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

by Kristin Holt

  Emotion constricted Evelyn’s throat. Tears threatened. I will not cry. I will not cry. “Yes,” she conceded. “Enough to allow him his choice.”

  “That man can’t possibly know what he wants.”

  Evelyn smiled sadly and rose from the bed. “Thank you, Mother.”

  “I’ve not done anything, yet.”

  “Yes, you have. You’ve done exactly the right thing—you cared about me.”

  “I’ll do one better. Wash your face. Dry your tears. Put on your new dress he gave you the fabric for. We’ll pay him a call and you’ll see. You’ll see this rumor isn’t true.”

  Yes, she supposed she could hold her ground and claim the man she loved. At what expense?

  He may have claimed to be falling in love with her but his heart had been Octavia’s for so very long, all it had taken was seeing her again and he’d been lost.

  She supposed she ought to be happy this had occurred before she’d tied herself to him through marriage. She couldn’t bear sharing her husband with a beloved mistress, nor did she want to add the shame of divorce to her already tarnished reputation.

  Evelyn didn’t have the energy to fight her mother on this. Not without dissolving into a mess. And she’d been raised to control her emotions, to school them. A lady of quality did not fall into hysterics over a jilting.

  She did pull out her new dress, nearly finished but for the hem. She rather liked this new item, and would wear it out of necessity, even if it brought unwelcome memories of Sam Kochler.

  Memories, because she would not stay in Prosperity.

  “What are you doing?” Mother’s austere veneer slipped.

  “Packing my things. I’ve decided to return with you and Father to Leadville. I believe it’s time to continue my journey.” It didn’t matter whether Father escorted her to California or back to New York. Either way, she would not allow him to take her baby from her.

  But that battle would have to wait until she’d regained her strength and composure. One crisis at a time.

  “Darling, what you don’t know is Sam came here while you were out. He demanded to speak with you because he wanted to apologize, and your father, believing he knew best, allowed your young man to believe you were here and would not see him.”

  Tears blurred Evelyn’s vision and she turned away, the pain in her heart ever so much worse. He’d come here—to apologize, to explain…because he’d chosen Octavia, and wanted to break their engagement in person.

  Thank God she’d missed him. She didn’t know if she could withstand the agony of such a conversation.

  “Please,” Mother whispered, “think this through.”

  “I already have.” On the mountainside, she’d stood up to a bully with fishy breath who’d terrified her just days before. If she could stand up to him, she could face this as well. “I will not hold a man I love to a marriage he doesn’t want. He loves her, Mama. He came here to tell me—”

  Emotion rose so fast, Evelyn hadn’t a chance of tamping it down.

  She held up a hand to stay her mother and fought for control. After what felt like several seconds too long, finally said, “I will remove myself from this conflict with grace, dignity, and poise,” Evelyn whispered, “for I am my mother’s daughter. If he wants Octavia for his wife, and that’s what will make him happy, then that’s what I want, too.”

  The tears fell freely, obscuring her view, but she’d lost her handkerchief somewhere in her packing of a trunk. She searched for it for a moment before giving up and doing the least ladylike thing imaginable…wiping her nose on her petticoat.

  She didn’t care her mother witnessed the indignity.

  Taking control of a household was one of Rose Gephard Brant’s greatest talents. Within the hour, she saw to it a well-balanced meal was prepared and served in the dining room.

  Evelyn had no interest whatsoever in joining any of the young ladies downstairs, bearing up under their scrutiny, tolerating their pity, though her father’s dominant presence would no doubt confine all snide remarks to private whispers.

  As it turned out, when Evelyn obeyed her mother’s orders and dressed for supper she found herself alone with her parents in the dining room. Both windows stood open to allow the cooling evening breeze to pass through the room.

  The Quarters had fallen oddly silent in the past half-hour, and knowing nothing had been scheduled as far as a social event, she had to wonder where everyone had gone.

