PROLOGUE

The four men lay in wait, watching as wagons slowly entered the long, winding road that led to Braughtenboro. “No, no,” Lonnie’s father whispered. “Not that one. It’s too small. We need one with some real good pickins’.”

Finally, as the dawn broke five days after they had arrived in Montana, his father turned to them each in turn, nodding slowly. “Today. Today is the day, boys.”

And it turned out, it was. A few hours after sunrise, a covered wagon began to rumble down the path, being driven by an anxious-looking boy Lonnie’s age, twelve years old or perhaps a bit older. Two women, both dressed in various fineries, sat behind him, and the wagon itself was large and unwieldy, looking like it may tip over at any moment.

“Wait for it,” his father whispered, tracking the carriage with his razor-sharp eyes. “Wait for it … almost there.”

“Not so fast, George,” a voice came from behind them.

Stunned, all four of them turned around. Standing behind them was a sheriff, young, but still looking foreboding in his stance and the way he held his revolver level with George Underwood’s head.

“That’s enough of that,” the sheriff said, prowling towards them like a cat. Behind him, Lonnie could see two other officers crouched behind brush, their guns also level with the men. “This ends here, George Underwood. I’ve been following you since Nevada. I’m not letting you steal from honest, hard-working men.”

“Is that right,” George sneered, slowly drawing his own weapon from where it was anchored securely at his waist. “We’ll see about that.”

Both men drew their weapons at the same time, but the sheriff was just a hair faster.  Lonnie never was able to tell who had fired first. All he knew, both then and now, was that the shot hit his father squarely in the chest, the blood blooming through his coat like a bright red poppy. George slumped over, dropping his revolver to the ground with a surprisingly gentle thud.

The sheriff cursed loudly, having been shot in the shoulder by George before the man had fallen. He fell to the ground, gripping his arm, shouting at his two men to keep shooting. They obeyed, firing shots at Wolf, Dirt, and Lonnie himself.

Lonnie heard the blast in his ear, felt the pain sear through his body as he, too, fell to the ground, dust billowing up around him.

This is it, he thought, staring up at the sky for what he thought would be the last time. This is how I am going to die.

Instead, he blinked back into consciousness sometime later, unsure of how much time had passed. The sun was starting to fade towards the West, but Lonnie still didn’t know if it had been hours or days that had passed. Wincing, he reached up to touch his ear, finding it still intact except for a tiny nick, caked in dried blood.

The bullet, he realized, must have just grazed him, but the sheriff and his men had thought him dead so had left him. A pool of blood splattered the ground where Lonnie had been laying, so it was understandable why the other men had thought that.

Slowly, Lonnie rose to his knees, blearily taking in his surroundings. On his right, the body of Wolf lay face-up, blood pooled in the dirt under his ribcage. Wolf’s eyes were still wide open, glazed and staring blankly at the sky. Dirt was gone, as was the sheriff and his two men. Lonnie wasn’t sure if they had escaped, or had simply crawled off somewhere else to die in peace.

To his left lay his father, George Underwood, still slumped in the same position he had been when he’d first been shot. George’s back leaned up against a hearty bush of sage, stained red with his own blood. Inching closer, Lonnie studied his father. George’s eyes were closed, and he looked strangely peaceful, unlike Wolf’s wide-eyed look of fear. He could have been sleeping, if not for all of the dried blood painting his overcoat, and the cold way his skin felt when Lonnie reached out and touched his father’s dead hand.

“Dad?” Lonnie whispered, using a phrase he hadn’t said in years. It was clear his father was dead, but something in Lonnie’s brain just couldn’t wrap around the fact that he was really, truly gone.

Inexplicably, Lonnie began to cry. Tears rushed hot and salty down his face, leaving wet, slick trails behind. His emotions surprised him; his father had never been a sentimental man, and he had taught Lonnie to be the same. But right then, stuck in the middle of nowhere, with his dead father by his side, Lonnie had never felt more alone.

“Son?” a voice came, like an angel. But it wasn’t his father’s voice. Turning slowly, wondering if the sheriff had returned, he came face-to-face with another man.

