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

by Kristin Holt

  Father.

  Oh, no, no! If he came into the mercantile, now, this is what he’d see. He’d never believe Evelyn wanted to stay in town for this, and frankly, she couldn’t believe it either.

  She didn’t have the poise nor words—despite years of the best finishing school Father’s money could buy—to give Miss Octavia the dressing down she deserved.

  Nor could she find the words to tell Sam exactly what she thought of him, either, so she did the only thing a lady could do in a fix like this.

  She raised her chin, straightened her spine, and headed for the door.

  No one stopped her.

  In fact, the four miners parted like the Red Sea before Moses and his band of Israelite slaves and let her pass through unhindered.

  Woodenly, Evelyn pushed forward, starkly relieved she didn’t run into her parents. Relieved she didn’t have to hear Octavia’s triumphant laughter as she distanced herself from the mercantile.

  She was grateful Sam didn’t come after her. She was.

  She feared one touch, one kiss, one word, and she’d forgive him everything.

  And she didn’t want to forgive him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  How could she?

  “Is it yours?” The question Octavia had asked, ripe with judgment.

  “No.” Sam’s answer resonated through her head, ringing in her ears. It was not a mere acknowledgment of truth…but a denial.

  He’d denied her, denied loving her, right there in front of her worst accusers. The rejection stung as if he’d slapped her.

  Through the pain, she recognized he hadn’t fathered her child, but she’d believed he would claim it…after all, he’d said he wanted to wed her and be a family. With her and the baby she would bring into the world.

  The unbearable weight of his lie—and how easily she’d swallowed the sugar-coated words she’d so desperately wanted to hear—sat on her chest with crushing weight.

  Two men. Two strings of lies. She’d been pathetically gullible.

  It would’ve been the cherry on top of a beautiful ice cream sundae if Father had been present to witness her humiliation.

  Evelyn’s lungs burned as she pushed through the trees at the end of the simple track called Main Street. She vaguely acknowledged two dirty canvas tents pitched off to her left. She turned away from them, quickening her pace, desperate to escape.

  She remembered Caroline’s wedding—and Sam’s role as J.P.—and immediately discarded heading in that direction. This distraught, she’d ruin the ceremony for everyone. Besides, if she went there, she’d have to pass near the Quarters and risk interception by her parents.

  Emotion roiled, making her tremble and breathe erratically. Tears filled her eyes.

  Never had she felt so out of control, so rejected—not when Daniel Tracy had taken her virginity without so much as pretty words promising a tomorrow. She’d not felt this much demoralizing abandonment the day her parents threw her out of the house and sent her to California to deliver the unwanted babe in shame.

  She stopped marching, her breath coming in sharp gasps, burning her dry throat. She leaned heavily against a boulder, the cold, rough surface a welcome anchor.

  No way could she face her parents right now, so going back to the Quarters was out of the question. She might want to be free of Sam and his gushing bride, Octavia, but somehow climbing aboard that stage with her parents seemed an unbearable alternative.

  She couldn’t stay and she couldn’t leave.

  Never, not even when the doctor pronounced her fate, had she felt this backed into a corner.

  Where did that leave her?

  Evelyn had barely cleared the mercantile doorway before Sam realized the stupidity that had fallen out of his mouth.

  Octavia had handed him the perfect opportunity to claim Evelyn’s baby as his own, declare his love for Evelyn, and put Octavia and her trunks back on that stage…

  Failure slammed into him with the force of a right-hook.

  He might not have sired the babe, but he’d claimed Evelyn, asked her to be his wife—and he’d fully meant all of that—therefore her little one was his. After all, the child would carry the Kochler name.

  No wonder she’d walked out.

  He dashed to the doorway and cupped a hand about his mouth. “Billy—hold the stage for two passengers.”

  He’d go after Evelyn. He’d explain, apologize, crawl on his knees—whatever he had to do to make it right.

  Sensing Octavia followed on his heels, he turned, pinned her with an unfriendly glare. “Get on that stage. You’d best be long gone when I return with my bride.”

