Sierra County, California - 1883
"Take it easy, bucko." The Maiden Valley attorney blanched and stood up. "One of us has to take charge. You've been holed up in that cabin for six months, barely eating, and your daughter's turning into a hoyden. I'm trying to help." He leveled a steady gaze on Wade. "That's what friends are for."
Wade glowered at Dan. "Some help. I tell you to find me a housekeeper and you advertise for a goddam wife! You know I'd never agree to a fool scheme like that. What kind of friend are you?"
The look in the attorney's pale blue eyes softened. "Your only friend." He rocked back on his boot heels and locked gazes with Wade. "Just pull yourself together, lad, and think about it."
Wade began to pace, listening with one ear as Dan blathered on. His Boston Irish accent grated on Wade's already raw nerves.
"I asked around," Dan said. "There's not a single woman between here and Downieville willing to work as a housekeeper, and I sure had to offer something a damn sight more appealing than cooking and cleaning for an unsociable cuss of a rancher who lives five miles from his nearest neighbor."
Dan's gaze ran up and down Wade's creased shirt and trousers, the hair Wade knew was too long, and he smiled a toothy grin. "But even with the prospect of marriage, she might have to look hard to find the attraction. Face it, boyo, what have you got to offer a housekeeper or a wife? A three-room log cabin, a run-down horse ranch, and a daughter who's running wild."
"Charity and I are doing fine."
"You're not paying attention. Who's going to care for her when you're off in the Toyiabe roundin' up bangtails? Who's going to see she goes to school? Wears a clean dress? Eats a proper breakfast?"
Wade's heart thumped. "I thought-- Hell, I don't know what I thought, but I don't want a wife. It--it's too soon."
He stared out the window at the mercantile across the street where Myra had bought a bolt of blue cambric for curtains. The cloth sat in the corner of their bedroom, still wrapped in brown paper. She'd been too sick to ....
He swallowed over the lump in his throat. "I can't ever hitch myself to another woman."
"You think that now. But by the time winter comes, that bed of yours will be damned hard and damned cold." Dan poked a blunt forefinger at the telegram in his hand. "This woman-–her name's Corrie Kiernan--has good references. Says she worked in Boston for the Aldrich family. My parents knew them--good, solid people."
He gave Wade an eye-twinkling grin. "I bet she'd be able to teach Charity some of those lady skills you're so set on her learning."
The rough pine walls of Dan's crackerbox office suddenly closed in on Wade. He gazed out the window, his mouth drawn tight. The mere thought of another woman in Myra's house sent icicles along his veins.
He didn't want a wife. Not now. Not ever. He didn't want to replace Myra. That God would take her at thirty-one was so cruel he couldn't believe the Lord had done it.
He reached for the jacket he'd flung over the chair back. "You write to this Corrie woman and tell her there's been a mistake. Tell her not to come." He shoved the newspaper toward his friend and turned to go.
"Can't do that, Wade."
"Sure you can. Tell her I changed my mind."
"'Fraid it's too late for that, boyo."
Wade pivoted to face him. A vague sense of unease crawled up his spine. "Whaddya mean too late?"
Dan tapped the telegram with a neatly trimmed nail. "Miss Kiernan is arriving on the four o'clock stage."
"Jesus, Dan, you did what?" Wade Guthrie slammed both fists down on Dan Sullivan's mahogany desk. In all his thirty-six years, he'd never heard anything so preposterous.