The Bride Lottery: A Sweet Historical Mail Order Bride Romance (Prosperity's Mail Order Brides Book 1)

by Kristin Holt

  Caroline turned in the seat, her honey-blonde hair in loose waves about a beautiful face. Bright green eyes assessed Evelyn closely and seemed to peer inside her soul.

  “My little sister has two children,” Caroline said rather off-hand. “She was quite ill while expecting both. Poor thing couldn’t even keep tea and toast down.”

  Evelyn flushed at Caroline’s obvious fishing for information, but sensed no lack of compassion, no dislike, no hint of judgment.

  So very different from her parents.

  In the many hours of travel, Caroline had become very dear. A best friend. A woman who didn’t know the Brandt family and had no reason to side with her parents. It was so very tempting to confide the truth of her circumstances.

  After all, she wouldn’t see any of them once they stepped off the train in Leadville. They’d stay in Colorado and she’d go on to California, then return east once her confinement had passed. Most of these mail order brides would remain in Prosperity, Colorado. If any returned east, the likelihood of them realizing she was the daughter of Allan Brandt—the never-married daughter—would be most improbable.

  She’d had no one to talk to, and now that she did, she found she wanted to speak of her eminent motherhood with these newly forged friends, even if she could never reveal the impending adoption and permanent separation.

  “She suffered for months,” Caroline continued. “Rather reminds me of you these past days.”

  The truth of Caroline’s guess hung between them as the train rocked back and forth. Outside, the trees whipped past the windows, flashes of green and dappled sunlight gave way to an occasional clearing of farmland.

  Around them, the happy chatter continued. None of the young ladies seemed to pay them a moment’s notice.

  Evelyn squeezed her friend’s hand, the decision easily made. “I am with child.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Caroline’s grip firmed. She turned to meet Evelyn’s gaze. “Isn’t it?”

  Evelyn’s eyes filled with tears. She fumbled in her sleeve for a handkerchief and swiped the tears away. Her throat thickened. She didn’t want to cry, certainly not now with an audience of fourteen young ladies.

  If she cried, it would be after. When her babe belonged to someone else.

  How did any woman, anywhere, part with her child?

  She hadn’t yet felt this baby move yet the thought of losing him—her?—was overwhelmingly distressing.

  “You must miss him very much.” Caroline sighed.

  Evelyn blinked. Her inability to make the leap in conversation must’ve shown plainly on her face because Caroline hurried on, “Your husband. Your grief is still so fresh.”

  Blessedly, Caroline’s assumption placed Evelyn solidly in the Good Girl category. The acceptance felt so wonderful, so overwhelming in its simplicity, Evelyn couldn’t bear it. Thank goodness Caroline didn’t seem to expect a response. Weary, Evelyn leaned her head against the rapidly warming glass of the train window.

  “I have an idea.” Caroline’s eyes sparked with emerald fire, devious, as if she planned something big. “You don’t have to go to your uncle.”

  Caroline and the others knew her destination to be the Pacific Coast and her plan to spend the season with her uncle. But they didn’t know why.

  Caroline must suppose Evelyn traveled to California for a change of scenery while mourning a lost husband, for she said, “You might find the excitement in Prosperity to be a marvelous distraction.”

  “Yes, I might.”

  Caroline smiled, a sweet smile completely devoid of guile. “You, my dear friend, don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you don’t want to go to California, then don’t.”

  Brave, tenacious words. Thoughts she hadn’t dared form on her own. Plans she hadn’t dared consider, not without Caroline planting the seed.

  Perhaps Caroline suspected the truth, after all…and still, no criticism.

  Evelyn exchanged a brief smile with her friend.

  “You can get off the train with me, with us,” Caroline said in earnest, “in Leadville. Our little community of Prosperity may be just what you need.”

  The idea felt wicked and enticing. Her stomach fluttered with a most pleasant sensation. “I wish I had that luxury.”

  The young brides were distracted. Some in conversation, others dozed in their seats or read. Their conversation would not be overheard.

