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

by Kristin Holt

  This morning, her face was freshly washed and her color improved. Daylight streamed through the high windows on the east-facing storefront, and she looked a mite better than when she’d gotten off the train. Stronger. Fresher. Prettier.

  Her strawberry blonde hair had been gathered into a fancy knot at the base of her neck, allowing for the matching hat that perched on her crown at an attractive angle. A reticule of the same fabric and trim of her suit and hat was looped over one wrist. She clutched her gloved hands together.

  “Did Mrs. Mumford send biographical your information?”

  “No.”

  “Huh. I would’ve thought she’d at least have you carry it. She mailed a letter, likely the day before you left, to ensure we knew who to expect. I’m sending a response going out today, to let her know all fifteen ladies arrived at this destination safely.”

  “Fourteen ladies.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not from the Agency.”

  That came as a surprise. “No?”

  “No. I met the young women on the train and we became acquainted. At their invitation, I decided to join their venture.”

  She seemed hesitant to share this with him. Interesting.

  “I hope you don’t mind my imposing on your hospitality.”

  “No. O’course not.” The fellas had been thrilled to have a spare bride show up unannounced. “It’s no imposition.”

  He did wonder about her, though. Why was she traveling west, apparently alone? With everything he knew of Atlanta’s gentry, he couldn’t imagine one of those young socialites, even a married woman, traveling alone. And why had she decided to get off the train out here in the middle of nowhere?

  It didn’t seem like he had the authority to ask a question like that. She had her reasons, he supposed, and frankly, it was none of his business.

  He crossed his boots at the ankles and leaned on the counter. “You thinking seriously of staying here? Adding yourself voluntarily to our roster of brides?” He hurried to add, “You’re welcome, you know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kochler.”

  Her smile hit him squarely in the gut, a visceral reaction to a lovely woman’s beautiful smile. A reaction he definitely didn’t want to have. No way, no how. Because in every superficial way he could see, Octavia and this Mrs. Brandt weren’t just cut from the same bolt of cloth, they might as well be sisters. He couldn’t help but wonder how long Mrs. Brandt would last in Prosperity. It hadn’t been refined enough for Octavia to even try it and he sincerely doubted it would be enough for Mrs. Evelyn Brandt.

  “Yes,” she said after a moment, “I think I will stay. At least for a while.” Her attention skittered from a display of denim pants on shelves to her left to glass canisters containing sweets on the counter near his elbow. “I’m interested to see what might come of the opportunities here.”

  Uh-huh. He’d wager she’d be the first gal headed back down the canyon on the daily stage to reconnect with the train. Yep, her ‘tell’ gave her away. That kind of fidgeting nearly shouted she’d told a fib. She likely already knew Prosperity fell yards short of her lofty standards, but yet she claimed to want to stay. For now.

  His curiosity redoubled.

  He’d made a living reading the subtle non-verbal cues of wealthy men and women. His ability to discern what pleased them and what didn’t had given him an advantage, and quickly earned him more than their business—it had garnered him their confidences. He’d found himself invited to their gatherings and garden parties, a person they’d found interesting and entertaining because he had one foot in their world and one foot out. He dressed every bit as fine, had no trace of his parents’ accent, understood every nuance of society, and could converse on every high-brow subject.

  Sometimes they forgot he wasn’t one of them.

  He turned his attention back to Mrs. Evelyn Brandt. He had no difficulty reading her: uncertainty, nervousness, curiosity.

  She said she was looking for a husband, but he doubted she really meant it. He shouldn’t be surprised, given her condition. She couldn’t have been widowed all that long ago, given how far along she was, and in his limited experience, women who loved their husbands—and those who hated them—didn’t remarry quickly unless circumstances demanded it. By the evident state of Mrs. Brandt’s finances, he didn’t suppose she needed support.

  But her reasons weren’t his business, he reminded himself, so he shelved those curious questions and focused on filling out her biographical information.

