And I didn’t mean that you should find someone from the town.”

“I don’t have the time, money, or energy to trawl the county looking for a husband, Pike.”

He leaned forward, resting his palms on the kitchen table, bringing his eyes on level with hers. 

“I’ve heard of some men, in remote towns, who put advertisements in the paper for brides,” he murmured. “Correspondence brides, they call them.”

“Mail order brides?” she echoed. “Pike, you can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious. Why can’t you do the same? Make it clear what you want from a marriage. We can visit Mr. Phillips, the attorney in town. He always liked your parents, he might draft up a contract as a favor, something to make sure your husband can’t snatch away the ranch from you and put us all out of doors once you’re married. If you can find a man with a little money behind him, or at least one who’s willing to take on a failing ranch, we could have a chance. There are men out there with savings, but not enough to buy themselves a decent amount of land. Men like that would be willing to take a chance.”

A lump formed in Clara’s throat. She swallowed thickly, shaking her head. 

“What… What man like that would want to marry me? What do I have to offer?”

“Besides your land? Family,” Pike answered at once, his dark eyes level and completely serious. “Believe me, Clara. Some men would do anything to have a semblance of family. To not be alone.”

“I don’t…”

“Some men would even forgo a proper wage, working for food and board, simply to be with the people they consider family,” Pike interrupted, with a wry, tired smile. “And yes, I include Caleb and myself among those people.”

She swallowed, glancing away. “You mean a great deal to me, Pike. You all do. I worry that I can’t take care of you as I should, but really, I’m at my wit’s end. And marriage is so… so final.”

He nodded, heaving a tired sigh. “Look, Clara, I don’t mean to push you. This is only a suggestion, and one I’ve thought over time and time again. You shouldn’t have to do this alone, and I know that you want to keep May from working her fingers to the bone on a ranch. I couldn’t bear to see you lose this place. Think it over, won’t you?”

She gave a tiny nod. He nodded in return and picked up his own plate of breakfast. He took it outside and onto the porch, where he ate his breakfast just about every morning. 

That left Clara alone, staring into space. 

A mail-order groom? She’d heard of correspondence brides, of course, and she’d heard of spinsters and widows putting advertisements in the paper. However, those women always intended to marry a man with a home, traveling to where he lived. Would a man accept a marriage with things the other way round? Did men even answer that sort of advertisement? 

One thing was becoming clearer, however. Clara’s options were few and far between. She couldn’t keep the reality of their situation from May for much longer. May would not complain, of course. She never did. She’d roll up her sleeves and get to work with everyone else. Not having ribbons for her bonnets would be the least of her worries. 

Clara closed her eyes. 

When I was seventeen, my life was carefree. I had new dresses and nice bonnets. I did chores, but nothing too difficult. I spent time with my family, and never imagined a world where life would be so harsh. I never imagined a world without love. I always thought that if I got married, it would be like Ma and Pa’s marriage—year after year of happiness. 

I want the same for my sister. At any cost. 

She opened her eyes and drew in a determined breath. Her mind was made up. If a mail-order groom could save May and Willow Ridge Ranch, then so be it. 

Chapter Two

Bailiff’s Junction, One Week Later

“Ugh. Do you think they accidentally cook the eggs this badly, or is it a special skill?” 

Elias glanced up at his companion, and bit back a smile. 

“I think you’re a little spoiled, Wade,” he commented. “Wasn’t that new wife of yours a cook in some big, fancy house? I daresay her eggs are a good deal better than this.”

The sheriff wrinkled his nose, gingerly pushing his greasy plate of eggs and bacon away. “How you eat this stuff day in, day out, is beyond me.”

That was a fair point. Elias was pretty sure that at one point he too would have turned up his nose at Mrs. Hobbs’s vile attempts at cooking. That was before, though, and this was now. 

Mrs. Hobbs’s boarding house was pretty well known in town for being serviceable and cheap, but not necessarily good. The rooms were poky and smelly, the breakfast greasy and rubbery, and supper was always stew and black bread. 

Lila wouldn’t have tolerated it. She had always been picky with her food. 

The thought of his wife sent a familiar rush of nausea through the pit of his stomach, and Elias pushed away his half-finished plate, too. 

Wade watched him carefully, tapping the tip of his knife against the plate. 

“You could afford a better place than this, you know,” he remarked at last. “I’ll bet that the money from the house sale is still sitting in your bank. You might have sold it for less than it was worth, but the money’s still good. You could buy a smaller parcel of land around here.”

“No.”

Wade blinked at the sharp response. Undeterred, he leaned forward. 

“Look, Elias, I think you know why I invited you to talk.”

“I can guess.”

“This black mood of yours won’t do any good. You’re hurting yourself, and you’re driving away your friends. It’s been two years, for God’s sake.”

Elias tightened his fingers into a fist. “You think it feels like two years? Wade, it feels like yesterday. I still have nightmares about it.”

Wade swallowed, glancing away. “I understand that. Such a tragedy in this town… well. It affected us all. And I can’t even begin to imagine how you feel, watching your wife die that way. I know you blame yourself, but that ain’t true. You know that it’s me to blame, when you get down to it.”

