by Cat Cahill
A Groom for Celia
The Blizzard Brides, Book 3
by Cat Cahill
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at:
http://www.catcahill.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 Cat Cahill
Cover design by EDH Graphics
All rights reserved.
The Blizzard Brides
Welcome to Last Chance, Nebraska!
When the freak blizzard of 1878 kills most of the men in a small Nebraska town, what does it mean for the surviving women and children?
Realizing they need to find men of honor to help rebuild, the women place an advertisement in The Matrimonial Times.
Choosing a husband is more difficult than they thought, when there is an overwhelming response to the ad.
Will these Blizzard Brides find a second chance at love in a town called Last Chance?
Join the Blizzard Brides Reader’s Community
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Blizzard Brides Series Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Epilogue
Books by Cat Cahill
About the Author
Chapter One
Manhattan, New York City - October 1878
He’d finally lost them.
Jack Wendler pressed himself against the peeling wallpaper, just inside the dim building as footsteps pounded past outside. The rain quickly drowned them out, but he didn’t dare move, not until he was certain they were gone.
Water dripped from his hat and coat onto the floor, and still he didn’t move. When nothing else sounded from outside, he let out a deep breath and lit a match to illuminate the entryway. There was old Mr. Fiacco, curled up next to the stairs. Jack stepped over the man’s bag of meager possessions, stopping to drop a coin into it, before shaking out the burnt match and continuing up the stairs in the dark.
He fumbled for his key, ignoring the pitter-patter of the building’s resident mice, and unlocked the door. He had to force his weight into just the right spot to get the thing to open. The building wasn’t much, a four-story rooming house in a part of the city Jack had thought he would have left behind by now. But the rent was right, and so he’d stayed.
Until now.
He lit the lamp on the old desk that sat opposite his bed. The light flickered over walls tinged with years of smoke and illuminated a scarred wooden floor. Jack peeled off his soaked hat and coat before sitting down to the paper he’d bought that morning. He rarely purchased a newspaper, but for some reason, he’d felt compelled to that morning. He smiled wryly at the newsprint. Perhaps in his gut, he’d known this latest deal was going to fall apart even more spectacularly than the ones before.
Perhaps he’d known he’d need to be getting out of the city as soon as possible.
Jack flipped the pages of the paper until he found the advertisements. He pulled the lamp closer as he squinted at the fine print. A full page of ads, desperate for workers, stared back at him. And, thankfully, a few of them were for places far away from New York.
Wanted: Strong, young men for coal mining in Penn.
Needed quickly. Railroadmen in New Mexico Terr.
Furnacemen needed. Fare paid to Cleveland, Ohio.
Jack made a face. He wasn’t against hard work, but none of this was exactly what he had in mind. He was a businessman. He could befriend anyone, sell anything, negotiate a good deal.
Except he’d lost money for at least six different investors on four different deals over the past few years—all of which had collapsed before they’d had a chance to earn a penny.
He rubbed the back of a hand across his eyes. Maybe he ought to try a different line of work. Something with less risk. Something that didn’t involve other people’s money. And something far, far away from Manhattan, preferably where none of the men whose money he’d lost could find him.
But he wasn’t so sure about anything that required backbreaking labor.
He blinked away the weariness that threatened to take over and turned the page to find an entirely different newspaper. The Matrimonial Times. Jack gave a short laugh. Marriage—that was exactly what he didn’t need right now. This paper must have been accidentally inserted into the one he purchased. He was about to pull it free when one of the ads caught his eye.
Widowed by devastating snowstorm, respectable women seeking reputable men. Object Matrimony. Box 147, Last Chance Nebraska.
Well, that was different. He smiled wryly at the name of the town. Last Chance. That was certainly true of his situation. He could be anything he wanted in a place like that. Maybe they needed a salesman in a store, or a depot master. He was handy with a hammer and a saw—more or less. Or perhaps they could use a barber. Surely that couldn’t be too difficult.
He wasn’t sure about the marriage bit, though. Having female company wouldn’t be so awful, but marriage? He’d courted Miss Sarah Rogers briefly last spring, before he’d lost her father’s investment in a meatpacking business. How was he to know the great deal he’d gotten on swine meant the animals were all sickly or underweight? Rogers had sent him off with the muzzle of one of his ancient pistols pointed squarely at Jack. Sarah hadn’t even watched from the window.
But it had been nice, while it had lasted. Maybe marriage would be like that, having someone pretty to look at all the time who would laugh at his jokes and make him a good dinner.
What he wouldn’t give for a decent meal.
