Mail Order Cowboy

“Well, I think that went well, don’t you?” Milly said, after the last of the ladies had gone home and she and Sarah were alone in the social hall. She munched on one of the few cookies that hadn’t been devoured by the Simpson Creek Society for the Promotion of Marriage.

“Yes…yes, it did,” Sarah said, her tone thoughtful as she scooped up the plates and cups filled with crumbs and remains of the lemonade. “They all seemed very excited about your ideas.”

“But what about you, Sarah?” Milly asked. She hadn’t been able to gauge Sarah’s reaction during the meeting. “Are you going to be one of us, or do you think it’s a foolish idea? Would you rather I hadn’t suggested it?”

Sarah’s green eyes lost focus. “I…I don’t know. Won’t it look as if we’re somewhat…oh, I don’t know…fast?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, not if the advertisement is worded properly, as I believe it is,” Milly said. She had been very satisfied when the group agreed that the words she had composed in her head were perfect as they stood. “We’ll be able to tell by the tone of their letters if they’ve gotten the wrong impression, I should think, and we simply won’t extend an invitation to come and meet us.”

“I suppose you’re right…” Sarah said, but her tone was far from certain. “But Milly, what if—what if the men who answer the advertisement lie about their qualifications? What if they turn out to be men of bad character? Why, a man could say anything about himself on paper, and turn out to be quite the opposite,” Sarah said, twisting a fold of her apron. “Why, he could be an outlaw, or a cardsharp—or a Yankee!”

“That’s true,” Milly admitted frankly. “But if we find that to be the case, we’ll send them packing. And you know, there are no guarantees when one meets a man in the usual way either,” she pointed out.

Sarah looked puzzled. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Just look at that woman in Goliad we heard about, Bertha McPherson,” Milly said, with a wave of her hand, as if the woman stood before them. “She married that fellow from Goliad who courted her for six months, and once they tied the knot, she found out he still had a living wife back in St. Louis.”

Sarah sighed. “I always thought we’d marry boys from Simpson Creek, boys we’d known all our lives.”

“I know…” Milly had thought so, too. Just as she had believed the brave talk of the boys who’d marched off to war, promising they’d be back, victorious, in six months. “Yes, what we’re doing is a leap of faith,” she admitted. “But would you rather take a chance, or die an old maid? I don’t want to be called ‘Old Maid Milly Matthews,’ thank you very much.”

“They’re already calling you ‘Marrying Milly’,” Sarah said, then put a hand over her mouth as if she hadn’t meant to say it.

Milly blinked. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“Folks in town,” Sarah said, facing her sister as Milly also sank into a chair beside her. “I overheard Mr. Patterson talking to Mrs. Detwiler in the mercantile yesterday. They hadn’t seen me come in. She was telling him what you’d said in the Ladies Aid Society meeting the other day. Folks in town are already calling us the Spinsters Club.”

Milly winced but reached out and put an arm around her sister’s shoulder. “We mustn’t mind what people say, Sarah. People will always gossip.” She hadn’t missed the fact that Sarah had said us, and her heart glowed with love for her. Worried as she was, her sister was joining her in this project.

“Have you prayed about this?” Sarah asked. “I mean, I know we opened the meeting with prayer—that was a lovely prayer you said, by the way—but have you been praying about this? A lot?”

“Of course,” Milly said. “I’ve been praying for months, ever since the war ended and those first few men started returning, and none of them were the single men on the Missing in Action lists. But I suppose we’d both feel more confident if we prayed now, right?” They had always prayed together, first as a family and now just the two of them, after losing first their mother and more recently their father. Milly had always found it a source of strength.

Sarah nodded. Milly took her hand, and they bowed their heads and sought the Lord’s blessing on their enterprise.

Chapter Two

Nicholas Brookfield, late of Her Majesty’s Bombay Light Cavalry, reined in the handsome bay he had purchased after leaving the stagecoach and studied Simpson Creek. A small town, more like a village really, consisting of one main street, with a sprinkling of buildings on both sides of the dusty thoroughfare. Signs proclaimed the presence of a saloon, a boardinghouse, a general store, a livery, a combination barbershop-bathhouse, and at the far end of the street, a church. Branching off from the middle of the main street was another road with several houses of various sizes, some sturdy-looking fieldstone or brick two-stories, others smaller and of more humble construction, wood and even adobe cottages.

He wondered if Miss Millicent Matthews lived in any of these, or if her home was out on one of the ranches he’d passed on the road into Simpson Creek. And for the twentieth time, he wondered if he was on a fool’s errand. Had the intermittent fever he was prone to, and which had laid him low once again when he arrived in Texas a week ago, finally seared his brain, rendering him mad? What else explained why he’d let curiosity take control and come here in search of the writer of that intriguing advertisement, instead of going straight to Austin to the job that awaited him?

