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Rancher, bachelor, aged 36, requests correspondence with a man looking for companionship; object matrimony. Box 202, Larkspur Post Office, MT.

It didn’t seem like enough. It was, more or less, just like all of the other advertisements in The Matrimonial Journal. With every monthly publication there was a fresh batch of requests for acquaintanceship, photos, and meetings, all with one goal. Object matrimony.

Graham fretted over his own attempt. His penmanship left something to be desired, but so long as the staff at The Matrimonial Journal could read it then there’d be no issue in publishing it. But even next to the other brief missives he thought it was lacking.

IRISH woman of 28 years with a comfortable income wishes to meet an honest woman of similar age to share her home with; object matrimony. P.O. box 745, Cherry Grove, MA.

GENTLEMAN, 34, good appearance, refined, and of means seeks a similarly refined partner, no children; object matrimony. 56 East Street, KS.

What did Graham have to offer? He was proud of what he’d built on his land. A house, a barn, and a chicken coop; a pasture and silo to hold feed for his livestock; a decent-sized garden that sustained him through the seasons. It was hard, honest work that occupied most of his time and gave him a quiet sense of accomplishment. His house was modest, its rooms sparse but clean and orderly—less out of fastidiousness and more because there simply wasn’t much to clutter them. Graham lived by simple necessities: a roof over his head, his own bed to sleep in, and food on the table. These were luxuries he’d once only dreamed of, and now that he had them, he found himself unsure what else his home might need.

Well, besides a husband.

Marriage had always felt like a far-off dream—something for other men, not for him. When he was younger, he’d had nothing to offer another person, barely enough to keep himself alive. It would have been irresponsible, even impossible, to imagine starting a household with someone else. Then came the war, and Graham had enlisted with fervor, fighting for the Union, determined to confront the Confederacy and its evils while serving his country proudly.

The war had been grueling. Long, sweltering days under an unforgiving sun, freezing nights that seemed endless, and meager rations he’d learned to stomach out of necessity. Salt pork, hardtack, and beans formed the core of every meal, served in whatever combinations the men could manage. There were stews of celery, pork, and potatoes thickened with crumbled hardtack, and “puddings” of whiskey, molasses, and sugar softened into something vaguely edible. Coffee was a rarity, and when supplies ran out, dandelion root had to suffice. It wasn’t gourmet, but it kept them alive.

The war’s horrors haunted him more than the bad food. He had seen death in every imaginable form—men falling under a hail of bullets, ripped apart by cannon fire, or crumpled in the mud, their blood soaking into the earth. Collecting bodies from the battlefield had been the worst, hoisting lifeless comrades onto carts until they groaned under the weight. Graham had come close to joining the dead himself, narrowly surviving a gunshot wound to the leg near the war’s end.

The surgeon wanted to amputate, and Graham, fueled by desperation, had snarled at him through gritted teeth, threatening to break his fingers if he so much as tried. He kept the leg but earned a limp that followed him everywhere, along with something the doctors called “soldier’s heart”—a condition that left him shaking, sleepless, and burdened with memories of blood and gunpowder.

Before the war, Graham had hardly been a prize. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with rough hands, coarse manners, and no money to his name. Now, he was sun-weathered, his dark hair and beard thick and untamed, his body marked with scars from bayonets and bullets. The limp in his leg slowed him down, and the nightmares often woke him screaming into the dark. But he had land now—a place of his own—and a modest livelihood. Maybe, just maybe, that would be enough for someone out there looking for a stable life and a companion to share it with.

He’d subscribed to The Matrimonial Journal on a whim, paying for a full year’s worth of issues. Each edition contained articles on household tips, fashion, recipes, and the occasional piece of news, but what really drew Graham’s attention were the matrimonial ads. They were simple, two-line statements penned by hopeful souls searching for love and partnership. Graham studied them for months, trying to divine the secret to writing an ad that might attract the right kind of response.

But two lines hardly seemed enough to explain his life, his hopes, or what he could offer. Friendship, care, and a steady life on his ranch were all he could promise. Would that be enough?

Frustration bubbled up as Graham pushed himself back from the kitchen table. His unfinished letter lay before him, mocking him with its incompleteness. He decided to step away. There was always work to be done on the ranch, and perhaps a little sweat and labor would help clear his mind. He’d tend to the chickens, check on the cows and sheep, and give Ginger, his bay mare, a thorough grooming. Then, with fresh eyes, he’d return to the daunting task of putting his heart on paper.