He turned back to the ads in the paper he’d intended to purchase, but his mind kept wandering to those ladies in Nebraska. He set the paper aside with a sigh. It wouldn’t hurt to write, at least. It certainly didn’t commit him to anything. Besides, the idea of running a store that couldn’t fail was appealing. After all, those ranchers and whoever else found their way out there needed somewhere to purchase their sundries. Jack Wendler, prairie shopkeeper, purveyor of fine goods to all persons for fifty miles around.
With a grin, Jack scrounged up a piece of paper—the back of a purchase receipt from Allman’s Dry Goods, where he’d bought a hat on his last investor’s dime. Thankfully, the little ink he had left hadn’t yet dried up. He dipped his pen and began to write. The words flowed, so fast his hand could hardly keep up with his thoughts. He signed his name with a flourish, folded the paper carefully once the ink dried, and placed it into an old envelope.
Crossing out his address on the envelope, he wrote the Fifth Avenue address listed at the top of the ads. He’d just set the letter
aside when an impatient knock came from the door.
Jack froze, half standing.
“Wendler! I know you’re in there. That old drunk downstairs said you came through a while ago.” Garrity Shane’s voice barreled through the wooden door, carrying a hint of what he’d do if Jack didn’t open it himself.
Jack silently cursed old Mr. Fiacco, who apparently hadn’t been asleep at all.
Another knock came.
Jack knew exactly why Shane was here. Partnering with Callum Sullivan had been risky, and now that he’d lost the man’s money . . . Jack was certain it was Sullivan’s men chasing him earlier. When they failed, he’d likely sent out the one man he knew could get the job done.
“You gonna hide behind that door like a boy behind his mama’s skirts?” Shane said. “Come out here and face up to the boss about what you did.”
Jack closed his eyes. If he went out there, he was a dead man. At least, he would be once Shane found out he couldn’t pay his boss back for the money he’d lost. Jack had heard more than enough stories about Shane’s work. He’d honed his skills working for Tammany Hall, before going to work for Sullivan. Jack didn’t want to know how many men had met their end with him.
But he wouldn’t be one of them.
“You come out here or I’m coming in to get you,” Shane yelled.
Jack burst into action, shoving the letter into his trousers pocket before snatching his coat and hat. He snagged a worn carpetbag and tossed in a handful of clothing before running across the small room to the window. He shoved the sash up and glanced down to the street below. Two stories was a ways to go, but nothing he couldn’t survive.
Something crashed into the door. There was no more time to think. With a quick prayer, Jack leapt out into the rain and ran for Grand Central Station.
Hopefully those widows in Last Chance wouldn’t be all married up before he got there.
Chapter Two
Last Chance, Nebraska — November 1, 1878
Six envelopes lay neatly spaced out on the kitchen table.
Celia Thornton examined each one, wondering which she should open first. Perhaps the one with the masculine scrawl next to a crossed-out address? Or maybe the envelope with the careful printing? One of the envelopes didn’t look as if it had a man’s handwriting at all. In fact, it looked as if the gentleman had asked a neighbor or a female post office clerk to address his letter for him.
She sat back and pursed her lips. Could one tell a man’s personality by his handwriting? One of these envelopes was her chance at a new, happier life. She hoped she’d chosen them well.
A forlorn sigh drew her attention away from the decision. Her sister, Faith Thornton, sat across from Celia at the small table in her kitchen. The sisters had withdrawn to Faith’s home, which also served as the town of Last Chance’s post and telegraph office, after selecting their letters with the other ladies at the church. Faith’s stack of envelopes lay piled in front of her, and Faith eyed them as if they were a death sentence. And for Faith, it likely felt that way. After all, she’d been deeply in love with her husband.
Unlike Celia.
Celia’s heart went out to her sister, and she laid a hand on Faith’s arm as reassurance. Faith gave her a weak smile.
“Why don’t you open yours first?” Faith said, her voice wavering.
“All right.” Celia turned her attention back to the letters, her heart thumping. What if they were all terrible? Or, perhaps even worse, what if they all sounded wonderful and she couldn’t choose from among them?
Enough thinking. Sitting here wondering wouldn’t change what was inside. Celia drew the letter closest to her—the one with the carefully printed address on the front—and sliced through the envelope with Faith’s letter opener.
Celia began reading the letter silently. She made it only to the second paragraph, where the gentleman expressed his desire to bring his entire family—parents, four younger siblings, and a pair of cousins—to live with them in Last Chance. Celia refolded the letter. Her little farmhouse had only three rooms, hardly enough space for all those people. And besides, getting to know a new husband sounded daunting enough, never mind his entire family.
“Not a good choice?” Faith asked.
Celia passed the letter to her sister and drew a new envelope from among her options. It only took her one paragraph this time to toss the letter aside. The writer made all sorts of demands immediately—about work he would and would not deign to do, food he wanted to eat, the sort of society he liked to keep. Western Nebraska was no place for someone that picky. Celia doubted he’d last the winter.