  Octavia shuddered with finesse only a Southern belle could manage. Her eyes seemed to flutter shut and she swooned.

  Just like that, her knees telescoped and if Sam didn’t catch her, she’d smack her head on the floor. No one stood closer, nobody else could get there in time, so Sam did the only honorable thing and caught Octavia’s crumpling form.

  The chaperone lumbered to her feet, waving her fan like a white flag of surrender. “Oh, my!”

  All four miners, seeing Sam had it under control, stood a ways back.

  Octavia’s head lolled over Sam’s arm. She’d always been a little thing, petite and slender, but she seemed so much lighter than his one dusty memory of sweeping her into his arms when she collapsed in the heat of her August birthday party. Holding her cradled in his arms had sealed his fate. He’d fallen in love with Miss Octavia that sweltering summer afternoon.

  “She O.K., Sam?” Old Thad offered.

  “She’s fine.” He wanted to swear a long, colorful streak. He’d put a dollar on Octavia’s spell being purely fabricated.

  “Show’s over, guys.” He’d call her on her fainting act, but didn’t feel right doing so in front of an audience. “Everybody out.”

  The guys muttered, but they left.

  “Shut the door behind you,” he ordered. “And turn the sign over.”

  Willard flipped the sign to closed and slammed the door.

  Mrs. Cairn fanned her charge’s face. “Oh, see what you’ve done? You know Miss Octavia has a delicate constitution. Carry her upstairs to bed.”

  Oh, no. Nuh-uh. He could see a hint of a smile on Octavia’s lips, confirming his guess. He jostled her. “Wake up.”

  “Oh, pooh.” Mrs. Cairn glared at him. “That’s no way to handle a lady.”

  He didn’t much care for the manipulation these two wielded. Octavia wasn’t all that great at playacting unconsciousness, so he plunked her into the other chair beside the stove.

  Mrs. Cairn screeched. “Careful. She’s fragile.”

  “She’s fully conscious.”

  As if to prove his point, Octavia’s eyes fluttered open. She glared at him for a passing moment before picking up where she left off, one little hand pressed to her forehead. “Oh, my. I don’t feel well.”

  Obviously, she wanted him to see her upstairs, offer the comfort of a bed—his bed—let her unpack her trunks, and stay forever.

  So he went on the offensive. “You can’t stay here.”

  Octavia gasped. Her gloved fingers fluttered about her throat. “Well, yes I can. This is my home. I traveled all those wretched miles to accept your proposals,” heavy emphasis on the plurality, “and I will stay. Because I love you.”

  Whatever this was about, it wasn’t affection.

  He snorted. Most uncultured and undignified, but it slipped out anyway. “If you loved me, you would’ve come the first time I asked.”

  “Now, Sam, that’s just not fair.” Her lower lip protruded as she simpered. Tears welled in her eyes. “You know I couldn’t just climb aboard a wagon and head into the frontier, even after what we…shared.”

  Of course she brought that up. He glanced at Mrs. Cairn, half expecting to see the old lady glowering at him for breaching propriety and slipping under Octavia’s skirts. Four years ago.

  But the chaperone seemed oblivious to the underhanded jab Octavia dealt, so
Sam ignored it, too. “I offered a First Class train ticket, and you know it.”

  He untied his apron and tossed it onto the nearest display. Catching up with Evelyn was far more important than rehashing the past.

  If Octavia wouldn’t go, then he would. He strode toward the door.

  “I’m in a pickle, Sam,” Octavia whispered, “and you’re the only one who can save me.”

  The honesty and genuine pleading in her voice caught him off guard. Pretense had fled, along with every ounce of manipulation. Against his better judgment, Sam halted in his tracks.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to feel curiosity where Octavia was concerned…but he did. What did she want? Why had she arrived now?

  “Sam?”

  He turned and braced his hands upon his hips.

  Her gaze flitted from window to display to hands clasped tightly at her waist. She’d stood when his back had been turned, but hadn’t approached.

  Mrs. Cairn’s expression warned him to do the right thing.

  Octavia took a little step closer. “I’m in trouble.”

