The depot sat not too far down the street. He could walk there now and purchase a ticket with the last of his remaining funds. He could go to Oregon and get work cutting timber. It wouldn’t be his first choice, but at least no one would expect him to marry and provide for a wife, much less an entire family.
Fear made him take a step in the direction of the depot—until someone called his name.
“Mr. Wendler?” a hesitant female voice said again from behind him.
He turned to find the hysterical woman from the post and telegraph office standing with the redheaded woman she’d left the church with earlier. They were about the same height, but if Jack thought the woman from the post office was pretty, he had no words at all for the lady next to her.
“Pardon me, I don’t mean to bother you,” the redhead said, her cheeks tingeing to the same shade as her hair. “But are you Mr. Jack Wendler?”
Jack’s heart pounded erratically when she said his name again, and he swallowed, trying to find his voice. What was wrong with him? He generally had no trouble at all when it came to speaking with women. He’d managed to capture Miss Rogers’ attention in New York within just a few words. And now it seemed words had escaped him entirely. Perhaps it was all this thinking about marriage, or the other women he could feel watching him at that very moment.
The brunette, her eyes again red from tears, eyed him suspiciously. “That’s what he said his name was.”
“It was. I mean, it is. I’m Jack Wendler.” He tripped over his words like a young boy noticing a pretty girl for the first time in his life.
“Hmm.” The woman from the post office narrowed her eyes at him, as if he’d failed some test she’d given him. Meanwhile, her companion’s blush deepened even further, and Jack couldn’t draw his eyes away.
“I’m Mrs. Thornton,” the pink-cheeked woman said. Her voice trembled and she clutched her hands together as if she were nervous.
Jack drew in a breath, trying to steady himself, and gave her what he hoped was an easy smile. “Well, Mrs. Thornton, it is quite the pleasure to meet you.”
“This is my sister,” she replied. “Also Mrs. Thornton.”
Jack raised an eyebrow, wondering what the explanation was for that, but didn’t press for it. He was far more interested in getting to know more about the first Mrs. Thornton. Her hair sat in fiery swoops at the back of her head, and curls fell from her pins, framing her heart-shaped face. She regarded him with pale green eyes, and her skin . . . It was so perfect he was tempted to raise a hand and run his fingers across her cheek. He clenched his hands to squelch the desire and tried to summon the old Jack, the one who could think straight even in the presence of a beautiful woman.
“Tell me,” he said, “are you among those ladies in Last Chance looking to marry again?” Where had that come from? He’d nearly just run out of town at the thought of marriage, and now here he was, willingly bringing it up.
But it worked. Mrs. Thornton ducked her head, a tiny smile making her features even more intriguing.
“Why do you ask?” her sister inquired, her eyes fixed on him. She watched him as if he were there to take everything they owned and skip town.
“Faith!” the other woman said in a quiet voice. “Why don’t you get back home? You don’t want to leave the telegraph unmanned for too long.”
Her sister stared at her a moment while Jack looked between them, trying to read their silent conversation. Finally, the woman from the post office sighed loudly and mumbled something about being inappropriate before stalking off across the road.
With her gone, Jack turned his smile back toward Mrs. Thornton. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh, well, I . . .” She looked at her hands before sneaking a glance back up at him. “We received letters. My sister and I, that is. All the ladies in town received letters.”
“Perhaps you don’t need a letter to find an interested gentleman.” Nervousness bubbled under Jack’s words, but he forced it down. More than anything, he wanted this girl to be taken with him, not with some desperate man who wrote a letter.
You’re a desperate man who wrote a letter, a voice in the back of his head reminded him.
“I don’t?” Mrs. Thornton peered up at him through her eyelashes. She seemed a bit shy, this one. He liked that. It was so unlike the women he’d known in New York. What would it take to convince her to set her letters aside and give him a chance? He could stay in town, pay her visits, get to know her better. She must live with her sister at the post office. Maybe he could set up work in one of these shops and continue to pay for a room at the boardinghouse. They could forget this entire letters-and-marriage thing and he could court her normally. And if he decided this place was too small for his liking, he could move on, unencumbered.
“You ought to give those letters to one of the other ladies in town,” he said. “You don’t need them.”
“But why should I do that?” She fished a piece of folded paper from the pocket of her faded blue skirt. “When one of them is from you?”
Chapter Four
Mr. Wendler’s eyes went wide as she held up the letter. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Celia doubted he was a man often
