lost my own dear George ten years ago, God rest his soul, and I have learned to resign myself to my widowhood, even—dare I say it—treasure my single state.” Her expression indicated Sarah would do well to be so wise.
“Mrs. Detwiler, I admire the way you’ve adapted to your loss,” Milly began tactfully, not wanting to offend the widow of the town’s previous preacher. “But you had many happy years with Mr. Detwiler, and raised several children.”
“Seven, to be exact.” Mrs. Detwiler sniffed, and raised her eyes heavenward.
“Seven,” Milly echoed. “But Sarah and I and several others here—” she saw furtive nods around the quilt frame “—are young, and have never been married. We’d like to become wives and raise children, too. And there are others who were widowed by the war and left with children to raise and land to work or businesses to manage. They need to find good husbands again.”
“In my opinion, you would do better to devote yourselves to prayer and good works, Miss Matthews, and let the good Lord send you a husband if He wishes you to have one.”
Milly could feel Sarah tensing beside her. Sarah never liked confrontations. But Milly had seen the spark of interest and approval in the eyes of half a dozen young ladies plying their needles on the quilt, and their silent support emboldened her.
“I agree that prayer and good works are important to every Christian, of course, and I have been praying about the matter. Sometimes I think the Lord helps those who help themselves.”
At this point Mrs. Detwiler cleared her throat again. Loudly. “I hardly think this is the time or place to discuss such a frivolous topic.” From her pocket, she pulled out a gold watch, a legacy of her dear departed George. “I must return home soon, and we have not yet discussed the raffle to be held for the Benefit of the Deserving Poor of San Saba County. If we don’t stop chattering and keep stitching, ladies, this quilt will not be ready to be raffled off at the event.”
Milly tucked an errant lock of dark hair that had escaped the neat knot at the nape of her neck and bit back a sigh of frustration. As president of the Ladies Aid Society, Mrs. Detwiler had an obligation to keep the meetings on track, but she suspected the widow was all too happy to have an excuse to stifle the discussion.
“You’re right, Mrs. Detwiler, of course. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn,” she said in the meekest tone she could manage. “Perhaps it would be best to discuss this subject at another time, with only those concerned present. So why don’t the unmarried ladies who are interested meet back here again tomorrow, say at four o’clock? We’ll serve lemonade and cookies.”
Chapter One
“Sarah, thank you again for making the cookies and the lemonade,” Milly whispered as the ladies began to arrive in the Simpson Creek Church social hall. It must have been the dozenth time she’d thanked her sister since volunteering to supply refreshments, knowing it would be Sarah who actually made the cookies. Milly’s baking efforts always ended up overbrowned, if not completely charred.
“I told you, you’re welcome,” Sarah whispered back, smiling. “I couldn’t run a meeting the way you’re about to. We all have our gifts.”
Milly was none too sure she had any gifts worth boasting of, but what she was about to propose to these ladies had been her idea.
“Sarah, we’re going to need more chairs,” she whispered again, this time in pleased astonishment as women kept filing in. They had set out only half a dozen, including the ones for her and Sarah. The next few minutes were a busy bustle of carrying chairs and making a bigger circle. Finally, in all, there were ten never-married ladies and two widows, plus the mother of Prissy Gilmore, who probably wanted to keep a careful eye on what Milly Matthews was proposing—especially because Prissy’s father was the mayor.
“Ladies, I want to thank you all for coming,” Milly said, pitching her voice louder than the buzz of conversation as everyone settled themselves in their chairs and greeted one another. “I’d like to open this meeting with prayer.” She waited a moment while everyone quieted and bowed their heads.
“Our heavenly Father,” Milly began, “we ask You would bless us this day and direct our efforts as we seek to find an answer to a problem. Guide us and bless us, and keep us in the center of Your will. Amen.” She raised her head, and as the others raised theirs and opened their eyes, she saw them looking expectantly at her.
Milly took a deep breath. “As I was saying two days ago as we worked on the quilt, we single women in Simpson Creek face a problem now that the war is over and there are no single men here—”
“So what are you proposing we do, Milly?” interrupted Prissy Gilmore impatiently. “Become mail order brides and leave Simpson Creek?”
Milly laughed. “Merciful heavens, no! I’m not going to, anyway. I love this town. I don’t want to leave it and Sarah and go marry, sight unseen, some prospector in Nevada Territory or a widower farmer with a passel of children in Nebraska. I want a husband who can run the ranch Papa left us and defend it against the Comanches if they come raiding. Y’all know Sarah and I have been coping—” barely, she thought “—with only our foreman, old Josh, and his nephew Bobby to help us.”
Josh and Bobby weren’t enough, she knew. Once, the Matthews bunkhouse had housed six other cowhands, with more hired at roundup time. Josh was old and becoming more and more crippled with rheumatism, while Bobby wasn’t even shaving yet.
Josh had taken her aside only the night before and explained that if they didn’t find a way to make the ranch productive again, they might lose it to taxes. They were already losing cattle left and right to thieving Indians and rustlers, but there was no way an old man and a young boy could protect the place.
“Maybe y’ought to sell out and move into town, Miss Milly,” Josh had said. “Don’t worry ’bout me ’n the boy. We’ll find a place somewhere.” But who would hire such an old cowboy and a boy still wet behind the ears?
“I’m sure you could interest some Yankee soldier or his carpetbagger friend in your ranch,” Martha Gilmore, Prissy’s mother, suggested with a smirk. “They’d be only too willing to marry you to get their hands on a good piece of Texas ranch property.”
Several of the young ladies looked dismayed. “Y-you wouldn’t do something like that, would you, Milly?” asked Jane Jeffries, a young widow who still wore black despite losing her husband midway through the war.
“Of course not, Jane,” Milly assured her. “I’m looking for a good Texas man, or at the very least, a Southerner. I do realize there are some things worse than being an old maid. Marrying a Yankee soldier or a carpetbagger certainly falls into that category.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say so,” Emily Thompson said from across the circle. “So what course of action did you have in mind?”
Milly stared out the open window of the church social hall. “I thought perhaps we could place an advertisement in a newspaper, not the Simpson Creek News, of course, but a larger city’s newspaper such as the Houston Telegraph. It just so happens our Uncle William is the editor of that paper, so I’m sure he’d help us.” She smiled at the other ladies. “We’ll include a post office address where interested bachelors could reply. Of course they’d be required to send references, and a picture, if at all possible.”
“You mean,” asked Martha Gilmore, “to enlist mail order grooms?”