  “If you don’t mind, ma’am, let’s move forward with the interview. See, before the supper gathering tonight, we’re showcasing each bride. Telling a little bit each. I’ll ask just enough to fill out a biographical sketch like Mrs. Mumford sent regarding the Agency’s fourteen brides.”

  “I see. Go ahead.”

  Those blue, blue eyes locked on his. So very different from Octavia’s mesmerizing dark gaze, yet Mrs. Brandt’s still had the power to move him and he didn’t like it.

  Not with his record of falling fast and hard for a pretty, spoiled, upper society lady way, way beyond his reach.

  He cleared his throat. “Tell me your name, please.” He already knew, but it was as good a place to start as any.

  “Evelyn Brandt. B-R-A-N-D-T.”

  He freshened his pen and scrawled her name across the top of the foolscap. “Age? Sorry—this is personal, I know.”

  “Twenty.”

  So young. Octavia’s age. For what felt like the fiftieth time since waking up that morning, he shoved thoughts of Octavia off center-stage in his mind.

  “Birth date?”

  “April fifth.”

  He transcribed her response and tried not to get caught staring at her. After all she’d endured from Pickle Pike last evening, she didn’t need him staring at her, too.

  “Where did you grow up?”

  She hesitated. Switched her reticule from her right wrist to her left, sending the beaded tassels swinging. The motion only drew attention to her softly rounded belly and the baby growing there. To be showing like this, she had to be more than four months along. More like five to six. He’d seen plenty of expectant mothers out and about in his working neighborhood in Atlanta.

  “New York,” she finally offered.

  Why so hesitant to disclose an innocuous detail?

  Sam looked up from the paper and pen. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”

  He wondered if she’d mention how she lost her husband. What kind of work he’d done. Sam found himself genuinely wanting to know.

  “I’m the middle of three daughters,” she said slowly, as if measuring her words with care. “I play the piano, sing, and—”

  Two beats passed. Three. Sam looked up from his pen and paper. “And?”

  “I’m fluent in French.”

  Bingo. He wondered if the Brandts were acquainted with the Shelines of Atlanta, Georgia. They’d hired tutors to refine Octavia into the most polished of young ladies.

  There’d been a time when Sam had wanted nothing more than to wed a real lady, someone who’d raise the esteem others gave him. But when he’d fallen good and well in love with Octavia, he hadn’t much cared about her social standing. He’d just wanted her for his wife.

  It didn’t matter anymore—Octavia wouldn’t have him. Everyone west of the eastern seaboard seemed a self-made man and on the frontier and wilds of the Rockies there wasn’t a soul to impress.

  “French?” Because he had to say something.

  “Oui.”

  This made him smile. Ah, French. The Creole workers in Georgia fields had exposed him to enough he could be almost certain Mrs. Brandt had said ‘yes.’”

  “Homemaking skill set?” It was starting to feel like he was interviewing a wife for himself. These questions had made a whole lot more sense when he’d written them down for the Agency to send bios for the young ladies.

  Mrs. Brandt smiled. “I cook, bake, sew, plan dinner parties, direct household servants,
design and execute societal gatherings of five hundred souls.”

  She chuckled, the sound throaty and enticing and he couldn’t help but notice her beautiful, straight teeth. Heaven help him, he seemed to have lost his mind…or his memory. He’d been down a road very much like this one, and knew he didn’t like where it lead.

  She stifled that musical laughter. “I see those skills are in high demand here.”

  “Indeed.” He couldn’t help but chuckle in response. Her laughter sounded so good, drawing him like moth to flame.

  “Shall I go on? I know how to seat dinner parties of thirty, address invitations with an expert calligrapher’s hand.”

  Now he couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Handcrafted invitations are in high demand on this mountain.”

  He found his gaze locked on hers. Those amazing eyes. He could lose himself in their startling blue depths. They reminded him of sunlight illuminating a deep mountain lake.

  A long moment passed, stretched into two. He found himself embarrassed…he knew better than to stare. He fiddled with the cap to the ink, finally topped the ink bottle. Set the pen down. He leaned an elbow on the counter and gazed at her without shame.

