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Wedded to a Widower

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LINCOLN, NEBRASKA

May 18, 1868

Johanna dearly loved her father, but she also loved the times when he wasn’t around. He took his lunch break every day at precisely 12:35, which gave him ten minutes to walk to the cafe down the street and arrive at exactly quarter to one. He claimed that this was the best time to go, as it was late enough to avoid the early crowd yet not so late that they’d have run out of food. His German heritage revealed itself with this schedule, carefully kept day after day.

While he was out, Johanna was the only one in the office, which meant that—as far as she was concerned—she was the boss. She received the deliveries, when men would bring in the huge rolls of newsprint and the barrels of ink; she counted the copies that the afternoon boys would take around to hawk on the street corners; she even doled out cash to the occasional tipster who wanted to alert them to some juicy news story. She looked at all of this as good training for when she would take over the newspaper; of course, her father had never said that she was going to do so, but it never hurt to be prepared.

The best part was that all of these other duties gave her an hour away from working with the advertisements. The ads were a necessary and profitable part of the paper, to be sure; one could even argue that they were helping people by providing a service. The Lincoln Daily Bee was the city’s only paper, so if it didn’t exist, people wouldn’t be able to place their advertisements anywhere at all. And if that were the case, the city would be full of goods gone unsold and services gone unrendered. How could the telegraphy school find its new students? Where would Dr. Clark extoll the virtues of his Sure Cure for Colds? Imagine the horror, Johanna thought.

She went into the press room and examined the layout her father had put together before he stepped out. In addition to everything else she did in the office, Johanna was the copy editor. This was also not a job her father had assigned to her, but she took great pride in this unofficial—secret, actually—position, saving the people of Lincoln from her father’s sometimes wobbly spelling. She had just plucked out some extra vowels from the set type when she heard the bell over the front door.

“I’ll be right there,” she called, and wiped her fingers on her handkerchief, which had once been white but which now was a uniform gray. It drove her mother batty how she constantly had ink-stained fingers, but Johanna wouldn’t have had it any other way. She had grown up in her father’s office, and ink under her nails was as normal and natural to her as dirt would have been to a farmer.

“No need to rush,” the visitor called from the front. “I can wait.” He had a deep voice, so rich and rumbling that she could almost feel it in her tummy.

Johanna stuffed her handkerchief back into her sleeve and returned to the front office. The man who entered had just removed his hat and was using his fingers to comb back his thick hair; when he looked at her, she felt the oddest sensation as if she had met him before. Or perhaps it was merely that she would have liked to know him, as he was quite a handsome young man. He was older than she was by a few years, perhaps in his late twenties, and he was fit and lean, like he was used to working hard. His hair was as dark as she’d ever seen, like midnight on the prairie, but his eyes were the clear blue of the spring sky outside. All in all, he was quite a man to look at.

“What can I do for you?” She smiled brightly at him—she couldn’t help it—but he only gave her a quick, perfunctory smile, then looked at the floor.

“Is Gregor here?”

“No, he’s out for lunch,” she said. “But I can help you with anything you need.”

The man frowned. “I was looking to speak with him about placing an ad.”

Johanna’s smile dimmed a bit. So much for my escape today, she thought. “That’s fine,” she said. “You would have ended up talking to me anyway. I handle the ads.”

His frown deepened, and he grimaced slightly, as if that caused him some pain. “I didn’t know I’d be talking to you about it,” he said. “I mean, you being a lady and all.”

Well, now my curiosity is piqued, Johanna thought. Just what kind of ad is he going to run? One thing about working that section was that it certainly taught you a lot about people. She never would have guessed that the wide world of human emotions and behavior could be so easily summed up in a few inches of newsprint, but she had seen it all, from the mundane to the mysterious, from hilarious to heartbreaking. “I assure, you, sir, there’s no need to worry,” she said. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and whatever you’re here for, I’ve probably already written an ad for it. No need to be shy. I’m Johanna, by the way. Gregor’s daughter.”

“I’m Deere,” he said. “Nelson Deere.”

Johanna extended her arm toward the small desk against the wall. “Should we sit down and get this ad written?”

His face barely changed, but after a moment he nodded. “All right, then.”