  “Listen,” Caroline said, drawing nearer and lowering her voice for privacy. “Where we’re going, there is definitely room for one more. You can make your own way, probably find a very good man and choose him. If not, you can continue on to California, later, right?”

  Evelyn straightened, the corset binding at her waist. Caroline must’ve seen her fidgeting, tugging on the too many layers of clothing, for she stepped into the aisle and pulled Evelyn along behind.

  “Come with me.”

  Into the ladies’ retiring room they went. The tiny closet had never been built for two but that didn’t stop them. Caroline’s assistance proved indispensable as she helped divest Evelyn of her bodice and expose the corset laces at her back. With deft fingers, she significantly loosened the stays.

  Evelyn breathed deeply, adjusted her clothing, and buttoned back up. Her maid had laced Evelyn as snugly as humanly possible before she left her parents’ home. Only a dolt would suppose the help were oblivious to her plight; of course they knew. Servants always heard everything.

  Without the required foundation garment cinched to a most stylish fifteen-inch waist, Evelyn felt wanton, wicked…and free.

  “Feel better?” Caroline asked.

  “Oh, yes. Much.”

  Caroline giggled in such a charming, carefree, wholesome way. “No wonder you didn’t feel well. I don’t know how you could breathe. The help doesn’t like you much?”

  Here, in the quiet confines of the ladies’ retiring room—such an ostentatious name for a rail car toilet—it seemed so appropriate to let the situation speak for itself. “It seems she did not.”

  She should have remained silent, allowed Caroline her blissful assumption that Evelyn had been widowed and not ruined. No maid would’ve laced a married woman that tightly. It would be so easy, in the privacy of this closet, to tell Caroline everything. But something held Evelyn back. For now, she’d keep her shame a secret.

  Caroline slipped another mother-of-pearl button back through its loop, one Evelyn hadn’t noted remained undone. “Disgraceful, her treatment of you. There’s no shame in motherhood. Your gown still fits. Even with the corset loosened.”

  Yes, it fit, but not well. Yet she felt entirely better, and that’s all that mattered. She had no one to impress aboard this train.

  Caroline met and held Evelyn’s gaze, and in those green eyes, Evelyn saw the truth—she had a loyal friend, one who sincerely believed Evelyn a recent widow…though she did not wear mourning black.

  “There,” Caroline said, tugging Evelyn’s cuff into place. “You, my dear friend, look ever so much better. I do believe color is returning to your cheeks.”

  Without waiting for a response, Caroline headed back to their seats, apparently content to let the suggestion of tagging along to Prosperity percolate. Her method worked a bit too well.

  It seemed all Evelyn could think about as she followed Caroline to their seats. If she leapt at the chance, got off this train prematurely in Leadville, she might very well keep her baby.

  Did she dare?

  If her own parents had sent her away, disdain and judgment etched so strongly on their features—without a goodbye, without a kiss, without a jolly word, what made her suspect a perfect stranger would welcome her, and her growing babe, into his life?

  There was no guarantee, a surplus of men or not, that anyone would want her.

  Looking at the other young women, vivacious, filled with the joy of adventure, some younger and far lovelier than she, others more mature, with an air of confidence and certainty most men would find irresistible.
/>
  All she had to recommend her was her family’s name and a fine education preparing her for the responsibilities of a wealthy man’s wife. She’d enjoyed two and one-half wonderful social seasons before Daniel entered her life and changed everything. Unfortunately, her father had not yet named the man she would marry, or she might have been able to turn to that selection. Oh, he may have said she could choose among the Upper 500, but she didn’t actually believe he’d honor her wishes.

  In Prosperity, Colorado, she doubted anyone knew of the Brandt Empire, so her family’s name could not recommend her, but other things might. Her unusual strawberry-blonde hair and striking blue eyes had garnered much attention. And she’d had the best of tutors and finishing schools. Her skills might be a bit too formal for a mining town, but they were skills none the less.

  The more she weighed her options, the more she thought it through, the more she recognized this opportunity as a gift. Even if she couldn’t succeed in this mining town, if no one wanted her, she’d still have the remaining train tickets. She wouldn’t be stuck in the mining camp.