He glanced at his clothing, deeming it too dusty from his travels to make a good impression on a lady. Pulling out his pocket watch, a gift from his brother when Nicholas achieved the rank of captain, he discovered it was only eleven. He would do well, he decided, to bespeak a room at the boardinghouse and visit the barbershop-bathhouse before paying a call on Miss Matthews, assuming someone in this dusty little hamlet would tell him where he could find her.

“Have there been any inquiries about our advertisement?” Prissy Gilmore asked, after all the ladies of the Simpson Creek Society for the Promotion of Marriage had settled themselves in a circle in the church social hall.

“Not yet,” Milly admitted, as cheerfully as she could manage. “But it has been only two weeks. It would take time for a man to read the advertisement, compose a letter, perhaps have a tintype taken if he doesn’t have one ready, and for that letter to reach the Simpson Creek post office.” Afraid of discouraging her friends, she wasn’t about to admit she had made a pilgrimage to the post office every other day this week, and her only reward had been the letter she now brought out from her reticule.

“However,” she said, smiling as she drew it out of the envelope and unfolded it, “I do have this note from our Uncle William, who you will remember is the editor of the Houston Telegraph.”

“Dear Millicent and Sarah,” she read, “I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted you to know I am in receipt of your rather interesting advertisement copy and have published it (though I must confess with some trepidation as to what your late father would have thought of your scheme) in accordance with your request. I have to say this advertisement caused no small amount of talk in the Telegraph office and around the town. Word of it and of your group has spread to those cities with whose newspapers we share articles, so it may be possible that you will receive inquiries from as far away as Charleston, South Carolina, and even New York City.”

Milly folded up the letter and stuck it triumphantly back in her pocket without reading the paragraph that followed, in which her Uncle William implored her to be very cautious in meeting the gentlemen who would write in response.

“So you see, ladies,” she said, infusing every word with confidence, “our advertisement has made a stir. I’m sure we will begin receiving inquiries any time now—perhaps even in today’s post!”

A pleased hum of excitement rose from the ladies sitting around her.

Maude Harkey raised her hand. “Milly, assuming these letters start arriving, we’ve never discussed how it will be decided who gets matched with whom. How will that take place?”

“That’s a good question, and one I think the Society should decide as a group,” Milly responded, settling her hands in her lap. “What do you think, ladies?” She watched as they all looked at one another before Jane Jeffries raised a timid hand.

“I think we should let the gentlemen decide,” she announced, then ducked her head as if astonished at her own audaciousness.

“Yes, but how?” Milly prodded.

Jane shrugged.

“We could have a party,” said Prissy Gilmore, who’d managed to avoid bringing her mother. “With chaperones, of course, so Mama won’t have a fit—and the gentlemen could be presented to all of us. They could decide whom they preferred.” She smoothed a wayward curl that had escaped her artful coiffure.

“Yes, but what if only one of them comes at a time?” Sarah asked. “Won’t he feel awfully uncomfortable, as if he’s on display like a prize bull at a county fair?”

“Well, he would be, wouldn’t he?” Emily Thompson tittered. “Poor man. But perhaps it won’t have to be that way. From the sound of that letter, it seems as if they might well come in herds!”

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Then each of us could have our pick!” Ada Spencer said with a sigh, and everyone laughed at her blissful expression.

“Maybe the gentleman will express a preference as to the type of woman he’s seeking,” Maude Harkey said. “He might have a decided interest in short redheads, such as myself.”

There was more laughter.

“Don’t forget, ladies,” Milly reminded them, “as more and more matches are made, the number of ladies looking over the applicants will be fewer and fewer. Eventually there will be no more need for the Society, God willing, for all of us will be married.”

“Amen,” Ada Spencer said. “But the fact remains, we have yet to receive the first response to our advertisement. I hope we don’t end up as the laughingstocks of Texas.”

Her words hung in the air, and once more the ladies were glancing uneasily around at each other.

“I think we ought to pray about it now,” Milly said. “And you’ve all been praying about it at home, haven’t you?”

There were solemn nods around the circle.

“Very well, then,” Milly said. “Who would like to—”

Sarah raised her hand. “I think when we pray, we ought to include something about God’s will being done. I mean, it might not be God’s will for all of us to be married, you know.”

Milly opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. The idea that the Lord might intend for her to go through life as an unmarried lady for whatever reason He had was startling, but it could be true.

“You’re right, Sarah,” she said, humbled. “Would you lead us in pr—”

Before she could finish her sentence, there was a knock at the door of the social hall. Then, without waiting to be invited in, a tousle-headed boy flung open the door.