Elias closed his eyes. “Wade, don’t. It is not your fault.”

“If you’re going to blame yourself, you have to blame me too.”

“It’s not so simple.”

Wade fell silent for a moment. Elias glanced wearily around the gloomy dining room, waiting for Wade to speak. He knew exactly what his friend was going to say. He would remind him that Lila was up in heaven now, watching him and bemoaning the mess he was making of his life. Wade would say that Elias ought to move on, to forgive himself, to try. 

He was going to convince him to take Doctor Johnson’s place in town. 

Wade glanced up, meeting his friend’s eye, and narrowed his gaze. 

“You know every dang-fool thing I’m going to say, don’t you?”

Elias winced, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Yeah.”

Wade puffed out his cheeks, sitting back in his seat. In the six months since his marriage, Wade had put on a few pounds. He was twenty-seven, round-faced, good-natured, and probably the best sheriff their little town had ever had. His face was equally plump and cheerful. Elias didn’t know his wife well—she’d come to town after Lila died, and he hadn’t socialized since before that—but it was pretty clear that the two of them liked each other. 

Wade’s comfortable plumpness probably only made Elias look skinnier. He wasn’t thin, exactly, but his appetite had vanished entirely, and now he needed a good belt to keep his trousers from falling down. It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad. Besides that, getting a good wash at Mrs. Hobbs’s establishment wasn’t easy. There was no way of taking a proper bath, so one was limited to sponge baths in one’s own room. His brown hair was black with grease, and he needed a good, thorough soak. 

If Lila could see me now, she would be disappointed. 

He wasn’t going to think of that now, though. Clearing his throat, Elias leaned back. 

“I’m not taking the doctor’s place in town,” he said flatly. 

Wade sighed, his shoulders sagging. “We need a good doctor.”

“Which is exactly why I won’t take the position.”

“You are a good doctor.”

“Not good enough,” Elias snapped, heat rushing into his voice. “I wasn’t good enough, was I, Wade?”

The sheriff reddened, glancing away. An uncomfortable silence descended between them. It wasn’t good to snap at one’s friends like that, but Elias couldn’t seem to help himself these days. He’d already gotten into an argument with the greengrocer, who’d tried to set him up with a niece or a god-daughter or something. It wasn’t the greengrocer’s fault. Widowers generally did remarry, after a year or two. Lila had been dead for fourteen months at the time, so the poor man probably thought his suggestion would be a welcome one. 

It wasn’t. 

Anyway, Elias had spoken too harshly and hadn’t been allowed a line of credit there ever since. 

I’ve got to get out of this town. 

Wade interrupted his thoughts with a heavy, tired sigh. He scratched his head slowly. 

“I’m running out of arguments, Elias,” Wade said at last. There was a weariness in his voice which hadn’t been there before. “I want to help you; I want so bad to help you. Everybody in town does, but… but you don’t want to help yourself, do you? I can’t imagine what it feels like, losing a wife like that. I know you’re angry, and feeling guilty, and you’re still grieving, but if you don’t try to change, nothing will change.”

“And what change would you suggest?” Elias responded tightly. “Get married?”

“I’m not telling you to rush out and find a wife. You said you didn’t want to fall in love again, that you couldn’t fall in love again. If that’s the case, then fine. I’m telling you to find purpose. A project, you know? Buy a little ranch, if the money will stretch that far. Help the orphanage. Take over from the local doctor, for God’s sake. Practice medicine again. Help people. That’s how you’ll help yourself. But do something, Elias, please. I can’t bear watching you stay here, week after week, in this nasty little boarding house. No wonder you’re so melancholy. I’m melancholy after only an hour in this wretched place.”

Elias said nothing. There was no counter argument to make, really. 

At last, Wade heaved another sigh and rose from the table. 

“I have to go,” he said at last. “I have a job and responsibilities to think about. I’ve got a purpose, and I wish you would find one, too.”

“I’m guessing you won’t be meeting me here for breakfast for a while, then,” Elias observed. 

“Oh, come on, Elias. Don’t make it sound as if I’m abandoning you. Look, I’ve even thought of inviting you to come stay with me.”

“With you and your new wife? I don’t think she’d like that, Wade. I’d only bring you all down. I appreciate that you want to help me, but… but some people can’t be helped, can they? Maybe I’m one of those people.”

Wade was silent for a moment, chewing his lower lip. 

“You need purpose, Elias,” he said at last. “Purpose. Here, take this.”

He took out a crumpled newspaper from his pocket and handed it over. Elias took it, lifting his eyebrows. 

“Yesterday’s newspaper? What am I going to do with this? What am I even looking for?”

“I don’t know. Inspiration, I guess.” 

Taking out a handful of coins, Wade set them down on the table. It would cover his breakfast and Elias’s. Without waiting for a reply, he jammed a wide-brimmed hat on his head, nodded to his friend, and strode out of the cramped dining room. 

Elias sat still for a moment, watching his friend go. 

He knew friends like Wade didn’t come along often. He was lucky to have him, and it was clear that Wade was at the end of his tether. Some men liked to fix things, and they got antsy when they couldn’t fix a problem. 

