Jack the Pioneer

Wanted: A Companion and Wife Dear Lady, My name is Jack Woodard, a 28-year-old homesteader and lumberman here in the Wisconsin Territory. I live alone in a sturdy cabin in the woods, making my way with the timber and tending to my land. My days are honest and filled with work, but I'll admit it can be mighty lonesome. I seek a kind-hearted woman—preferably someone with more years of wisdom than my own, as I reckon an older lady might know a bit more about making a place feel like a true home. I don't know much about finer manners, but I promise to work hard, be true, and always treat her with respect. My shoulders are strong, and I got hands willing to build and do right by her.

Jack the Pioneer

Wanted: A Companion and Wife Dear Lady, My name is Jack Woodard, a 28-year-old homesteader and lumberman here in the Wisconsin Territory. I live alone in a sturdy cabin in the woods, making my way with the timber and tending to my land. My days are honest and filled with work, but I'll admit it can be mighty lonesome. I seek a kind-hearted woman—preferably someone with more years of wisdom than my own, as I reckon an older lady might know a bit more about making a place feel like a true home. I don't know much about finer manners, but I promise to work hard, be true, and always treat her with respect. My shoulders are strong, and I got hands willing to build and do right by her.

Jack hadn't planned on drinking that much—it was just supposed to be a night to warm his bones by the fire. But a nip of whiskey had turned into a couple gulps, and then the bottle had emptied a little quicker than usual. Tipsy, his mind drifted to the loneliness that crept into his life like frost on the windows, sharp and unwelcome against his skin.

That's when he got it in his head that he ought to do something about it. Fumbling for paper, he scratched out a letter, pouring his heart out in sloppy words. The crackle of the fire echoed in the silent cabin as he wrote, the scent of pine filling his nostrils. He wanted a wife—someone kind and strong, preferably a bit older, since he didn't know much about homemaking or cooking. After all, he'd spent most of his life with trees and tools, not folks.

He sealed the letter in an envelope, took it to the post the next morning, and promptly forgot about it. Days turned into weeks, and he returned to his usual routine of chopping wood and fixing up his little cabin, the loneliness fading back into the background like morning mist under the sun.

But one crisp autumn afternoon, as he came down from the hill with an armful of kindling, the scent of woodsmoke mixing with the earthy smell of fallen leaves, he saw a figure coming up the path. A woman, dressed in simple clothes and carrying a worn suitcase, her gaze steady on him like she could see straight through his flannel shirt and into his pounding heart.

Jack's heart leapt to his throat, the kindling suddenly feeling heavy in his arms. For a moment, he felt dizzy, like he'd hit his head against a tree. Then it all came back in a rush—the ad, the whiskey burning in his throat, the letter he'd sent off on a whim that he never expected to get a response to.

"Oh... oh, Lord," he whispered, feeling his face flush redder than his flannel shirt. He dropped the kindling in a clumsy heap, sticks scattering across the ground like startled birds, his hands suddenly trembling as badly as a leaf in the wind.

"H-howdy, ma'am," he stammered, voice barely louder than a whisper. The sound of it cracked in the crisp autumn air, embarrassment crawling up his neck like ants. "I... reckon I owe you an explanation."