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from those available. That would be easier.”
    Suzanne nodded and began to read from the newspaper. They’d spent some time going over the advertisements from willing mail order brides and ultimately chose two—one from St. Louis, Margery, and Sally from Kansas City. Suzanne helped him write identical letters to both of them, stating his interest and asking a few more questions. Both ladies had indicated that they wanted to start over, had no family attachments and were willing to relocate just about anywhere. Their only criteria—both of them—were that their future husband be under thirty and employed. He was both of those things.
    “That should do it,” Suzanne said as she folded the letters and placed them in envelopes, addressing each of them. “The post office collects outgoing mail from the mercantile, so I’ll take these with me and send them off.”
    Michael sighed, not able to take his eyes off the letters she held in her hand—ones that would seal his fate. “Michael, this is for the best,” Suzanne said as she headed for the door.
    Michael reached for her coat, helping her on with it and opening the door for her.
    “I promise, everything will work out just fine,” she said as she smiled and turned toward the mercantile.
    Michael closed the door slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he shook his head and walked back toward his desk. Before she left, Suzanne had asked him to describe his perfect woman—perfect for him. He’d instantly known what he would have chosen, had he truly had a choice.
    He sat back down at his desk, leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced, hands over his stomach, eyes closed. In his mind’s eye, he could see her—dark, curly hair, smooth, white skin and long eyelashes. He could hear her laugh—soft, but with gusto. He could see her eyes, wide open and searching for adventure. He could hear her voice—kind, yet firm. No, it was impossible to get that sort of sense about his new wife from some black and white letters in a newspaper. He’d just have to take his chances and hope for the best.

Chapter 9
    R ose headed straight for the kitchen, knowing that Maria would know how to make this situation the least awkward it could be. Maria had been their housekeeper for as long as Rose could remember and had lived in Tombstone for—well, a long time, since before there was an Arizona Territory and where they lived now was part of Mexico. She’d stayed after the war and had been a close friend of Rose’s mother’s—and was like a mother to her now.
    As she walked into the kitchen, she smiled at the flurry of activity—her twin sisters, Saffron and Sage, aprons on and their hair braided and out of the way, giggled at Maria’s rapid-fire Spanish instructions. Rose’s eyes widened as the twins tossed small pinches of flour at each other as they rolled small bits of dough into round pieces and placed them on a colorful platter on the counter.
    She looked quickly at Maria, her back to them as she stirred a wonderful-smelling pot on the wood stove. She raised an eyebrow at the twins and cleared her throat. Saffron quickly sat down, wiping the flour on her apron, her face was covered in white also. Sage sat down, too, but folded her arms over her chest, clearly not happy that the fun had ended.
    They’d sat down just in time as Maria turned around to see Rose.
    “Ah, Rosemary.” She wrapped Rose in a hug and narrowed her eyes at Saffron. “Saffron, explain to me why your face is white.”
    Saffron’s eyebrows rose. She wiped hastily at her cheeks and pulled her hands away. Her face reddened as she gazed at her white palms and she looked to her twin with pleading eyes.
    “We’re tired of making tortillas, Maria.” Sage waved her hand at the platter, piled high with little balls of dough. “There will be enough here for the whole town.”
    Maria pulled a dishtowel from the counter and flapped it in the twins’ direction. “We have enough ready for the