◆◆◆

It was a sound enough strategy—distract himself with work, let the rhythm of the ranch soothe his restless thoughts—until he actually had to return to the kitchen table. Now, as the late afternoon light angled through the windows, casting warm gold over the simple wooden furniture, Graham faced his unfinished letter once more.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a sigh, his shirt clinging to him after hours spent in the sun. The day’s work was done. The chickens were fed, the cows milked, the sheep checked over for any signs of illness or injury. Ginger had been groomed until her coat gleamed, and she’d nuzzled his shoulder in gratitude before he’d left her stall. All the chores were crossed off the mental list he carried in his head, leaving him with nothing but this—this stubborn, lingering task that had occupied his thoughts for weeks.

The labor of the heart.

Graham poured himself a shot of whiskey, the good stuff he only brought out on rare occasions. He stared at the amber liquid in the glass, then threw it back in one gulp, his throat tightening against the burn as it went down. The heat spread through his chest, sharp but oddly comforting, and he let out a low breath as he set the glass aside.

His hands were rough from years of work, the calluses thick and unyielding, but they trembled slightly as he picked up his pencil. He held it tightly, as if sheer determination could force the words onto the page. The letter stared back at him, his careful handwriting neat but hesitant, the few lines he'd written earlier filled with crossed-out phrases and smudged eraser marks.

What could he say? How could he possibly condense everything he felt into a few sentences? He was no poet, no wordsmith. His strength was in his hands, his back, his endurance—not in flowery phrases or declarations of love. Yet here he was, trying to distill his life and hopes into words that might catch the attention of a stranger.

He’d written about the ranch—about the barn he’d built with his own hands, the garden that provided food for his table, and the livestock that gave him purpose every day. He’d mentioned the house, simple but sturdy, with enough room for two if someone were willing to share it with him.

But what about the things he couldn’t put into words? The way his chest ached with longing on quiet nights, the way he sometimes stood at the edge of the pasture staring at the horizon, wondering if there was more to life than the solitude he’d grown so used to. Could any of that be conveyed in a simple matrimonial ad?

Graham tapped the pencil against the table, the soft thud breaking the silence of the room. His gaze drifted to the window, where the sun was sinking lower, casting long shadows across the yard. The whiskey hadn’t helped much—it never did—but at least it dulled the edges of his frustration.

“Come on, Graham,” he muttered to himself, his voice rough from disuse. “Just write it down. Doesn’t have to be perfect.”

The words refused to come. Instead, he thought about the men he’d known during the war, the letters they’d carried from home—letters filled with promises of love and devotion, words of encouragement that kept them going through the worst of it. He’d envied those men, not just for the letters, but for the people waiting for them. He’d never had anyone to write to, no one waiting for him to come home.

But he was home now, and maybe it was time to change that.

Rancher, bachelor, aged 36, requests correspondence with a man looking for companionship; object matrimony. Box 202, Larkspur Post Office.

Then he set the pencil down again and took another long drink, the burn of the whiskey offering a fleeting distraction. Why was this so difficult? Across the country, there were dozens of newspapers and periodicals just like The Matrimonial Journal, each dedicated to helping people find a suitable spouse. People from every walk of life penned their hopes and dreams into these advertisements, seeking connection, companionship, or maybe just the promise of not facing the world alone. Was he so different from anyone else asking for a letter of interest?

The question gnawed at him. If he was, if his life and spirit had been irreparably scarred by hardship, then maybe no one would want to write to him, let alone consider marriage. But if he wasn’t—if he truly was just another man among countless others with his own quiet loneliness—what were the chances that his personal ad would even be noticed? His words could so easily disappear into a sea of others just like him, all searching for the same thing.

Either way, his odds weren’t good.

Graham tipped the bottle and refilled his glass, the amber liquid catching the light as it sloshed against the sides. He stared at the blank page in front of him. The thought that had been stirring in the back of his mind finally pushed its way forward: maybe a simple message wasn’t enough. Maybe the standard formula—“seeking a kind, hardworking man to share life’s joys and trials”—wasn’t going to cut it. His circumstances were different, weren’t they? He wanted to make sure that anyone who read his ad understood him, understood why he was searching for someone and what kind of life he had to offer.