  She joined her parents at the dining table, set as elegantly as the offerings allowed. Father sat at the head of the table, Mama to his left, leaving her the seat with her back to the windows.

  Once grace was said and their plates filled, she tried to find her appetite and consume at least a few bites.

  “Evelyn,” Father said as he set down his fork. “I have a matter to discuss with you.” He sipped from his cup, apparently letting his statement sink in.

  She could count on one hand the number of times he’d addressed her at the dining room table. Ever. No doubt he intended to inform her they’d be leaving on the stage the following afternoon. Fine. She had no desire to remain here longer than strictly necessary. She’d go tonight if he’d held the stage longer. Too bad he’d released the driver before she’d returned.

  “It seems prudent to offer you an option.”

  Father spoke more loudly than seemed necessary. She could hear him without difficulty.

  He set down the tin water cup he held as if made of the finest crystal.

  Even in her melancholy mood, Evelyn couldn’t help but smile, just a little. This may well be the closest thing to an apology Father could muster. She pinched her lips closed—it wouldn’t do to disrespect her father openly—and kept her eyes on her plate.

  The fragrant roast chicken actually smelled delicious. Herbs dotted the golden potato wedges and somehow, somewhere, Mother had found fresh carrots.

  Or perhaps she’d not cooked at all, but purchased the meal from Irving. That seemed a great deal more likely.

  Father cleared his throat. “Your actions…disembarking the rail car, electing to take your chances—here, of all places—speak volumes. I regret the hasty decision to send you to San Francisco with the ultimatum that you part with the child. It seems you prefer otherwise.”

  “Yes, Father.” She just wanted to keep her baby. With the first stirrings of life inside her, she couldn’t imagine carrying this babe to term, bringing him or her into the world, only to be separated forever. She smoothed a hand over the curve of her belly…her babe.

  “I’ve been in contact with my brother.” Father took a bite of chicken and chewed thoughtfully. “I proposed we offer you two options in San Francisco.”

  Her stain was still most unwelcome, then, at home. What had she expected? She’d been born to privilege and with it came certain expectations.

  “First option: we present you in San Francisco society as the widowed niece of Joseph Brandt, who cannot bear to remain in the east where everything reminds you of your lost husband.” Father continued at a volume too much for the small room. He cleared his throat. “And you keep your child.”

  She forgot all about his excessive volume as her heart leapt. Had Father experienced a change of heart?

  His tone had softened, giving her a glimpse of the Papa she’d known such tender affection from when she’d been but a little girl. How had she forgotten that side of him? She’d been wrong to think he’d never shown her affection.

  “Your mother and I will visit you once a year.”

  It was something…a great deal more than she’d had before. It would do. “Thank you, Father.”

  He raised a hand, the signal he’d not finished. “The second option,” he fairly yelled—was he suffering from an earache? Was he having difficulty hearing?—may serve you better in the long run. Joseph has two nephews on his wife’s side of the family whose fortune comes from timber. Very well off. Joseph has agreed to arrange a marriage for you with one of those two boys immediately
upon your arrival.”

  Marriage to a stranger didn’t appeal. No wealthy young timber mogul could compare with the small mercantile owner who’d won her heart.

  “And, naturally, you keep your child.” Father cleared his throat. “And your mother and I visit you once per year.” He paused, grew thoughtful. “We would like very much to know our grandchild.”

  The peace settling over Evelyn had very little to do with the victory won—she would keep her baby!—and a great deal to do with the healing in her relationship with her parents.

  In the long weeks since she’d been forced onto that train, she’d convinced herself neither parent held affection for her. Apparently she’d been quite wrong.

  Love for her parents swelled, brimmed, and nearly overflowed her ability to contain it. A show of emotion, even during a tender conversation such as this, showed weakness they wouldn’t like.

  She nodded, too overcome with the pure sweetness of the moment. Deep inside her womb, an answering flutter of butterfly wings pronounced benediction on the blessed moment. She’d regained the association of her parents.

  It was a blessing, a gift, a triumph.

  Yet her heart didn’t feel so light.

