An Unconventional Mail-Order Match (Preview)

Chapter One

“If she gets around the corner, don’t let her go for the fence!”

But it was too late. Petal the pig was already rounding the corner and bolting for the weak spot in the fence. Nellie Abrams was running full-tilt behind her, but she knew even at her fastest she was still no match for Petal. 

Nellie believed Petal must have been struck by lightning at some point. Now whenever the animal needed to run, she harnessed the power of that lightning and bolted like nothing Nellie or her father, Paul, had ever seen before. 

What made things worse at this particular moment was that Petal had just been bathing herself in the mud, which turned her, quite literally, into a greased pig. Even if Nellie had been able to get her hands on her, Petal would have slid out of them just as quickly!

Nellie turned her head back to look at her dad, who was following a few paces behind. Paul was in his sixties, but he didn’t let that deter his ability to keep up with his daughter—both in running and in life. He might have been breathing a bit heavier than Nellie, but that didn’t matter.

“It’s no use!” he called to her in between heavy breaths. “She’s going to make a break for it. We’re sure to lose her this time.”

“Not this time, Papa!” Nellie called back to him, making a hard right turn. “You keep going that way. I’ll run around the right side of the barn, and we’ll trap her.”

“If you say so,” her father called back.

Nellie grabbed the edge of her dark brown work skirt that was now laden with mud and ran along the other side of the barn. She wasn’t certain Petal was going to run this way, but she had a pretty good feeling about it. 

Just as she rounded the corner, she saw a streak of pink headed right for her. When the pig saw her, it squealed and started running back in the other direction. Thankfully, right at that moment, Paul came around the other side, opened his arms, and she ran right into them. There was a struggle, and for a second it did seem as though Petal was going to wiggle right out of his grasp. 

But Paul was a big bear of a man: six-foot-five with coarse, curly brown hair cropped close to his head, a bushy beard of the same color, and eyes that were so dark brown they practically looked black. He was such an imposing fellow that when people first met him, they were often quite frightened. It was for this reason that Paul had well-worn smile lines on his face, because the moment he broke out his big, goofy grin, everyone knew they had nothing to worry about.

Nellie’s father was now coated in mud, but Petal was firmly within his grasp. He hoisted her into the air and strode over to her pen where the door was firmly shut with an extra loop of wire on the outside. 

As soon as he laid her down, her six piglets began squealing as loudly as they could and came running over to her. Petal looked disappointed for a moment but then lay down and let her little ones suckle on her. Nellie came to stand by the side of the pen and crossed her arms as she looked down at the former escapee.

“I know, I know, the work of a mother is never done, my dear,” she told the pig, as she bent over and gave her a few scratches behind the ear. “But as someone who never got to know their mother, you should relish in the fact you’re still here to take care of your little ones. Not everyone is so lucky.” 

Nellie hadn’t fully thought about what she was saying before she started saying it, and as soon as the sentiment left her mouth, she looked up at her father in alarm. Paul was a very sensitive man, and although his darling wife, Eleanor, had been gone for almost a quarter of a century, he still felt her loss just as keenly as they day she’d died. 

When she looked up at him, he was looking sadly down at the pig and her piglets. If Nellie had been able to eat her words, she would have done so in a second. “Papa, I’m sorry, I—”

He looked over at his daughter with a sad smile on his face. “Never you mind, Nel my dear. I was thinking along the same lines; you just spoke my thoughts out loud. Look at us, just two sad-sacks getting sentimental over a pig and her piglets!”

“No wonder no one in town wants to spend much time with us,” Nellie joined in and they both laughed. 

Paul was a wonderful father to Nellie, his only daughter, and unlike most fathers, was supportive of everything—or almost everything—she wanted to pursue. Her mother had died of a fever when she was just a baby, and since then, Paul and Nellie had worked together as a team on their farm. 

Because she had no brothers, Nellie took up many of the jobs that a boy traditionally would have done: mucking the stalls, feeding the animals, sowing, tending, and harvesting the crops, hauling hay bales that were as large as she was, and much more.

Because she’d had to take on this role, her father raised very little issues when she wanted to do other things that were outside of traditional gender roles. For example, when she was fifteen, she woke up one morning and decided she wanted to learn how to work with leather so that she could make a few better saddles and harnesses for the horses. 

