a little unorthodox, but that’s your choice. Not Dad’s or anyone else’s.”
Encouraged by his brother’s fair-minded attitude, Zach sat up on the side of the bed and looked at him. “I tell you, Booker, I was really surprised by Dad’s reaction. He’s usually open-minded about things.”
Booker set his boots aside and began to unbutton his shirt. “This is different for Dad, Zach. He and Mom were crazy in love up until the day she died. They had something really special together and he wants that same thing for you. And for all of his sons.”
Zach swallowed hard in an effort to dislodge the hot ball of emotion stuck in his throat. Losing his mother in the wildfire that had swept over their family ranch up in Hardin in January was still so fresh he could hardly bear the pain.
“Yeah. Well, that’s exactly why I’m doing this, Booker,” he said in a raw, husky voice. “For a long time now I’ve wanted to have a marriage like our parents had. And for just as long, I’ve been going the traditional route—dating and waiting and hoping to meet a woman I’d fall in love with. But that just hasn’t happened. Hell, I’m even beginning to wonder if love means the same thing to me as it does to other guys.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Zach made a palms-up gesture. “As far as I’m concerned, just having a wife who cooked and cleaned and gave me babies would be enough to satisfy me.”
With a look of disgust, Booker tossed his shirt to the end of the narrow bed. “I can’t see that ever working. Not for me. I’m not exactly looking for a wife, but I can tell you one thing. I’d want her to love me. And only me. Otherwise, the whole thing would be meaningless.”
So Booker had the same opinion as his cousins, who’d been busily sending him text messages since his advertisement had hit the newspaper stands. All of them believed he should be thinking about falling in love first and acquiring a wife later. But that was easy for his cousins to say, Zach mentally argued. Most of them were engaged or already married. Their worries of finding a special woman were over.
Groaning, Zach raked fingers through his dark hair, then flopped onto his back. “You don’t understand, Booker. Nobody seems to. But the way I see it, time is flying by. I don’t want to keep waiting around hoping I’ll meet some girl that puts a goofy look on my face.”
“You mean like the one you’re sporting in the newspaper photo?”
Zach’s first instinct was to sit straight up and tell his brother to go jump in the river, but he stopped himself short. He didn’t want to give Booker the idea that he was trying to hide the fact that someone had already put the look of love on his face.
“I never take a good picture.” Especially when quirky Lydia had been chattering on about what a woman liked in a man. Was she a specialist on the subject? Maybe the next time he visited the newspaper office, Zach ought to ask her that very question, he thought.
Linking his hands at the back of his head, Booker stretched out on the bed. “I can understand you wanting to get married and move out on your own. As much as I love Uncle Charles and Aunt Rita, I’m getting tired of being cramped up like this. The house is about to burst at the seams. We don’t have much privacy and neither do they.”
Zach sighed. “You need to remember the reason we came here in the first place. Sure, we rebuilt Dalton’s Gulch after the wildfire, but we ended up selling it. The place didn’t feel the same without Mom. Especially for Dad. He was grieving so much I was getting concerned about his health. I think we could all see that he needed the support of family. More than just we boys could give him. It’s been good for him to be living here with Uncle Charles and Uncle Ben.”
“Good point, brother. And he has been searching for property so that we can build our own ranch again. In the meantime, I guess we should just be happy he isn’t sitting in a dark room staring at the wall.”
“Right,” Zach replied. “I only hope his anger over my newspaper ad dies down. I hate it when Dad is disappointed in me.”
Booker let out a sleepy grunt. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Zach. I figure by tomorrow Dad will have his mind back on cattle and hay and land. And he’ll have forgotten all about your desperate quest for a wife.”
Zach sat up and reached to pull off his boots. “Desperate? You got it wrong, brother. I’m determined.”
“The way I see it,” Booker said in a drowsy voice, “you’re living in a dreamworld. But I figure there’s a woman out there somewhere who’s going to come along and shake you awake. And when that happens, you’re going to think you’ve grabbed a bull by its tail.”
Booker knew all about bulls. At ten years of age, he’d believed he was big enough to ride one. As a result, he was still sporting a limp from a badly broken leg. But as far as Zach knew, Booker was hardly an authority on love or women. He couldn’t predict Zach’s future love life any more than he could predict the Montana weather.
* * *
In a pair of yellow cotton pajamas, Lydia was sitting cross-legged on the couch as she stared in disbelief at her laptop. Only one day had passed since Zach Dalton had strolled into the Gazette office and placed his ad for a wife. But already the inbox on her work email was inundated with messages for the man. She’d had a feeling the response to his ad was going to be big. She’d just not estimated how big.
Scrolling to the latest message to come in, Lydia opened it and began to read.
Dear Zach,
I’m twenty-two years old and can cook a mean apple pie. I have a German shepherd named Fritz and a horse named Hula Hoop. Once I’m married, my plan is to have several children, so I truly think we’d be a perfect match. Please call.
There was a photo attached, and as Lydia stared at the beautiful young face, she felt both sick and sad. There was no doubt that Zach was going to be happy with this bridal candidate. She had the smoothest, straightest blond hair that Lydia had ever seen. Plus a pair of full pouty lips and big brown eyes. How could he not like this woman?
Her silent question was interrupted by a faint knock on the door. Since it was getting close to ten, Lydia couldn’t imagine who would be stopping by.
Leaving the couch, she glanced through the peephole to see her mother standing on the small square of concrete that served as her porch. Rhoda Grant was bundled in a hooded sweatshirt and held a plastic container of food with both hands.
Lydia quickly opened the door. “Mom! What are you doing out so late?”
“Hello to you, too,” she said as she stepped into the small living room. “I happened to be on my way home and thought I’d drop off some extra spaghetti we had left over from the dinner the women’s club put on tonight. The funds we made will go to the flood relief. You know there are still parts of town that need to be restored.”
At fifty years old, Rhoda could’ve been a very attractive woman. Her complexion was still smooth and her brown hair held only a few threads of gray. But instead of trying to look her best, Rhoda didn’t care that her waistline had thickened and her face was as colorless as a sheet of printer paper. The few times Lydia had brought up Rhoda’s appearance, she’d promptly told her daughter to take a good hard look and store the memory away. Because Lydia would look the same way if she ever allowed herself to believe a man’s lies.
Rhoda
