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

by Kristin Holt

  “You was supposed to get us forty brides!” Gerry jumped to his feet. Standing, the smallest man on the mountain reached the same height Big Pete did sitting.

  “Yeah, one for each of us.” Such chatter filled the saloon, Sam wasn’t sure who’d seconded Gerry’s accusation, but it didn’t really matter. It seemed most of the fellas were of the same consensus.

  “I say we hold us a lottery!” This from Jedediah Mees. If something stupid happened, good ol’ Jed was usually right in the middle of it. “Yeah. Draw us some straws, tickets, or somethin’.”

  Pickle Pike spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the floor. “I say we put it to a vote.” He stood, garnering support from his usual cronies. “All in favor of a lottery say aye.”

  A chorus of ‘ayes’ erupted but Sam banged the gavel again. He’d anticipated this very response, having heard talk among the men in the long weeks since they’d first cooked up the plan to send away for enough brides for all of ‘em.

  Inherently, Sam understood a merchant’s plight; supply wasn’t always enough to meet the demand. When any commodity was highly desirable, prices climbed steeply and some buyers would go without. Didn’t matter if that commodity was yards of calico or females wearing said calico.

  Fortunately, he’d had time since the post arrived on the daily stage to think through his strategy.

  “Not going to happen,” Sam shouted, rapping his gavel with several sharp strokes. “Listen up. Fourteen women got on that train,” Sam repeated. “They are due to arrive tomorrow. As planned, we’ll ride to the depot in Leadville to collect them.”

  “Not so fast,” Pickle Pike bellowed. He climbed onto his chair, to put himself head and shoulders over Sam—a move designed to usurp control of the meeting. “We got us a dilemma, and we’re gonna handle this all democratic like. Every man who put down hard-earned money to pay for a bride gets a vote.”

  Implying, naturally, that Sam didn’t have a say in how this played out.

  This earned Pike a smattering of applause and shouts of support, but Sam saw where this was headed and he didn’t like it one bit.

  Pike held Sam’s gaze, his expression calculating. “As you’re one of two men in Prosperity who didn’t plunk down a fair share, you don’t get yourself a vote.” He spat a long arc of brown tobacco juice, this time coming close to the spittoon. “Now, ever’body—”

  Sam smacked the gavel but it did no good. Pike had effectively taken over the meeting.

  If Sam hadn’t been put in charge of this whole mail order bride fiasco by these very same men, he might have washed his hands of the mess and walked out of this meeting. He didn’t need this headache.

  He could just imagine the chaos—and the fallout—if he let the men of Prosperity change the rules of engagement with less than twenty-four hours to spare before the ladies’ arrival.

  He’d read their biographical information. Some had included real pretty photographs. From his own lousy experience, he knew too well how fickle young ladies tended to be, and he couldn’t let this venture fail. After all, his good name was on those documents with Hartford Bridal Agency and it just didn’t feel right to abandon ship.

  He tried once more to regain control of the meeting. His gavel did little to interrupt the misguided vote, where less than half, by his quick assessment, agreed with Pike’s lottery. The others argued they’d take their chances in winning over a bride the old fashioned way—charming a lady into accepting a marriage proposal.

  The louder the argument got, the more irritated Sam became. He fired his pistol straight into the rafters. This saloon’s roof had seen its fair share of gunfire and he certainly wouldn’t be the last to vent his frustration on it.

  Sam leapt into the momentary stunned silence. “As duly appointed Rule Enforcer,” he glared at Pickle Pike and held his gaze a good long moment before moving on to his minions, “I say we stick by the plan we approved by vote.”

  A few voices of reason spoke up in Sam’s defense, but he plowed forward. “We agreed, I’ll remind you, that the ladies—whether there be forty-five of ‘em or only five—each will choose for themselves, and that’s how this ‘lottery’ is going to play out.”

  Albert—owner of this saloon and Pike’s number one minion—groaned.