  Heartbreak had a way of dampening even the sweetest of successes.

  She jumped as a heavy fist pounded on the front door.

  Mother stood, gestured for Evelyn to come, quickly. Mama pressed a finger to her lips, instructing silence.

  Ever obedient, Evelyn went with her mother into the kitchen and out of line of sight of the front door.

  Chapter Twelve

  Early evening sunlight streamed in patches through towering pines and thickening clouds as Sam paced the Quarters’ grassy yard. His tent was pitched, his makeshift bedding rolled out beneath. He peered at the sodden skies. It looked like rain, it smelled like rain, and a tent was not where he wanted to sleep.

  But until Evelyn agreed to see him, he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Inside, he felt as gray and tumultuous as the skies, like at any moment he’d bust a hole and everything would gush out. Or lightning would suddenly erupt from his ears. Or both.

  All because he’d said the wrong thing and failed to stake his claim loud and certain and ensure Evelyn knew he’d fallen hopelessly, irrevocably, one-hundred-percent truly in love with her and everything about her…especially the baby.

  Didn’t matter he hadn’t put that babe in her belly, that child was his. A man couldn’t fall in love, hat over boot-heels like he had and not want the whole amazing package.

  He realized his second gargantuan mistake: he’d told Octavia and Mrs. Cairn he’d fallen irrevocably in love with Evelyn…he hadn’t told Evelyn. If anyone needed to know that bald truth, Evelyn did.

  She would hear it from him, no matter what her father did to keep them apart.

  Behind him, a window sash slid upward. He turned, so hopeful, but it was only Evelyn’s mother at the dining room window and she paid him no mind.

  Sam kicked a pebble, sending it tumbling, feeling all of two feet tall. All over again, like no time has passed, as if he’d never made good, he was the snot-nosed, grubby, too-skinny, orphaned son of German immigrants and no one wanted him around.

  Definitely not the likes of a high society family like the Brandts.

  That was their problem.

  He’d kept telling himself he didn’t care what her parents thought. The only consideration he’d give credence to was what Evelyn chose. If she wanted him around, he’d put up with the likes of her parents, ‘cause they wouldn’t be here long.

  They probably intended to hustle their daughter onto tomorrow’s stage, back to a train, and on with her life. If he were Brandt, he’d do so.

  Thing was, Sam couldn’t let Evelyn go.

  No matter his own insecurities, he’d keep going back for more until she saw him. Almost like he craved the put-downs, the slights fancy people like her parents always gave him.

  The sound of wood sliding against wood caught his attention again—he spun around, only to see Evelyn’s mother raising the second dining room window. He caught the aroma of supper—roasted meat and vegetables.

  Hunger rumbled in his empty stomach. Every bite of food he owned was in his apartment above the mercantile…or in the mercantile…but he wasn’t about to leave and miss his chance to speak to Evelyn.

  Later, when the other young women returned from the impromptu gathering at the saloon—another dance, if he remembered right—he’d pass a message inside with them to let Evelyn know he waited. He didn’t trust her father to let her know he was here.

  Sure, he’d thought long and hard about tossing little rocks to patter against her windowpanes or calling her name on that side of the building. But he’d rather deny her the chance to ignore him. If he waited until she stepped outside, she’d have to see him face to face.

  Once the Quarters had been dark and silent for an hour or so, everyone inside asleep—when he was good and certain she wasn’t coming out tonight—he’d head to the mercantile for something to eat. He could wait that long.

  Inside the building, footsteps sounded on the stairs, accompanied by the soft murmur of female voices and the slide of a chair against floorboards.

  They must be sitting down to supper.

  He found himself leaning against the corner of the building, out of sight of the open dining room windows, desperate to hear Evelyn’s voice.

  A breeze ruffled through the trees, masking any sounds from the house. He nearly growled in frustration.

  Eventually, the wind calmed, and he caught part of a phrase in a deep, masculine voice. Definitely Evelyn’s father. “…offer you an option.”