When they were both seated, Johanna withdrew a sheet of paper from the drawer, along with a pencil. “So what kind of advertisement do you need?” she asked, studying Nelson closely. It was a bit of a game she played; after years of experience, she was remarkably good at guessing what brought her customers into the office. Nelson was dressed plainly, in a long-sleeved cotton shirt and brown denim pants; his clothes were clean but certainly not the sort of thing one would wear working in a bank, for example. He was given away by a bit of dirt on his hands. A farmer, Johanna thought. Or a rancher. He’s probably wants an ad for a stud bull, and thinks I’m too delicate to discuss such a thing.

“I need a woman,” he said.

All right, so I was wrong. Johanna tried to hide the surprise she was feeling. It certainly wasn’t the first time somebody had placed an ad looking for a mate, but she’d never had one from a man who would probably attract more attention than he could handle simply by walking down the street. Maybe I’m misunderstanding him, she thought. He said he needed a woman, not necessarily a wife.

“What do you want a woman for?”

His cheeks went slightly pink. “The usual things,” he said, and then dropped his gaze to the floorboards. “Are you sure your father isn’t around?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Deere,” she said, as she blushed along with him. “I just didn’t know if you meant you wanted a nanny, or a housekeeper or something. But you want a wife, is that right?”

He nodded.

“Very well. I’m going to take a few notes and we can get your ad in the paper by tomorrow morning,” she said. “Tell me a bit about yourself. How old are you, what do you do, and so on.”

He took a deep breath before beginning, as if this were a conversation he really would rather not have with her. “I’m twenty-seven,” he said. “I’ve got a little farm out past Ronnie Wilson’s property, if you know where that is.”

“Sure,” Johanna said. “What do you grow?”

“Corn, mostly. This year, rye too,” he said. “And a lot of weeds.”

She grinned at his joke, though he did not. “Tell me, what are you looking for?” This was where matrimonial ads got interesting. It was fascinating, really, to see what different men considered attractive qualities in a mate. Some men wanted slender girls, while others liked those who had more meat on their bones. Men typically wanted younger wives, though she also had plenty of them looking for more experienced women. Short or tall, reserved or gregarious, smart or simple; she had heard pretty much everything, and taste wasn’t even something you could guess at. There was just too much variety in the world. The only constant among all the men looking for wives was that their first thoughts were of physical beauty, followed by skill in the kitchen. “In a wife, I mean. What kind of girl should she be?”

A faraway look came into Nelson’s eyes, and he paused before he spoke. “She should be...happy,” he said.

“Happy?”

“Cheerful,” he said. “Optimistic. I have to confess, I’m not naturally that way myself, but I want to bring some balance to my home. And she should have a good head on her shoulders. I don’t want one of these women who only go along with what the man says; I want her to have her own thoughts, her own opinions.”

Johanna started making notes as he spoke. A cheerful, bright, opinionated woman, she thought. And to think I took him for a rancher here about a bull. “You have some very specific ideas about what you want,” she said. “I have to say, it’s a bit unusual. Most men come in here and they just want a pretty girl who can cook and fix holes in their clothes.”

For the first time since he’d arrived at the office, Nelson smiled. “I can imagine that would satisfy a lot of guys.”

“But you...well, you’re unique among all my clients. You seem very thoughtful. It’s nice to see that in a man.” His eyes, as clear and inviting as a stream on a summer day, captured her just then, and she found herself staring for longer than she intended.

“What else would you like to know?” he asked.

“Oh, uh...just a few more things,” Johanna said. “People like to know about height, weight and things like that.” While they talked, she wrote down the rest of the information that she needed without really paying attention. It was hard to become too concerned with the tiny details when the big picture was so captivating.

“Oh, and there’s one more thing that I forgot to ask,” she said as she neared the bottom of her sheet. “I’m assuming that you’ve never been married?”

His eyes clouded as if with pain, and he was quiet for a long moment. “I was married,” he finally said, though his voice was only a whisper compared to its usual richness. “But my wife died.”

Johanna sucked in a breath. “Oh, Mr. Deere, I’m so sorry,” she said. “This must be very difficult. Do you mind if I ask when it happened?”

