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Chapter Six
Lonesome, hardworking man looking for mate, marriage in mind.
Contact Stenton Ward in City of Lincoln.
Established businessman seeking wife with big heart to share future.
Just want true happiness. Good prospects in small town; will be well cared for.
If interested, please respond to “Ualraig,” c/o this newspaper
Rip-roarin’ gold miner in Montana struck it rich,
wants to show special lady a good time in true conjugal fashion.
Must be pretty and lively. Needs to know how to cook over open fire.
Get hold of Billy LaRue Sonata at Last Chance Gulch, Montana.
Honorable matrimonial engagement
sought by
lumberjack in northern Minnesota.
Want someone who is clean and neat and strong enough to wield an axe.
My name is Arne Olmstead. I am 38 years old and in excellent physical condition.
I can be reached through The Rochester Examiner.
WITH INCREASING DISMAY, Hannah looked over the scanty list she had accumulated. Slim pickin’s, all right. Were these the sorts of advertisements with which her sisters had had to contend, during their forays into the alien world of mail order brides? It was a wonder any one of them had been able to select a husband who was even standing and breathing, let alone one who was attractive. In fact, all three of her brothers-in-law could be considered quite a catch, with intelligence, compassion, sense of humor, and industry combined.
How was it she might end up as such a failure, drawing upon only this bunch of—dare she say it?—losing candidates? Only one looked good. It stood out. But the others didn’t seem like good prospects.
Checking the various personal notices, to see what might be available, didn’t mean she was quite ready to dabble her toes in the water with an ad of her own. Not yet. That required a tad more courage than she could possibly muster, at the moment.
“Ualraig,” she repeated, momentarily bypassing most of the other hopeful little blurbs. “What on earth is that, anyway? A name? A place? And how does one pronounce it?”
“Then why choose him?”
“Because he’s looking for the same thing as me: happiness.”
She decided to take her questions to Abigail, the know-all, be-all of Turnabout society. Fortunately, the lady was present tonight, and could be approached at a break in conversation.
Camellia had wanted to host a Christmas party. Nothing elaborate, she insisted, when Ben’s gaze, startled and skeptical, flew to her expanding middle. Just the family, and a few friends. It would probably be her last chance in indulge in some sociality before winter set in and she got to be too elephantine to move.
Understandably, he protested. Had she forgotten he would be gone, and she would be left alone, during the planned trip to Manifest next week?
“Oh, pooh.” Smiling sweetly, she had sidled closer to the kitchen table, where he was sitting, to stand behind his chair and wrap both arms around his sturdy shoulders. “You know that you and Reese can be there and back in just three days, easily. Even with my sisters staying here—I won’t be alone, at all—you’ll be anxious to get back. Won’t you, Ben?”
Bending forward, she lay her cheek upon his hair, tightened her clasp across his chest, and rubbed her expanding bosom against his shoulder blades. Pregnant she might be, with a swollen belly between them; but, by such loving gestures, she had learned, Ben could be easily moved. With a groan, he shook his head and resisted.
“Don’t you try your wiles on me, darlin’. You think I’ll fall right into your trap, but I—uh—oh, now, that ain’t fair, when it’s eight o’clock in the—uh...stop that, you she-devil—I gotta go to work, and you’re just—Camellia, ain’t you got no shame?”
“No. I have none,” she purred, “where you’re concerned. About this party...”
“Honey, that’s an awful lotta work for you. Cleanin’, and fixin’ food...”