  She twisted the handle of her reticule. “I’m embarrassed to admit my skills are far better suited to entertaining distinguished guests than actual homemaking.”

  He glimpsed the light fading from her eyes even as she averted her gaze.

  Sam wanted to round the counter and approach her, just to offer reassurance and comfort, but he planted his boots and stayed firmly on his own side of the divide. He couldn’t bear the defeat etched in her posture and far-too-expressive face.

  “Listen, Mrs. Brandt,” he cleared his throat and leaned over the counter, braced on his forearms. “The men of Prosperity are looking for wives. Most are passable cooks and learned to get by on their own. They didn’t send for a housekeeper or laundress, they sent for someone they’d want to wed.” And bed—but he couldn’t say that aloud. “Don’t worry about it. If your best match is here, you’ll find him, and he won’t care that you’re inexperienced with homesteading.”

  Darn it if he didn’t realize he meant it.

  If he were vested in this Bride Lottery, if he sought a wife from among the fifteen, his first knee-jerk reaction would be to pursue Mrs. Brandt. After all, her type appealed to him.

  But he wasn’t looking for a wife, wasn’t ready to even consider it. His heart had belonged to Miss Octavia for so many years, he didn’t know how to love someone else.

  He shook off the uncomfortable thought and narrowed his focus to finishing this interview.

  What else had he asked the other brides? He couldn’t remember, so he flipped through the appropriate ledger until he found the list he’d sent to Hartford. He refreshed his memory.

  “The other gals shared their reasons for wanting to come west, to cast their lot with a bunch of miners in this frontier town.” He waited to see if she’d offer information.

  She squared her shoulders and kept her gaze up. She blinked. What amazing eyelashes. Her pale brows were carefully shaped, defining those unusual eyes. Made his mouth dry just to focus on her beauty.

  “Who,” she finally asked, “will you share my answer with?”

  “No one, if you don’t want me to. In fact, you don’t have to answer at all.”

  She seemed to think this over. Shrugged one dainty shoulder. “I found myself headed west, with tickets as far as the California coast. This seemed a fine place to stop.”

  He tried to read something, anything, into her disclosure. But it seemed an innocently true and genuine answer. Had she just been running from the memories? Her pain over a husband lost, far too young? Her heart must still be breaking.

  He could understand that.

  She seemed so alone, standing in his store with her reticule clutched in gloved hands. He wished he’d remained on her side of the counter. Wished he’d seated himself at her side for this conversation. No one had come into the mercantile. He could’ve taken a seat to enjoy her company.

  Even if they’d seated themselves across the checkers table from one another, it wouldn’t have been inappropriate, even for a young lady of quality such as she.

  A sad, winsome smile graced her features. In that moment, he saw beyond the polished surface, the beautiful exterior of a moneyed background and the loss of a wealthy husband to the woman beneath.

  Just a woman, who obviously doubted herself. She’d admitted her woeful absence of frontier homemaking skills and in the worry clouding those magnetic blue eyes, he glimpsed self-doubt and uncertainty.

  Baffling, her apparent doubt that any one of these yahoos would want her. Her doubt and worry not only endeared her to him, made her more real, more human…it made him want to stand up and shout that he wanted her, that he stood as living proof that a young widow carrying her lost husband’s child could be ridiculously appealing…if only to take away that sadness and self-doubt.

  He wanted to see her smile again.

  But he couldn’t allow himself to want her. This Bridal Lottery fiasco wasn’t his circus…even though he’d been appointed ringmaster. Whether she proved his prediction correct and she was the first woman—or second or third—to head down the mountain and return east to civilization or whether she stayed and married one of the guys in town, Sam knew she could never be his.

  She embodied everything he’d ever wanted and brought to remembrance every painful lesson learned.

  He’d be a fool to forget, even for a moment.

