“That would mean you’d have to open your letters,” Celia said gently.
Faith pulled her hand back to her lap. “All right, then,” she said resolutely.
Yet even as Faith opened the first envelope, Celia rested her hand on Mr. Wendler’s missive. He was the one for her. She just knew it. She barely heard any of the words Faith read aloud.
“You aren’t listening,” Faith said as she set her third letter down.
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