The man looked like a rancher, sitting regally atop a chestnut-brown horse, his face lined with wisdom, and his eyes large and kind. He gazed down at Lonnie not with contempt, which was what he was used to, but with sympathy.

“Yes?” Lonnie whispered, so quietly the man couldn’t hear him.

“Son?” he repeated, holding out a hand to Lonnie. It was enormous, tanned from age and hard work, and to Lonnie, nothing had ever looked more comforting. “Do you need help?”

Wordlessly, Lonnie reached out and grabbed it, desperate for a lifeline.

CHAPTER ONE

Celia Lawton stared down at the pot on the stove until her eyes blurred. The silence in the house pressed onto her, threatening suffocation. Her father was not home yet. However, this was normal in the Lawton household.

She sighed, hating that dinner was about to be beans yet again. Celia was a people-pleaser, even if the person to please was just her father. The thought of disappointing him, especially after all they had been through, made Celia feel hot with shame and queasy with sadness. She began scouring the kitchen, praying there would be something there that she had missed the first time around.

They were completely out of meat and bread, and only had a few sad, shriveled onions and potatoes left in the root cellar beneath the hearth. Celia knew her father did not have any money to buy more meat. In fact, he didn’t have any money to buy food at all. The onions and potatoes had come from their own meager harvest this past year, and the beans were a gift from her father’s sympathetic boss, who ran Tyson’s Goods and Supplies. He claimed he had ordered too many bags of beans from the store, but Celia knew better. He was just saying that to avoid damaging her father’s pride further.

How had it come to this? While they had never been rich, Celia remembered when she was a girl, and her mother would have plenty of food to cook hearty meals each night; her vegetable garden lush and stretching towards the sky in a silent prayer. Now, the vegetable patch grew nothing but the occasional ground produce, and the breathtaking flower bed her mother had kept had been reduced to a pile of shriveled, dried-up weeds. Every year since her mother died, Celia had promised herself she would go out and start fixing up the prized flower garden, which was what she knew her mother would have wanted. But without fail, every spring she would get just as far as the door, look out on the once-beautiful patch of land, and turn back.

Would her mother be proud of the woman she had become? It was a question Celia asked herself frequently, especially when she was home alone and could sometimes still swear she heard her mother’s footsteps creaking on the floorboards. The answer, however, always seemed to escape her.

The door creaked on its hinges, a sign that Celia’s father had finally gotten home. Her father’s arrival meant that Celia could stop thinking about her mother and focus on someone else, for which she was grateful.

“Hi, Papa,” she said, turning from her spot at the stove to study him.

He had always been a handsome man, that much, Celia was sure of. But every year since his wife’s death, he had grown more and more stooped, his once winning smile fading away into a hard, thin line.

Easing his hat off his head, Celia’s father nodded to her and then started to furiously rub his tired eyes.

Celia felt a pang of sympathy for the husk of a man in front of her, mingling with an ever-present coil of hot, painful guilt. She knew everything he did was for her. – toiling away in the fields early in the day, then heading down to Tyson’s, where he stayed until after sunset. Anything to give her a better life.

Celia knew her father had no interest in working at a general store, no interest in piling bags of chicken feed and grain on top of each other all afternoon, or ringing up customers buying flour, milk, and the occasional sweet. No, her father’s passion had always been in farming, in loving the land and seeing what it would give you in return. She remembered the way her parents had always worked in harmony, her mother singing songs from church as she cheerfully weeded her garden, her father whistling in return as he led their old mule, Monk, through the fields with his plow, leaving churned up reddish-brown earth in his wake. It was a beautiful sight, and always what Celia imagined her life with her future husband would look like.

“Hey, Sunflower,” her father said, stamping a kiss on Celia’s forehead. Most eighteen-year-olds would shy away at their father’s use of a childhood nickname, but Celia still craved that little piece of normalcy. It reminded her of the man her father used to be, back when their family was complete. “Sorry, I’m a little late.”

“That’s okay, Papa,” Celia replied, turning back to the stove. “Sorry, dinner is beans again. I was going to fry up some potatoes and onions to go with them if I can scrounge up a bit of lard.”

“That sounds wonderful, Celia,” her father said earnestly. ‘Thank you.”