Paul had been surprised, to say the least, but he took no issue with it. He’d gone to the saddler and harness maker in town, explained their unique situation, and the next week Nellie was going in and learning some of the basics from Old Mike, as the townspeople called him. She’d turned into quite a talented worker and had made many beautiful pieces for their farm and home.

Now, Nellie sighed and wiped her brow. “Well, I’d best get into town and see if I’ve had any responses.” The young woman had been expecting to look up and see an understanding face, but her father’s eyes were on her forehead, and he was laughing. “What is it?”

Paul pointed. “You brushed a smear of mud on yourself when you did that,” he told her between chortles. Nellie reached her hand up and touched her forehead, then sighed again.

“Well, maybe I’ll just stride into the General Store like this so that any men who answer my ad will know what they’re getting themselves into.”

Paul abruptly stopped laughing. “Nel, you placed an ad to form a correspondence courtship, there won’t be any fellows who will see—” But he stopped himself when he saw the smirk on her face. “Ahhh, you were joking! I understand now! Well, go on and get yourself to the post office then. I’m sure the postmaster will have a stack of responses for a beautiful girl such as yourself.”

Nellie let out one sharp, sarcastic caw. “Highly unlikely, father dearest. I bet the postmaster’s mail bag is going to be full of dust and a little tiny tumbleweed. Nobody wants me for a bride, not even the fellas desperate enough to form a correspondence courtship with a girl from New York.” She tried to turn on her heel and head inside the house, but her father caught her gently by the elbow and turned her back towards him.

“Don’t you go talking about yourself like that, Nel,” he said, suddenly serious. “Any man lucky enough to be your husband should be over the moon to have you. Don’t you forget that, all right? Don’t just go settling for anyone because you feel like you should.”

Nellie looked up into her father’s big, soulful eyes. It had been a very difficult decision to put out that ad, but she knew it was the right one. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t stay with her father forever. She needed to go off and make a life for herself, which is exactly what her father was hoping for. 

But living in as small a town as Bowens Corners meant that Nellie and Paul knew everyone in town like the back of their hand, and vice versa. Unfortunately, not everyone was as understanding of the Abrams’ unique situation and disapproved of Nellie’s boyish behavior. 

She’d had a man or two come courting, but they’d trailed away again when they realized she wasn’t going to be the perfect bride. Hoping to find someone farther afield who might understand her, Nellie had placed an advertisement in a few newspapers across the country—one in Texas, another in Kansas, an advert that’d be published in a paper that ran in the Colorado Territory, and a final one that reached as far as the folks living out in the Wyoming territory. 

She didn’t like the thought of leaving the only family member she had, but she hoped that she might be able to marry a wealthy fellow and bring her father out to live near them. She did not, however, hold out very much hope for that.

“I won’t forget that, Papa, I promise,” she said, leaning forwards and kissing him on the forehead. “Just promise me that you won’t get too lonely around here, all right?”

Paul laughed a little. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Miss Cook will certainly—”

Just then, however, the door to the barn swung open and a jolly looking, tiny, powerhouse of a woman stood in the doorway. She had an apron on, and a cloth slung over her shoulder with both her hands on her hips. “Eleanor Abrams, what on earth have you done to your outfit? That’s the third time this week that I’ll have to wash that, and you know how much I hate doing the washing. And Paul, you’re just as bad! Neither of you are coming in for lunch looking like that, I’ll have you know!”

Nellie couldn’t help but smirk. Josephine ‘Jo’ Cook had been her mother’s best friend and when she’d passed, she came to live with Nellie and Paul and look after the household duties. She’d also played a big part in raising Nellie, although she disapproved a bit more than Paul did of Nellie’s boyish ways.

“Sorry, Jo,” Paul said in a voice that made him sound like a young boy being scolded. “We had a problem with Petal just now and couldn’t help getting a little muddy. I’ll make sure Nellie cleans up using the cow’s water and—”

“No, you will not!” Jo howled, and both Nellie and her father burst out laughing. Jo crossed her arms and scowled at them. “You two are quite the duo, you know.” She turned around and looked as though she was going to storm inside but stopped and turned back to look at Nellie’s father. “Oh, by the way, Paul, I made you another loaf of that sourdough you liked so much. If you get yourself cleaned up enough, I’ll make you a sandwich out of it for lunch.”

