Other than the talents you requested, I’ll add that I come from hardy southern stock with roots that can be traced back as far as the early 1600s. Some of my relatives include a Spanish conquistador, a soldier who fought in the bayous with Jackson, and an Acadian exile. There’s no doubt in my mind that the blood of more than one pirate has mingled with the Warner line.
Having lived in Petite all my life, I’m afraid I know next to nothing about cattle and the like. Nor have I ever lived on a ranch. I do suffer from a few minor allergies, but to the best of my knowledge hay isn’t one of them.
If you would be willing to consider me as a candidate for your wife, then you may write to me at the address listed on the top of the page.
Respectfully,
Mary S. Warner
Mary mailed the letter first thing the following morning, before she could entertain second thoughts. They came anyway, almost immediately after she’d dropped the letter in the mail slot, followed by an entire day in which she chastised herself for yielding to the fantasy.
She was too old. Too quiet. Her roots were in the South, her heritage, everything that was important to her. Travis Thompson and those three children wouldn’t want her. He’d want a wife who was young and pretty. Not someone whose most appealing feature was blue eyes.
Only…only she could cook and sew and sing. And that was all Travis Thompson had claimed he wanted. He hadn’t said a word about requiring a beauty queen and a fashion model.
The response came back so fast that it made her head spin. Within a week she was clenching an envelope postmarked Grandview, Montana.
Dear Miss Warner,
Thank you for your kind letter, which the children and I have read with interest. Since you’ve been so forthright about yourself, I figured it’s only fair to share a bit of my own background. I’m a cattle rancher, age 36. Like you, I’ve never been married.
My brother Lee and I were born and raised in Grandview. Lee married Janice a few years out of high school, but the two of them were killed several months back in an auto accident. I was granted custody of Jim, Scotty, and Beth Ann. They’re the only reason I need a wife.
If you’re looking for romance, fancy words, and expensive gifts, then I’ll tell you right now, I haven’t got the money or the inclination for such things. My brother and his wife are gone, and I’ve got my hands full dealing with their youngsters. I don’t have time to properly court a woman. I need a wife and these children need a mother.
My spread has over 15,000 acres, and I make a decent wage when the beef prices are fair, but I’m not a wealthy man, so if that’s what you’re thinking, then I suggest you withdraw your name from consideration.
I’m honest, although there are some who would question that. I work hard and play just as hard. I drink a little now and again, but I don’t chew or smoke. I enjoy a game of poker with the men, but rarely play more than once or twice a month. I kinda hate to give that up. I swear a little, but Beth Ann’s taken it upon herself to clean up my language. I’m not much of a talker and keep mostly to myself.
Each of the children have a question. Jim thanks you for the offer of the recipe for your sweet fig pie but wants to know if you can bake chocolate-chip cookies. He figures if you can cook up gingersnap gravy, you’ll probably know how to cook just about anything.
Scotty says he doesn’t care if you can sew wedding dresses. He’s more anxious to find out if you can mend the tear in his favorite plaid shirt. He won’t let me try since I ruined Beth Ann’s church dress trying to fix the ruffle.
Beth Ann’s biggest concern is if you can make up songs and would be willing to sing them to her when she goes to bed the way her mother used to do.
As you might have guessed, I sincerely lack any domestic talents. I can’t carry a tune any better than I can cook.
If you decide after reading this that you’re still interested, then please write again. A picture would be appreciated.
Sincerely,
Travis J. Thompson
Mary read Travis’s letter straight through, twice. She read it so many times in the next few hours that the top edges of the pages started to curl. Of course she’d hoped to hear from him, but she hadn’t allowed herself the luxury of believing he would actually respond to her letter. A thousand times she regretted the wording. She should have said this, deleted that. For days she’d been tormenting herself, regretting whatever weakness had possessed her to answer the Billings ad.
The instant she heard from Travis, all her doubt evaporated. She was thrilled.
She answered him that very night.
Dear Travis:
I lost a brother, too. Clinton died four years ago in a small plane crash. I know all about the pain of losing a loved one, of feeling guilty because they died and you didn’t. Guilty because everything changes afterward. Everyone changes. You yourself change, although you struggle against that very thing. At least I did, and the battle tired me so. Death leaves one feeling overwhelmingly powerless, doesn’t it?
I learned that hope and despair feel so much alike that I couldn’t tell the difference after a time. It was as if both paths crossed each other so often that one blended into the other. That’s the best way I can think to describe the months following Clinton’s death.
I apologize. I didn’t mean to get started on that subject, but it struck me that the two of us, who are so outwardly different, share something so fundamentally important.
Yes, I’m still interested in becoming your wife, although I’m not sure I should be. You were prompt in telling me what I shouldn’t expect. I hope you’ll be as forthright in telling me what I can.
As for the children’s questions, you may tell Jim that I can cook anything he desires. My expertise in the kitchen isn’t limited to sweet fig pie. All he need do is let me know his favorites.
And Scotty, you don’t need to fret, either. I know my way around a sewing machine just as well as I do a kitchen. If I can’t mend his shirt, I’ll sew him another just like it.
