by Kristin Holt
After all, they were on the frontier. She couldn’t expect the green to have a neatly tended lawn and flower gardens, nor could she expect the men to dress or speak like those of her acquaintance at home. Nor did she want them to. A sense of adventure, of exploration and freedom left her giddy.
As Mrs. Brandt, she intended to gather enough intelligence during tonight’s social to determine if there were indeed any hopeful possibilities amongst the men.
She wanted to see more of Mr. Kochler, the merchant who represented the men as a body. She’d ridden in his wagon from Leadville to Prosperity, and noted he wasn’t just handsome as the devil…he’d also seemed very nice.
The afternoon was warm, the sun shone, and for the first time since Doctor McKinstrey had diagnosed the cause of her constant vomiting, she felt genuine optimism.
She’d managed a great coup—free of the train, free of the threat of Uncle Joseph’s house and all it represented—she’d grabbed hold of the reins of her own destiny.
Now if only her dress wasn’t too tight around her middle.
She’d taken a needle and thread to the seams of her gown within the privacy of the room she shared with Caroline, and managed to eke out another inch or two of breathing room. But the gown had been sewn for her much slimmer figure and strictly laced corset. It seemed silly to think her current wardrobe would last more than another month.
That was a problem for another day.
As the women made their way onto the town green, natural mountain vegetation dampened the hems of their dresses. The grass rode high, obviously uncut and untended. It yielded a sense of the great outdoors. It was truly lovely here, the Rocky Mountains as impressive as the reports claimed. It was cooler here in the mountain valley than she’d experienced on the Great Plains, as comfortable as the breezy seashore at home.
It smelled fresh and hopeful and made a woman want to stay.
Maybe she did have a chance.
Men strolled into the square toward mismatched chairs set up running down the sides of planks laid over saw-horses. The makeshift tables had been draped with anything the men could find. A heavy canvas tarp served as a tablecloth on one end while a factory length of heavy denim covered the other.
The crudeness of it made Evelyn smile. What would her mother think of this frontier mining town? How refreshing to be here, where the last thing that mattered was matching linen tablecloths.
“Welcome, ladies.” This from a man she’d not met. Tall, slim of build, his straw colored hair stuck out from beneath his weathered hat.
“I’m Thomas. Here’s how this is gonna work. See those fifteen chairs?” He grinned a bit too widely. “We’re gonna have all fifteen of you fine specimens sit along the same side of that table. Us men are going to form a line.”
“He’s a handsome one.” Caroline, at Evelyn’s elbow, leaned close. “I wonder what they have planned?”
“Oh, wait. One rule everybody needs to follow. No pairing off until day after tomorrow.”
Evelyn found herself chuckling right along with everyone else…male and female. Wasn’t pairing off the whole point?
Thomas motioned for silence. “That rule’s in place so everybody gets to meet each lady. As we gents outnumber you, we want each of you ladies to have the chance to meet us all. You never know,” he said with a smile revealing perfectly straight teeth, “maybe the better guy’s not come along yet.” He winked.
That brought more laughter from both the cluster of newly arrived ladies and their hosts.
Thomas laughed right along with them. “We’re gonna rotate through, see, so everybody gets a chance to meet everybody else tonight during this Opening Social. Sam’s gonna keep time. Every five minutes, he’ll rap his gavel, signaling a halt to the courtin’, and at that point, us men will slide one chair from the top,” he gestured to the end nearest a stage the men had constructed for some later event, “to the bottom.” He tossed a long-fingered hand toward the end of the line.
“As there’s more of us than of you,” Thomas continued, “we’re gonna wait nice and patient-like in line at the head of the table ‘til it’s our turn.”
Evelyn smiled at Thomas’s word selection, obviously coaching the miners on proper behavior.
Caroline giggled, her expression fairly glowing with excitement. She squeezed Evelyn’s elbow and winked.
“Ladies, be seated,” Thomas ordered, gesturing to the side of the table that put the sun at the ladies backs.
Evelyn followed the others, hanging back just a little. This could be an interesting evening.
Who’d ever heard of this kind of conversation? She’d not have more than mere minutes to form an opinion about any one of these men.
At the outset, the only one that interested her was Mr. Sam Kochler. But he stood with the gavel on the grandstand and his pocket watch, serving as time-keeper. It seemed he wouldn’t participate.
Disappointment dampened her spirits.
But she still had the coming opportunity to talk with him, an interview, as he’d requested, as he didn’t have information about her from the agency.
He’d been occupied when the wagons and riders had pulled into town, so they’d put it off until tomorrow. Now she found herself looking forward to their meeting.
Until then, she’d see if any of the other men caught her fancy. She took her seat between Caroline and Miss Amelia Ust, an uppity brunette whose self-confidence was a bit much. The men had seen fit to seat the ladies an arm’s length from each other, as to make it easier to hear during their conversations.
The men queued up. A bit of jostling for position occurred, and laughter tittered from the seated ladies. It seemed some of the men hammed it up for their guests.
It wasn’t long though, and the first fifteen men in line had taken their places seated across from the ladies.
Evelyn folded her hands in her lap, self-conscious about her swelling belly and grateful it was hidden underneath the table. Not something she wanted to explain to most of the fellows during introductions.
On the grandstand, Sam tapped his gavel and called, “Begin!”
Directly across from Evelyn, the smallest man she’d ever seen peered back at her. Seemed to size her up, like horseflesh. He didn’t say a word.
While all around her, men had begun in a chorus of conversation, introducing themselves, tossing compliments at the lady they addressed.
“Looking mighty purdy this afternoon, ma’am,” the fellow across from Caroline said.
Still, nothing from Mr. Small and Silent.
Evelyn channeled her best imitation of Rose Gephard Brandt—Mother would never fidget nor appear doubtful—and waited.