Nellie squinted through the darkness of the barn. Could it be that Jo was blushing, just a little?

“Thank you kindly,” her father replied, tipping his hat to her. “I’ll work on getting myself presentable and will enjoy that greatly.” Now, Nellie analyzed her father. Could it be that he was smiling a little more boyishly than usual?

Jo gave a curt little bow and went back inside the house as Nellie turned to Paul. “Papa,” she said with a certain amount of playfulness in her voice, “if you’re giving me advice about love and marriage, might I give you some too?”

Paul looked at his daughter, utterly perplexed. “Certainly, my girl, but I can’t imagine who the advice might be about. It’s just been me, myself, and I these many long years.”

Nellie scoffed heartily. “Papa. I’m twenty-six now and I can see perfectly well exactly who your heart has set itself on. Will you open your eyes and see it for yourself?”

Now Paul looked even more confused. “What are you talking about, Nel? There’s no one who I… I couldn’t possibly imagine… there isn’t anyone who…”

Nellie just giggled, and patted her father on the back. “You go enjoy your sourdough, Papa, and get back to me when the veil has finally been lifted from your eyes. It’s only been over them for oh, I don’t know, say… twenty years?” Leaving her father stunned and speechless, Nellie went back inside the house to change, eat lunch, and depart for the post office inside the General Store.

Chapter Two

  If today had gone any worse, Peter Cosgrove would have thought about throwing himself in the river, just for some added fun. 

To some, a dip in the creek may have sounded like a refreshing reward at the end of a long, hot day, but not to Peter. He had a deeply rooted, well-developed fear of water; and the thought of going anywhere near that body of water made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. 

The day had started off well but continually got worse. He’d gotten up before Old Rusty had crowed, and shaved without nicking himself. The boys had gotten out of bed without having to be asked a second time, and his hair was looking especially nice. 

But when he’d gotten to the kitchen, that was when the real trouble started. He’d gotten the fire going in the stove just fine, but when he’d tried to mix up the hotcake batter, it turned out even lumpier than usual. Alan, his son who was older than his twin brother by just ten minutes, came up behind him and grimaced. 

“That looks like what came out of Jake the last time he was ill,” he said with a giggle. Peter turned around and looked aghast at his son.

“Is that the kind of sentiment that should be coming out of your mouth right now?” he asked. Alan was a good child, but sometimes he did not think before speaking. The young boy sighed and ran his fingers through his messy red hair that reminded Peter so much of their beloved mother. May she rest in peace. 

“No, and I’m sorry,” Alan said quietly, keeping his eyes on the truly revolting looking batter, “but you have to admit that I’m right, Papa.”

Peter looked back at his concoction just in time to see one of the bigger lumps pop and spit a bit of batter onto his face. It had never done that before, and it most certainly was not supposed to. But he forged onwards, because he knew that if his mother, Margaret, got word that the boys hadn’t eaten a good, hearty breakfast, she would throw a fit.

“Why don’t you let me do that?” Margaret ‘Maggie’ Cosgrove asked, coming up behind her son a few minutes later and gently trying to move him away from the stove. She was in her sixties but didn’t look a day over forty-five. 

When they first met her, many people often assumed that Maggie was Peter’s sister instead of his mother. She had long strawberry-blonde hair, blue eyes, and stood just barely above five feet tall. She wasn’t willowy, instead sturdily taking her place in the world just as the good Lord intended her to. When Peter looked back at her now, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Why? Because if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you fifty times, Mama,” Peter replied, gently steering her out of the kitchen, “you shouldn’t be exerting yourself. You remember what Dr. Finch said…”

“Peter,” Maggie objected, sounding more than a little cross and firmly planting her feet, not allowing her son to take her any further, “he was not referring to standing in the kitchen and flipping a few hotcakes. I may be getting older, and my body, disappointingly, may not be complying with my wishes the way it used to, but I can still do a great many things!”

“Yes, I know, Mama,” Peter said gently, putting his hands on the outside of her shoulders. “But there’s no need for you to do this. I have it under control. This is one thing I can absolutely handle!”

Both mother and son began sniffing the air at the same time. It had a very distinctive smell: something was burning. Peter gasped a little, and ran back to the kitchen to see that not only was the cake he’d left on the griddle completely burnt, but he’d left the corner of the bowl he’d been using on the stove and, because his father had made it out of one of the old trees they’d cut down last May, it was now on fire. 