“Five years ago. Since then I’ve just been putting all my energy into the farm,” he said. “But it’s come to a point when I just can’t stand being alone out there anymore.”

“You don’t have any children?”

“We were going to. She was with child when she passed on,” he said. His eyes flickered from hers, like he couldn’t stand to admit what had happened. “I wanted kids. It just didn’t work out.”

“Mr. Deere....” Her voice trailed off, as there was nothing she could say to salve that wound. Johanna stared down at the notes she had written. Black hair. Tall. Wants cheerful girl. It all seemed so silly now.

She had worked on countless ads over the years. Most were straightforward sales pitches, dull and plain. Others were personal, like the matrimonials; they were frequently interesting, occasionally intriguing, and sometimes even funny. But never before had she worked on an ad that made her want to cry.

This poor man, she thought, stealing a glance at Nelson. Here he had gone through something so terrible and all she could do was write a matrimonial ad for him. It seemed ridiculous. Worse than that, actually. It was pathetic. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear about all this,” she said, unable to keep a tremor out of her voice as she spoke.

“No, I’m sorry, Johanna,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s tough business, that’s for sure.”

“I really hope things work out for you.”

He took a deep breath and then cleared his throat, as if to turn the conversation back to less painful territory. “Yeah, I hope so too,” he said. “It would be nice to have somebody else out there with me. Right now it’s just me and the corn.”

“And the weeds.”

He gave her a soft smile. “And those. Lots of ‘em, unfortunately,” he said. “Speaking of that, I should get back to work.” He nodded toward her paper. “Anything else you need to know?”

She briefly looked at her notes. “No, that should be enough,” she said. “Give me a minute to write up the ad and you can see how it’ll look in the paper.” She took out another sheet of paper and began writing. This was the easy part. All the matrimonial ads essentially followed the same formula; once you knew the particulars, it was easy to write an eye-catching paragraph.

“How much is this going to cost?”

“Ten cents a word, charged by the week, but we can take care of that later on,” she said. “How does this look?” she asked as she slid the paper across to him, where she had written:

A widower from Lincoln, age 27 and 6 feet tall, 170 pounds, of very attractive appearance and with his own means, would like to correspond with some young woman in the County with a view to a matrimonial engagement. She should be compatible in age, and should be optimistic, intelligent and mistress of her own opinions.

He nodded as he finished reading. “Looks fine, I guess,” he said. “Do you really think I’m very attractive?”

“What?”

“You wrote ‘very attractive’, instead of just ‘attractive’,” he said.

“I did?” She pulled the paper back and quickly crossed out the word, hoping that her cheeks weren’t glowing as brightly as she suspected. “I’ll take that out. It’ll save you a dime.”

He chuckled, and when she glanced up she saw that his eyes were full of a warm light. “Well, you have my information,” he said, as he got to his feet. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you, then.”

She also stood and stuck out her hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Deere.”

“Goodbye, Johanna.” His touch was warm when he shook her hand, and his grasp lingered a bit longer than was strictly necessary. Or maybe that was me, she thought. It’s tough to say.

When he left the office, she grabbed his ad and went to the window, where she watched as he crossed the street and mounted a fine mustang. If possible, he cut an even more attractive figure in the saddle than he did on foot, and once he had disappeared from view she reread his advertisement. No, she thought, I need to put that ‘very’ back in there.

She was still at the window when her father stepped into the office a minute later. “How was lunch, Papa?” she asked.

“Fine, fine,” Gregor murmured as he walked to his desk and stared at the papers piled there. “Say, I saw a man leave here just now,” he said. “What did he want?”

Johanna looked down at the information she had written about Nelson. It would make for a medium-sized advertisement, and as they currently had only two others placed in the matrimonial section—both for much older men—his would stand out. He might find a taker even tomorrow, Johanna thought. And if not then, certainly by the end of the week.

A handsome man, self-sufficient, with the means to start and support a family. Tortured by the pain of a tragic loss and in need of a woman’s love to make him whole again. Yes, he’ll be snapped up almost before he knows it. Unless for some reason his ad goes missing. She carefully folded the paper and tucked it into her sleeve.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said.