Len grasped the letter in his hand, afraid he would drop it. He glanced around the store. Someone had to be playing a joke on him. This couldn’t be real. He examined the postmark again. Des Moines. Genuine, as far as he could tell.
Dear Pastor,
My name is Mr. William Kimble of Des Moines. I run a large and prosperous farm outside the city. The Lord blessed my wife and myself with seven lusty children. In His good wisdom, He called my wife home to Himself three months ago.
I now have charge of the children, ages six months to nine years, along with the care of the farm. I cannot manage all of this work on my own. It has come to my attention that there might be some young women of fine moral character in your congregation who would be willing to become my bride and take over the household and child-rearing duties.
I ask you to search among these women for one with a spotless reputation, a giving spirit, and a kind heart. She must be good with children and adept at cooking, laundry, and maintaining a home. In return, I will provide her with comfortable accommodations, appropriate clothing, and a generous household budget.
As for me, I am thirty-five years old, in good health, and a pleasant enough sight. I work hard to provide for my family, but I also enjoy spending time with my children in the evenings. Before Fanny went to heaven, she and I often read Shakespeare together. If the woman you choose could have a good intellect, my life would be all the better.
Please understand, this is a rather urgent matter. My children need a mother. I need a wife. I appreciate your prompt attention. You may contact me at the address on the envelope.
Your brother in Christ,
William Kimble
Len steadied himself on the shelf beside him. “He wants me to do what?”
Cora hurried to him, Annabelle trailing her. “Pastor Montgomery, Len, is something the matter?”
How did he even explain? “I’m not sure. This is the most peculiar piece of correspondence I’ve ever received.”
Annabelle stood on her tiptoes. “What’s it about?”
He pulled the paper back so she couldn’t see it. “Um … nothing, really. It’s nothing. Must be a mistake.”
“But it was addressed to you. I always check twice which box I put each piece of mail in.” Cora crinkled her forehead.
“Don’t worry. You didn’t make the error. The sender is the one with the wrong impression.”
“As long as you’re sure.” Her features relaxed.
He slipped the paper into the envelope. “I am. Thank you.”
The bell over the door tinkled as he left the shop and wandered home down the wooden walkway, passing the livery, Mr. Thomas’s rather large hotel, the milliner, and the now-quiet saloon. He nodded as he passed Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Wright. At least he remembered their names.
Good thing Cora had a nameplate beside the postal window.
“Pastor. Pastor, do you have a minute?”
Len turned. Rusty Holbrook hurried in his direction. You couldn’t miss his shock of red hair in a sea of men. “Sure do.”
“Whew.” Rusty wiped perspiration from his brow with his ink-stained hand. “What a warm day for April. I heard about Mrs. Warren. What a shame. But Mrs. Alsip said you were with her. I’m sure that will comfort her family.”
Word got around fast in a small town. “That’s part of my job.”
“She said you were making the arrangements. Did you want me to place an obituary in the paper?”
“Would you, please? I’ll write up something nice.”
“No need. I knew her well enough. She’s always lived in the same house. I’ll scratch something out before I go to print on Friday.”
“Thank you. That’s one less worry for me.”
“Will it be your first funeral?”
The men fell in step and meandered toward the church and manse. “Yes, the first one on my own.”
“Nervous?”
“Should I be?”
Rusty chuckled. “If your homily is anything like your sermons, you’ll be fine. What do you have in your hand?”
“A letter from a Mr. Kimble from Des Moines. Apparently he’s looking for a wife, and he thinks I can match him with a young lady from the congregation.”
This time, Rusty’s laughter started deep within. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. Let me see the letter, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Len stopped in front of the manse’s white front gate and handed Rusty the envelope.
As he read the letter, Rusty’s grin widened until it stretched across his face. “Now, that is remarkable. In a way, I’m sorry for the poor man. But writing to a pastor he doesn’t know to find a wife he’s never met …”
“My guess is that he’s contacted every pastor in Iowa.”
“You might be right there. Well, after the news about Mrs. Warren, this would cheer up the good people of Detwiler. I have just the spot for it in the paper. Do you mind if I print it?”
“What can it hurt?”
When would she learn to remember things? Cora shook her head as she made her way down the aisle in the now-empty church. All of the congregants were homeward bound to their Sunday dinners. Ma and Pa would be waiting for her, but she didn’t want to leave without her Bible. She slid into the pew where her family sat every week and bent to retrieve the tome.
“Can I help you with something?”
Cora jumped and clutched her chest. “Pastor Montgomery, you startled me.”
“My apologies. And remember, call me Len.”
“I just thought that here, of all places, I should give you the title you’re due.”
“No need. Did you lose something?”
“I forgot my Bible. Again. It’s a regular habit of mine.” She grabbed the book from the floor and stood. “See. Right where I left it.”
“Let me walk you home. Your parents left several minutes ago.”
She pulled her shawl around her shoulders, a little flutter in her chest. Was it acceptable for the pastor to escort one of the church members home from Sunday service? “That would be fine.”
He locked the door behind them. “All set.”
“I saw the article Rusty printed in the paper about your letter. Was that the one that shocked you the other day?” They kicked up dust as they sauntered down the street toward the center of the small town.
“That was the one. I didn’t know what to make of it. Since I’m new here, I don’t know the eligible women very well. Rusty thought it was funny and wanted to include it in this week’s edition.”
“It’s so sad that Mr. Kimble’s wife passed away and left him with all of those children. I can see his dilemma. Do you have any candidates in mind? Has anyone responded to the article?”
“No on both counts. Then again, I never expected the ladies to line up at my office for a chance to wed Mr. Kimble. I allowed Rusty to publish it to put a smile on people’s faces.”
“’With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.’”
“Pardon me?” Len steadied her by the elbow as she lifted her skirts and climbed to the boardwalk.
“’With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.’ From The Merchant of Venice.”
He blew out a breath. “The Merchant of Venice?”
“Shakespeare. To be a pastor, you must be a well-read man. Didn’t you ever pick up one of his plays?”
“Only Romeo and Juliet, and only because the schoolmarm made me study it. I much prefer Charles Wesley or Jonathan Edwards.”
“Oh.” A sour taste filled her mouth. “It means you should laugh enough to get creases around your mouth and eyes.”
Like he got when he smiled.
Her hands tingled.
“Well, that I agree with. I’d never heard the expression before.”
“You should read a few more of Shakespeare’s plays. You might find you like him after all. We could go through them together.”
And that boldness? She stopped short. No, she had to be careful. Her outspokenness caused problems with Max. She wouldn’t do that again. Wouldn’t allow her heart to be smashed another time.
“I don’t have much time for that kind of reading. Since I’m new to this calling, I spend my evenings studying everything I can. And working on my sermons.” The coolness in Len’s voice matched that of the overcast spring day.
“Yes, I can see where you might suffer from a lack of time for pleasure reading.” They halted in front of the square, white Italianate house her father built a few years ago. Daffodils swayed in the light breeze. The tulips prepared to put on a great show. “Thank you for walking me home.”
“It was my pleasure.” He tipped his hat, turned on his heel, and strode away.
Annabelle’s prediction came true.
Cora drove off a man with her love of Shakespeare.