“Oh no!” Peter cried out involuntarily. He grabbed a towel and tossed it on top of the flames, but instead of putting it out like he thought it would have, it caught on fire too. He was just about to run outside and fetch a pail of water when the kitchen door opened and his father, Tom, strode in and doused the fire in one fell swoop with his own bucket of water. 

Peter looked on as his poor attempt at breakfast was now a smoking, soggy mess on the stove. His father looked at him and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“It was a valiant attempt, my boy,” Tom said, “but perhaps it’s best to leave this work to someone who has a bit more talent with cooking than you do.”

Peter looked at him helplessly. “Who else can do this? I don’t dare ask Mama; you’re as hopeless as I am, and I don’t have any prospects of—”

Just then, a small, gentle hand tugged on his shirt. Peter turned around and his other son, Jake, was standing behind him, smiling helpfully. “Why don’t you let me try, Papa?” the little boy asked.

Peter opened his mouth to protest; he didn’t want his seven-year-old son taking over work that he couldn’t do himself. But before he could, the young man was clearing the burned food off the stove, moving the burnt bowl into the dry sink in the corner of the room and beginning to mix up a new batch of hotcakes. 

As Peter and Tom looked on with bemused looks on their faces, Jake swiftly and easily prepared the batter and had enough food for everyone cooked up within minutes. When he turned around with the stack of hotcakes on a plate, he looked from his grandfather to his father and back again. “Well, are you going to just stand there, or are you going to eat with us?”

“Right, yes, of course, thank you Jake,” Peter fumbled as he turned to the side to let his son move past him. When he did, Peter looked back at Tom and the men shared a look that said, ‘Did you expect that to happen?’ ‘I certainly did not, but I’m glad it did!’

Now that the breakfast disaster had subsided, it was time to get going on the day. Peter herded the boys upstairs to wash and dress, but even that was a challenge. Peter caught his foot on one of the steps and spilled all the water in the wash basin on himself. This required wiping the stairs, a change of clothes for him, and a walk out to the well to fetch another pail of water. 

By the time he’d taken care of all that, he thought for sure the boys would have been dressed. But when he arrived at their room, they were in the middle of a tussle, pulling at each other’s shirts and hair and hitting each other. Peter put down the pail and tugged the boys apart.

“What’s going on now?” he asked, trying not to sound as exasperated as he already was. Alan crossed his arms and glowered at his brother.

“Jake won’t let me wear my favorite shirt!” he whined, puffing out his lower lip. “He keeps saying it’s his, but it’s mine!”

“No, it isn’t, it’s mine!” Jake called back, tears forming in his eyes as he looked up at Peter. “Grandma made me that shirt and he keeps trying to say that it’s his, but it isn’t! He won’t let me wear it.”

Peter looked at Jake’s shirt. He had no idea whose shirt it was, and didn’t feel like sorting it out right now. But he also knew that if he took the side of either of the boys, he was going to be the villain for the rest of the day. To solve this, he pointed down the stairs.

“Well then, go ask Grandma whose shirt it is and stop bickering over it,” he told them. Both boys groaned and stomped down the stairs. While he was waiting for them, Peter picked up the clothing that had been tossed on the ground and placed them back into the boys’ drawers. 

A moment later, he heard the footsteps of his sons just outside the door and they walked back in. Jake looked positively jubilant while Alan looked like he’d been told he’d never have another Christmas again.

“Grandma said she made it for meee…” Jake sing-songed as he pulled up his suspenders. “So now Alan can never try to take it from me again.”

“Oh yes, I can!” Alan shouted and lunged at his brother. Jake tried to pull away, but Alan grabbed onto the sleeve of his shirt, and the force of Jake pulling back caused the arm of the garment to rip right off. 

Both boys stared at each other in surprise and then Jake let out such a sad, despairing wail that it nearly broke Peter’s heart. To Alan’s credit, he immediately hugged his brother and started apologizing. “I’m sorry, Jake, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that, I was just trying to tease you about your shirt, I didn’t mean to—”

Peter was just about to handle the situation when his mother walked in. She was breathing heavily from walking up the stairs; a task she was not supposed to do. “What in goodness’ name is going on here, boys? Why are you giving your father such a hard time today? Can we not get going on the day, or are we going to spend it all fighting and crying?”

