Prologue
Washington City
December 1869
Reese Jordan grimaced as he finished writing out the words to the advertisement. He hoped it was right. If it was, it would change his life. He studied the lines for a moment, then scratched through a word here and there, and inked in others. He smiled, satisfied with the results. He’d done it. He’d found a way to gain his heart’s desire without compromising his beliefs. Marriage was absolutely out of the question. A real marriage anyway. But this... It would work. This was the plan of a master strategist. His plan.
Reese handed the sheet of paper to the clerk who placed it in the pile to be typeset.
“I want it in tomorrow’s edition.”
“That’ll be an extra two bits.”
“Fine.” Reese produced the money, including a generous tip.
“I’ll set it right away.”
Reese nodded. Early in life, he’d learned that cash gained him the respect and attention he would have preferred to garner on his own. Right now that was part of the problem. He swallowed hard. By tomorrow, his plan would be set in motion. There would be no turning back.
He slapped his hat against his thigh. The sound seemed to echo in the room. The clerk looked up at him, questioningly. Reese jammed his hat onto his head and stalked out of the office.
A wagon rolled through a puddle near the boardwalk. Mud splattered the tops of Reese’s boots and his carefully creased trousers. Reese cursed beneath his breath, damning Washington and its endless flood of traffic. The capital was readying itself for Christmas. People crowded into the city to see the sights. Greenery, red ribbons, and the sound of bells were everywhere, surrounding the inhabitants. Reese had little patience with the holiday. His mind was focused on his past and the important matter at hand. He sprinted across the muddy street to the telegraph office. It wouldn’t hurt to send the same advertisement to the Richmond newspaper.
Reese scrawled the ad copy on a sheet of paper, then paid the telegraph clerk. The cards had all been dealt. Now, all he had to do was play them carefully and wait for the results. Reese found himself whistling as he exited the telegraph office and walked back to his suite at the Madison Hotel, not some Christmas carol, but a bawdy little tune he’d learned in the war. It suited his mood.
Plan and plan carefully. That was Reese Jordan’s motto.
* * *
The clicking of the handset alerted the clerk in the telegraph office in Richmond. He quickly jotted down the words to the advertisement. The telegraph key quieted. The clerk hastily scanned the message:
WANTED: HEALTHY WOMAN BETWEEN THE AGES OF 18-23 TO PROVIDE HEIR FOR WEALTHY RANCHER. WIDOW WITH EXCELLENT LINEAGE PREFERRED. ONE CHILD ACCEPTABLE. MUST TRAVEL TO WYOMING AND REMAIN FOR ONE YEAR. EXCELLENT SALARY AND BONUS. APPLY IN PERSON TO DAVID ALEXANDER, MADISON HOTEL, WASHINGTON CITY, DECEMBER 20TH.
He read the advertisement a second time. “That can’t be right,” he said aloud, “I must have missed a word.” He carefully penciled in the word, “for” in front of “heir”, then read the whole thing aloud. “‘Wanted: Healthy woman between the ages of 18-23 to provide for heir for wealthy rancher. Widow with excellent lineage preferred. One child acceptable. Must travel to Wyoming and remain for one year. Excellent salary and bonus. Apply in person to David Alexander, Madison Hotel, Washington City, December 20th.’”
The clerk nodded, silently congratulating himself for catching his error. He placed his fingers on the handset, telegraphed his receipt of the message back to Washington, then handed th
e corrected copy to the errand boy.
Chapter One
December 1869
Richmond, Virginia
The rain continued to pound on the roof and against the few remaining glass window panes in the Collins House on Clary Street. Inside, the members of the Richmond Ladies Sewing Circle shivered in front of the meager fire, the tips of their fingers numb with cold as they protruded from the open ends of their knitted gloves. Several women muttered beneath their breath as they wielded the sharp needles against the hated blue wool of army uniforms.
Faith Collins shifted in her uncomfortable chair and turned her head from side to side, stretching the stiff muscles and tendons in her neck. She laid her sewing aside and got up to empty three of the larger pans scattered around the parlor floor collecting the rain that poured through the roof of the battered house.
Faith hated emptying the pots and pans. It was a boring, repetitious chore and to Faith, a complete waste of time. The floor was already damaged by fire and rain. A few more drops wouldn’t make much difference. And the sound of the water pinging against the empty metal grated on her nerves. It reminded Faith of gunfire and death and everything she’d lost.
But her ladies insisted on using pans to catch the water and Faith grudgingly obliged. She was fighting a losing battle with the inclement weather and the roof. She had been fighting the battle for years. Her own private war.
The firing of the arsenal during the retreat had been responsible for the majority of the damage to her home, and the repairs she’d been able to manage since the end of the war had not included a new roof.
It was hard enough to keep food on the table, clothes on their backs, and shoes on their feet. She might have managed on her own, but Faith had to feed and clothe the other members of the household who made up the roster of the Richmond Ladies Sewing Circle.
The weather was the least of her worries. It was uncontrollable. Faith was concerned with the basics—food, shelter and clothing. Those were the primary topics of interest on this cold, rainy afternoon.
“Faith, you really shouldn’t lift that heavy pan that way. You’ll strain your back.”
Faith looked up at her aunt, Virtuous May Hamilton Jessup. “Yes, ma’am, I know that, Aunt Virt, but…” She shrugged resignedly, knowing help would not be forthcoming from that direction.
Virtuous Jessup, with her still-black hair and deep blue eyes, would have been a handsome woman, if she could have stopped thinking about the past and finding fault with everything and everybody. Aunt Virt would never let them forget all they’d had and all they’d lost.