  Sam wouldn’t lose ground now. “That’s what we promised those ladies, what we told the agency. They’re expecting the best of you, men, and if you want to win a woman for your own, you’d best charm her with your citified manners and best courting skills.”

  Another round of applause, whistles, and general mayhem ensued. Seemed some liked this idea.

  “May be best man win!” Levi yelled from somewhere in the middle.

  A few made it known they’d have their pick of the litter.

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Precisely. That’s how this competition is going to play out.”

  “Didn’t we pay the gold for at least twenty-five?” Anger heated Tom’s attitude. “They’re nine brides short. Cheating us, they are!”

  Tom was usually so level headed, so rational. To see him hot under the collar like this just went to show how volatile the situation had become.

  “Listen up, hotheads.” Sam banged the gavel, losing patience with the idiots. “The accounting’s all right here, and I’ll show it to anyone who don’t believe me. Some things cost the same amount, such as the private rail coach, regardless how many passengers it holds. Our pooled money paid for the transportation, meals, and necessary expenses of exactly fourteen young ladies—the quantity Hartford Bridal Agency sent. Even with the six months’ lead time, fourteen is all they could get. Mrs. Mumford at the Agency said she’d keep the advertisement open, hope to send another batch of brides before winter sets in. She knows we’re hoping to make a real go of this town, and we need wives to do it.”

  That thought pacified them, but only marginally.

  He looked at this dingy, rough-hewn, rapidly constructed saloon hall and tried to see these coarse miners through an eastern ladies’ eyes. “Seems coming here ain’t high on a woman’s list.”

  Grumbling erupted. Cursing followed.

  Another round with the gavel. “Look at yourselves, would you? You’re unshaven, unwashed, we’re on the frontier and the closest millinery is two days away by train. My mercantile hardly offers the best available in the finest cities.”

  He let that sink in and watched their expressions morph from irritation to doubt and finally to acceptance. He’d spoken the bald truth, and they knew it.

  He’d thought this through, more times than he’d care to admit, in his lonely bed when pining for Miss Octavia had been at its strongest. He’d worked long and hard for more than three years to bring her west. Though it had all failed, he’d certainly realized a lot about what ladies wanted and needed.

  He shook off thoughts of Octavia. “We should be mighty pleased they found more than a dozen who want to cast their lot with us, hoping they’ll make a decent match with the likes of you.”

  “Sam,” Pike muttered, “makin’ us sound like beggars, you are. We’re finer than all that. Who are you to talk bad about us?”

  Sam shook his head. Good grief. Why, again, had he allowed himself to get suckered into trying to manhandle thirty nine female-hungry miners into some semblance of control?

  “Remember, we’re going to put our best foot forward here, gentlemen.” He met Pickle Pike’s sour gaze solidly. He was one of the least trustworthy. “Two wagons will pick the ladies up, and they’ll all ride in these two wagons back here.”

  Pike slugged Willard in the shoulder, their raucous laughter telling a whole ‘nother story.

  “As arranged, I’m driving my freight wagon, for nine of the ladies, and David will carry the other five in his outfit.” He made significant eye contact with Jedediah and Albert, the two most likely to do something stupid, like haul an unsuspecting young lady up behind him in the saddle and head back home. “Peter volunteered to bring his rig along to transport their trunks and cases
.”

  He paused, scanning their faces. “I’ve said this before, and I’m going to stay it again.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Pickle Pike voiced sourly.

  Sam pinned him with his best law-enforcing stare. “These are young ladies of quality. I’ve read their specifics. All fourteen are city-bred or come from farms in the east. If you’re too rough you’ll scare them off.” He paused for serious effect. “You do that, and you’ll find yourself out of the running.”

  Silence blanketed the smoky room, heavy and poignant.

  “There’s always someone else better behaved than you who’ll win her over. One man out of three will actually claim a bride.”

  All joviality had fled. Good. These miscreants needed the sobering reality.

  Thomas broke the silence. “You ain’t jumpin’ in, are you, Sam?”