His gaze slid to their tiny back window, which overlooked the farm. In the years since her mother’s death, the land had grown more and more barren. First, it was the corn, then the carrots, and then the peas. Now, onions and potatoes were about all her father could manage to keep alive until harvest. Celia knew the townspeople whispered about her father’s bad luck, his lost motivation, but Celia knew the real reason he could no longer keep anything alive. The ground could sense the heartbreak within him; it couldn’t provide for him if he didn’t love the land anymore.

They both stood in silence for a moment, Celia mentally preparing herself for what she would do if she couldn’t coax enough lard from the near-empty tin. They certainly didn’t have any butter. Would a little water work to steam the vegetables? As she turned to see what the contents of the lard tin held, she heard a harsh knock at the front door. This brought both Celia and her father to attention. They looked at each other, confused.

“Are you expecting visitors, Papa?” Celia asked, knowing the answer as soon as the words left her mouth. Her father hadn’t had a visitor since Mama had died.

“No,” he said softly, making a few quick strides towards the door. When he opened it, it revealed the face of Tom Woolcock, their landlord. Her father blinked, looking confused. “Oh. Hello, Tom.”

“Hello, Angus,” Tom said with a smile that didn’t quite reach the corners of his face. Celia’s heart sank. Tom Woolcock was one of the most cheerful men in town, always flashing genuine grins to everyone that passed by the saloon he owned and operated. She had never seen him look this solemn.

“What can I help you with, Tom?” Celia’s father gestured for Tom to take a seat on the dusty settee. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”

Celia blanched, hoping Tom wouldn’t take up the offer, since she had nothing but a pitcher of water and rapidly cooling beans to serve him.

Tom pulled his hat off and held it to his chest but remained standing. “Angus, I’m sorry to have to do this. You know it’s not what I want to do. But, the fact of the matter is, I’ve got bills to pay too.”

Celia glanced rapidly from Tom to her father. He remained stone-faced. What in the world was going on?

“What do you mean, Tom?” her father said in a voice that made Celia believe he knew exactly what Tom meant.

“You haven’t paid rent in four months, Angus,” Tom said, looking down. “I’m sorry, but if you can’t pay something this month, I’m going to have to find a new tenant.”

Celia spun to face her father directly, panic etching itself into her features. “Papa? What is he talking about?” Celia knew they were struggling to pay the bills, but four months behind on rent? She’d had no idea it was that bad.

Her father ignored her, instead keeping his gaze on Tom. “I understand, Tom. I’m doing my best; I promise you that.”

“I know, Angus,” Tom said solemnly. “And I’ve tried to be as understanding as possible. Especially with Anna gone, I know it ain’t been easy for y’all around here.”

“No, it ain’t been.” Her father’s voice was even, but Celia could hear the pain underneath. Her own pain was building under her breastbone, a desperate desire to somehow help her father out of this situation.

“I know,” Tom repeated, starting to look visibly uncomfortable. “And like I said, I’ve tried to be understanding. But … the fact of the matter is, Angus if you can’t pay your rent this month, y’all are gonna have to find somewhere new to live.”

“Okay.” Her father said this flatly, then turned his back to Tom and looked back out the lonely, dirty window. Without this farmland, Celia knew he would be even more devastated. He lived for two things: his daughter and his land.

“Well,” Tom said, shifting his gaze quickly to Celia and then to the floor. “That’s all I came by to say. I … I hope y’all have a nice night. Angus, swing by the saloon when you have that money ready. Otherwise …” His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Goodnight, Tom,” Celia said stiffly, taking two quick strides to the front door and yanking it open, a gesture that would let Tom know, in no uncertain terms, that it was time to leave.

“Goodnight, Celia. Angus.” Tom walked out the front door, sliding his hat back in place. He shot one last, sympathetic glance at Celia, and then to her father. “I’m … I’m sorry, y’all.”

Celia bit her tongue to avoid saying something uncharitable in return. Her father ignored him entirely. Tom then ambled back to his horse, which was tied to the post at the bottom of the hill the house stood on.

