CHAPTER 2
ARDEN
Dear Cowboy,
It’s almost the day. Almost your birthday. Since it’s not the day yet, I’m saving my birthday wishes. For now.
I won’t forget to send them your way, though. I promise.
Since we won’t talk about this when it rolls around, it is almost Valentine’s Day. What an odd holiday, don’t you think?
I’ve done my research and I learned about the ancient Roman fertility festivals that were then altered as Christianity rose in influence.
That’s when Saint Valentine came into the picture.
I won’t even get into that, but there’s a saint for just about everything.
Isn’t that kind of comforting? Or maybe it’s just strange. I haven’t decided.
It didn’t become a romantic thing until Chaucer. Can you imagine the kind of influence a writer has to have to change the course of an entire holiday? It makes me wonder about those transition years between something changing and then gaining popularity.
Then I think about things that are popular now that weren’t a year ago. But now we have television and newspapers almost everyone can read. How did it change back then? Was there just a swarm of carrier pigeons spreading little romantic stanzas? A town crier?
Was that even really a thing?
I don’t know, but it is kind of amazing how it all happened and now we’re here. And every year the commercials change and all the shows have episodes where a date went wrong, or right. Is all of it just to sell things?
Because, I have to be honest, I’m not seeing a lot of romance when the day comes around. I see flowers and chocolates.
Oh, not for me. I wasn’t trying to toot my own horn. It was just an observation.
Anyway, I have to wonder if those are things people need. Who are they really for, and what about all the other days of the year? Do they show up for each other? Do they listen to each other?
I’ve always imagined a relationship like that. Where Valentine’s Day is just another day to show up and to love each other.
It’s possible I’ve read too many fairy tales. Sometimes that’s the best you have.
I jerk slightly when a door slams somewhere in the building. When I look at the clock, I grimace. I’ve done what happens far too often—I got lost writing to Ford. After quickly picking up my mess, I tuck the letter away to finish up later.
When I slip back into place at my station, Reba gives me a soft smile. She’s a nice woman who really likes me. She’s also old enough to be my grandmother and doesn’t take any guff.
Or tardiness.
“I’m sorry,” I cut her off at the pass, knowing it’s the only way. “But I was almost on time.”
Reba scoffs and rears back slightly while folding her arms as if she’s settling in to give me a lesson. “Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”
I scrunch up my face, but don’t bother replying. I’m not even sure I know what that means.
Reba huffs softly. “You spend too much time in your head, Arden.” She reaches over and grabs my hand gently. “You might miss something right in front of you because your head is in the clouds instead of right here where it belongs.”
“I rather enjoy escaping reality in various ways, Reba. You know that.”
“I know you have your nose stuck in a book most of the time, but that’s if you’re not hunched over paper and writing like your husband is off to war.”
My mouth drops open; I’m not sure if it’s because of how it looks when I’m writing and she’s seen me, or how she just laid it out there.
“It’s not a bad thing,” she assures me and gives my hand a squeeze, “and everyone benefits from having a hobby.” Her eyebrow arches, the look on her face a reminder that she is the postmaster for our small-town post office, a job she’s had for years. “Just don’t let them interfere with work.”
The number of years she’s worn the uniform is staggering. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. I’ve always wanted to ask her if she had dreams outside of the post office and her career here. I know I do, I hope she did to.
What do I know? Maybe her dreams came true.
It wouldn’t exactly be polite of me to ask. But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious.
“Of course, Reba. I apologize.”
What she doesn’t need to know is how I could have sat there a lot longer and written my letter. It’s a problem I have when I’m writing the man who went from a silly crush when I was younger, to a full-blown infatuation.
“I’ll keep a better eye on the time during my break,” I promise.
And I mean to keep it. Whether it happens or not remains to be seen.
The smile she gives me is indulgent, like a tub of cool whip kind of indulgent. I’m sure she has more to say. I can practically see the words on the tip of her tongue.
Thankfully, she doesn’t get the chance to voice them. The chime above the door goes off as Reba slips away. I wonder if it’s because Mrs. Riley is the one bustling inside.
“Oh, Arden,” she gushes as she barrels toward me. I’ve never been happier to be behind a desk as I am right now. “Just the lady I was looking for.”
“Me?” I almost look behind me to see if she’s talking to someone else. Yes, she said my name, but maybe there’s a Freaky Friday thing going on here I’m not aware of.
“Of course,” she fawns all over my desk with a smile on her face like she’s about to sell me ice in the middle of a blizzard.
“I was hoping, if it’s not too much trouble, to put a flyer in your window for the library’s raffle fundraiser this year.
” I open my mouth to tell her she can, but she quickly adds, “We’re having a casino night.
I tried to talk them into a bachelor action, but it was shot down. ”
When I giggle, I clamp my lips together and nod sagely because she looks incredibly serious right now. Mrs. Riley has been Seneca Fall’s librarian for years.
Huh. I’m sensing a pattern.
“I guess the only question is,” I pause and she arches an eyebrow as if I wouldn’t dare to not allow her to put up the sign, “do you need any tape?”