  The accusation brought Octavia’s pouting pink lips to mind. He’d loved her—still did—so much that her rejection stung, worse than a whole nest of wasps. “Nope.” He wasn’t about to reconsider. Octavia wasn’t among the incoming brides, therefore, he didn’t want any of them. He’d let everyone else duke this out.

  “But thirty nine of us are in, right?”

  “Yeah.” Thirty nine men had pitched in the funds, the man-hours to build the Quarters and the grandstand, and had their names in the ledger. Thirty nine to fourteen. Not the best odds.

  Sam was glad he didn’t have to contend, even against the likes of these guys. “Listen to me.” He hated losing control of these gatherings. Rap, rap, rap. The gavel damn near splintered in his fist. “I intend to uphold the contract all you signed at the start of this mess.”

  Slowly, the group fizzled into quiet.

  Pike sighed, heavy enough for everybody to hear.

  Sam refused to acknowledge the theatrics. “You know what gets you kicked out of the running.” He paused for effect, scowling at the worst of the trouble-makers. “You’re not going to get another chance.” He knew this so painfully well. “You offend their tender sensibilities, fellas, and they’ll throw you out of the running all on their own and I won’t have to.”

  Sam stood on his freight wagon at the train depot in Leadville, a good fifteen miles from Prosperity. Passengers had disembarked, but so far, no gathering of young ladies. He’d climbed to the wagon bed in order to see over the heads of the milling passengers and those who’d come to meet the train. He figured he’d recognize their party when he saw them.

  One thing he’d noticed in all the years he’d courted Octavia, they ran in a gaggle like geese. When one woman stepped down, the rest would be right there with her, all fourteen stuck together like glue.

  One more glance around the crowd found all the yahoos surprisingly well-groomed. Seemed they’d taken the suggestion to clean themselves up seriously. Most wore the standard uniform of a miner: denim pants held up with suspenders and a simple button-down shirt. A couple even had on their citified suits—clothing they’d tossed aside the moment they’d landed a grubstake.

  The miners gathered ‘round and stood quietly, hats in hands.

  It seemed they knew enough to tie their horses to the hitching post and greet the brides on foot.

  Ready to make a good impression. Excellent. Maybe their behavior would be as polished and spit-shined as their boots.

  Finally two women stepped down from the train, obviously among the brides. The young things smiled wide. It wasn’t long and all fourteen huddled in a cluster of skirts and hats and sunshiny faces.

  Out of long-time habit, he counted heads.

  Fifteen.

  Hmmm. He started over.

  Nope. Fifteen gals. ‘Bout half wore hats and the rest didn’t. Some tall, some short, blondes, brunettes, even a redhead or two.

  Fifteen made for a nice surprise.

  How the service had found one more woman to contract at the last minute, after the letter was sent, he wasn’t sure, but sounded like good news to him. Evened out the odds a bit.

  Some of the young ladies dressed in fancy city doodads, others in serviceable muslin gowns of gray and brown of the servant class. He recognized the bent posture of the working poor. It seemed some had evidently come here, anxious for a better life, a fresh start—a wife with her own home instead of working in someone else’s.

  Others, it seemed, had left a pretty good life. They were dressed in finery like Octavia and came from moneyed papas and a life of leisure. This caught him off guard, surprised him, though he’d read the details on each woman. Didn’t make sense why a wealthy man’s daughter would take a chance on men in a place like Prosperity.

  Now that he’d identified their party, Sam jumped from the wagon and pushed his way through the gawking men toward the females gathered on the platform.

  He made his greetings, bowed over a gloved hand or two, and sought a chance to greet each and every one.

  As the Agency had suggested, he took to putting a check mark beside each woman’s name so he could send word back about their safe arrival.

  “Miss Vincot.”

  A sweet, young giggle and an impression of cream-colored lace and vibrant red hair. “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Sam checked off her name.

  “Miss Grayson. Miss Heinz.”

  Two gals, side by side, as it turned out, raised a hand and waved. One smiled with open admiration he’d have to be blind to miss.