Both Celia and her father sat in silence for a moment, neither of them even bothering to close the door. Suddenly, her father spun on his heel and slammed the door shut with such force that their tiny house rocked back and forth. He then let out a string of curses that Celia had never heard him use. If Mama had still been there, she would have let him have it for using such foul language.

“Papa – ”  Celia started to say, but he held up his hand and cut her off.

“Celia, darlin’, this ain’t your fault.” Her father rubbed his already bloodshot eyes over and over again, then stared at the ceiling. “I’m gonna figure it out.”

“But Papa, I really think you ought to – ”

“I said I’m figuring it out!” he thundered. Celia stepped away from him, shock and hurt pressing down on her chest. He had never raised his voice to her that way; he had barely ever scolded her as a child.

She remembered her mother’s careful chiding. “I swear, Angus, it’s like that child can do no wrong as far as you’re concerned”.

Tears collected rapidly in the corners of her eyes. Why aren’t you here when we need you the most, Mama?

“I’m sorry,” Celia’s father said after a moment, taking a step towards her and cupping her smooth cheek with his rough, farm-worked hand. She tried to blink the tears away.  “I’m going to take care of it, Sunflower, I promise.”

“How?” Celia whispered.

Her father took a deep breath. “I have an idea,” he said slowly, pulling his hand from her cheek to rake it through his auburn hair, the same color as the dirt he loved so much. “I have an idea.” He repeated the words, but more confidently this time.

“What?”

“Don’t you worry,” he said, giving her another quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m gonna go take care of it right now, and by tomorrow morning, everything will be right as rain.”

“But – ”

“Don’t wait up for me,” her father said, jamming his hat back over his flyaway hair and heading for the door. “I’ll be back home late.”

“Papa, wait – ”

But he was already out the door, walking at a fast clip towards the barn where his mule, Chuck, was penned. There was nothing Celia could do but watch him go.

*****

Two hours passed, and still, Celia’s father had not returned. She tried to go to bed, but to no avail. Her entire body reverberated like one huge knot of anxiety. There was no chance she was getting any sleep in this condition, but it took Celia several hours before she came to this conclusion, tossing and turning stubbornly for as long as she could.

Finally, she got back out of bed, went downstairs, and rummaged through the kitchen drawers. She pulled a stubby, well-used candle from one, along with a box of matches. Fumbling with them for a moment, she hurried outside to the stable.

Inside the big double doors, she took the lantern that hung from a hook. She lit the candle and placed it inside to guide her way.

Chuck’s stall was the only one in the stable that was still in use. Monk had died years ago. Celia still remembered the way her father’s voice had caught when he told her and Anna that the old mule had finally dropped dead in the field; right after the day’s harvesting was done. Their two other horses had been sold after Anna died, so they could pay their rent for the months Angus had been too grief-stricken to leave his bed.

Celia’s mind spun in circles as she made her way to the back of the stable. How had things gotten so bad? What had she missed? What had she been too blind to notice?

When she got to the last stall, which had once been Monk’s, Celia dropped to her knees and moved the straw aside until she could see the loose floorboard, which she popped up. Holding her breath, she waited a moment before shining the light of the lamp into its dark and shadowy depths.

She looked into the trunk that held the family jewelry. All of her mother’s pieces were still there. It took everything in her power not to reach in and caress the well-loved jewels, the slightly tarnished silver. Her grandmother’s jewelry lay beside it, also untouched. Her father’s beloved knives, the ones that he used to cut meat and fish, still remained as well, shiny in the lantern light. In fact, only one thing was missing, and when Celia saw what it was, her heart sank.

Her father’s shotgun.

CHAPTER TWO  

         The next morning, Celia was back at her post at the stove, making grits. She had tossed and turned most of the night, wondering when she was going to hear the clip-clop of Chuck’s hooves coming down the road. Finally, she dozed off a little bit before sunrise. When she woke, she’d crept down the hall to her father’s room, hoping to see him asleep. But his bed was empty; still made from the morning before.

Celia made enough grits for both herself and her father, in the vain hope that he would walk through the door at any moment, whistling and letting her know things were, fine, just fine, and that he had simply gone to talk to Tom and convince him that they needed just a little bit more time to pay the rent.

