“All right, Mr. Dalton, your ad will run in each edition of the Gazette. I’ll have the typesetter outline it in a bold box so it will be noticed. This is the cost for three weeks,” she said, pushing the paper across the desk at him. “If you want it to run longer, just stop by the office and we’ll start again. Is that agreeable with you?”
He reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. Pulling out a debit card, he said, “Sounds great. I’m in town fairly often, so it won’t be a problem to stop by.”
He scanned his card and she handed him a receipt.
* * *
While Lydia watched him slip the item back into his wallet, it suddenly dawned on her that she’d forgotten to ask him for a photo.
Snapping her fingers, she exclaimed, “Gosh, I nearly forgot! Did you bring a photo of yourself to use in the ad?”
From the blank look on his face, she could see he’d not yet realized that he was actually advertising himself.
“A photo? Uh, no. I didn’t think about that.” He frowned. “Do you think a photo is necessary?”
Lydia fought hard to keep from laughing. Was this guy for real? Did he honestly not realize he was a walking dream?
“Trust me, Mr. Dalton. A woman wants to know what she’s getting. And a pic of you will show her—the outside part, that is.” She cast him an impish smile. “It’ll be up to you to show her the inside.”
Clearly deflated, he said, “I was planning on getting this project rolling today. I have my driver’s license photo. Will that do?”
“Those things always look like mug shots.” She opened a drawer on her desk and pulled out a digital camera. “If you’re not particular about the pose, I can snap one right here.”
“Right here? In this chair?”
Lydia couldn’t stop her chuckles. “I’m going to focus on your face. The background won’t matter much.”
He tucked the tail of his plaid Western shirt even deeper into his jeans, then tightened the string bolo tie until the tiger eye slide was pushed up against the collar. After combing fingers haphazardly through his black hair, he said, “Okay. Guess I’m ready.”
She studied his rugged features for a moment, then shook her head. “No. You’re missing something. Put your hat on. Your potential wife needs to see she’s getting a cowboy. Right?”
“Oh yeah. No chance of my profession ever changing. Not for any woman.” He skewered the black hat onto his head.
Lydia lifted the camera to her eye and tried not to let out a wistful sigh as she centered the lens on his handsome face. “That’s good. But a smile might help,” she suggested. “You don’t want to look grumpy.”
His lips spread into a dazzling smile and Lydia instantly pressed the button to capture the image. Then pressed it again to make sure she’d have at least one clear pic for the paper.
“That’s it for the photo. But there’s still one more detail,” she told him. “Do you want your name on the ad? And how do you want these potential wives to contact you? Phone? Email? Snail mail?”
“Hmm. That’s a question I’d not thought about,” Zach admitted. “I don’t have a personal computer—unless you count my smartphone. And I’d rather keep that email for private use. I’m not sure I want to field phone calls without having some sort of background on the woman first. That might get a little awkward.”
“Yes. Awkward might be the word,” she agreed.
He thoughtfully rubbed a finger along his jawbone. “I suppose that I could do the snail mail thing, but I share a post office box with other family members, including my dad. That might get a little—uh—uncomfortable.”
Lydia Grant nodded. “I don’t have a father—not one that counts, that is. But I have a mother. And if I started receiving correspondence from men, I wouldn’t want her to see it. That’s for sure.”
He looked at her as another idea struck him. “Would it be possible to have responders reply to me in care of the newspaper office? I’d be glad to pay extra for the service.”
Tilting her head to one side, she studied him thoughtfully. Then after a moment, she said, “It’s okay with me, but I can’t speak for my boss. Give me a minute and I’ll see what he thinks about the idea.”
“Fine. Plead my case for me, will you?”
Grinning, she shoved a fist in the air in a typical cheerleader gesture. “Three cheers for your marriage! I’ll do my best.”
* * *
A few years ago when the flood had hit Rust Creek Falls, Curtis Randall had been a young reporter working at a big-city newspaper. Like countless other media people, he’d traveled to the small town to cover the tragic event. For reasons Lydia had never learned, the man had hung around during the aftermath and somehow ended up assuming the job of managing editor of the Gazette.
At the time, the office space assigned to his position had resembled that of a hoarder. The room had been stacked with papers and books, archaic computers, monitors and keyboards, all of which had been shelved from service years ago. After the mess had been carted from the building, Curtis had quickly turned the space into a bare, sanitized space that always made Lydia think she was stepping into a hospital room instead of her boss’s office.
As for the man himself, he would definitely be a cutie if he’d ditch the cardigan and black-rimmed glasses and let his sandy-blond hair get a little mussed. But in spite of his nerdish fashion choices, Lydia found him easy to work with, and that was the most important thing to her.
Rapping on the frame of the open door, she asked, “Got a minute, Curtis?”
Scowling, he looked up from the latest edition of the Gazette. No doubt he’d been reading the op-ed, a piece he took great pains in writing himself.
“Sure. What’s up?”
She made her way to his desk. “There’s a man in the main office putting an ad for a wife in the classifieds. He wants to know if responders can contact him via the newspaper. He says he’ll be glad to pay extra for the bother.”
His brows pulled together. “That’s rather an unusual request, isn’t it? Especially for such a personal advertisement.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “If you ask me, the whole thing is more than unusual. It’s downright weird. But it takes all kinds, I suppose. And we’re in business to make money.”
“True,” he agreed. “But it might turn out to be more of a nuisance than it’s worth. Is this man a local? Someone we know?”
“He’s one of the Dalton gang,” she told him. “I’ve never met him before, but I got the impression he’s new in town. I’ll make a prediction, though. This guy is going to get the paper plenty of attention. And we could certainly use all the free publicity we can get.”
Unimpressed by her positive forecast, he waved a dismissive hand at her. “What makes you think he’ll cause extra readers to pick up the paper?”
Probably because just looking at the guy was enough to give a woman a heart attack. When the single women around here learned he was looking for a bride, all hell was going to break loose, Lydia thought.
To Curtis, she said in the most nonchalant voice she could muster, “He’s a cool-looking cowboy. The women around here go gaga for his sort.”
Still frowning,