Jake sniffed a bit and wiped his nose with the one sleeve of his shirt that was still attached. “Grandma, I can’t help it. Alan tore the shirt you made me.”

“It’s all right, Jacob. I can fix that,” she told him gently, taking the torn sleeve out of Alan’s hands and giving her grandson a hug. Then, she turned to Alan. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

Alan looked down at the floor and scuffed it with the toe of his shoe. “Nothing other than I’m sorry. I’m no good at sewing, but I can try to fix it for you too, Jake. That wasn’t nice of me, and I want to make it up to you.”

Peter was impressed by his son. Alan was rambunctious and he seemed to have a good understanding of the consequences of his actions. Peter patted him on the back.

“There’s a good lad. Well, if that’s all settled, let’s get going on our day then, shall we?”

Everyone agreed and Peter thought he was out of the woods for just a split second. Jake and Alan were talking amicably now, and Maggie was starting to walk back down the stairs. But a moment later he heard a yelp and the sound of something, or someone, hitting the ground—hard. He ran to the top of the stairs and saw his mother lying in a heap at the bottom. 

“Mama!” he yelled and ran to her, immediately starting to look her over for visible injuries. She was conscious but holding her leg and wincing in pain. “What happened? What hurts?”

“My leg, I… I think it’s broken,” Maggie said in between deep breaths. The boys came racing down the stairs and rushed to her side, too. 

“All right, I’ll fetch the doctor,” Peter said calmly, even though he was immediately very concerned. “Jake, Alan, make sure your grandmother doesn’t move.”

The boys took their jobs very seriously and Peter raced to fetch Dr. Finch. As he passed the kitchen, he told his father what was happening, as he had not heard the fall.

Peter was back with the good doctor in a matter of minutes, as the man and his family lived just down the road. After Dr. Finch had looked over Maggie and had set her broken leg, Peter and Tom moved Maggie to her bed. 

“It should heal no problem, as long as she stays off her feet,” Dr. Finch informed the two men. Peter and Tom looked at each other and then back at the doctor. But before either of them could say anything, Dr. Finch held up his hand. “I’m aware that this will not be an easy task, but it is necessary. Make sure she has plenty of literature or handiwork or whatever will keep her happy and stationary. Too much movement could cause the bone to regrow in the wrong manner or could cause a secondary break.”

“Thank you, Doctor Finch, we’ll do our very best to make sure that Maggie doesn’t raise a finger for the next six weeks,” Tom assured him, paying the man and chatting with him as he led him to the door. Once Finch had left and the boys were out tending to their morning chores, the two men paused in the sitting room to talk.

“This is all my fault,” Peter said, sitting on the sofa and rubbing his temples. “If I’d had a better handle on the boys, Mama wouldn’t have had to venture upstairs. Both of you are wonderful help, but I need to figure out how to do this on my own, for both of your sakes.”

When Tom didn’t immediately respond, Peter raised his head and looked at his father. He looked hesitant.

“Or, perhaps…” the older man began, “it might be time to consider finding someone who could help with these sorts of things.”

Peter cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “You mean hiring a woman to come and assist me with the household chores? I’m not sure I could afford that, but it isn’t a bad idea. Perhaps I’ll put an advertisement in the paper.”

Tom chuckled. “No, no, I didn’t mean hiring a woman, Peter. I meant marrying a woman.”

Peter stopped dead in his tracks. “Marriage? Father, you know how I feel about marrying again.”

Tom nodded knowingly. “Yes, yes, I know, but you can’t keep your heart fastened to Rebecca forever, Peter. We all know how devoted you are to her, and marrying someone else doesn’t mean you’d be cherishing her memory any less. In fact, quite the opposite. Think how the boys would flourish under a mother’s care. They are Rebecca’s legacy, and they deserve to have the best care in the world. Not that you aren’t providing that, but…” he trailed off.

Peter nodded reluctantly. He could feel tears coming, but he didn’t feel like crying about Rebecca in front of his father for the fifth time this week. “I… suppose you’re right. But I just don’t think I can, Father. I’m sure you’re right and that having a mother would be a great help to the boys, but… I just can’t. I don’t know how to put what I’m feeling into words…”

Tom patted his son’s back. “That’s all right, son, I believe I have a pretty good idea of how you’re feeling.”

