Marriage-minded man, 37, in good health, with comfortable income, seeks home-loving woman to share life. Should be accomplished cook and adequate housekeeper. Somewhat isolated ranch with good house and modern conveniences. Household includes elderly uncle, widowed brother, and teenage nephew. Address replies to R.F.D. Route 3, Santa Rita, Texas.
Cherilyn Bixby refolded the paper. She’d reread it so many times she knew every word by heart. Was she a total fool to have taken the chance? She’d begun to think so. Especially during the three hours and thirty-seven minutes she’d been sitting alone outside a darkened bus depot in the rain. A slight movement in the wire carrier on the other bench reminded her she wasn’t quite alone. Arabella was none too happy with their situation either.
“I’m sure he’s coming,” she told the cat sitting in regal disdain. Her words did little to reassure either of them. Rain continued to drum on the awning above, and Cherilyn saw the canvas sagging with the weight of pooled water. To avoid a possible deluge, she shifted to the opposite bench and tucked her fluffy skirts tight against her legs. Another foolish thing she’d done, changing from her serviceable grey skirt and pinstriped blouse to her best pink-and-white nylon shirtwaist. She’d wanted to look pretty, possibly even a little bride-like, for this first meeting with Cole Witherspoon. She hadn’t counted on the rain—or on the man she’d crossed Texas to meet being more than three hours late.
Another set of headlights appeared in the distance. Four pickups and a tractor had passed since she’d arrived. All had driven on. After the last one, Cherilyn had debated trying to flag a driver to ask for a lift into town. At least she could probably find a public phone booth there. It couldn’t be more than three or four miles, close but too far to walk carrying two big suitcases and Arabella’s carrier. I will wave at this one. I can’t sit here any longer.
Cherilyn had steeled herself to step out of the shelter of the bus depot porch when she saw the lights veer away from the highway. The rumble of a pickup engine accompanied, then overcame, the constant plop of rain against the gravel. The truck drew up to the side of the building. The driver’s window lowered.
“Cherry? Miss Cherry Lynn Bixby?”
She recognized the voice, and the mangled pronunciation, from their few phone conversations. “Yes, I’m Cherilyn Bixby.”
The pickup door opened; the driver turned and slid out, boots splashing into the puddles. He disregarded the two steps up to the porch, catching the corner post with one hand and swinging up to the rough planks in one move.
He whipped off a black Stetson. More than six feet of sinewy shadow moved forward. “Well, Miss Cherry Lynn, I’m Cole Witherspoon.” She took the work-roughened hand he offered. “Mighty pleased to meet you after all the letters. I’ve been right anxious to see in person the pretty girl in the picture.”
She took a step back to look up at him. “So anxious that you’re four hours late?” Cherilyn didn’t try to keep the sharp schoolteacher reprimand out of her voice.
Cole shook rain from his hat. “Well, now, I’m more sorry about that than you are, Cherry Lynn. Fact is, I debated being a good bit later than this, thinking I’d make a run back to the house and change clothes. Weighed it a bit and decided as it was raining like billy-be-damned—uh, beg pardon—as it was raining and not likely to stop, I’d best come on and get you, even without slicking up…” A raucous explosion of barking interrupted, followed by a shadow hurtling through the dark, and a black shape rocketed onto the porch.
Cherilyn ducked the sudden shower of muddy water shaken over her, but she couldn’t avoid the powerful paws against her chest, pushing her back to the bench, leaving her nose to nose with a large, muddy, gleefully wriggling beast.
“Reb! Down!”
“Get him
Cherilyn Bixby refolded the paper. She’d reread it so many times she knew every word by heart. Was she a total fool to have taken the chance? She’d begun to think so. Especially during the three hours and thirty-seven minutes she’d been sitting alone outside a darkened bus depot in the rain. A slight movement in the wire carrier on the other bench reminded her she wasn’t quite alone. Arabella was none too happy with their situation either.
“I’m sure he’s coming,” she told the cat sitting in regal disdain. Her words did little to reassure either of them. Rain continued to drum on the awning above, and Cherilyn saw the canvas sagging with the weight of pooled water. To avoid a possible deluge, she shifted to the opposite bench and tucked her fluffy skirts tight against her legs. Another foolish thing she’d done, changing from her serviceable grey skirt and pinstriped blouse to her best pink-and-white nylon shirtwaist. She’d wanted to look pretty, possibly even a little bride-like, for this first meeting with Cole Witherspoon. She hadn’t counted on the rain—or on the man she’d crossed Texas to meet being more than three hours late.
Another set of headlights appeared in the distance. Four pickups and a tractor had passed since she’d arrived. All had driven on. After the last one, Cherilyn had debated trying to flag a driver to ask for a lift into town. At least she could probably find a public phone booth there. It couldn’t be more than three or four miles, close but too far to walk carrying two big suitcases and Arabella’s carrier. I will wave at this one. I can’t sit here any longer.
Cherilyn had steeled herself to step out of the shelter of the bus depot porch when she saw the lights veer away from the highway. The rumble of a pickup engine accompanied, then overcame, the constant plop of rain against the gravel. The truck drew up to the side of the building. The driver’s window lowered.
“Cherry? Miss Cherry Lynn Bixby?”
She recognized the voice, and the mangled pronunciation, from their few phone conversations. “Yes, I’m Cherilyn Bixby.”
The pickup door opened; the driver turned and slid out, boots splashing into the puddles. He disregarded the two steps up to the porch, catching the corner post with one hand and swinging up to the rough planks in one move.
He whipped off a black Stetson. More than six feet of sinewy shadow moved forward. “Well, Miss Cherry Lynn, I’m Cole Witherspoon.” She took the work-roughened hand he offered. “Mighty pleased to meet you after all the letters. I’ve been right anxious to see in person the pretty girl in the picture.”
She took a step back to look up at him. “So anxious that you’re four hours late?” Cherilyn didn’t try to keep the sharp schoolteacher reprimand out of her voice.
Cole shook rain from his hat. “Well, now, I’m more sorry about that than you are, Cherry Lynn. Fact is, I debated being a good bit later than this, thinking I’d make a run back to the house and change clothes. Weighed it a bit and decided as it was raining like billy-be-damned—uh, beg pardon—as it was raining and not likely to stop, I’d best come on and get you, even without slicking up…” A raucous explosion of barking interrupted, followed by a shadow hurtling through the dark, and a black shape rocketed onto the porch.
Cherilyn ducked the sudden shower of muddy water shaken over her, but she couldn’t avoid the powerful paws against her chest, pushing her back to the bench, leaving her nose to nose with a large, muddy, gleefully wriggling beast.
“Reb! Down!”
“Get him
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