  The end of his sentence crossed the distance loud and clear. An option about what? Staying? Going? What?

  “Your actions,” the old man said, pausing, his tone vacillating between stern and sympathetic, “disembarking the rail car, electing to take your chances—here, of all places—”

  Definitely condescending. Couldn’t her father see how much she simply wanted control over her own life? The natural consequences of a surprise pregnancy were sentence enough. And here, no matter how much he saw this place as the wild frontier, was his home.

  “—speak volumes. I regret the hasty decision to send you to San Francisco with the ultimatum that you part with the child. It seems you prefer otherwise.”

  Yes! Sam wanted to hoot with satisfaction. Who knew what made her father realize Evelyn should have a say in her own future, but Sam wasn’t about to look too closely at the man’s motives.

  Sam strained to hear Evelyn’s response, but couldn’t hear her. She spoke significantly lower than her old man.

  The wind picked up again, gusting and carrying the voices far away. Sam wanted to curse—he needed to hear this! Eavesdropping or not, this conversation mattered to Evelyn’s happiness, therefore it mattered to him.

  “…two options…San Francisco.”

  Sam’s gut knotted. San Francisco. Not here. Not with him.

  He inched closer to the open window, his back pressed against the wall. He needed to hear this.

  “First option,” her father pronounced, “we present you in San Francisco society as the widowed niece—” another gust of wind whipped the words away.

  Already, Sam hated the idea. He’d known her parents would take her away…but he’d been hopeful anyway.

  “…cannot bear to remain…”

  The incoming storm made it more and more difficult to hear. He felt the first raindrops splatter on his scalp and outstretched hand.

  He caught another snippet. “…you keep your child.”

  A bittersweet victory, to be sure.

  His shoulders slumped in defeat…and at the same time, relief so profound it welled within him and he struggled to remain silent. Her father seemed to actually care that his daughter loved her baby. He might not comprehend paternal love, but Sam sure did.

  If Evelyn had to leave him, leave Colorado, and go to
California—if only to win her father’s approval to keep her child, than somehow, he’d accept it.

  Maybe, just maybe, he’d quit his business here, sell it if he could, and follow her there.

  The rain spattered harder and he caught just bits and pieces of murmuring voices. Mostly her father’s loud baritone, but none if made any sense.

  “Your mother and I…” and “…option…” made it through the increasing wind gusts.

  The wind seemed to stall of a sudden, and Brandt’s voice carried clearly. “…has two nephews on his wife’s side of the family whose fortune comes from timber. Very well off. Joseph has agreed to arrange a marriage for you with one of those two boys immediately upon your arrival.”

  Emotion rose within Sam, so poignant and hot, the pressure in his chest so severe he couldn’t breathe.

  “And, naturally, you keep your child.” Brandt cleared his throat, the sound harsh and abrupt. “And your mother and I visit you once per year.” Silence stretched for the space of ten pounding heartbeats. “We would like very much to know our grandchild.”

  Sam’s temper spiked. How could a father leverage his daughter’s singular desire to keep her baby—and the affection of her parents—against his selfish wishes to see her wed to a stranger? Why? When Sam was here, right here, willing and able to love her and care for her…

  Not as well as some well-to-do timber heir, but well enough.

  He found one hand pressed to his chest, fighting the pressure, slipping one more button through its hole. He dragged air in—suffocation closed in.

  It wasn’t right.

  None of it.

  If Evelyn knew, truly knew the depth of his love for her, how much he wanted to marry her and make a family with her, including the babe she carried, she wouldn’t entertain this ridiculous conversation with her father.

  If he knew anything, he knew, without a sliver of doubt, he’d seen the truth of her love for him shining in those remarkable eyes. She’d accepted him, insignificant mercantile, tiny apartment above stairs, fledgling mining town and all.

  The only thing that made a lick of sense was that she hadn’t been home when he’d last spoken to her father, when he’d called her name and pleaded in a raised voice for her to come to the door.