  With all the bravado gone, he found curiosity a far more powerful trap than when she flirted and charmed and smiled as if he were the only man on earth.

  “I’m listening.”

  She sniffed and pulled a fancy lace-trimmed handkerchief from her sleeve. She hid her face behind the white linen square, finally blotting the moisture from her eyes and blowing her nose with such delicacy he figured the process of clearing one’s nose had to rank highly on the finishing school list of charms.

  She sighed, the sound carrying easily in the deathly quiet of the store. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting her face in shadow. “I had a few suitors in your absence. I never loved any of them the way I love you.”

  He shrugged. She might believe she’d loved him, but more likely wanted him to think so. He doubted she knew the meaning of the word.

  “One of them, ah…” She drew a tremulous breath. “He took liberties. I’m ruined.” Her voice cracked. Tears slipped over her eyelids and she let them fall.

  Why would she claim ruination now, when she’d obviously given up her virginity years ago? This didn’t seem to be about him or their one regrettable coupling in her father’s carriage house, nor the others she’d had before or after him.

  He acknowledged her vivid pain, felt compassion…and immediate surprise for what he didn’t; not so much as a surge of protectiveness or an ounce of anger. Just a scrap of sympathy.

  “I can’t show my face in Atlanta, especially as time passes and the consequences are plain for the world to see.”

  Ah—so that was it. Octavia was pregnant.

  “If you’d been there, Sam, you could’ve protected me. Kept the wolves at a distance, see? I wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d stayed home.”

  She blamed him for her predicament? That was rich. He clamped his jaw to prevent a retort from escaping. Everyone’s purpose, in her world, was to contribute to her happiness and comfort. No doubt, in her mind, it was all about her.

  “You’ll fix it, right?” she pressed, hope fairly bubbling in her words. “You’ve always wanted me, Sam, always. And now you can have me. I’ll marry you and everything will be all right again.”

  Confounded, he shook his head. “You want me to claim your baby.”

  She blinked, evidently surprised by his statement. “I’m accepting your marriage proposals. All three of them.”

  “I only asked twice.”

  “And I accept.” She blinked, batting those wet eyelashes in a way that had once worked a binding spell on his foolish, foolish heart.

  “I need you to understand something, Octavia.”

  “Yes?” She took a hesitant step closer.

  “I don’t have a problem claiming someone else’s baby, obviously, because I’ve already done it.”

  “Oh, Sam!” She launched herself at him, intent on an embrace.

  He sidestepped her. “I’ve already claimed Mrs. Brandt’s baby. Listen to me,” he waited until she’d regained her composure and actually met his gaze. “If I give someone else’s offspring my name, I’ll definitely be in love with the mother-to-be—and that’s Evelyn Brandt. I love her, Octavia, and I will wed her.”

  “No!” Octavia crumpled into a heap of skirts on the floor, a puppet with cut strings.

  Sam let her cry. Yeah, he’d foiled her plans, but he hadn’t done so maliciously. He didn’t feel an ounce of guilt over it, either.

  Mrs. Cairn lumbered to her feet, all three chins wobbling with indignation, and stormed toward him. She smacked his shoulder with her fan. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  Octavia sobbed, collapsing onto her forearms in a pool of green silk.

  “She’s overwrought, because of you—”

  Sam failed to see how any of this was his fault. He’d been in Colorado when she’d conceived.

  “—and in her delicate condition, that’s unconscionable. I insist you carry Miss Sheline upstairs and see her safely tucked into bed—your bed, young man, if it’s the best you’ve got. It’s your Christian duty as her affianced.”

  “Now see here—”

  Mrs. Cairn cut him off with that fan as if it were a queen’s scepter. “Not another word out of you. You will do as you’re told.”

  Hadn’t the old biddy heard a word he’d said? “I’m engaged,” he stated with emphasis, “to Mrs. Brandt.”

  She waved this away with the flick of her wrist as if the motion could erase his words.

  “I am not engaged, nor will I ever be, to Miss Sheline.”

