“Not a good choice?” Faith asked.
Celia passed the letter to her sister and drew a new envelope from among her options. It only took her one paragraph this time to toss the letter aside. The writer made all sorts of demands immediately—about work he would and would not deign to do, food he wanted to eat, the sort of society he liked to keep. Western Nebraska was no place for someone that picky. Celia doubted he’d last the winter.
Celia’s hopes diminished with the next three letters. She felt she wasn’t asking for much, and yet it seemed hard to find. A hard worker. A man unafraid to take up a farm. An honest man. But perhaps most importantly, a kind man with a good heart. One who might grow to love her. One who exuded warmth in his letter. A man who was the opposite of her deceased husband, Ned.
She’d hoped Ned would be that sort of man, despite the fact that they’d known each other only in passing when they married. After all, his brother was madly in love with Celia’s sister. Celia had thought Ned might be like his brother. But as the months had stretched on, she learned he wasn’t. He was cold and aloof, preferring his own company to hers. She could never figure how Aaron was so warm and generous, while his brother was anything but. If it weren’t for Faith, Celia might have withered away out on that farm, so lonely she might as well have been living by herself.
All she wanted now was the man she’d hoped to marry in the first place.
She picked up the last letter with trepidation, the one with the strong handwriting next to the crossed-out New York address.
“Perhaps this one will be good,” Faith said.
Celia glanced at her sister. Her once luminous light brown hair looked lank as stray pieces fell from her messy chignon, and her soft skin appeared almost sallow. Her heart broke for Faith. No one should suffer the loss she had. And certainly no one, much less the town’s preacher, should be pressuring her to remarry or go back East.
“Well, let’s see,” Celia said, trying to muster up some of the excitement she’d had when she’d chosen the letters. This one had to be better than the others. She held it for a moment, as if willing the broad scrawl that spelled out the address of the newspaper in New York to belong to a decent man. One who was kind of heart, hard-working, generous, and good-natured.
She pulled in a deep breath. It had been her idea for the ladies in town to place an advertisement for husbands. For most of the other ladies, it served only to appease Pastor Collins and his insistence that single women had no place out here. But for Celia, it was something else entirely. What if they all found someone and she couldn’t? She sliced open the envelope slowly as she said a quick prayer. This letter was longer than the others, spilling onto the back of the page and around the words of a store receipt. She began reading.
Dearest Lady of Last Chance—
Celia smothered a giggle. The salutation sounded like the title of English nobility.
I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing in response to your newspaper advertisement. My name is John P. Wendler, and I hail from New York City. I am a businessman by trade, and have engaged in numerous dealings, some more prosperous than others. The current business climate in New York has caused me to begin seeking my fortune elsewhere. Your advertisement intrigued me, as I have longed to see more of this great country. I am adept at learning new things and could easily take over any trade or business in your town. I am well-spoken, genteel, and have numerous friends and acquaintances. I especially yearn for a good woman with whom to share my life—someone of a pleasant nature, with wit and fortitude, a good helpmate as we begin our lives together, and who might grow to love me as I grow to love her.
The letter went on to describe Mr. Wendler as tall, with dark hair and eyes, and coming from a small, yet loving family. He was a man who enjoyed social events, the theater, and a good book. But more than anything, he wanted to marry and raise a family.
Celia folded the letter and looked at her sister.
“If that smile means anything, I believe you might have found potential in that letter.” Faith held out her hand, and Celia passed the paper to her.
Faith read silently as Celia’s mind wandered. Was he as effusive and thoughtful as he appeared in his letter? Surely a surly and cold-hearted man couldn’t write as well as Mr. Wendler.
“Well, he certainly paints a pretty picture,” Faith said. Her eyes roved the letter again before she looked up at Celia. “He does know there isn’t a theater in Last Chance?”
“He must,” Celia replied, her mind still imagining a devastatingly handsome dark-haired man with a smile only for her.
“I do wonder how, out of all his ‘numerous friends and acquaintances,’ he couldn’t have met a wife in New York.” Faith set the letter in front of Celia. “Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
“Not particularly. After all, he said he wished to see the country, and that the—how did he put it?—’business climate’ was not to his liking in New York.” Celia reached for her sister’s hand and took it between her own. “Faith, I’m not like you. Ned was not Aaron. This is my second chance at happiness. This Mr. Wendler sounds like a good man. Don’t you think?”
Faith chewed
