PART 1: THE MOST EXPENSIVE HUSBAND IN TEXAS

By sunrise on Monday, thirty women had hired Jack Whitmore.

By noon, he was hiding in his own barn.

And by supper, his wife had informed him that he wouldn’t have a day off until Christmas.

It was only September.

“I’M NOT A HORSE, MARGARET!” Jack shouted from behind a stack of hay.

“Then stop making that noise,” his wife replied calmly. “Mrs. Henderson is waiting for you to fix her porch.”

“I’M A RANCHER!”

“You’re a rancher with twenty-seven outstanding appointments and a very promising business.”

Three days earlier, Jack Whitmore had been the happiest, loudest, and most irritatingly confident husband in all of Red Creek, Texas.

At forty-two, Jack owned a modest cattle ranch, had a magnificent black mustache, and possessed an extraordinary talent for explaining how he could do absolutely anything.

Fix a wagon? Easy.

Build a fence? Child’s play.

Repair a roof? Give him an afternoon.

Train a stubborn horse? He could do it blindfolded.

At least, that was what he told everyone.

Unfortunately for Jack, his wife Margaret had been listening.

Margaret Whitmore was thirty-eight, sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and blessed with the patience of a woman who had spent fifteen years married to a man who considered himself God’s personal gift to manual labor.

One Friday evening, Jack returned from the saloon, dropped into his favorite chair, and announced, “There ain’t a man in this county who can work harder than me.”

Margaret looked up from her sewing.

“Is that so?”

“That’s a fact.”

“And you can fix anything?”

“Anything.”

“And you’re worth more than any hired hand in Texas?”

Jack leaned back proudly.

“Woman, if folks had any sense, they’d be paying good money just to borrow me for an afternoon.”

Margaret stopped sewing.

For several seconds, she stared at him.

Then she smiled.

It was a small, pleasant smile.

The sort of smile that should have frightened any man who had been married longer than six months.

“That’s a wonderful idea, darling.”

Jack grinned.

“See? Even you admit I’m right.”

“For once,” Margaret said.

Jack went to bed feeling victorious.

Margaret stayed awake until midnight with a pencil, a notebook, and the household accounts.

By morning, she had a business plan.

By Sunday, she had a painted sign.

And by Monday, her husband was for rent.

WHITMORE’S HUSBAND-FOR-HIRE SERVICE

One hardworking cowboy. Hundreds of useful skills. Reasonable prices.

Fence repairs: 50 cents.

Furniture building: $1.

Horse handling: 75 cents.

Heavy lifting: 25 cents per hour.

Listening to complaints about other husbands: $2.

Absolutely no refunds.

Margaret hung the sign outside the general store just as the morning stagecoach rolled into town.

Within twenty minutes, Mrs. Abigail Henderson appeared.

“Margaret, is this a joke?”

“Not at all.”

“You’re renting out Jack?”

“His labor, Abigail. The rest of him remains my responsibility.”

Mrs. Henderson considered that.

“Can he repair porch steps?”

“Beautifully.”

“My husband has been promising to fix ours for six months.”

Margaret opened her notebook.

“Tuesday morning is available.”

“I’ll pay double for today.”

Margaret crossed out Tuesday.

“Today it is.”

By nine o’clock, six women had booked appointments.

By ten, there were fourteen.

At eleven, the blacksmith’s wife arrived with a broken chicken coop, followed by the schoolteacher who needed bookshelves and a widow who wanted someone to move a cast-iron bathtub.

Margaret filled three pages of her notebook.

At exactly eleven thirty, Jack rode into town.

He stopped outside the general store when he noticed a crowd gathered around his wife.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

Mrs. Henderson waved cheerfully.

“Good morning, Jack! You’re coming to my house this afternoon.”

Jack blinked.

“I am?”

“Yes. And don’t forget your hammer.”

Another woman called, “I have you Thursday!”

“Friday afternoon for me!” shouted someone else.

“I booked him for Saturday!”

Jack stared at the women.

Then he stared at his wife.

“Margaret. Why are these women talking like they own me?”

Margaret handed him a folded piece of paper.

“Your schedule, darling.”

Jack unfolded it.

His mustache twitched.

“Six jobs? In one day?”

“Seven. Mrs. Patterson just booked you to move a wardrobe.”

“SEVEN?”

“Eight,” Margaret corrected. “Mrs. Collins needs her gate repaired.”

Jack looked at the painted sign.

He read it once.

Then again.

“HUSBAND FOR HIRE?”

The entire crowd fell silent.

Margaret smiled.

“You said folks ought to pay to borrow you.”

“I WAS BRAGGING!”

“And now you’re earning.”

Someone laughed.

Then everyone laughed.

Everyone except Jack.

“Take that sign down!”

“Certainly,” Margaret said. “Just as soon as we return the deposits.”

“Deposits?”

“Twenty-four dollars and fifty cents so far.”

Jack froze.

Twenty-four dollars and fifty cents was more money than he had earned selling cattle the previous week.

“You collected all that?”

“Before lunch.”

Jack’s expression changed.

He straightened his shoulders.

Adjusted his hat.

Smoothed his enormous mustache.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose a man with my talents ought to serve the community.”

