A Groom for Celia
The Blizzard Brides, Book 3
by Cat Cahill
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at:
http://www.catcahill.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 Cat Cahill
Cover design by EDH Graphics
All rights reserved.
The Blizzard Brides
Welcome to Last Chance, Nebraska!
When the freak blizzard of 1878 kills most of the men in a small Nebraska town, what does it mean for the surviving women and children?
Realizing they need to find men of honor to help rebuild, the women place an advertisement in The Matrimonial Times.
Choosing a husband is more difficult than they thought, when there is an overwhelming response to the ad.
Will these Blizzard Brides find a second chance at love in a town called Last Chance?
Join the Blizzard Brides Reader’s Community
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Blizzard Brides Series Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Epilogue
Books by Cat Cahill
About the Author
Chapter One
Manhattan, New York City - October 1878
He’d finally lost them.
Jack Wendler pressed himself against the peeling wallpaper, just inside the dim building as footsteps pounded past outside. The rain quickly drowned them out, but he didn’t dare move, not until he was certain they were gone.
Water dripped from his hat and coat onto the floor, and still he didn’t move. When nothing else sounded from outside, he let out a deep breath and lit a match to illuminate the entryway. There was old Mr. Fiacco, curled up next to the stairs. Jack stepped over the man’s bag of meager possessions, stopping to drop a coin into it, before shaking out the burnt match and continuing up the stairs in the dark.
He fumbled for his key, ignoring the pitter-patter of the building’s resident mice, and unlocked the door. He had to force his weight into just the right spot to get the thing to open. The building wasn’t much, a four-story rooming house in a part of the city Jack had thought he would have left behind by now. But the rent was right, and so he’d stayed.
Until now.
He lit the lamp on the old desk that sat opposite his bed. The light flickered over walls tinged with years of smoke and illuminated a scarred wooden floor. Jack peeled off his soaked hat and coat before sitting down to the paper he’d bought that morning. He rarely purchased a newspaper, but for some reason, he’d felt compelled to that morning. He smiled wryly at the newsprint. Perhaps in his gut, he’d known this latest deal was going to fall apart even more spectacularly than the ones before.
Perhaps he’d known he’d need to be getting out of the city as soon as possible.
Jack flipped the pages of the paper until he found the advertisements. He pulled the lamp closer as he squinted at the fine print. A full page of ads, desperate for workers, stared back at him. And, thankfully, a few of them were for places far away from New York.
Wanted: Strong, young men for coal mining in Penn.
Needed quickly. Railroadmen in New Mexico Terr.
Furnacemen needed. Fare paid to Cleveland, Ohio.
Jack made a face. He wasn’t against hard work, but none of this was exactly what he had in mind. He was a businessman. He could befriend anyone, sell anything, negotiate a good deal.
Except he’d lost money for at least six different investors on four different deals over the past few years—all of which had collapsed before they’d had a chance to earn a penny.
He rubbed the back of a hand across his eyes. Maybe he ought to try a different line of work. Something with less risk. Something that didn’t involve other people’s money. And something far, far away from Manhattan, preferably where none of the men whose money he’d lost could find him.
But he wasn’t so sure about anything that required backbreaking labor.
He blinked away the weariness that threatened to take over and turned the page to find an entirely different newspaper. The Matrimonial Times. Jack gave a short laugh. Marriage—that was exactly what he didn’t need right now. This paper must have been accidentally inserted into the one he purchased. He was about to pull it free when one of the ads caught his eye.
Widowed by devastating snowstorm, respectable women seeking reputable men. Object Matrimony. Box 147, Last Chance Nebraska.
Well, that was different. He smiled wryly at the name of the town. Last Chance. That was certainly true of his situation. He could be anything he wanted in a place like that. Maybe they needed a salesman in a store, or a depot master. He was handy with a hammer and a saw—more or less. Or perhaps they could use a barber. Surely that couldn’t be too difficult.
He wasn’t sure about the marriage bit, though. Having female company wouldn’t be so awful, but marriage? He’d courted Miss Sarah Rogers briefly last spring, before he’d lost her father’s investment in a meatpacking business. How was he to
