stitched, resisting temptation to draw out her Bible and the letter she’d hidden in its pages.
My name is Miles Donovan. I am a farmer and homesteader in Royal, Colorado. I seek a wife…
The words of the letter cycled through her head as she stitched. The sun sank under the porch roof and stole away her shade, but she didn’t look up until a shadow fell over her hands, breaking her trance.
Mr. Martin was leaning over her. “Brought you more water.”
He set the cup down on a stack of feed bags and lingered after she’d thanked him.
“What’s that you’re working on?”
She held up her cross stitch. “A sampler for my trousseau.”
“You like needlework, I have a pile of shirts inside that need mending.”
“Thank you, Mr. Martin. Perhaps when I’m finished with this.”
“You’ll be stitching Mr. Donovan’s clothes then.” Martin shook his head. “Wilder’s right. That old goat has all the luck.”
He started to walk away when Carrie burst out, “Mr. Martin, I must ask you. How old is he?”
“Who, Donovan?” Martin scratched his balding head. “He’s middling old, I suppose. How old are you?”
“I’m three and twenty. Four and twenty next Christmas.”
“Then, he’s older than you. But whether that’ll matter much, you’ll have to decide yourself.”
Another long hour passed with the sunbeams marching over the porch to fall at her feet. Carrie raised her head from her needlework. The sun was an orange ball sinking behind the mountains.
Mr. Martin came out to squint at the starting sunset. “Reckon he might of forgot you were coming.”
Setting her sewing up on the sacks of meal, she squinted at the horizon with him.
“If so, I’ll share my dinner, and we’ll find a place to put you up for the night.”
“Thank you, Mr. Martin,” she said, but her mouth was dry. She waited until the shopkeeper had gone back inside before letting her hands dive into her bag and bring out her little Bible. The white calfskin book had been a gift at her christening. It had her birthdate and full name in the front, and, tucked carefully between the pages of Isaiah, the letter that brought her so many miles from home.
She unfolded it and reread the spidery lines.
My name is Miles Donovan. I am a farmer and homesteader in Royal, Colorado. I seek a wife, age 18-25 and in good health, willing to journey west and join me on my homestead. I am a good man, hard, but fair. I believe the husband is to be the head of household, and desire a woman who will know her place at my side…
Her heart beat faster as she read the words. Her brother had gave her the letter, knowing that Carrie, an old maid at three and twenty, needed a fresh start and a good man by her side. Stern and rule-abiding didn’t bother her.
The next part of the letter was what drew her.
To my future wife: life on the frontier is hard, but I have made my way and done well. If you join me, I will be a good husband to you, a good father to our children. “But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31.
Folding up the parchment, she tucked it into its place in her Bible.
What sort of man knows he wants a wife, and writes a letter, casts it out and waits for its return? A man of faith, she’d decided. So her brother had written back, telling Mr. Donovan about her, and sent the letter along in the spring rain. The reply had come two months ago, and she’d started the journey August third, first taking a train, then a stagecoach out of St. Louis, Missouri.
Smoothing the pages of her Bible, she reread the verse in Isaiah. A wild cry rang out, and she raised her head to see a bird circling over the small town, gliding as if the thick gold light lifted its wings.
“An eagle,” she whispered, watching it wheel across the lonely sky, before bending to put her Bible and the comforting letter
My name is Miles Donovan. I am a farmer and homesteader in Royal, Colorado. I seek a wife…
The words of the letter cycled through her head as she stitched. The sun sank under the porch roof and stole away her shade, but she didn’t look up until a shadow fell over her hands, breaking her trance.
Mr. Martin was leaning over her. “Brought you more water.”
He set the cup down on a stack of feed bags and lingered after she’d thanked him.
“What’s that you’re working on?”
She held up her cross stitch. “A sampler for my trousseau.”
“You like needlework, I have a pile of shirts inside that need mending.”
“Thank you, Mr. Martin. Perhaps when I’m finished with this.”
“You’ll be stitching Mr. Donovan’s clothes then.” Martin shook his head. “Wilder’s right. That old goat has all the luck.”
He started to walk away when Carrie burst out, “Mr. Martin, I must ask you. How old is he?”
“Who, Donovan?” Martin scratched his balding head. “He’s middling old, I suppose. How old are you?”
“I’m three and twenty. Four and twenty next Christmas.”
“Then, he’s older than you. But whether that’ll matter much, you’ll have to decide yourself.”
Another long hour passed with the sunbeams marching over the porch to fall at her feet. Carrie raised her head from her needlework. The sun was an orange ball sinking behind the mountains.
Mr. Martin came out to squint at the starting sunset. “Reckon he might of forgot you were coming.”
Setting her sewing up on the sacks of meal, she squinted at the horizon with him.
“If so, I’ll share my dinner, and we’ll find a place to put you up for the night.”
“Thank you, Mr. Martin,” she said, but her mouth was dry. She waited until the shopkeeper had gone back inside before letting her hands dive into her bag and bring out her little Bible. The white calfskin book had been a gift at her christening. It had her birthdate and full name in the front, and, tucked carefully between the pages of Isaiah, the letter that brought her so many miles from home.
She unfolded it and reread the spidery lines.
My name is Miles Donovan. I am a farmer and homesteader in Royal, Colorado. I seek a wife, age 18-25 and in good health, willing to journey west and join me on my homestead. I am a good man, hard, but fair. I believe the husband is to be the head of household, and desire a woman who will know her place at my side…
Her heart beat faster as she read the words. Her brother had gave her the letter, knowing that Carrie, an old maid at three and twenty, needed a fresh start and a good man by her side. Stern and rule-abiding didn’t bother her.
The next part of the letter was what drew her.
To my future wife: life on the frontier is hard, but I have made my way and done well. If you join me, I will be a good husband to you, a good father to our children. “But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31.
Folding up the parchment, she tucked it into its place in her Bible.
What sort of man knows he wants a wife, and writes a letter, casts it out and waits for its return? A man of faith, she’d decided. So her brother had written back, telling Mr. Donovan about her, and sent the letter along in the spring rain. The reply had come two months ago, and she’d started the journey August third, first taking a train, then a stagecoach out of St. Louis, Missouri.
Smoothing the pages of her Bible, she reread the verse in Isaiah. A wild cry rang out, and she raised her head to see a bird circling over the small town, gliding as if the thick gold light lifted its wings.
“An eagle,” she whispered, watching it wheel across the lonely sky, before bending to put her Bible and the comforting letter
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