Margaret closed her notebook.

“Wonderful. Your first appointment started ten minutes ago.”

At Mrs. Henderson’s house, Jack repaired three porch steps, replaced two loose boards, and discovered that the front door needed adjusting.

He had barely finished when Margaret arrived with the next customer.

“Jack, Mrs. Collins needs her fence fixed.”

“I haven’t eaten.”

“I packed you a sandwich.”

“Where is it?”

“In your tool bag.”

“That’s where I keep my nails!”

“Then don’t bite too hard.”

By two o’clock, Jack had rebuilt a chicken coop, repaired a gate, and carried a piano across the schoolhouse.

By four, he had been kicked by a mule, chased by an angry goose, and forced to retrieve Mrs. Bellamy’s pet cat from the roof of the church.

The cat scratched his face.

The goose stole his lunch.

And the mule appeared deeply satisfied with itself.

At five thirty, Jack stumbled into the saloon.

His best friend, Billy Dawson, nearly fell off his stool laughing.

“Heard you’re the most popular husband in town!”

“Shut up, Billy.”

“How much for you to polish my boots?”

“I’ll polish your teeth with my fist.”

Billy laughed even harder.

“Careful, Jack. Your wife might charge you extra for that.”

Jack ordered coffee and dropped into a chair.

“This business ends tonight.”

Then the saloon doors swung open.

Margaret stepped inside carrying her notebook.

Every man in the room turned to look.

She placed a small leather pouch in front of Jack.

It landed with a heavy clink.

“Your earnings for today.”

Jack opened it.

Inside were silver coins.

Lots of them.

“Forty-three dollars?” he whispered.

“Forty-three dollars and seventy-five cents in completed work and advance payments,” Margaret corrected. “After expenses, we’ve made a very respectable start.”

Billy stopped laughing.

The bartender leaned forward.

Two ranch hands left their card game.

Jack stared at the money.

Then he looked up at his wife.

“Margaret…”

“Yes, darling?”

“I believe we’ve discovered a gold mine.”

She nodded.

“I believe we have.”

Jack grinned.

“Tomorrow, we’ll double the prices!”

“Already done.”

“And take more appointments!”

“Already done.”

“And advertise in the next town!”

“Already arranged.”

Jack’s grin widened.

“Woman, you’re a genius!”

Margaret accepted the compliment with a satisfied smile.

“Thank you. Now finish your coffee. You have three more jobs tonight.”

Jack’s grin disappeared.

“THREE MORE?”

“Mrs. Thompson needs her furniture moved, the mayor needs a broken window repaired, and the preacher has a wagon that won’t start.”

“It’s nearly dark!”

“Then I’d suggest you hurry.”

The saloon erupted in laughter.

And that was how Jack Whitmore, the man who had spent fifteen years claiming he could do everything, discovered there was one thing he absolutely could not do.

Keep up with his wife.

But the real trouble came the following morning.

At breakfast, Margaret set a fresh notebook beside Jack’s plate.

“Good news,” she announced.

Jack groaned.

“I don’t like your good news anymore.”

“We’re fully booked.”

He blinked.

“For the week?”

“No.”

“Two weeks?”

Margaret turned the notebook toward him.

Every page was filled with names, dates, jobs, and payments.

“Until October thirty-first.”

Jack dropped his fork.

“MARGARET! THAT’S NEARLY TWO MONTHS!”

“Six weeks and three days, actually.”

“WHEN AM I SUPPOSED TO RUN MY RANCH?”

Margaret poured herself another cup of coffee.

“Funny you should mention that.”

Jack narrowed his eyes.

“What did you do?”

“I hired someone.”

“To do what?”

“Your ranch work.”

“YOU HIRED A MAN TO DO MY WORK WHILE YOU RENT ME OUT TO OTHER PEOPLE?”

Margaret nodded pleasantly.

“He’s very capable. And much cheaper than you.”

Jack opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Before he could speak, someone knocked at the door.

A tall stranger stood outside wearing an expensive gray suit, polished boots, and a silver watch chain.

He held a newspaper advertisement in one hand.

“Mrs. Whitmore?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Charles Pembroke. I represent a group of investors from Dallas.”

Jack frowned.

“What do investors want with my ranch?”

The stranger smiled.

“Nothing, Mr. Whitmore.”

He turned toward Margaret.

“We’ve heard about your extraordinary husband-rental business.”

Margaret raised an eyebrow.

“Have you?”

“Indeed. And we’re prepared to offer you five thousand dollars to expand it across Texas.”

Jack nearly swallowed his coffee cup.

“FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS?”

Pembroke nodded.

“With one condition.”

Margaret folded her arms.

“And what might that be?”

The stranger reached into his leather briefcase and withdrew a thick contract.

“We want exclusive rights to rent out your husband.”

Jack slowly stood up.

“Now hold on just one—”

“For the next ten years.”

Silence filled the kitchen.

Jack stared at the stranger.

Then at the contract.

Then at his wife.

And Margaret, instead of refusing, pulled out a chair.

“Mr. Pembroke,” she said, “I think we’d better discuss your offer.”

Jack suddenly realized that his biggest problem wasn’t being rented out for a month.

It was that his wife might be about to sell the next ten years of his life.