But it had been nice, while it had lasted. Maybe marriage would be like that, having someone pretty to look at all the time who would laugh at his jokes and make him a good dinner.
What he wouldn’t give for a decent meal.
He turned back to the ads in the paper he’d intended to purchase, but his mind kept wandering to those ladies in Nebraska. He set the paper aside with a sigh. It wouldn’t hurt to write, at least. It certainly didn’t commit him to anything. Besides, the idea of running a store that couldn’t fail was appealing. After all, those ranchers and whoever else found their way out there needed somewhere to purchase their sundries. Jack Wendler, prairie shopkeeper, purveyor of fine goods to all persons for fifty miles around.
With a grin, Jack scrounged up a piece of paper—the back of a purchase receipt from Allman’s Dry Goods, where he’d bought a hat on his last investor’s dime. Thankfully, the little ink he had left hadn’t yet dried up. He dipped his pen and began to write. The words flowed, so fast his hand could hardly keep up with his thoughts. He signed his name with a flourish, folded the paper carefully once the ink dried, and placed it into an old envelope.
Crossing out his address on the envelope, he wrote the Fifth Avenue address listed at the top of the ads. He’d just set the letter aside when an impatient knock came from the door.
Jack froze, half standing.
“Wendler! I know you’re in there. That old drunk downstairs said you came through a while ago.” Garrity Shane’s voice barreled through the wooden door, carrying a hint of what he’d do if Jack didn’t open it himself.
Jack silently cursed old Mr. Fiacco, who apparently hadn’t been asleep at all.
Another knock came.
Jack knew exactly why Shane was here. Partnering with Callum Sullivan had been risky, and now that he’d lost the man’s money . . . Jack was certain it was Sullivan’s men chasing him earlier. When they failed, he’d likely sent out the one man he knew could get the job done.
“You gonna hide behind that door like a boy behind his mama’s skirts?” Shane said. “Come out here and face up to the boss about what you did.”
Jack closed his eyes. If he went out there, he was a dead man. At least, he would be once Shane found out he couldn’t pay his boss back for the money he’d lost. Jack had heard more than enough stories about Shane’s work. He’d honed his skills working for Tammany Hall, before going to work for Sullivan. Jack didn’t want to know how many men had met their end with him.
But he wouldn’t be one of them.
“You come out here or I’m coming in to get you,” Shane yelled.
Jack burst into action, shoving the letter into his trousers pocket before snatching his coat and hat. He snagged a worn carpetbag and tossed in a handful of clothing before running across the small room to the window. He shoved the sash up and glanced down to the street below. Two stories was a ways to go, but nothing he couldn’t survive.
Something crashed into the door. There was no more time to think. With a quick prayer, Jack leapt out into the rain and ran for Grand Central Station.
Hopefully those widows in Last Chance wouldn’t be all married up before he got there.
Chapter Two
Last Chance, Nebraska — November 1, 1878
Six envelopes lay neatly spaced out on the kitchen table.
Celia Thornton examined each one, wondering which she should open first. Perhaps the one with the masculine scrawl next to a crossed-out address? Or maybe the envelope with the careful printing? One of the envelopes didn’t look as if it had a man’s handwriting at all. In fact, it looked as if the gentleman had asked a neighbor or a female post office clerk to address his letter for him.
She sat back and pursed her lips. Could one tell a man’s personality by his handwriting? One of these envelopes was her chance at a new, happier life. She hoped she’d chosen them well.
A forlorn sigh drew her attention away from the decision. Her sister, Faith Thornton, sat across from Celia at the small table in her kitchen. The sisters had withdrawn to Faith’s home, which also served as the town of Last Chance’s post and telegraph office, after selecting their letters with the other ladies at the church. Faith’s stack of envelopes lay piled in front of her, and Faith eyed them as if they were a death sentence. And for Faith, it likely felt that way. After all, she’d been deeply in love with her husband.
Unlike Celia.
Celia’s heart went out to her sister, and she laid a hand on Faith’s arm as reassurance. Faith gave her a weak smile.
“Why don’t you open yours first?” Faith said, her voice wavering.
“All right.” Celia turned her attention back to the letters, her heart thumping. What if they were all terrible? Or, perhaps even worse, what if they all sounded wonderful and she couldn’t choose from among them?
Enough thinking. Sitting here wondering wouldn’t change what was inside. Celia drew the letter closest to her—the one with the carefully printed address on the front—and sliced through the envelope with Faith’s letter opener.
Celia began reading the letter silently. She made it only to the second paragraph, where the gentleman expressed his desire to bring his entire family—parents, four younger siblings, and a pair of cousins—to live with them in Last Chance. Celia refolded the letter.