As she was cleaning up after breakfast, Celia finally heard the sound of boots crunching on the gravel. Her heart soared as she listened for the sound of the key sliding in the lock. She turned towards the door, mustering up a smile, and waited for her father to walk in.

But it wasn’t her father.

It was her aunt Rose, her father’s youngest sister. Rose dropped the house key she’d used to let herself in into her apron pocket.

Celia’s father and her aunt shared the same reddish-brown hair, a few shades lighter than Celia’s own, but the similarities ended there. Rose was effervescent, fun, and lively. Even at age thirty-three, after having three children, men turned to stare at her on the street. Her cheeks were rosy like her name, her blue eyes bright. However, the sparkle Celia usually saw there was gone.

“Aunt Rose?” Celia walked towards her aunt, who was so fine-boned and small, Celia always felt as if she was talking to a child when she stood near her. “What are you doing here? Where’s Papa?”

Aunt Rose walked slowly towards Celia, her arms already reaching towards Celia like she was fumbling around in the dark. What in the world was going on?

“Aunt Rose?” Celia repeated, panic starting to creep into her stomach, squeezing at her heart.

Rose sighed. “Oh, Celia. Sweetheart.” Tears then sprang to her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

*****

Robbery. Armed robbery.

That was what Rose told Celia. At least her father wasn’t dead, she tried to tell herself. It could be worse.

Right now, however, nothing seemed like it could be worse than the sad truth.

“He thought it would help,” Rose said softly, her eyes on the floor. “I guess he thought it would solve all of y’alls money problems. And that he wouldn’t get caught.” She blinked away tears, her voice breaking. “He thought … well, Celia, I can honestly say I don’t what he thought. I can’t imagine what was going through his mind.”

Celia swayed like a piece of tall grass in the breeze, feeling strangely empty as her world crumbled from beneath her feet. Her father had robbed a bank. Her sweet, gentle father, the same one who had cried when they buried their old hound dog, Jake, by the tiny stream that ran along the back of their house. The same one who had sung Celia songs and made up stories for her every night when she couldn’t fall asleep. How had that man robbed a bank?

“Where is he?” Celia finally asked, once Rose had fallen silent.

“Jail, sweetie. He’s in jail.”

“Jail?”

Even though it only made sense that he would be in jail, it still made Celia’s head spin to hear those words out loud. Her heartbeat in a rapid tempo as she imagined her soft-spoken father behind bars. Jail was for criminals, bad men who hurt people. Not her kind, wonderful father. It just couldn’t be.

“For how long?”

“Not sure yet. But … considering, I’d say a long time.” Rose stopped for a moment, swallowing. She buried her head in her hands after a moment, and Celia watched as her aunt’s narrow shoulders rocked back and forth. “Oh, Angus,” she said, lifting her tear-streaked face back to her niece.

A knock on the door startled Celia but also brought her a sense of relief. Finally, there might be something else to occupy her mind from this sudden nightmare. But who could it possibly be now? She hurried to the door and yanked it open, finding herself face-to-face once again with Tom Woolcock.

“Oh. Tom,” she said coldly, feeling like last night’s conversation was a million years ago. “It’s not really a good time.”

“I’m sorry, Celia. But it’s going to have to be.” Tom walked in without asking. He stopped short when he saw Rose sitting on the settee, eyeing him. “Oh. Rose.” His voice changed. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

Like most of the men in town, Tom was completely enamored by Rose. Rumor was that he had even asked for her hand in marriage when they’d been around Celia’s age, but Rose had declined and then married her husband Waylon two years later. But, despite the fact that Rose was a married woman, Tom had never stopped staring at her, going out of his way at every opportunity to speak to her or put his hand on her arm.

“Tom.” Rose’s voice was flat.

“Ladies, I’m very sorry.” He hesitated for a moment. “I heard about Angus.”

“Thank you, Tom,” Celia said politely, turning away from him in the same way her father had last night. “What can I help you with now?”