  She should at least try.

  How could she not?

  If nothing else a few weeks’ respite provided time to come to terms with the devastating realization that she would be a mother.

  If she didn’t try, she would be a mother without a babe.

  That cold, hard fact made the decision easier.

  Yes, she would get off the train in Leadville.

  Chapter Two

  Prosperity, Colorado

  May 1881

  As one of only two men in town not seeking a mail order bride, Sam Kochler found himself pressed into service as Bridal Lottery Manager and duly appointed Rule Enforcer. The other confirmed bachelor, an old Army Cook named Pearl Irving—everybody just called him Irving—didn’t want another woman telling him what to do. Apparently the first one, decades ago, had been more than enough.

  Sam would’ve shoved at least one of the duties off on Irving but the man was so hard of hearing he’d never manage to listen to more than one fellow at a time. Irving had agreed to cook for the big courting dinners. Everything else fell to Sam.

  Staying out of the three-ring circus had put him squarely in it. Wasn’t that just his luck?

  He glanced at his timepiece.

  Ten minutes ‘til time to call the meeting to order.

  A bunch of rowdies gathered in Albert Journey’s Watering Hole, since the saloon was the only structure large enough to hold everybody in one place. Albert rather liked hosting Bride Lottery meetings here ‘cause fellows naturally bought a drink or three.

  The place was filling up. Every table had several bodies seated around it and more men lined the back wall. The building smelled of stale beer, tobacco spittle, years of cigarette and pipe smoke, unwashed bodies, and rain-soaked wool. Albert had lit half a dozen oil lamps, most bolted to the walls to prevent careless bumps and resultant fires.

  Now, if only this infernal rain would stop. The brides were due to arrive tomorrow and they needed good weather for the scheduled socials, most of which had been planned around summertime weather.

  Henry, one of the quieter men, sidled near. “Been thinking, Sam. You ought to throw in with the rest of us. It’s not too late.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Frankly, he wanted nothing to do with the grand scheme. Nope, not him. He was still reeling from his girl’s rejection. Last month’s letter advised, in spectacularly precise terms, that she would never travel to Colorado.

  Henry straightened one suspender. He’d shaved his chest-length beard, probably in anticipation of the women folk arriving, revealing a lower half of a face that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. “You sure? A man like you don’t seem that happy alone.”

  She wouldn’t come though he was far better able to support her now than he’d been three years ago. He’d asked her to marry him back then, before he’d left Georgia. Given the situation, it’d been the right thing to do, and he’d desperately wanted her to accept.

  He’d loved her, desperately, completely.

  Octavia.

  Just the thought of her inky curls, impossibly dark eyes, and perfect, creamy complexion made him groan. The woman was a beauty—and she’d been so pampered her whole life, it really was no wonder she hadn’t been willing to risk coming west until he had a place to house her.

  But now that he’d built comfortable accommodations and the mercantile showed a steady profit, he’d thought she’d come.

  After all her letters, stringing him along, pleading with him to make his fortune so she could join him, claiming how very much she missed him, one would’ve thought she’d come when he told her he was ready.

  But no.

  If Miss Octavia Sheline didn’t want to marry him, then he didn’t want to marry her.

  He’d keep telling himself that until he believed it.

  How else would he ever paste together the fragments of his broken heart?

  Shoving the image of her coquettish smile so deep he wouldn’t have to see it anymore, Sam glanced at his pocket watch again and counted heads. Thirty. Maybe thirty-five. Most had a beer or shot glass in one hand, some, a cigarette in the other. The southern transplants chewed their tobacco, mostly missing the spittoons set here and there.

  Disgusting habits, ones he’d not been able to afford way back when, and now, looking at the fellows awaiting brides, he was glad he hadn’t taken it up. That didn’t prevent him from supplying their favorite brands. That’s why he was here and keeping shop. All these women coming to Prosperity were good for business, too. Families would grow and that meant more purchases.