“Besides, courting a woman would take up a great deal of my time. I need to be here working the ranch and taking care of the boys.” Peter knew there were ways to work around this issue, but he was hoping it was a big enough problem that his father might see his point and drop the subject. Tom, however, did not seem deterred. 

“Now, isn’t it funny you should mention that…” Tom said playfully as he pulled a folded piece of newspaper from his pocket. “I have the perfect solution! Here are the bridal advertisements in the Sentinel. Why don’t you have a look at them and see if you can find anyone that you think might be a good fit for the boys?” The older man held out the piece of paper for Peter to take, but the younger man just stared at it. 

Had his father been expecting an excuse, so he’d gone and got this paper for him? That took far too much planning, it sounded more like something that his mother would do. 

Did Mama get this ready for me then? Is she conspiring to get me married again? 

It did sound like something she would do. She had long been trying to get him to find another bride, but she hadn’t been rushing him into anything. All she wanted was to see her son and her grandsons happy; and she figured the best way to do that was to find Peter a wife and get a mother for the boys.

Peter gave his father a tight-lipped smile and took the paper from him. “Sure thing, Father. I’ll have a look and will let you know what I decide.”

With that, Peter walked away from his father and went up the stairs to his bedroom. When he’d closed the door and was fully alone, he sat on the edge of the bed that he and Rebecca used to share. 

He gently picked up the pillow that had been hers and had not been slept on since the day she died. He leaned forward and smelled it, trying desperately to cling onto the smallest fragments of his wife’s scent. He swore he could still detect the slightest hint of white gardenia perfume, but at this point it could have just been his imagination. He walked over to the cupboard and took out the delicate white shawl she’d knitted and worn for their wedding, hugging it tightly. When he sat back down on the bed, he tilted backwards until he was lying down, looking up at the ceiling.

“Was this the last thing she saw before she died?” he asked himself sadly. 

Dr. Finch had taken wonderful care of Rebecca while she was giving birth to Alan and Jake, but when she was recovering, she caught a fever that wouldn’t leave her. She fought so hard for so long to stay alive, but in the end, it took her from Peter, leaving him with two newborn sons to raise. 

Thankfully, his mother and father lived close by and were eager to help raise their grandsons. Peter wasn’t sure what he would have done had it not been for his parents, and was grateful they had been there every step of the way. Perhaps it was time to ‘pay’ them back for their kindness, and take a step towards finding himself a new bride?

He picked up the newspaper page he’d discarded on the desk beside the bed. He didn’t really like the sound of a finding a new bride this way, because he preferred falling in love the natural way. But he supposed if it was going to provide him with a wife that might be suitable enough to take care of him and his children, he should be willing to give it a try. He started reading one of advertisements:

A widowed lady, age thirty-three, with a family of four children—

He stopped reading there. There was no point in pursuing a woman who already had children. His boys could hardly get along with one another, how were they meant to get along with a stranger’s children? He went onto the next one:

Mary Sue from Eulonia, GA writes: “I am a young woman who is looking for someone to relocate to Eulonia and—”

Peter didn’t read that advertisement any further. He wasn’t going to uproot his family just so that he could take a chance on a love he wasn’t even sure was going to work out! 

For the next thirty minutes, he read through each and every advertisement in the Sentinel. They all sounded like very nice women, but not a single one of them attracted Peter. There was always something wrong with them: too many children, lived too far away, too old, that kind of thing. He was just about to give up when he saw the final, tiny advertisement in the bottom right-hand corner of the page.

A twenty-six-year-old woman seeks a husband. She is a hard worker, unafraid of toil, and thinks children are a joy. She is willing to move from her home in upper New York state to be with a husband and would prefer to move to a ranch or farm. Serious inquiries only.

That was just the kind of advertisement Peter was looking for. It was short, got to the point quickly, and didn’t have any non-essential fluff added to it. Before he could rethink his decision, he wrote a reply to the advertisement, sealed it, and placed the letter by the front door, ready to go into the mail whenever he went into town next. He had no clue what would come of it, but he figured there was no harm in simply replying to the advertisement. 

Now all he had to do was wait.