“Well, I heard about Angus first thing this morning. Of course, I’m sure it’s just a big misunderstanding, and it’ll get cleared up quickly, but …” He sighed, letting his eyes wander around the modest home before landing on Celia again. “I … I have someone who is to start letting this house next week. Fact of the matter is, I’m losing money on this property, and there’s no way y’all are going to be able to pay the rent with Angus’ … situation. I’m sorry Celia, honey, but I’m going to need you to leave by Friday.”

“Leave?” Celia squeaked out, her head spinning.

Leave her home? The only home she had ever known? The only home where her mother had ever hugged her, had tucked her into bed?

No. No.

Celia felt bile rising in her throat, nausea swimming like a fish in her stomach. She tried to say, something, anything, to prevent this, but her mouth simply wouldn’t form the words. It was like her brain already knew there was no hope.

Silent, Celia sunk onto the settee, feeling a tiny piece of comfort in the solidness beneath her.

“That ain’t right, Tom.” Rose had risen to her feet and was staring Tom down, an impressive feat considering that Tom was almost a foot taller than her. “That ain’t right, and you know it. She’s a child.”

Tom looked uncomfortable. “Look. Celia is eighteen years old. That makes her a tenant just like her father. Hell, she’s old enough to be married herself. She could have been married two years ago.”

Celia’s cheeks burned. Feeling a strange, fleeting sense of embarrassment, she turned away, choosing to focus on the dry, brittle stalks shooting out of her mother’s dead garden instead.

“So, she’s on her own?” Rose shot back, hands on her hips. “That ain’t very Christian of you, Tom. I thought you were better than that.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom whispered, chagrined by Rose’s scolding. “I really am. Trust me, this ain’t easy for me either.”

Rose rolled her eyes and then turned to Celia. “Celia, honey, it’ll be okay. You can come stay with me. For as long as you want. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Celia nodded, a rush of tears finally flooding her eyes. She hadn’t cried since her aunt had broken the news. Suddenly, the gravity of her situation set in. She had lost her father and her home on the same day. What did she have left? Surely life couldn’t be so cruel to her. She felt her desperation becoming stronger with every breath she took.

“Well, there ya go.” Tom shifted from one foot to another, clearly growing even more uncomfortable.

“You should leave, Tom,” Rose said frostily, nodding towards the door. “We don’t need anything from you. I’ll see to it that Celia is out by tomorrow night.”

Tom nodded, looking almost relieved at the prospect of being kicked out. “Like I said, I’m – ”

“Good night, Tom.” Rose’s voice was firm. She turned towards Celia, blocking Tom’s view as the tears began to stream down Celia’s cheeks in earnest.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” Rose’s thin arms offered little comfort to Celia. “Everything will be all right.”

*****

Celia was miserable. She had been staying with her aunt Rose and uncle Waylon for a week now, and she felt like she was going crazy. Her three little cousins, Henry, Waylon Jr., and Elizabeth, were constantly underfoot, both confused and awed by the sudden presence of their older cousin in their home.

Everyone in town knew about her father’s crime. Within days, Celia and her family had become pariahs. She was too ashamed to even step foot into Tyson’s. She had put in applications to every shop in town, but because of her father, no place would hire her. No mother wanted her children raised by a girl whose father was a criminal, so being a nursey maid or a tutor was out of the question too. She had no money, barely any possessions, and no place in the town any longer.

Celia was desperate. This desperation was in the forefront of her mind as she climbed the steps to the attic one morning about a week after her father had been arrested. A newspaper was tucked under her arm. She could care less about the news; this was simply a last-ditch effort to get a moment of peace away from her cousins.

She flipped through the pages idly, skimming the words but hardly absorbing any of the information. Frustrated, she snapped the newspaper shut and tossed it away from her, letting it float softly to the attic floor. She had hoped reading the thing would help keep her mind off her father, but it was no use. All she could imagine was his face the last time she had seen him, the worry and fear in his eyes. He loved the newspaper. Was he allowed to read it in jail?

Tears blurred her eyes, one fat drop snaking down her cheek and splashing onto the abandoned newspaper. She stared at it, trancelike. What was she supposed to do? Where was she supposed to go? She couldn’t stay with her aunt and uncle forever.

The questions spun in her mind like a tornado, bumping up against one another but not offering any solutions. Sighing, she picked the newspaper back up, beginning an attempt to take her mind off her plight, when something caught her eye.