I’m a problem that Wade can’t fix. It’s driving him crazy. 

It wasn’t fair for Wade to be so tense and preoccupied, not when he was newly married and so happy with his life. Children would come along soon enough. He was already the town sheriff, and with a family to manage on top of that, it was pretty clear to Elias that soon his friend would have no time for him at all. 

That was the way things went, wasn’t it? 

He sat back in his seat, letting out a shuddering breath. It was close to ten o’ clock in the morning, and nobody else remained in the dining room. Mrs. Hobbs was scrubbing tables in the corner, eyeing him balefully and clearly hoping that he’d finish his meal and go. Everybody had things to do. 

Not me, though. I’ve nothing but time. Nothing but long, empty days with nothing in them. 

A familiar wave of self-pity and misery tightened Elias’ chest. Swallowing, he picked up the paper, smoothing out the crumpled edges. He flipped through the pages, scanning each one. The articles blurred into nothing. The help wanted pages contained nothing of interest. There were a few medical assistants needed here and there in various parts of the county, but he didn’t even stop to look at those. 

He paused when he reached the Correspondence pages. Wade’s wife, Penelope, had been found through those very pages. They’d written letters for the best part of a year before Penelope finally came up here to marry him. Elias vaguely remembered thinking that it was a bad idea, and that Wade had taken leave of his senses. 

More fool me, Elias thought glumly. They’re happy. They’re in love. 

He’d been happy and in love once, hadn’t he? Before everything crumbled. He scanned the listings, mostly out of idle curiosity. They were all more or less the same. 

Rancher seeks wife to help raise children and keep house. Ideal woman would hope for more children and be willing to help out on a ranch.

Widow looking for a husband with no children who can offer a comfortable home. No liquor drinkers need apply.

Young man, very healthy with a good house and good prospects seeks young wife. No widows.

Were people truly looking for love or just comfort? Just company? Did these men want wives, or just people to keep their houses, cook their food, and raise their children? Did the women care who they married, or did they only want to be looked after? 

Not that it was a crime, of course, wanting to be looked after. 

The very last listing on the page caught Elias’ attention. This one was a little different from the others. In fact, it was the only one of its kind on the page. 

Young woman searching for husband, must be willing to move into home. 

I am a twenty-two-year-old woman with a ranch of my own. The land has a great deal of promise, but I am unable to manage it myself. Work needs to be done, and a lot of it. I need a strong man, aged anywhere between twenty and thirty-five, who is willing to work and invest in a place that he will part own. A man with some savings is preferable but not required. 

It would be an arrangement of convenience, with the marriage taking place for legal reasons and for respectability. You will be required to sign a contract ensuring that the ranch continues in my name, although as my husband, it would be legally your home too. You would own part of the ranch, but not all of it. Please write with any queries or applications, but we must meet in person for an interview. 

Elias chuckled to himself, shaking his head. The woman was crazy if she thought men would agree to that. Under the law, a man owned everything that his wife did. Maybe it wasn’t exactly fair, but that was the way it was. Why would a man sign away what he expected to gain entirely legally when they got married? He and Lila had saved hard to buy their ranch, and while that money belonged to them both, legally it had only belonged to him. If he’d been a vile, vicious sort of man, he could have taken every penny of their savings and spent it on liquor, and the law would have been entirely on his side. 

That was wrong, of course. No decent man could think otherwise. However, the men scanning the pages for a wife did not care about fairness. They’d never agree to marry a woman only to let her keep ownership of her ranch. Even part of it. 

Besides, men who took correspondence brides wanted to be properly married. They wanted a warm bed at night, to say nothing of children. This woman made it very clear that this was not an option. 

Desperation rang out in every word of that note, however. Elias could almost hear the woman’s tired, hopeless voice. 

Help didn’t come easily in this world. 

“You nearly done, Doctor Hart?” Mrs. Hobbs snapped, suddenly materializing at his side. Her sudden appearance made him jump. “I have to clear the tables.” 

Elias got to his feet, offering her a wry smile. “I’m done, sure. Don’t call me doctor, Mrs. Hobbs. I’m not a doctor anymore.”

The woman gave him a disapproving stare. “You don’t stop being a doctor, do you? It’s a thing that you just are.”

This was surprisingly deep, considering that it was Mrs. Hobbs that was saying it. Blinking, he backed away. He took the paper with him, tucking it under his arm. 

A ranch that needs work? That sounds like a project. An interesting one. 

He and Lila had toiled for days, weeks, months to get their ranch in shape. It was worth it. Flashes of memory returned, memories of him and his wife putting up fences and whitewashing walls, laughing and talking over their future plans. 

He swallowed past a lump in his throat. The usual heavy melancholy was there in his mind, as usual, but there was something else now, too. 

Interest? Hope? He wasn’t sure. 

“Mrs. Hobbs,” Elias said suddenly, “I need some paper and a pen.”

The woman scowled at him. “Left half your breakfast, you did. I’ll give you a pen and a couple of sheets of paper, but you’ll have to pay. There’s a bottle of ink in the parlor but be sparing with it or you’ll pay for that, too.”

Elias nodded mildly. “That’s okay. I have an important letter to write, you see.”