  He tried to smile with reassurance, but figured the expression couldn’t be more than a grimace. “You don’t need to say more than that, ma’am.”

  She surprised him by preparing to speak, though he’d given her permission to remain quiet. He could see her ‘tell,’ plain as day. Her features brightened, her mouth rounded.

  Whatever it was, she was having a hard time spitting it out.

  He waited. It seemed the right thing to do.

  “Do you have a special lady, Mr. Kochler?”

  Her question knocked him out of the saddle. He stood up straight, brushed a palm down the full apron he wore to spare his shirts, and gaped.

  He must not have answered quickly enough, because she continued.

  “The ladies seem to have garnered information from the bachelors,” she confided, taking a single step that brought her closer. “About you.”

  He thought he caught just a hint of rose water. His brain set off a clanging alarm, but his heart wouldn’t listen…it stirred, apparently blissfully unaware of the hard knocks his head had learned at the hand of Atlanta’s prettiest belle. Mrs. Brandt naturally smelled like refinement…and he couldn’t help but find her appealing.

  “The rumor, Mr. Kochler, is you have a sweetheart back home. Atlanta, is it?”

  He swallowed, hard. “Yes—I mean no.” He would’ve kicked himself, if he could. “Yes, Atlanta is home. But no. No sweetheart.” He clamped his jaw shut to keep from adding the words, not anymore. Why did he want to reveal such highly personal failures to a woman he’d barely met? It didn’t make a lick of sense.

  He wasn’t in this game, wasn’t ready to even start thinking about risking his heart again, but there she stood.

  A slow, genuine smile seemed to start within this beguiling woman’s very soul, stirring ever so gently through her grief and secrets and losses, rising to the surface as her captivating lips curved in a genuine smile that lit her eyes. It might just be a trick of the light from the single lamp he’d lit, but he didn’t think so.

  This somber, hesitant woman, whom just moments ago he wished would smile—really smile—had just done so. Because she’d liked hearing the rumors were false…that he didn’t have a sweetheart.

  She’d smiled, at him. Possibly the strongest tell he’d ever seen.

  And it changed everything.

  Chapter Four

  Three days filled with scheduled activities whirled by in a kaleidoscope of experie
nces that all seemed to blend and dance together.

  Evelyn’s central focus was always on Sam Kochler, though he’d not sought her out since that interview in his mercantile. She felt drawn to him, found him in every crowd, seemed to look up just in time to glimpse him pass by or notice him looking away.

  It was enough to make her batty.

  After an exhausting walking tour of thirty nine miner’s residences—a hodgepodge of log cabins and impressively well-constructed frame houses decorated with gingerbread and painted white—Evelyn found herself happy to sit in the shade.

  The one residence she wanted to see hadn’t been open to visitors. Sam’s apartment above the mercantile.

  Makeshift tables had been set up once more, and everyone enjoyed a reasonably well-cooked meal of fried chicken, potato salad, corn bread, and cherry pie. One of the miners had been a cook in the Army before staking a claim in Colorado. He’d make some city girl a wonderful husband, except he, along with Sam Kochler, were the only two men in Prosperity not looking for a bride.

  The night before, the men had regaled the women with their talent show, a roughly cobbled together program running a full three hours—everything from the wildest fiddler (which brought to mind Daniel Tracy’s exquisite mastery of the violin) to a troupe of four’s bawdy rendition of drinking songs. She’d laughed, remembered Daniel with regret, and enjoyed a surprisingly good recital of Home on the Range by Mr. Small and Silent, Gerry-with-a-G. He may be a man incapable of conversation, but he could coax beautiful music from a piano.

  Apparently someone had transported that beautiful piano to Leadville on the train, hauled it by wagon through the canyon and settled it in the saloon. It seemed the men liked their music. For the talent show, the men had carried the weighty piece outside to the grandstand.

  One talent number had surpassed them all. Sam Kochler, she’d learned, had lost a bet. The winner called in that bet, forcing Sam to take the stage though he’d clearly not been prepared to do so.