Mail Order Cowboy. Laurie Kingery

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      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.

      Milly recognized Dan Wallace, Caroline’s brother, and son of the town postmaster.

      Caroline called out, “Dan, is anything wrong? We’re having a meeting here—”

      “I know, Caroline,” Dan said. “But Papa said to show this gent where to go.”

      Caroline’s brow furrowed, and Milly saw her look past her brother. “What gent?”

      “He’s waitin’ outside. He came t’ the post office. Says he’s come in response to the advertisement y’all placed in that Houston newspaper. He’s lookin’ for Miss Milly, an’ I knew she’d be here with you ’cause a’ the meetin’.”

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