by Seton, Cora
Must be willing to commit to a man and the project. No weekends/no holidays/no sick days. Weaklings need not apply.
Regan snorted. It was beginning to sound like an employment ad. Good luck finding a woman to fill those conditions. She’d tried to find a suitable man for years and came up with Erik—the perennial mooch who’d finally admitted just before Christmas that he liked her old Village apartment more than he liked her. That’s why she planned to get pregnant all by herself. There wasn’t anyone worth marrying in the whole city. Probably the whole state. And if the men were all worthless, the women probably were, too. She reached for her wine without turning from the screen, missed, and nearly knocked over her glass. She tried again, secured the wine, drained the glass a third time and set it down again.
What she would give to find a real partner. Someone strong, both physically and emotionally. An equal in intelligence and heart. A real man.
But those didn’t exist.
If you’re sick of wasting your time in a dead-end job, tired of tearing things down instead of building something up, or just ready to get your hands dirty with clean, honest work, write and tell us why you’d make a worthy wife for a man who has spent the last decade in uniform.
There wasn’t much to laugh at in this paragraph. Regan read it again, then got up and wandered to the kitchen to top up her glass. She’d never seen a singles ad like this one. She could see why it was going viral. If it was real, these men were something special. Who wanted to do clean, honest work these days? What kind of man was selfless enough to serve in the military instead of sponging off their girlfriends? If she’d known there were guys like this in the world, she might not have been so quick to schedule the artificial insemination appointment.
She wouldn’t cancel it, though, because these guys couldn’t be for real, and she wasn’t waiting another minute to start her family. She had dreamed of having children ever since she was a child herself and organized pretend schools in her backyard for the neighborhood little ones. Babies loved her. Toddlers thought she was the next best thing to teddy bears. Her co-workers at the bank had never appreciated her as much as the average five-year-old did.
Further down the page there were photographs of the ranch the brothers meant to bring back to life. The land was beautiful, if overgrown, but its toppled fences and sagging buildings were a testament to its neglect. The photograph of the main house caught her eye and kept her riveted, though. A large gothic structure, it could be beautiful with the proper care. She could see why these men would dedicate themselves to returning it to its former glory. She tried to imagine what it would be like to live on the ranch with one of them, and immediately her body craved an open sunny sky—the kind you were hard pressed to see in the city. She sunk into the daydream, picturing herself sitting on a back porch sipping lemonade while her cowboy worked and the baby napped. Her husband would have his shirt off while he chopped wood, or mended a fence or whatever it was ranchers did. At the end of the day they’d fall into bed and make love until morning.
Regan sighed. It was a wonderful daydream, but it had no bearing on her life. Disgruntled, she switched over to Netflix and set up a foreign film. She fetched the bottle of wine back to bed with her and leaned against her many pillows. She’d managed to hang her small flatscreen on the opposite wall. In an apartment this tiny, every piece of furniture needed to serve double-duty.
As the movie started, Regan found herself composing messages to the military men in the Wife Wanted ad, in which she described herself as trim and petite, or lithe and strong, or horny and good-enough-looking to do the trick.
An hour later, when the film failed to hold her attention, she grabbed her laptop again. She pulled up the Wife Wanted page and reread it, keeping an eye on the foreign couple on the television screen who alternately argued and kissed.
Crazy what some people did. What was wrong with these men that they needed to advertise for wives instead of going out and meeting them like normal people?
She thought of the online dating sites she’d tried in the past. She’d had some awkward experiences, some horrible first dates, and finally one relationship that lasted for a couple of months before the man was transferred to Tucson and it fizzled out. It hadn’t worked for her, but she supposed lots of people found love online these days. They might not advertise directly for spouses, but that was their ultimate intention, right? So maybe this ad wasn’t all that unusual.
Most men who posted singles ads weren’t as hot as these men were, though. Definitely not the ones she’d met. She poured herself another glass. A small twinge of her conscience told her she’d already had far too much wine for a single night.
To hell with that, Regan thought. As soon as she got pregnant she’d have to stay sober and sane for the next eighteen years. She wouldn’t have a husband to trade off with—she’d always be the designated driver, the adult in charge, the sober, wise mother who made sure nothing bad ever happened to her child. Just this one last time she was allowed to blow off steam.
But even as she thought it, a twinge of fear wormed through her belly.
What if she wasn’t good enough?
She stood up, strode the two steps to the kitchenette and made herself a bowl of popcorn. She drowned it in butter and salt, returned to the bed in time for the ending credits of the movie, and lined up Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth. Time for comfort food and a comfort movie. Pride and Prejudice always did the trick when she felt blue. She checked the Wife Wanted page again on her laptop. If she was going to pick one of the men—which she wasn’t—who would she choose?
Mason, the oldest, due to leave the Navy in a matter of weeks, drew her eye first. With his dark crew cut, hard jaw and uncompromising blue eyes he looked like the epitome of a military man. He stated his interests as ranching—of course—history, natural sciences and tactical operations, whatever the hell that was. That left her little more informed than before she’d read it, and she wondered what the man was really like. Did he read the newspaper in bed on Sunday mornings? Did he prefer lasagna or spaghetti? Would he listen to country music in his truck or talk radio? She stared at his photo, willing him to answer.