  A few men kept milling around making it hard to get an accurate count. Didn’t much matter if everybody wasn’t here ‘cause it was time to start.

  He banged the gavel against the block. In an upstart mining town like Prosperity, a man had to operate under two or three hats. Especially those who lived in town proper and not a distance out on claims. Levi Desilum, his closest neighbor, doctored patients and pulled teeth from his barber’s chair. Elmer Lamoureaux, as busy in his mine as anybody, played piano at the Watering Hole for extra money. Elmer lived in a tent right close to town, and saved every penny for the cabin he’d build before the snow flew.

  “Meeting’s called to order,” Sam bellowed over the din. “First order of business. Brides Quarters. Henry?”

  Henry shuffled forward. “Place is done, as of last night.”

  “Get those doorknobs on?” Albert challenged from his place behind the bar. “Ladies won’t much like a door that don’t latch.”

  The rowdier of the miscreants chuckled and made off color remarks that had Sam bristling. He wagered some of these ladies had no idea how rough going it could be here.

  “Yep.” Henry assured, raising his mellow voice loud enough to be heard over the laughter. “Done.”

  “Went by there this mornin’,” Willard interjected. “Ain’t no front doorknob.”

  An argument erupted. Sam banged the gavel. As always, these the men itched to fight over anything and everything. Ridiculous.

  “Order!” he shouted, finally claiming everyone’s attention.

  “Henry’s in charge of the finish work on the Quarters,” he stated, intending his tone to banish all argument. “If he says it’s done, it’s done.”

  Groans and arguments erupted.

  “Second order of business,” Sam yelled right over the top of them. “The grandstand was built last Saturday. Some of you helped, some of you didn’t.”

  More jawing from the bottom-feeders. He held up a hand, demanding silence. “We had an agreement. Those who were there, and you know who you are, paid your part in labor. Those who weren’t, deposit your half-dollar on your way out.” He gestured toward Levi who held the empty pickle jar.

  More complaints. The loudest of the troublemakers were rather harmless, all bark and no bite. Sam wasn’t worried, just aggravated how some thought they could slide by without contri
buting to the plans they’d voted on and approved. Every man committed to help equally and get the work done before the ladies arrived.

  He banged the gavel, drawing on the dregs of his patience. “Third order of business. Listen up.”

  He waited for the men’s grumbles to subside. He raised a thin stack of fancy stationery for the yahoos to see. “This letter came in today from Hartford Bridal Agency, sent one day in advance of the women.”

  Cheers erupted. Sam wouldn’t be surprised if a few brides stepped right back on that train when they saw the quality of potential husbands.

  It was probably a good thing there weren’t enough brides to go around. That way the young ladies could have their choice.

  “Listen up,” he bellowed, this time waiting for them to settle down. “The agency sent a detailed tally of every last bride contracted and sent, complete with biographical information.”

  “How many?” Thomas yelled. He stood several inches taller than most, leaning against the back wall. Rainwater had slicked his straw-colored chin-length hair to his head.

  “Fourteen.” More than he’d expected, based on all the negotiations that had taken place with the Agency back in Hartford and, unfortunately, significantly fewer than the men had been counting on.

  “Fourteen!” Gerry Severs shouted from his front row seat—had to be front row, or he couldn’t see over anybody. The guy couldn’t be more than five feet tall and ninety pounds fully clothed and dripping wet.

  “But there’s near-on forty of us.” Willard smacked his hat against his thigh.

  “I d-d-don’t like them odd-odds.” Peter, seated beside Gerry, dropped his cigarette and ground it beneath his heel. He must feel mighty strong about it, ‘cause he never spoke unless he had to. “One in f-four.”

  “Dag-nabbit!” Pickle Pike hollered, chasing the expletive with a long string of profanities.

  “Closer to one in three.” Tom spat a long arc of tobacco juice.

  Sam banged his gavel. At this rate, the agenda would take close to another hour to complete, and this was not where he wanted to burn the remaining daylight, such as it was. He had a good many crates to unpack and merchandise to set up in advance of the ladies’ arrival.