Page 2 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Then he set the pencil down again and took another long drink, the burn of the whiskey offering a fleeting distraction. Why was this so difficult? Across the country, there were dozens of newspapers and periodicals just like The Matrimonial Journal, each dedicated to helping people find a suitable spouse. People from every walk of life penned their hopes and dreams into these advertisements, seeking connection, companionship, or maybe just the promise of not facing the world alone. Was he so different from anyone else asking for a letter of interest?

The question gnawed at him. If he was, if his life and spirit had been irreparably scarred by hardship, then maybe no one would want to write to him, let alone consider marriage. But if he wasn’t—if he truly was just another man among countless others with his own quiet loneliness—what were the chances that his personal ad would even be noticed? His words could so easily disappear into a sea of others just like him, all searching for the same thing.

Either way, his odds weren’t good.

Graham tipped the bottle and refilled his glass, the amber liquid catching the light as it sloshed against the sides. He stared at the blank page in front of him. The thought that had been stirring in the back of his mind finally pushed its way forward: maybe a simple message wasn’t enough. Maybe the standard formula—“seeking a kind, hardworking man to share life’s joys and trials”—wasn’t going to cut it. His circumstances were different, weren’t they? He wanted to make sure thatanyone who read his ad understood him, understood why he was searching for someone and what kind of life he had to offer.

The Matrimonial Journal had published longer letters before—he’d seen them himself, sprawling across nearly a quarter of a page. They stood out, and sometimes they even lingered in his memory. But he knew they cost more. Every word, every line, came with a price. Did he have the money to spare? The thought made him glance toward the corner of the room, where his ledger sat atop the small desk he used for tallying farm expenses.

His mind began to calculate, weighing the worth of a few extra sentences against the value of his modest income. Seeds for the garden were a necessity. Feed for the animals couldn’t be skimped on. There were always repairs to be made to the house, the barn, or the coop. Tools wore out; clothes frayed and tore until they were beyond mending. Even simple luxuries, like a new shotgun for hunting or a sturdy pair of boots, came with a cost: $60 for the gun, $3.50 for the boots.

And yet, what were those things compared to the price of finding someone to share his life? Someone to share the quiet evenings, the backbreaking work, the unpredictable storms, and the occasional laughter. What was that worth? Certainly more than the price of a few extra paragraphs in a periodical.

Graham drained the glass in one steady motion, savoring the warmth that spread through him. Then, setting the glass aside, he picked up the pencil once more. The weight of it in his hand felt a little lighter now. This time, he wouldn’t settle for a simple ad. If he was going to put himself out there, he would do it fully, honestly, and without apology.

He bent over the paper, the pencil poised to capture his thoughts, and began to write.

To the reader of this letter,

I am a bachelor aged 36 seeking a friend and helpmate in life. I am not a man of great resources or words and I have been hurt in the War and am not much to look at but I have land and a house and I will treat a husband well. It is aways from the town though if wanting we can visit as often as possible.

But you might enjoy the land as I do. There are many wildflowers of all colors that grow on the prairie and it is a pretty sight to see all the spots of red orange and purple blue and yellow among the tall grass. It is also a very gratifying thing to care for the cows and sheep and the chickens and watch them wander peacefully about.

Currently it is just me taking care of the animals and the garden and I would continue to do so after marriage. I do not expect a hired hand but a companion for whom I would dearly love an affectionate word and gentle conversation here and there.

You will want for nothing, I will make certain of it. In return I only ask for friendship and kindness. If you think you would like to write to me I would be grateful for your letter. Thank you kindly.

Address, Graham Shepherd, Box 202, Larkspur Post Office, MT.

???

All Graham could do now was wait—and try to wait as patiently as he could. Which, as it turned out, wasn’t very patiently at all.

The Matrimonial Journal published only once a month, a frequency that felt like a cruel joke to someone in his position. Graham had carefully folded his letter and tucked it into an envelope, along with the payment he had saved—enough for the editors to run his ad for two issues. He had carried it to town,handed it over to the postmaster, and watched as it was dropped into the mailbag. Now, there was nothing left but time. Too much time.

First, he would have to wait for his letter to reach the editors, wherever they were. Then, he would have to wait for them to finalize the upcoming issue. After that, it would take more waiting for the journal to be printed, bound, and mailed out to its subscribers. And even then, his real waiting would begin. He would have to wait for someone—anyone—to read his ad, to pick up a pen, to compose a reply, and to send it back. From there, more time would slip by as the letter made its way through the postal system, finally landing at the town post office where Graham would retrieve it.

It could be another month after his ad was published before he had even the slightest chance of receiving a response.

When the latest issue of The Matrimonial Journal finally arrived, Graham spread it out on his small kitchen table and scanned the pages with shaking hands. There it was, on the second page, nestled between two wildly different entries: one from a gentleman seeking an impossibly specific young woman—a petite, attractive, and charming lady between the ages of 18 and 25, no taller than 5’5”, and emphatically not a redhead—and a recipe for lemon cake. Seeing his own words printed there, stark and earnest, sent a shiver down his spine. This was real now.

Of course, that was when the restlessness set in.

The practical thing would have been to wait a full month before checking the post office. Graham knew that. But the thought of a letter, a single letter, sitting unclaimed in the post office was unbearable. What if it was there, waiting for him, while he wasted time out here on the farm? So he made a decision: he would ride into town every Friday. Just to check.

It became a ritual. He hitched up the wagon, and he and Ginger, his old mare, made the familiar trip into town. The postman, Oscar, soon grew accustomed to Graham’s weekly visits. At first, Oscar was just another face in the small, sleepy town, his uniform the only thing that set him apart. But over time, Graham came to recognize the slight nervousness in the man’s smile and the way he fidgeted with his pen when there wasn’t much mail to sort.

“Any mail for me today?” Graham asked, week after week.

Oscar would glance at the mail cubbies, shuffle through a few envelopes, and shake his head. “Not yet, Mr. Shepherd. But I’ll keep an eye out.”

One particularly dreary Friday, with rain soaking through his coat and dripping off his hat, Oscar ventured a question as he handed Graham a dry towel to wipe his hands. “Are you expecting to hear from someone?”

Graham hesitated, the weight of weeks of disappointment heavy on his shoulders. “To be honest, not really,” he muttered, before tipping his hat and heading back out into the rain.

And yet, the next Friday found him back at the post office. And the Friday after that. No matter how foolish it felt, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping. Every time he stepped through the post office door, he imagined what it might be like to hold a letter in his hands. What if someone saw his ad and thought, This is someone I could share my life with? What if they saw past the rough edges and loneliness to the man underneath?

A partner in work, a companion in quiet moments, someone to sit beside him at the dinner table and talk about the day, to share stories, laughter, even secrets.

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