She grins and chuckles before shaking her finger at me in admonishment. “You had me going there for a moment, Arden.” She clicks her tongue and purses her lips. “You better buy some raffle tickets for that one.”
“I was already planning on it. I’ll stop by and get them on my break tomorrow,” I assure her.
Yes, I’m aware that if I don’t show up, for whatever reason, Mrs. Riley will track me down. Is this what you feel like when you make a deal at the crossroads?
It’s possible I’ve been reading too many thrillers recently. I can’t help myself. If I could check out romance books, I would, but not with certain people working at the desk. No, thank you.
Love her dearly, but she’s a woman who doesn’t understand personal information and public knowledge. I’m not sure if it’s intentional or if she’s just oblivious, but it’s something I’ve noticed for years.
“You can even stay for the adult portion of the night,” she tells me with wiggled eyebrows. “You let me know if you want me to match you with a date. It’ll be in about a month so you’ll have plenty of time to shop for the perfect dress to wow the man who just might be your future husband.”
“I appreciate the offer,” my voice sounds bewildered.
Probably because I am. Should I be offended because she thinks I can’t get my own date? Should I take her up on the whole thing?
Sure, Ford Conners is the only man I can really picture a future with but sharing some lukewarm appetizers at the library raffle fundraiser with someone might be fun.
I just can’t imagine who she’d wrangle into this love match. It’s hard to stop it, but I manage not to cringe at the thought.
“You let me know,” she says it like I’m a child who has taken too long picking out their bedtime story. “I’ll keep an eye out for the perfect man, just in case.”
And then she’s gone and the scent of books and coffee clings to the air for long minutes in her wake.
The only thing I can do is shake my head.
She’s a fixture in this town, and I’ve known her for most of my life.
Story hour at the library was a frequent outing with my mom, especially when we first moved here and money was tight.
It got us out of the house and gave her a few minutes where I was entertained.
I can see the merit now. And it’s not like I was complaining then.
Those story hours were filled with faraway places and fanciful tales. I loved them, and from there my love for reading grew. And it’s why my top-secret, tell no-one dream is to be a writer. Well, it’s one of my dreams.
The rest of the day is filled with people just like Mrs. Riley. It’s comforting knowing everyone and having them ask you how you are. It doesn’t feel like just words here; they really care.
Growing up here was nice because there is safety in knowing your neighbors, but it can be stifling as well.
It doesn’t help that there are always looks with lingering pity from everyone.
It was no secret that we moved here after my mom left my abusive, asshole of a father.
I was young and there are a lot of things I don’t remember.
I’ve always been a shoot for the stars type person; that holds true even in what I dream of in my future.
If I had my way, I’d publish adventure stories for girls where they save themselves or with the help of their best friend, who is also an awesome girl.
And I’d find a way to help women like my mom.
Sure, she got out all those years ago. She did save herself, and me.
But I think part of her is still back there, in that house, that place, with him. At this point, I don’t even remember what he looks like, but I remember what he sounded like. It was always yelling. It was always scary. When we left, I wasn’t sad about it.
Safety was something new to experience. Which is a shame.
I’m quite sure Mom never really relaxed. She didn’t date after moving here. She poured everything into being the best mom, but now I wonder if it was sacrifice or fear that held her back. It’s not like she got any help afterwards, at least not that I remember.
Having a place for women to go to, where they’re safe and can get help, that’s a dream I’m not even sure how to make into a reality. It’s one of those hopes you take out when it’s dark, when no one is around, and let yourself imagine how good it could be and how many people it could help.
I wonder if it could have helped me because there are times when fear still clings to me.
Or maybe that comes from not wanting to repeat my mom’s mistakes. Is it my legacy to do so? My destiny?
I hope not, but is it out of my hands?
It’s one of the many reasons why I’ve never dated. I was asked out a few times, but I got a reputation for turning everyone down, and the well ran dry. Then I saw Ford Conners not long before his dad died.
The poor, unsuspecting man. I fell in love with him right then and there.
When his life turned upside down, in more ways than one if the gossip mill around here is to believed, I watched him.
It couldn’t have been easy to shoulder his dad’s death, take over Sagebrush, and watch his mom and sister leave for richer pastures.
Literally richer in money, which, from what I’ve heard, is the only thing that matters to Barbara Conners.
As much as I try not to listen to the gossip, it’s hard not to when information about Ford is few and far between.
No one gossips about him going on dates.
He spends most of his time out at the ranch.
Miss Rosalie does his grocery shopping, and his ranch hands make runs into Seneca Falls for other supplies.
It was the thought of Ford rattling around in his big house, which is basically a mansion, all by himself without anyone there to really celebrate his birthday that had me writing to him the first time. I didn’t think I would still be writing to him a year later.
But it’s like I can’t stop.
Honestly, I’m not entirely sure he reads them. I hope so. Or maybe I don’t.
At least he hasn’t figured out who I am. I’ll finish up my letter to him tonight and slip it into the mail tomorrow. I always imagine he smiles when he gets a new letter, but I don’t think I’ll ever find out if I’m right.