Beth Ann, sweetheart, I’ve been singing made-up songs for as long as I can remember. I’d be more than happy to sing them for you each night.
The picture I’m enclosing is from last year. It’s taken beneath a blooming magnolia tree. I’m the one on the left. The woman standing with me is my best friend, Georgeanne McKay.
I’ll look forward to hearing from you again.
Warmest wishes,
Mary Warner
Mary was on tenterhooks until she heard from Travis again. She didn’t have to wait long. Within a few days there was another letter waiting for her. Mary didn’t wait until she was home to rip it open and read what Travis had written. She tore the letter open right inside the Petite Post Office.
Dear Mary,
What can you expect? You’re right, I was quick to list what you couldn’t, but I didn’t bother to tell you what I’m offering. Your question gave me cause to evaluate exactly what I’m willing to give to this marriage other than hard work and three grieving children.
First and foremost is commitment. We’re both well aware this isn’t a love match. I suspect that matters to you far more than me, being that’s the way a woman thinks and feels. From what I know of women, I suspect you’d prefer I sugarcoat this agreement with a few romantic words, but I’d rather we start out being honest with each other.
If you agree to marry me and move to Grandview, then I’ll commit myself to you the same way I have to Lee and Janice’s children. This means I’ll make myself responsible for your well-being. Your problems will be my problems. Your needs, my needs.
I promise to be faithful to you, to work toward making this ranch as prosperous as possible, so when the time comes we can enjoy the fruits of our labors together.
My home will be your home. Lee and Janice’s children our children.
What I’m offering seems damn little when I look at it in black and white.
The kids and I talked, and of everyone who’s written we like you the
best. Instead of keeping us waiting for your letter, please phone with your response at the number listed below.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Affectionately,
Travis J. Thompson
Three
The afternoon Travis’s letter arrived was incredible. For no reason whatsoever, sitting at the front desk, Mary burst into giggles. She glanced around guiltily and then moved on to some other section of the building only to laugh again. People must have assumed she’d been sniffing book glue.
“How are you this fine afternoon?” Mrs. Garrett had asked her near closing time, no doubt expecting Mary’s customary reply of “Very well, thank you.”
Only Mary hadn’t given it to her. “I feel especially reckless today,” she answered politely.
The retired nurse had stopped short and frowned at her through narrowed eyes above thick wire-rim glasses. “Did you say you were feeling reckless?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Mary punctuated the comment with a warm smile.
“My dear, you should do something about this. I suggest you visit Dr. Hanley without delay.”
Unable to hold on to her secret a second longer, Mary headed for Georgeanne McKay’s house as soon as the library was closed.
“Mary, what a pleasant surprise,” Georgeanne welcomed her warmly. Tall and as slender as a young poplar tree, Georgeanne had married a month after graduating from high school and gone on to live a fairytale existence. Two children and several years of marriage had done little to mar her classic features. Even after two difficult pregnancies, Mary’s dearest friend had been able to maintain her svelte figure. Georgeanne had always been popular and outgoing, and Mary felt uplifted just being around her. Analyzing their friendship, Mary realized her friend was a pleasant contrast to her own dull existence.
“Have you got a moment to talk?” Mary knew it was the dinner hour, but she couldn’t wait another second to share her news.
“Of course.” Georgeanne led the way into the kitchen. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, and the table crowded with plates and an empty milk carton. The salt shaker had spilled, and white granules had been scattered across the tabletop. “Benny took both boys down to buy them a new football. It seems the old one went flat. Here, sit down and let me get you something cold to drink.”
Mary stood in front of the refrigerator and noted that the crayon-colored pictures were still there, along with a copy of the school lunch menu for the month. She reached out and brushed her fingers over the magnet holding the menu in place. Happiness crowded up inside her as she realized her life would soon be as cluttered and full as her friend’s.
When she turned around, Georgeanne was standing with two tall glasses of iced tea. She studied Mary for a moment before asking, “Is everything all right?”
Mary smiled brightly. “It couldn’t be better.”
Georgeanne believed her, Mary could tell by the relaxed way her friend walked past the cluttered kitchen table and led the way to the front porch.
“I was just thinking the other day that we haven’t seen near enough of each other lately. How about the two of us going shopping Saturday?” Georgeanne asked as she sat on the white wicker chair. Brown thrushes fluttered between the tree limbs while june bugs and katydids chirped a cheery song.
“Shopping…ah, sure.” Mary’s hand tightened around the strap of her purse as she sat down herself. The air was fragrant this evening, she noted, and realized with a pang how much she was going to miss her home. But Montana held something for her that Louisiana never would.
A husband, children, and love.
“Georgeanne,” she said excitedly, “I have some wonderful news.”
“I guessed as much. Your eyes are fairly twinkling.”
“I need to know what you think of that pale pink material and the pattern I showed you last month. The one I planned to make with the lace overlay and the satin ribbon woven in at the yoke.”
“I thought it was absolutely divine,” Georgeanne answered thoughtfully. “Why? Are you thinking of sewing it up? I thought you said you were saving it for something special.”
