Thank You, Ranch Romances

Chapter 1 Frontera, New Mexico May 1949 To Wade, it seemed as real as yesterday since he still dreamed about it almost every night. He stood by the open grave and stared down at the coffin holding the earthly remains of his wife, victim of the flu and just being run-down, pregnant with her third child when the doctor had suggested she should have no more. Winifred had been a good woman but perhaps too gentle, small, and fragile for the life of a rancher’s wife in dusty southern New Mexico. Now she was gone. Eight-year-old Ben clung to his right leg and Li’l Winnie, only five, to his left, neither fully understanding, but knowing their mother was gone. The old biddies at church said he should not have brought them to the services, but what else could he do? None of them had really offered to care for the kids. Upon hearing Winnie’s sniffles turning to audible sobs, he woke up. Three months had passed since that grim day, and nothing had gotten any better. In fact, almost everything had gotten worse. Ben had to go to school in poorly washed clothes that never saw an iron. Thank the powers that for now Winnie, only five, stayed home. Frontera did not have a kindergarten. She’d been growing fast, and all her dresses were too small. Unfortunately, it also meant someone had to take care of her. Old Buck usually did, since the aging, stove-up cowboy really wasn’t a lot of use on ranch chores. Despite that, Wade would not let him go. Where would the old man end up? With the war over and all the soldiers coming home, jobs were scarce. So a grumbling Buck watched Winnie. Wade felt sure the old man would never hurt or even growl at her, but he could tell it was not a good fit for either of them. Inevitably, at that point, his thoughts turned to the magazine he’d found on the table at Nettie’s New Diner last time he was in town. Although he rarely ate anywhere except at home, he was so sick of his own limited offerings he could not resist a decent meal. And there it lay, like someone had put the damn thing in his path on purpose. The cover was kind of garish, a cowboy on a big palomino and a gorgeous blonde gal in ripped up clothes that left little to the imagination. Across the top, Ranch Romances appeared in big red letters. Lower, in a different typeface, he read “Captured by Brutal Outlaws.” Why would he even pick up such trashy, dime-dreadful junk? Still, when he went to lay it back down, it flipped open to a page that somehow caught his eye and would not let go. There were letters from men looking for women and women seeking men, mail order brides, handymen, and more. It must have been the devil put the notion in his mind, but once it was there, the idea would not let go. He could write in and try to find a wife or at least a housekeeper to take care of the kids… Wade labored over that letter for several nights before he was finally satisfied with what he had written. He was not an ignorant man. He’d been through high school back in Kansas and could write with proper grammar and in a decent hand. That wasn’t the problem. Wording the request was. Finally, he just cussed, folded the paper, and stuffed it in an envelope. He put an airmail stamp on it in hopes it would get to the magazine and bring results that much quicker. Five cents was a lot to spend, but this was important. * * * * Darnell sat, head in his hands. Although suicide was a sin, probably even worse than the other issue that had sent his life into a long downward spiral, he’d begun to think it might be the best option he had left. What could a twenty-seven-year-old man without a job do? He had little chances of getting one due to the Bad Conduct Discharge from the U.S. Army. That felt like a scarlet letter branding him. Faggot, p***y, pervert. The hateful words gnawed at his soul. The younger siblings he’d worked to help Mama raise after Papa went missing were all scattered and doing okay as far as he knew. He would not go crawling to any of them for help. Mama had passed away while he was doing that terrible stint in Uncle Sam’s service. Where else could he go? He’d just spent his next-to-last dime on a cup of coffee, and it was nearly empty. He’d gone into the diner to ask about a job—the placard in the fly-specked window read “dishwasher wanted”—but they said they’d just filled it. Hell, he couldn’t even wash dishes! And he’d done that and more during those hard years of his teens while Mama was working two and three jobs at the end of the Depression and the start of the war to keep a roof over their heads and a little food for them. He’d worked some, too, but a lot of the time took care of Dylan, Dinah, David, and baby Doreen. As he stood, stiff as an old man, to start for the door, a magazine caught his eye. He would have sworn it was not there when he sat down at the table with his coffee but it sure was now. As he went to pick it up, just out of curiosity, it fell open to a page near the back. “Partners and Pen Pals” read the bold letters at the top. He skimmed down the page until one letter seemed to leap out at him. “Widowed rancher needs a helpmate. Two small children have lost their mother. Struggling rancher cannot care for them, keep house, and also run his ranch. Applicant must be able to cook simple, healthy meals, keep house, and care for a five-year-old girl and an eight-year-old boy. Must be willing to live forty miles from a real town on a remote ranch. Some modern conveniences including new REA electricity and indoor plumbing. A fair wage or possibly marriage for the selected person.” Hardly daring to hope, Darnell picked up the magazine. In his rented room, his for a few more days, he had paper, a pen, and maybe even a stamp or two. By the next morning, his response was in the mail. He found enough odd jobs to pay rent for another week while he waited for an answer. * * * * Wade got several letters and rejected most of them out of hand. There was something about each one that did not ring true or nearly screamed that the writer was not the person he sought. Finally, one felt strangely right. Dear Mr. Walters, I hope and pray you will consider me. I can cook well and know how to keep up a house. After my father left us, I took care of my four younger brothers and sisters while my mother worked several jobs to support us. I love young children and sympathize with those dealing with loss and grief. My situation is bleak at this point as I am jobless and short of funds. I could come west at once if you can obtain and send me a train ticket to the nearest whistle stop. Please believe that I can deal with remote locales and rustic, simple conditions without any distress, and I would endeavor to do the best job possible for you and your bereaved children. Sincerely, Darnell Davis Darnell seemed an odd name, but maybe the gal was a daughter of a Darren and a Nell. Who could say? Wade cussed himself for being a fool, but he drove to town the next day, bought the ticket, and sent it by special delivery to the address given in the letter. * * * * Darnell did not have enough, even with a few coins collected from doing some chores around the small town, to rent the room for more than another night. Then he could no longer use this address. What then? Even if Mr. Walters finally wrote, he’d never get it. It was late afternoon when the postman came stumping down the street. He pitched a handful of items through the slot in the rooming house’s front door. Darnell scampered over to investigate, hoping against hope. The letter was addressed to Miss D. Davis, but that was close enough. With shaking hands, Darnell tore it open. A very short note and a railroad ticket slipped out into his waiting grasp. The ticket was to Frontera, New Mexico. Darnell could not imagine such a distant place, but he’d go there, come hell or high water. Before the sun set, he packed his beat-up suitcase with his scanty possessions and hiked down to the depot to catch the first westbound train. His adventure was underway.