It was the ad that her tear had landed on, the ink a little smeared from the drop.

Good-looking German rancher, age 29, seeking the companionship of a young girl or widow; object matrimony, it read. Cooking and cleaning required. Find your new home and purpose on a lovely Nebraskan ranch.

Celia blinked a couple of times. A mail-order bride. Could her solution really be that simple? Could she really write to a lonely man and get a husband in return?

Celia had always dreamed she would marry for love, but it didn’t look like anything in her life was going as she hoped anymore. Without her father there for her to take care of, there was really no reason why she shouldn’t get betrothed. After all, she was eighteen years old; most of her childhood friends were already married.

Trying to ignore the tiny sense of defeat coiling in her stomach, Celia tramped ungracefully back down the stairs. She ignored her cousins as they immediately swarmed her, asking in unison where she had been and what she was doing.

She walked to the far side of the house, where her uncle Waylon’s office was. Waylon was barely ever there; he only kept an office so he could have a place to order supplies for the farm and pay taxes. Slipping in, she pilfered a scrap of paper and one of his quills.

Sitting down at his desk, she began to write. When she was done, she stuffed the letter into an envelope, making sure to copy the address on the ad carefully. Tears still seemed to sit right behind her eyelids, but she ignored them and concentrated on the task at hand.

It’s better than nothing, Celia repeated to herself as she made her way out to the post. It’s better than staying here.

She slid the letter in and closed the box firmly, imagining a lock turning and clicking into place, preventing her from re-opening it.

Then, she turned and ran all the way back to the house, breathing heavily by the time she got to the steps. Tears streamed down her face in earnest, sobs that she had held in for days bubbling up like boiling water and spilling out of her mouth.

This isn’t what you want, a tiny voice in the back of her head said.

No. It wasn’t what she wanted. But right now, it was what she needed.

*****

Within days, Celia was answering every mail-order bride advertisement she could find. Reluctantly, she even made her way back into town, ignoring the blatant stares of the townspeople, to buy the classifieds from the stand outside Tyson’s.

So far, she’d answered nine mail-order bride ads, all as truthfully as she could. None had responded to her.

Celia was honest to a fault; it was a trait her father always said she had inherited from her mother. She simply could not bring herself to lie. And now, her honesty was coming back to bite her. No one would want her with her background. She had nothing to offer.

She sat on her aunt and uncle’s back porch for several weeks after her life had fallen apart, biding time before she went to the post to see if anyone had replied to her yet. Every day she had peeked into the mailbox with high hopes, but every day, there’d been no response.

Some days earlier, Celia had answered an ad from a rancher named Henry Irvin, who lived in Montana. Celia knew nothing about Montana, nor was she even sure if she wanted to live there, but Henry was well to do and, in all honesty, she was running out of options. She could no longer afford to be picky.

Finally, Celia dragged herself off the porch, almost stepping on Waylon Jr., who was trying to catch bugs in a jar at her feet.

“Watch out!” he shouted, scooping a fat black beetle into the jar and screwing the lid shut. Celia ignored him entirely, heading to the post on the corner, like a ship towards a lighthouse.

Holding her breath, she opened the mailbox, expecting it to be empty. Instead, however, one slim envelope lay inside. With trembling fingers, Celia reached inside and pulled out the letter, opening it in what felt like slow motion.

Celia, the letter started. I am so pleased that you answered my advertisement. You seem like a lovely young woman. I would be delighted if you would come to Montana to be my bride and live with me on my ranch. Please respond swiftly and let me know when you are coming. My ranch is in Fuller, Montana, and the exact address is…

Celia looked up towards the sky, wishing for the millionth time in her life that her mother was there to guide her. Instead, she whispered a silent prayer and looked back down at the letter.

Montana.

She was moving to Montana. She was getting married.

Celia tried to feel happy. She really did. But the only thing she could muster up was a sense of relief. Relief that she would be able to leave the town that had turned its back on her. Relief that she could leave Rose and Waylon’s crowded, busy home. Mainly, though, Celia felt relief that someone was finally willing to take her.

For now, that would have to be good enough.

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