Mary’s nod was eager. “The most important event of my life.”
“Is the library holding another literary tea?”
Mary carefully opened her purse and withdrew Travis’s letter as if she were bringing out the Hope diamond, as though she would never again in her life hold anything of more value. “I’m planning to wear it for my wedding.”
The stunned silence stretched to embarrassing proportions. “You’re getting married?”
“Don’t look so shocked,” Mary teased, knowing full well how much of a bombshell her news was. She, who hadn’t been out on a date in over two years. She, who had given up the hope of meeting that someone special, of ever being loved or of loving a man.
“I…I hardly know what to say. I wasn’t even aware you were dating.”
“His name is Travis Thompson, and he lives in a little town a hundred or more miles outside of Miles City, Montana. I’m not entirely sure where the wedding will be held or even when, but I assume it’ll be in Grandview since that’s the closest city to Travis’s ranch.”
“Montana.” Georgeanne’s reaction was very much like Mary’s had been when she’d first read the ad. It was as though Mary had announced she were marrying an alien from outer space.
Mary understood her friend’s concern. She’d had her own share of misgivings in the beginning. She might as well explain everything at once, she thought with a muted sigh. “I really don’t have much choice but to move to Montana, since that’s where Travis’s cattle ranch is.”
“You’re going to live on a cattle ranch?”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure Travis has no intention of having me work the range.” She’d meant it as a joke, but Georgeanne seemed to be taking her seriously.
“How…did you two meet?” her friend asked in a reed-thin voice.
“We haven’t, at least not yet.”
“You’ve never met the man.” Georgeanne stood abruptly, then literally fell back onto the seat. Silence stretched between them, and the air filled with static electricity that arched between incredulity and disbelief.
“We will before the ceremony, of course,” Mary assured her with a light laugh. “There’s no need to look so worried. We’re both going into this with our eyes open.”
“If you’ve never met, then how…when did you find each other? It doesn’t make…” The words quickly faded into nothingness.
“I answered Travis’s ad for a wife,” Mary explained, never considering telling her friend anything less than the truth, however painful. “He put one in the Billings, Montana, paper, and Sally Givens—you know Sally Givens, don’t you?—found it.”
Georgeanne’s nod was decidedly weak.
Drawing in a calming breath, Mary forced herself to continue. “You see, Travis’s brother and sister-in-law were killed recently, and Travis was granted custody of their three children. They’re the reason he placed an ad in the paper.”
There, it was out. The facts, stark and chilling. The truth that Mary was so despairing, so hopeless, that she’d resorted to answering an ad in the personals column. It hurt to admit it, but she was safe telling her friend, the person in Petite who knew her best.
“This rancher…advertised for a wife?”
“Yes, and I answered. We’ve been writing back and forth ever since, and he and the children chose me.” She couldn’t keep the pride from ringing in her voice. When Georgeanne continued to stare at her as though she were from Mars, Mary peeled the pages from the envelope and handed them to her friend as proof.
Perhaps Mary had been foolish to blurt it out this way, but she expected Georgeanne to share a small portion of her enthusiasm. Her lifelong friend was the single living soul she trusted enough to believe such a madcap scheme could be made to work. No one else would understand. Mary fully envisioned being called a fool, cautioned, and chastised by most e
veryone, but not by Georgeanne. Not her best friend.
“Children? The man was granted custody of the children?”
“Three.”
“Dear God in heaven,” Georgeanne whispered in words that weren’t meant to be a prayer. Then again, maybe they were.
“Georgeanne, please,” Mary said, reaching for the other woman’s hand and gripping it tightly between her own. “Be happy for me. A man, a good, honest man, wants me for his wife.”
“B-but you haven’t even met him.”
“But I know him. We’ve been writing.” Mary shuffled through the pages of the letter.
“Not for long, otherwise you would have mentioned him before now. How could you even consider anything this crazy? It just isn’t like you.” The words burst like caps out of a toy gun, quickly fired, loud and demanding.
“I’m going to marry him,” Mary said with quiet dignity.
“Have you told anyone else? Don’t you think you should at least discuss it with someone? Mary, please, you’ve got to think this through very carefully. Naturally you’re feeling confused. Your mother died this year, and I know Clinton’s death was terribly upsetting to you. Surely this idea of yours…of marrying this man sight unseen is somehow linked to losing Savannah and Clinton. You’re feeling disoriented and bewildered by the blow. You aren’t yourself.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“You can’t,” Georgeanne argued, “otherwise you wouldn’t have agreed to this…this strange proposal.”
“I haven’t actually agreed. At least not yet.”
Georgeanne closed her eyes briefly. “Thank God,” she whispered. “You can’t leave Petite, Mary, you just can’t. What would I do without you?”
“You’ll be just fine. You always have.”
“But this just isn’t like you.”
Her friend had given Mary pause, had dented the confidence she’d been nearly drunk with earlier. Hearing herself explain out loud what she was doing made it suddenly seem preposterous. Absurd and foolish. Still, she longed to marry Travis Thompson more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.
Morning Comes Softly Page 4
