The northern fence collapsed during a spring storm.
Several cattle wandered onto neighboring land.
A windmill pump failed twice.
The roof began leaking above the pantry.
And an unusually dry summer reduced the grazing available on the eastern pasture.
The ranch's finances deteriorated.
Nathaniel borrowed against the property to purchase feed and essential supplies.
Then livestock prices fell.
By August, he was facing a difficult autumn and a bank manager who seemed increasingly eager to remind him that debts did not disappear simply because a man had injured his hand.
That was when Mateo suggested marriage.
They were sitting outside the barn one evening.
Mateo was forty-eight, a broad-faced Mexican American ranch foreman with dark eyes, a thick mustache, and the sort of calm manner that made nervous horses relax.
He had worked beside Nathaniel for seventeen years.
He knew every fence post, every water crossing, and almost every bad decision Nathaniel had ever made.
“You need help in the house,” Mateo said.
Nathaniel took a sip of coffee.
“I've got help.”
Mateo raised one eyebrow.
“Who?”
“You.”
“I work cattle.”
“You complain about the cattle.”
“Because somebody must.”
Nathaniel almost smiled.
Mateo looked toward the cabin.
The windows were dark.
The porch steps needed repair.
And a pile of laundry hung from the railing because Nathaniel hadn't gotten around to bringing it inside.
The foreman sighed.
“You need a wife.”
Nathaniel stared.
“What I need is a new pump.”
Mateo nodded.
“And a wife who knows how to tell you that.”
Nathaniel shook his head.
“Women don't marry men for broken fences.”
Mateo looked at him.
“Some women marry men because they're decent, stubborn fools who need somebody to share their lives.”
Nathaniel grunted.
“Sounds unlikely.”
“Then put an advertisement in the paper.”
Nathaniel laughed.
Mateo didn't.
Two days later, Nathaniel wrote the advertisement.
He told himself he was looking for practicality.
Companionship.
Someone who could manage the household, keep records, perhaps help organize the ranch's finances.
He didn't imagine romance.
He didn't imagine passion.
And he certainly didn't imagine a woman arriving in Arizona carrying a toolbox and a secret connected to William Hawthorne.
Now, standing beside the trough, he opened the letter from Missouri.
The first line made him stop.
Mr. Carter, if you are seeking a decorative wife who smiles politely while your property collapses around her, I am afraid you will find me entirely unsuitable.