The Matrimonial Journal had published longer letters before—he’d seen them himself, sprawling across nearly a quarter of a page. They stood out, and sometimes they even lingered in his memory. But he knew they cost more. Every word, every line, came with a price. Did he have the money to spare? The thought made him glance toward the corner of the room, where his ledger sat atop the small desk he used for tallying farm expenses.

His mind began to calculate, weighing the worth of a few extra sentences against the value of his modest income. Seeds for the garden were a necessity. Feed for the animals couldn’t be skimped on. There were always repairs to be made to the house, the barn, or the coop. Tools wore out; clothes frayed and tore until they were beyond mending. Even simple luxuries, like a new shotgun for hunting or a sturdy pair of boots, came with a cost: $60 for the gun, $3.50 for the boots.

And yet, what were those things compared to the price of finding someone to share his life? Someone to share the quiet evenings, the backbreaking work, the unpredictable storms, and the occasional laughter. What was that worth? Certainly more than the price of a few extra paragraphs in a periodical.

Graham drained the glass in one steady motion, savoring the warmth that spread through him. Then, setting the glass aside, he picked up the pencil once more. The weight of it in his hand felt a little lighter now. This time, he wouldn’t settle for a simple ad. If he was going to put himself out there, he would do it fully, honestly, and without apology.

He bent over the paper, the pencil poised to capture his thoughts, and began to write.

To the reader of this letter,

I am a bachelor aged 36 seeking a friend and helpmate in life. I am not a man of great resources or words and I have been hurt in the War and am not much to look at but I have land and a house and I will treat a husband well. It is aways from the town though if wanting we can visit as often as possible.

But you might enjoy the land as I do. There are many wildflowers of all colors that grow on the prairie and it is a pretty sight to see all the spots of red orange and purple blue and yellow among the tall grass. It is also a very gratifying thing to care for the cows and sheep and the chickens and watch them wander peacefully about.

Currently it is just me taking care of the animals and the garden and I would continue to do so after marriage. I do not expect a hired hand but a companion for whom I would dearly love an affectionate word and gentle conversation here and there.

You will want for nothing, I will make certain of it. In return I only ask for friendship and kindness. If you think you would like to write to me I would be grateful for your letter. Thank you kindly.

Address, Graham Shepherd, Box 202, Larkspur Post Office, MT.

◆◆◆

All Graham could do now was wait—and try to wait as patiently as he could. Which, as it turned out, wasn’t very patiently at all.

The Matrimonial Journal published only once a month, a frequency that felt like a cruel joke to someone in his position. Graham had carefully folded his letter and tucked it into an envelope, along with the payment he had saved—enough for the editors to run his ad for two issues. He had carried it to town, handed it over to the postmaster, and watched as it was dropped into the mailbag. Now, there was nothing left but time. Too much time.

First, he would have to wait for his letter to reach the editors, wherever they were. Then, he would have to wait for them to finalize the upcoming issue. After that, it would take more waiting for the journal to be printed, bound, and mailed out to its subscribers. And even then, his real waiting would begin. He would have to wait for someone—anyone—to read his ad, to pick up a pen, to compose a reply, and to send it back. From there, more time would slip by as the letter made its way through the postal system, finally landing at the town post office where Graham would retrieve it.

It could be another month after his ad was published before he had even the slightest chance of receiving a response.

When the latest issue of The Matrimonial Journal finally arrived, Graham spread it out on his small kitchen table and scanned the pages with shaking hands. There it was, on the second page, nestled between two wildly different entries: one from a gentleman seeking an impossibly specific young woman—a petite, attractive, and charming lady between the ages of 18 and 25, no taller than 5’5”, and emphatically not a redhead—and a recipe for lemon cake. Seeing his own words printed there, stark and earnest, sent a shiver down his spine. This was real now.

Of course, that was when the restlessness set in.

The practical thing would have been to wait a full month before checking the post office. Graham knew that. But the thought of a letter, a single letter, sitting unclaimed in the post office was unbearable. What if it was there, waiting for him, while he wasted time out here on the farm? So he made a decision: he would ride into town every Friday. Just to check.