The next two brothers, Austin and Zane, were less fierce, but looked no less intelligent and determined. Still, they didn’t draw her eye the way the way Mason did. Colt, the youngest, was blond with a grin she bet drew women like flies. That one was trouble, and she didn’t need trouble.
She read Mason’s description again and decided he was the leader of this endeavor. If she was going to pick one, it would be him.
But she wasn’t going to pick one. She had given up all that. She’d made a promise to her imaginary child that she would not allow any chaos into its life. No dating until her baby wore a graduation gown, at the very least. She felt another twinge. Was she ready to give up men for nearly two decades? That was a long time.
It’s worth it, she told herself. She had no doubt about her desire to be a mother. She had no doubt she’d be a great mom. She was smart, capable and had a good head on her shoulders. She was funny, silly and patient, too. She loved children.
She was just lousy with men.
But that didn’t matter anymore. She pushed the laptop aside and returned her attention to Pride and Prejudice, quickly falling into an old drinking game she and Laurel had devised one night that required taking a swig of wine each time one of the actresses lifted her eyebrows in polite surprise. When she finished the bottle, she headed to the tiny kitchenette to track down another one, trilling, “Jane! Elizabeth!” at the top of her voice along with Mrs. Bennett in the film. There was no more wine, so she switched to tequila.
By the time Elizabeth Bennett discovered the miracle of Mr. Darcy’s palace-sized mansion, and decided she’d been too hasty in turning down his offer of marriage, Regan had decided she too needed to cast off her prejudices and find herself a man. A hot hunk of a military man. She grabbed the laptop, fumbled with the link that would let her leave Maso
n Hall a message and drafted a brilliant missive worthy of Jane Austen herself.
Dear Lt. Cmdr. Hall,
In her mind she pronounced lieutenant with an “f” like the Brits in the movie onscreen.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good ranch, must be in want of a wife. Furthermore, it must be self-evident that the wife in question should possess certain qualities numbering amongst them riding, roping, construction, roofing, farming, market gardening, cooking, cleaning, metalworking, animal care, and—most importantly, by Heaven—small motor repair.
Seeing as I am in possession of all these qualities, not to mention many others you can only have left out through unavoidable oversight or sheer obtuseness—such as glassblowing, cheesemaking, towel origami, heraldry, hovercraft piloting, and an uncanny sense of what cats are thinking—I feel almost forced to catapult myself into your purview.
You will see from my photograph that I am most eminently and majestically suitable for your wife.
She inserted a digital photo of her foot.
In fact, one might wonder why such a paragon of virtue such as I should deign to answer such a peculiar advertisement. The truth is, sir, that I long for adventure. To get my hands dirty with clean, hard work. To build something up instead of tearing it down.
In short, you are really hot. I’d like to lick you.
Yours,
Regan Anderson
On screen, Elizabeth Bennett lifted an eyebrow. Regan knocked back another shot of Jose Cuervo and passed out.
Chapter Two
‡
Mason approached his messages from interested women the way he’d approach any chore. Methodically. At first he’d balked just as much as his brothers had about the idea of an online Wife Wanted ad, but as much as he thought about it he couldn’t come up with a more practical way to achieve their mission. How else could he and his brothers meet so many eligible women so quickly? How else could they secure possession of the Hall? No way was he going to let it slip away from his family again—the last time had been bad enough.
Mason was eighteen and only months away from graduating high school when his father died of an aneurysm. There’d been no warning. One minute the vital, powerful man was moving cattle from pasture to pasture, the next he was gone. Mason’s childhood had ended the same day.
He’d be the first to admit he’d been luckier than most kids up until that time. His family wasn’t rich in cash, but they were rich in land and heritage. The Halls had lived at Crescent Hall for over a hundred years. His parents had been hopelessly in love the entire time they were together. He hadn’t realized how rare that was until he was older. As a kid he’d just known that the Hall rang with laughter most days, his mother put up with the dirt and fuss four boys kicked up, and it wasn’t uncommon to see his Dad pull her into an embrace and waltz her around the kitchen like there was no one else on earth except the two of them.
A cattleman through and through, Aaron Hall loved the physical work. Mason’s mother—Julie—was kind, fun-loving, and just as apt to be mucking out a stall as to be doing more housewifely chores. His parents chatted, laughed, teased and loved each other as they worked side by side. More than once he’d seen his father racing across the fields after his mother to scoop her up, twirl her around and give her a resounding kiss.
His father’s death had devastated all of them, and when Uncle Ezekiel took the opportunity to grab control over the land—and their house—it had been the last straw. Zeke, as co-owner of the ranch, was within his rights to do so, but that didn’t lessen the blow. Julie packed them up and drove them two miserable days to her sister’s place in Florida.
They’d never gone back.
But now they would. And if his dream of going home could be resurrected, maybe his dream of finding the kind of wife his mother had always been to his father was possible, too. But what kind of woman would answer an online ad?