Celia’s hopes diminished with the next three letters. She felt she wasn’t asking for much, and yet it seemed hard to find. A hard worker. A man unafraid to take up a farm. An honest man. But perhaps most importantly, a kind man with a good heart. One who might grow to love her. One who exuded warmth in his letter. A man who was the opposite of her deceased husband, Ned.
She’d hoped Ned would be that sort of man, despite the fact that they’d known each other only in passing when they married. After all, his brother was madly in love with Celia’s sister. Celia had thought Ned might be like his brother. But as the months had stretched on, she learned he wasn’t. He was cold and aloof, preferring his own company to hers. She could never figure how Aaron was so warm and generous, while his brother was anything but. If it weren’t for Faith, Celia might have withered away out on that farm, so lonely she might as well have been living by herself.
All she wanted now was the man she’d hoped to marry in the first place.
She picked up the last letter with trepidation, the one with the strong handwriting next to the crossed-out New York address.
“Perhaps this one will be good,” Faith said.
Celia glanced at her sister. Her once luminous light brown hair looked lank as stray pieces fell from her messy chignon, and her soft skin appeared almost sallow. Her heart broke for Faith. No one should suffer the loss she had. And certainly no one, much less the town’s preacher, should be pressuring her to remarry or go back East.
“Well, let’s see,” Celia said, trying to muster up some of the excitement she’d had when she’d chosen the letters. This one had to be better than the others. She held it for a moment, as if willing the broad scrawl that spelled out the address of the newspaper in New York to belong to a decent man. One who was kind of heart, hard-working, generous, and good-natured.
She pulled in a deep breath. It had been her idea for the ladies in town to place an advertisement for husbands. For most of the other ladies, it served only to appease Pastor Collins and his insistence that single women had no place out here. But for Celia, it was something else entirely. What if they all found someone and she couldn’t? She sliced open the envelope slowly as she said a quick prayer. This letter was longer than the others, spilling onto the back of the page and around the words of a store receipt. She began reading.
Dearest Lady of Last Chance—
Celia smothered a giggle. The salutation sounded like the title of English nobility.
I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing in response to your newspaper advertisement. My name is John P. Wendler, and I hail from New York City. I am a businessman by trade, and have engaged in numerous dealings, some more prosperous than others. The current business climate in New York has caused me to begin seeking my fortune elsewhere. Your advertisement intrigued me, as I have longed to see more of this great country. I am adept at learning new things and could easily take over any trade or business in your town. I am well-spoken, genteel, and have numerous friends and acquaintances. I especially yearn for a good woman with whom to share my life—someone of a pleasant nature, with wit and fortitude, a good helpmate as we begin our lives together, and who might grow to love me as I grow to love her.
The letter went on to describe Mr. Wendler as tall, with dark hair and eyes, and coming from a small, yet loving family. He was a man who enjoyed social events, the theat
er, and a good book. But more than anything, he wanted to marry and raise a family.
Celia folded the letter and looked at her sister.
“If that smile means anything, I believe you might have found potential in that letter.” Faith held out her hand, and Celia passed the paper to her.
Faith read silently as Celia’s mind wandered. Was he as effusive and thoughtful as he appeared in his letter? Surely a surly and cold-hearted man couldn’t write as well as Mr. Wendler.
“Well, he certainly paints a pretty picture,” Faith said. Her eyes roved the letter again before she looked up at Celia. “He does know there isn’t a theater in Last Chance?”
“He must,” Celia replied, her mind still imagining a devastatingly handsome dark-haired man with a smile only for her.
“I do wonder how, out of all his ‘numerous friends and acquaintances,’ he couldn’t have met a wife in New York.” Faith set the letter in front of Celia. “Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
“Not particularly. After all, he said he wished to see the country, and that the—how did he put it?—’business climate’ was not to his liking in New York.” Celia reached for her sister’s hand and took it between her own. “Faith, I’m not like you. Ned was not Aaron. This is my second chance at happiness. This Mr. Wendler sounds like a good man. Don’t you think?”
Faith chewed her bottom lip. “Compared to the others, he sounds like a gem. But why don’t you wait and see if something better arrives in the mail? Or”—she glanced at the messy stack of six letters in front of herself—“maybe there is one in here who will appeal to you more.”
“That would mean you’d have to open your letters,” Celia said gently.
Faith pulled her hand back to her lap. “All right, then,” she said resolutely.
Yet even as Faith opened the first envelope, Celia rested her hand on Mr. Wendler’s missive. He was the one for her. She just knew it. She barely heard any of the words Faith read aloud.
“You aren’t listening,” Faith said as she set her third letter down.
