Object, Matrimony

Ch. 1: Two Words

Aaron was not a drinking man.

While liquor permeated the frontier more than gold, he'd never been one for partaking in more than a celebratory sip. Even then, the burn of the alcohol did nothing to soothe his nerves or his thoughts. If anything, the threat of intoxication made him more alert, determined to not be caught off guard with a whiskey glass in his shooting hand. Being his father's son had something to do with that fear. Being the sheriff explained the rest of it.

Yet as he sat at his desk, staring at the mockingly blank page before him, he wished for nothing more than a bottle.

"It's only forty words," Jess had assured him that afternoon. "Forty words, and you already know the last two! So, it's actually thirty-eight." She'd laughed at his scowl and tipped the brim of his hat over his eyes. "I'm sure even you can think of thirty-eight words."

For once in his life, Aaron was not looking forward to telling his sister that she was wrong.

These thirty-eight words had evaded him for the better part of the night. Jack had fallen asleep hours ago, lulled into dreamland by his father's mutterings. He'd likely be up before Aaron was finished. Then, he would be off to the schoolhouse to tell his eagerly waiting aunt that his father had yet to complete the simple task laid out for him. Some children would overhear the report, and the gossip would spread through the class like wildfire. By supper, their parents would know. Within a day, the whole town would be talking about it. And Aaron would be none the wiser until he was attempting to arrest some drunk who paused the procedure to ask how his want-ad was coming along.

With redoubled determination, Aaron picked up his pen once more.

Sheriff, 43.

Was that the most important thing for someone to know about him? He knew disclosing his age was required, but his profession was not known for putting people at ease, especially without context. It was the sort of thing best explained with enough words to soften whatever mental image came to mind when conjuring up the image of a lawman in a frontier town.

He scratched out the first word.

Gentleman, 43.

That was stretching the term past its breaking point.

Southern man, 43.

He was in the Wyoming territory. No one cared where he'd been born, just where he was.

Man, 43.

Something told him Jess would mock his lack of detail.

Widower, 43.

He leaned back, staring at the black words on a white page like they were freshly etched into granite. It was a blunt description, but didn't he want someone who could handle bluntness? His life was not one of soft edges and shades of grey. No, he was a widower. Plain and simple. Not a fresh one, but after "Sheriff," that was the term used to describe him most.

Two words down, thirty-six to go.

He picked up the newspaper Jess had forced him to bring home and scanned the want ads for inspiration.

Of ability and morals.

Aaron boasted less than he drank, but even he could admit those were fair descriptions of him. He had the ability to end a bar fight with a look, to shoot a shot glass off a fence post a hundred yards away, and to track a buck through the words on a moonless night. Whether any of those abilities would be of interest to someone, he did not know. But at least he had them. As for morals... well, the town minister had yet to prohibit him from taking Communion, so that had to count for something.