It became a ritual. He hitched up the wagon, and he and Ginger, his old mare, made the familiar trip into town. The postman, Oscar, soon grew accustomed to Graham’s weekly visits. At first, Oscar was just another face in the small, sleepy town, his uniform the only thing that set him apart. But over time, Graham came to recognize the slight nervousness in the man’s smile and the way he fidgeted with his pen when there wasn’t much mail to sort.

“Any mail for me today?” Graham asked, week after week.

Oscar would glance at the mail cubbies, shuffle through a few envelopes, and shake his head. “Not yet, Mr. Shepherd. But I’ll keep an eye out.”

One particularly dreary Friday, with rain soaking through his coat and dripping off his hat, Oscar ventured a question as he handed Graham a dry towel to wipe his hands. “Are you expecting to hear from someone?”

Graham hesitated, the weight of weeks of disappointment heavy on his shoulders. “To be honest, not really,” he muttered, before tipping his hat and heading back out into the rain.

And yet, the next Friday found him back at the post office. And the Friday after that. No matter how foolish it felt, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping. Every time he stepped through the post office door, he imagined what it might be like to hold a letter in his hands. What if someone saw his ad and thought, This is someone I could share my life with? What if they saw past the rough edges and loneliness to the man underneath?

A partner in work, a companion in quiet moments, someone to sit beside him at the dinner table and talk about the day, to share stories, laughter, even secrets.

Every Friday, he walked in full of hope, and every Friday, he walked out empty-handed, disappointment settling a little deeper in his chest. But still, he kept coming back. Because what if?

Just a little while longer, he told himself. He could keep acting foolish, lovesick for anybody and nobody, for the smallest chance of affection. Just for a little while longer.

◆◆◆

As had become his habit, Graham hitched Ginger to the wagon early Friday morning and made the trip into town. When he’d first started his weekly journeys, the sight of him strolling through the bustling main street had been a novelty. People had paused mid-step to stare openly, their curiosity barely concealed. Graham Shepherd wasn’t known for his love of crowds, or for his frequent presence in town. In fact, he wasn’t known much at all.

A confirmed bachelor living alone on the prairie, Graham kept mostly to himself. He sold eggs to the woman at the general store, stopped in occasionally to place orders for seeds, tools, or medicine, and during the harvest, he hired a few workers to help with the backbreaking labor of collecting and packaging his crops. Apart from those practical interactions, his life was largely solitary. Even his nearest neighbors, Liam and Ronan, only saw him on rare occasions—when a sheep wandered too far onto his land or when they lent each other a hand during emergencies, like a cow struggling to calf or a sudden storm wreaking havoc on the fencing.

Over time, his Friday visits to town became less remarkable to the townsfolk. His presence was no longer a cause for whispers or blatant stares, though he still caught the occasional furtive glance. People were always surprised by his size, and the scars that cut jagged lines across his face and hands only deepened the intrigue. But Graham had grown used to those looks long ago. They no longer stung, and he paid them little mind.

The post office was quiet when he arrived, the bell above the door jingling as he stepped inside. Oscar was there, as always, standing behind the counter in his crisp uniform. Graham prepared himself for the usual polite but disappointing exchange. He’d grown accustomed to Oscar’s professional smile and the routine response: “Nothing for you this week, Mr. Shepherd.”

But today was different.

The moment Oscar saw him, his face lit up. The man practically beamed, his nervous demeanor replaced with genuine excitement. “Right on time!” he exclaimed, his voice loud enough to echo in the small room. “Your letter’s finally arrived!”

Graham blinked, stunned. For a moment, he thought he must have misheard. “Really?” he asked, his voice cautious, the word barely above a whisper.

“Yes, sir!” Oscar said, nodding enthusiastically. “All the way from New York!”

From behind the counter, Oscar held out a thick envelope, its edges slightly worn from travel. It was far larger than Graham had expected, almost bursting with the sheer number of pages crammed inside.

