Page 1 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Chapter One

Rancher, bachelor, aged 36, requests correspondence with a man looking for companionship; object matrimony. Box 202, Larkspur Post Office, MT.

It didn’t seem like enough. It was, more or less, just like all of the other advertisements in The Matrimonial Journal. With every monthly publication there was a fresh batch of requests for acquaintanceship, photos, and meetings, all with one goal. Object matrimony.

Graham fretted over his own attempt. His penmanship left something to be desired, but so long as the staff at The Matrimonial Journal could read it then there’d be no issue in publishing it. But even next to the other brief missives he thought it was lacking.

IRISH woman of 28 years with a comfortable income wishes to meet an honest woman of similar age to share her home with; object matrimony. P.O. box 745, Cherry Grove, MA.

GENTLEMAN, 34, good appearance, refined, and of means seeks a similarly refined partner, no children; object matrimony. 56 East Street, KS.

What did Graham have to offer? He was proud of what he’d built on his land. A house, a barn, and a chicken coop; a pasture and silo to hold feed for his livestock; a decent-sized garden that sustained him through the seasons. It was hard, honest work that occupied most of his time and gave him a quiet sense of accomplishment. His house was modest, its roomssparse but clean and orderly—less out of fastidiousness and more because there simply wasn’t much to clutter them. Graham lived by simple necessities: a roof over his head, his own bed to sleep in, and food on the table. These were luxuries he’d once only dreamed of, and now that he had them, he found himself unsure what else his home might need.

Well, besides a husband.

Marriage had always felt like a far-off dream—something for other men, not for him. When he was younger, he’d had nothing to offer another person, barely enough to keep himself alive. It would have been irresponsible, even impossible, to imagine starting a household with someone else. Then came the war, and Graham had enlisted with fervor, fighting for the Union, determined to confront the Confederacy and its evils while serving his country proudly.

The war had been grueling. Long, sweltering days under an unforgiving sun, freezing nights that seemed endless, and meager rations he’d learned to stomach out of necessity. Salt pork, hardtack, and beans formed the core of every meal, served in whatever combinations the men could manage. There were stews of celery, pork, and potatoes thickened with crumbled hardtack, and “puddings” of whiskey, molasses, and sugar softened into something vaguely edible. Coffee was a rarity, and when supplies ran out, dandelion root had to suffice. It wasn’t gourmet, but it kept them alive.

The war’s horrors haunted him more than the bad food. He had seen death in every imaginable form—men falling under a hail of bullets, ripped apart by cannon fire, or crumpled in the mud, their blood soaking into the earth. Collecting bodies from the battlefield had been the worst, hoisting lifeless comrades onto carts until they groaned under the weight. Graham had come close to joining the dead himself, narrowly surviving a gunshot wound to the leg near the war’s end.

The surgeon wanted to amputate, and Graham, fueled by desperation, had snarled at him through gritted teeth, threatening to break his fingers if he so much as tried. He kept the leg but earned a limp that followed him everywhere, along with something the doctors called “soldier’s heart”—a condition that left him shaking, sleepless, and burdened with memories of blood and gunpowder.

Before the war, Graham had hardly been a prize. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with rough hands, coarse manners, and no money to his name. Now, he was sun-weathered, his dark hair and beard thick and untamed, his body marked with scars from bayonets and bullets. The limp in his leg slowed him down, and the nightmares often woke him screaming into the dark. But he had land now—a place of his own—and a modest livelihood. Maybe, just maybe, that would be enough for someone out there looking for a stable life and a companion to share it with.

He’d subscribed to The Matrimonial Journal on a whim, paying for a full year’s worth of issues. Each edition contained articles on household tips, fashion, recipes, and the occasional piece of news, but what really drew Graham’s attention were the matrimonial ads. They were simple, two-line statements penned by hopeful souls searching for love and partnership. Graham studied them for months, trying to divine the secret to writing an ad that might attract the right kind of response.

But two lines hardly seemed enough to explain his life, his hopes, or what he could offer. Friendship, care, and a steady life on his ranch were all he could promise. Would that be enough?

Frustration bubbled up as Graham pushed himself back from the kitchen table. His unfinished letter lay before him, mocking him with its incompleteness. He decided to step away. There was always work to be done on the ranch, and perhaps a little sweat and labor would help clear his mind. He’d tend to thechickens, check on the cows and sheep, and give Ginger, his bay mare, a thorough grooming. Then, with fresh eyes, he’d return to the daunting task of putting his heart on paper.

???

It was a sound enough strategy—distract himself with work, let the rhythm of the ranch soothe his restless thoughts—until he actually had to return to the kitchen table. Now, as the late afternoon light angled through the windows, casting warm gold over the simple wooden furniture, Graham faced his unfinished letter once more.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a sigh, his shirt clinging to him after hours spent in the sun. The day’s work was done. The chickens were fed, the cows milked, the sheep checked over for any signs of illness or injury. Ginger had been groomed until her coat gleamed, and she’d nuzzled his shoulder in gratitude before he’d left her stall. All the chores were crossed off the mental list he carried in his head, leaving him with nothing but this—this stubborn, lingering task that had occupied his thoughts for weeks.

The labor of the heart.

Graham poured himself a shot of whiskey, the good stuff he only brought out on rare occasions. He stared at the amber liquid in the glass, then threw it back in one gulp, his throat tightening against the burn as it went down. The heat spread through his chest, sharp but oddly comforting, and he let out a low breath as he set the glass aside.

His hands were rough from years of work, the calluses thick and unyielding, but they trembled slightly as he picked up his pencil. He held it tightly, as if sheer determination could force the words onto the page. The letter stared back at him, his careful handwriting neat but hesitant, the few lines he'd writtenearlier filled with crossed-out phrases and smudged eraser marks.

What could he say? How could he possibly condense everything he felt into a few sentences? He was no poet, no wordsmith. His strength was in his hands, his back, his endurance—not in flowery phrases or declarations of love. Yet here he was, trying to distill his life and hopes into words that might catch the attention of a stranger.

He’d written about the ranch—about the barn he’d built with his own hands, the garden that provided food for his table, and the livestock that gave him purpose every day. He’d mentioned the house, simple but sturdy, with enough room for two if someone were willing to share it with him.

But what about the things he couldn’t put into words? The way his chest ached with longing on quiet nights, the way he sometimes stood at the edge of the pasture staring at the horizon, wondering if there was more to life than the solitude he’d grown so used to. Could any of that be conveyed in a simple matrimonial ad?

Graham tapped the pencil against the table, the soft thud breaking the silence of the room. His gaze drifted to the window, where the sun was sinking lower, casting long shadows across the yard. The whiskey hadn’t helped much—it never did—but at least it dulled the edges of his frustration.

“Come on, Graham,” he muttered to himself, his voice rough from disuse. “Just write it down. Doesn’t have to be perfect.”

The words refused to come. Instead, he thought about the men he’d known during the war, the letters they’d carried from home—letters filled with promises of love and devotion, words of encouragement that kept them going through the worst of it. He’d envied those men, not just for the letters, but for thepeople waiting for them. He’d never had anyone to write to, no one waiting for him to come home.

But he was home now, and maybe it was time to change that.

Rancher, bachelor, aged 36, requests correspondence with a man looking for companionship; object matrimony. Box 202, Larkspur Post Office.

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