Mason was all too aware how people could construct digital personas that had very little to do with who they really were, and he had determined to double-check any woman he became involved with. Being a part of an elite military team had a few perks. He knew just who to call to dig up dirt on people.
As he read through his messages, he quickly realized the women who answered fell into a few neat categories. Women who expected to be paid for their services, women who were lonely for all too obvious reasons, women who were psychos, and a few normal, healthy-looking women he labeled as “maybes”, although none of them caught his interest for too long.
He’d scanned well over a hundred e-mails when he opened one from a Regan Anderson to find a very familiar first line:
“It is a truth universally acknowledged…”
Mason snorted, remembering that hideous, old-fashioned novel from his eleventh grade Honors English class. He’d been forced to write a five page essay on Pride and Prejudice and he swore that experience left a permanent scar. But his lips twitched at the substitution of ranch for fortune, and he bit back a laugh at her list of qualities of a superior woman. Obviously this Regan person thought the whole thing a huge joke.
The photo she included revealed a small, shapely foot with a high arch. He scrolled down to see if there was another more inclusive one. Nope. Nothing but a final paragraph stating once again that she was the perfect candidate. And a single sentence that set his body on alert.
In short, you are really hot. I’d like to lick you.
He considered the foot again, wondering why he wasn’t consigning this letter straight to the trash. The women in his maybe pile had answered the ad carefully and thoughtfully, listing real qualifications and enough of their life histories to show why they’d make him a good wife.
Regan thought he was hilarious.
Maybe that was it. When was the last time anyone had thought he was hilarious? When was the last time anyone had poked this kind of gentle fun at him? As Lieutenant Commander he was respected and feared and held the lives of his men in his hands.
But while he certainly hoped his wife would respect him, he longed for something no one in the military had offered him, something different than the sharp gallows humor he shared with his team—a real connection with room for some fun.
What did this Regan look like? An online search of Google images found too many possibilities to narrow down. Anderson was a very popular last name, even if Regan was unusual. He dashed off a note to a friend and sent along Regan’s e-mail address, then continued on reading more of the messages. Barely an hour later, he had his answer. Regan’s address, vital statistics and her official photo from her job at Town and Country Bank in New York City.
He gazed at the redhead, whose glossy curls framed a heart shaped face, green eyes and bewitching smile. She was trying hard to look professional, but there was a hint of humor apparent in her face as if someone behind the photographer was hamming it up to try to widen her smile.
Now this was a woman with spark. Not wife material, exactly, but perhaps a friend worth cultivating, even if only for the sake of some amusement during his last dull days before he shipped home for good.
Dear Ms. Anderson,
Your qualifications are truly astounding, and you may lick me anytime you are in my vicinity.
Since you find my ad so amusing, let me ask you some real questions.
1. Do you like working in a bank?
2. What do you think of cowboys? And the Navy?
3. Could you marry someone you’d never met in person?
Mason
There. See what she did with that.
* * *
Regan woke to the worst headache she’d ever had and the sneaking suspicion that she’d done something last night she was going to regret.
She just wished she could remember what.
A long, hot shower in her tiny bathroom helped a little, as did three tall glasses of cold water, a piece of dry toast, and four hundred milligrams of ibuprofen. By the time she staggered back out
to the main room and was confronted by the evidence of her wine and tequila binge, she felt approximately human.
She brought the bottles to the kitchenette, cleaned the wine and shot glasses and straightened her bed before she spotted her laptop, and the rest of her night came crashing back into her memory.
Had she really answered a Wife Wanted ad? While channeling Jane Austen? Drunk on a mixture of wine and tequila? So much for her self-image as an intelligent, mature woman.
She fired up the laptop gingerly, telling herself that even if she had answered the ad, the recipient would surely ignore her.
But there in her inbox was a message from Mason Hall.
Regan winced.
She clicked it open and read his reply, cringing at his reference to licking, and raising her eyebrows in shock at the way he’d obviously tracked her down. Still, the man must have a sense of humor because he hadn’t blasted her, or even made fun of her. Instead, he took her e-mail in the spirit in which she’d written it and replied in the same way.
Regan was impressed, despite herself. And intrigued by his response. She was definitely not interested in finding a husband, but she couldn’t just leave the poor guy hanging. She’d write one more note. And drop the Jane Austen act.
Dear Mason,
Plain questions deserve plain answers:
1. I am currently unemployed. That should tell you how much I liked my job. (Nice sleuthing by the way. Nothing stalker-ish about it).
2. When I think cowboys, I think passionate sex in haylofts (you ever try that?). When I think Navy boys, I think wide white pants and submarines and… well… the fantasy kind of slips away from me at that point.
3. No. I require at least thirty minutes with a guy before I marry him.
She meant to stop writing here, with a sign-off that let him know she was definitely finished with the conversation, but she couldn’t help herself. The strong morning sunshine streaming in her window revealed more clearly than ever how alone she was. Why not chat a little longer with a man who must be lonely, too?