“This is one letter?” Graham asked, his lips twitching into a hesitant smile that quickly widened. He reached out to take the parcel, the weight of it solid in his hands. The sender appeared to be aware of the bulk of the letter. They had very carefully sealed it shut, posted two stamps in the corner and very carefully written on the back was:

From: Ciarán Ryan

431 Baker’s Court

Mrs. Edward’s Boarding House

Room 4, On the Left, Blue Door

New York

To: Mister Graham Shepherd

Box 202, Larkspur Post Office

Montana

A reply. Graham could hardly believe it. He had thought, perhaps, that his personal in The Matrimonial Journal might go unanswered. And yet, here it was—a letter. From New York, no less. He stared at the envelope as though it might vanish if he looked away. The eastern cities weren’t short on lonely people, of course, but still, the distance seemed incredible. The journal circulated far and wide, but he hadn’t dared hope it might reach someone so... perfect.

He glanced at Oscar, the postman, who was sorting through the rest of the mail with practiced ease. “Could I—read this here?”

Oscar gave a genial nod. “Oh, certainly. Go right ahead.”

Graham sank onto the wooden bench just outside the post office, the spring sunshine warming his shoulders. He studied the handwriting on the envelope—neat, practiced, and undeniably elegant. Ciarán Ryan. An Irish name, he thought. That brought a small, curious smile to his lips.

He slid his pocketknife carefully along the seal and took a deep breath. Folding back the flap, he removed the letter with reverent care. The paper was fine, the words penned in the same flowing script as the envelope. For a moment, he hesitated, letting the anticipation build before finally reading.

Dear Mister Graham Shepherd,

I am writing, sir, to tell you that I have read your personal in The Matrimonial Journal and that, with your approval, I would like to take you up on your offer. I desire a marriage very much, for I have been here in New York without family for some time and would dearly like a friend. I also think the city life does not agree with me. Your description of the prairie, with all the blossoms, has taken root in my mind and flourished into a great many daydreams. I would dearly love to see it. The real thing must be more beautiful than my imaginings. I cannot say that I have much experience with animals but I do very much like all the ones that I’ve come across and I would like to learn more about them.

You might think me very selfish, with all these I’s, but I want to assure you that I have thought of this with practicality and have come to the decision that the hustle and bustle in the city is not to my liking and that I would be the most agreeable husband in such an environment as the prairie.

I have also thought of this with much sentiment, and I will say that I found your personal to be both very honest and very kind. If you are as you have written, which I imagine you are, then to be your lifelong companion would be, I think, a very welcome role that would give me much contentment.

If it is not too forthright to state, then I will note that there is nothing tying me to this city, and I have few possessions and no business to settle besides saying goodbye to the boarding house mistress. I would gladly board a train to meet you, and marry you, and see the flowers blooming on your land as soon as possible.

If it was too forthright to state, then please disregard my last paragraph, and instead imagine that I have instead written something very charming and very demure that has made you wonder at my grace and good character and has you scrambling to write back to me immediately.

Sincerely, Ciarán Ryan

P.S. Included are some sketches I have made of your land, for your description inspired me very much. Tell me, did I manage to create an accurate likeness from my daydreams? There is also a likeness of my current place of residence, in case you are interested.

Graham read the letter once, twice, and a third time for good measure. His grin grew wider with each reading until his cheeks ached from the effort. The rest of the papers were, as promised, sketches. The drawings were lively, filled with bold strokes and bright colors from what looked like colored pencils. In one, a pond shimmered beneath a pale sky; in another, a stretch of prairie bloomed with flowers in every shade imaginable. One piece even showed the property teeming with sheep, though Graham hadn’t mentioned any in his description.

And the last sketch—an exterior view of a modest green building—brought a pang of curiosity. It was clearly labeled as Mrs. Edward’s boarding house, Ciarán’s current residence in the bustling heart of New York City. From there, this man had imagined Graham’s ranch, written a letter, and filled its pages with earnest sincerity.

The thought warmed Graham. What did Ciarán look like? Was he an older bachelor like himself, or a widower looking for a fresh start? He hoped, at the very least, that he was kind. Kindness mattered more than anything else. And companionship, too—that’s what Graham had been searching for. A friend to share the long prairie days.

He turned to Oscar, still marveling at the letter. “You’re Irish, aren’t you?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, his tone wary. “I am. Why?”

Graham held out the envelope, pointing to the sender’s name. “Can you tell me how to pronounce this?”

Oscar squinted at the elegant script. “Ah, Ciarán. It’d be pronounced like ‘KEER-awn.’ Why do you ask?”

Graham’s grin turned downright radiant as he clutched the letter and sketches to his chest. “Because he’s my husband-to-be.”