  Mrs. Cairn’s features hardened into a mask he’d seen so often in Atlanta society. The Matron’s War Face, he’d called it. “This one-horse town, this camp hasn’t a hotel. You will carry Miss Sheline upstairs and put her to bed.”

  He wanted to argue they did have a hotel, in the form of the Bride Quarters. No way would he intentionally lodge these two troublemakers with the ladies, especially Evelyn, for a single night. They were right—this camp offered nowhere else.

  He clenched his jaw.

  Mrs. Cairn recognized his capitulation for what it was. “You will carry her upstairs.”

  The sooner he saw the ladies settled, the sooner he could get out of here and find Evelyn. Resigned, he dropped to his haunches at Octavia’s side, scooped her into his arms, and stood.

  She snuggled into the crook of his neck and settled in as if he held her with anything other than resigned duty.

  He rolled his eyes, swept more green silk out of the way, and made his way up the stairs to his private quarters.

  Chapter Ten

  Sam stood in the middle of the street, cupped his hands about his mouth and yelled, “Evelyn!”

  She’d left his mercantile less than five minutes ago. How far could she have gone? Where was she?

  He listened intently. Other than the normal sounds of birdsong, Levi’s chickens clucking, the rustle of breeze through the pines, he heard no response. None. Not even the clang of metal from the smithy.

  The stage waited empty right where Billy had parked it. Sam checked inside just in case Evelyn waited there for a ride down the canyon.

  She wasn’t there.

  In frustration, he pounded his palms against the coach’s door frame. One of the horses nickered in the harness.

  He turned in every direction, looking for any sign of her. Her dark brown skirt might blend right into the wooden structures and vegetation, but that lavender and green calico ought to stand out. Surely she wasn’t hiding from him?

  His gut somersaulted. She had every right to hide—to separate herself from him. He knew how much his careless remark—and the sight of Octavia with her many trunks—had to have hurt her. He would find her, beg her forgiveness, explain himself, set everything right.

  “Evelyn!”

  Billy, the stage driver pushed through the barbershop doors. “That you yellin’, Sam? What’s wrong?”

  “Have you
seen Evelyn? Mrs. Evelyn Brandt?”

  “Who’s she?”

  “My bride. I’ve gotta find her.”

  “Maybe she’s at the wedding.”

  Sam stopped short. He yanked his timepiece out of his pocket and swore. He’d completely forgotten the double wedding he’d agreed to perform.

  He’d allowed his past to come calling, to distract him from his future—from everything he wanted and needed.

  “Levi,” Billy jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the barber shop, “just headed over there a few minutes ago. He tells me it’s quite a to-do. Hey, I thought you were saying the words.”

  Evelyn’s path was suddenly so clear. Her closest friend among the brides, Miss Caroline Grayson, was about to say her vows. Of course Evelyn would want to be present.

  “Hey,” Billy said, his eyes lighting up with remembrance. “You still got two passengers for me to take to Leadville?”

  “No.” He hated to admit it, but Octavia had won that round.

  His mind still worked on the problem of Evelyn’s disappearance. Maybe she had come to the mercantile to walk to the wedding site with him…and instead, found Octavia. She’d arrived on his doorstep less than ten minutes ago—the timing fit.

  He double-timed it back inside to grab pen, ink, and the ledger wherein marriages were recorded. He plunked his hat on his head and bolted for the glade a short walk beyond the Quarters where the two weddings would be held. After all this rain, a pretty waterfall graced the spot, and the brides had gotten it into their heads to hold the weddings there, given the absence of a proper church.

  He pushed through the trees into the sunlit meadow, searched frantically for Evelyn. Near the front, more than a half-dozen ladies mingled in a cluster of bonnets and feminine chatter.

  He spotted Lily and Caroline—today’s brides—right away. He swept the crowd, searching for that lavender and green calico, curls of sunset-gold…

  His heart nearly stopped when he realized Evelyn wasn’t here.

  “Finally,” David Ingram, one of the soon-to-be-husbands called by way of greeting. He pushed through the knot of men gathered around him and offered a hand. “Where you been?”