  “Very good.” He turned back to his sheet of paper.

  One by one, he found each and every young lady. All seemed to be in order.

  The fifteenth member of their company stood at the edge of the group, linked arm in arm with a lovely green-eyed blonde. Miss Caroline Grayson, if remembered correctly.

  “Miss?” he asked, offering a courteous bow. This one was a beauty, the tallest in the bunch. She had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, pale lashes so long they curled, and tresses the most captivating blend of red and blonde he’d ever seen.

  Her heart-shaped face had almost porcelain-perfect skin, though dark smudges told him she hadn’t slept well nor rested much in during the long journey. Uncommonly tall and willowy, she embodied feminine grace.

  Her delicate features seemed to fit with the quality of her dress, fashioned of deep indigo silk, reminiscent of the finery Octavia had worn, and apparently of the latest fashion. Close-fitting sleeves ended with a ruffle just below her elbow, emphasizing the slimness of her figure. The decorative high neckline drew attention to an expensive cameo pinned at her throat. Her narrow skirt, draped and festooned with ribbon bows, tucked up to cascade over an impressive bustle.

  Why would a Society gal contract with a mail order bride agency? He’d worked around plenty of Atlanta’s gentry, and none of them would consider stooping so low.

  Miss Caroline Grayson interrupted that thought before he could dwell on it. “May I present Mrs. Evelyn Brandt? She joined our happy troupe along the way.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Sam murmured, surprised to discover he meant it. He took Mrs. Brandt’s slender hand in his, realizing this close that in her fashionable shoes she stood only an inch or two shorter than him. He couldn’t remember ever meeting a lady who didn’t have to look up—way up—to meet his gaze.

  He had a fleeting thought of getting himself some new boots with a more significant lift. But nothing had changed and he didn’t want a bride, even this one.

  Of all the gals, she was the finest dressed. By far. To the tune of her dress costing five or ten times what the next-best dressed lady—all his years watching Octavia as well as the many years laboring in clothing shops for the wealthy taught him to see the difference. His little mercantile might not have carried female fripperies, until very recently, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t discern the wealthy from the comfortable.

  Simply put, Mrs. Evelyn Brandt piqued his curiosity.

  What would make a woman of this quality—a missus, obviously widowed—leave the east and come to a mining town? If she’d wanted to remarry, her papa
could’ve arranged an advantageous second marriage. Even if she had no papa, she wouldn’t have had a hard time catching another husband.

  Mrs. Brandt turned then, easing her gloved hand from his. “Thank you, Mr. …?”

  “Sam Kochler, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Kochler.”

  “I’m the man in charge around here, I suppose. As you’re not listed on our roster, I’ll need some basic information from you, once we get back to camp. Uh, to town.” He had to remember they’d intentionally, unanimously voted to refer to the mining camp as “town,” to better win the ladies. They’d gone so far as to draw up a charter and give it a proper name. He’d do his best to call it Prosperity like they’d agreed.

  “All right.”

  It was then he noted, as she turned to put her back to the sun and tipped her fashionable hat to protect her pale skin from its rays that her belly was softly rounded.

  Rounded enough that it seemed oddly evident, given the slender shape of her limbs, the lean lines of her face, the absence of an extra pound on her frame anywhere.

  Pregnant?

  Ah. That made her a bit different from the other ladies, now didn’t it? But it wasn’t his business, so he raised his voice, to be better heard by the brides who’d taken to talking amongst themselves, their attention riveted on the gathering of miners on the platform. “Ladies, follow me, please. We have two wagons waiting to transport you in comfort to…town. A third will bring your trunks and baggage.”

  As Sam worked to see everyone settled, he tried not to pay too much attention as to why he ensured Mrs. Evelyn Brandt was seated in his wagon for the fifteen mile trip up the canyon to Prosperity.

  Chapter Three

  About supper time, the brides left the Quarters, a surprisingly comfortable dormitory the men had built for their use, and headed as a group toward the town square for the Opening Social.

  Evelyn tried to keep an open mind.