Another few seconds dragged past with him staring at her, mute. Just staring, blinking, and…his gaze wandered over her bosom. Gentlemen might glance, might appreciate, but she’d never been subjected to this lascivious treatment.
Shock rendered her immobile. Wholly unprepared in every way, she floundered for a proper response. Should she snap her fingers to draw his attention? Stand and walk away? Call him on his ungentlemanly behavior?
Heat flushed her cheeks. She didn’t know whether to be angry or embarrassed. Her breasts, heavier and fuller with pregnancy seemed to ache even more under Mr. Small and Silent’s scrutiny.
What made him think he could pin her with his gaze, as if she were an exotic animal in the Central Park Menagerie?
She’d had enough. Breaching every modicum of polite conversation, Evelyn slapped a palm on the makeshift table, intending to snag Mr. Small and Silent’s attention from her person.
It worked. He glanced up, his brown eyes glassed over as if he’d lost himself in the apparent glory of her bosom.
“Yoo-hoo,” she waved a hand as if in greeting, something Mother would never do, “Eyes on my face, if you please.”
He blinked, his vision clearing a little.
“I am Mrs. Evelyn Brandt.” She’d been right to sustain Caroline’s suggestion of widowhood. If
this fellow were any indication, she couldn’t risk the negative attention from men who assumed her easy prey.
Small and Silent squinted his eyes. Whether against the glare or because conversation interrupted his visual feast, she didn’t know nor care.
At last he spoke. “Gerry.” His gaze drifted back to her bosom. “With a G.”
O.K. …not a keeper.
The first five minutes dragged mercilessly by. On either side of her, Caroline and Amelia happily chatted up their partners. Laughter filled the green. Most everyone enjoying this initial exercise.
Just not her.
It seemed fifteen minutes had passed when Sam finally banged his gavel against the block and announced, “That’s time, gents. Move on down the line.”
This time, Evelyn was delighted the friendly man who’d sat across from Amelia was now partnered with her. He introduced himself, allowed her to introduce herself, and immediately regaled her with the story of finding the first strike on his claim. He had her laughing and enjoying his antics that when the gavel struck, those five minutes had flown past.
Eventually, Evelyn formed an opinion about most of the men she’d been introduced to. Some were charming, remarkably handsome in a rough-hewn sort of way, and interesting. Others she easily struck off her mental list. Some she’d found made her most uncomfortable, like Gerry. Others, she’d formed no opinion about.
But her greatest interest still lay with Sam Kochler. What was his story? Why hadn’t he participated in this Opening Social?
Was he married? Her smile faltered and memories of Daniel rose unbidden and unwelcome.
That would certainly take him out of the running.
Caroline must’ve seen her gaze following Sam as the group took a five minute breather halfway through—had she talked with twenty men already? They stood and stretched their legs.
“Handsome, isn’t he?” Caroline asked, tipping her head in Sam Kochler’s direction.
“Yes.”
“I hear he’s the only man in town who isn’t interested in taking one of us as his bride. Well, there’s a second, but he doesn’t really count.”
That both disappointed and surprised Evelyn. “Is that so?”
“Yes. The other’s old enough to be our grandfather. He’s a great cook, though, and I hear he’s preparing supper for tonight and an upcoming picnic, too.”
Evelyn brushed off news of the other man. “What is Mr. Kochler’s story?”
“He has a sweetheart, I hear. Can’t remember who told me that. One of those who came through the queue, I believe. Said Sam Kochler has a sweetheart in Georgia. A lady he’s asked to wed him.”
Evelyn felt deflated. Who knew one man—one out of forty—would affect her this way? She’d not spoken with him other than a brief greeting at the train station, and still, she found herself disappointed.
If she’d lined up all forty in this roughshod frontier mountain town and taken her pick, Mr. Sam Kochler would’ve been her first choice.
So, who was left?
She looked down the line, at the half she’d not yet spoken with. None of them had…something…whatever Sam had—presence? He stood straighter, taller, and carried himself with a poise the others didn’t have. The man seemed more capable, more in charge.
She liked his charisma and the fact he’d not made her remotely uncomfortable. She shivered with disgust for Gerry’s complete disregard for her feelings. She was far more than a female body.
Sam told everyone to retake their seats for the second hour and a half of rotations. He called time and banged his gavel.
The first match-up looked at Evelyn as if she were a side of beef. Or horseflesh. Seemed to appraise the quality of her teeth, her skin, her clothes. She felt herself bristling beneath his gaze. She certainly didn’t like the way he leered at her, even though his attention only skimmed her chest.
She’d learned her lesson with Gerry. “Good evening. I am Mrs. Brandt.”
His gaze tracked from her breasts, up her throat, to her chin. Lingered, and headed south.
“Your name?” she asked.
His gaze flicked up, made it as far as her nose, before dropping once more.
Never—Gerry not withstanding—had she been so disrespected. At least Gerry hadn’t smirked at her.
She didn’t know whether embarrassment or aggravation had the upper hand—she felt both wrestling for dominance.
He finally deigned to answer. “They call me Pickle Pike.”
She raised one brow.
“Maybe later, sweet cheeks, I’ll let you see why.”
Embarrassment flooded her cheeks. Oh, she could just imagine.
Without hesitation, Pickle Pike’s name moved solidly into the Never column of her mental tabulation.
She found herself crossing her arms, not that the gesture protected her bust from his view, but she felt the protective imaginary wall go up between them, just the same. She turned her attention from him. This conversation was over.
Glancing down the long table, in both directions, other couples visited happily. One twosome on the far end to her left held hands across the width of the table. Seemed as though they’d already made a match.
Good for them.
Because her gaze had been everywhere but on Pickle Pike, she missed Sam Kochler’s approach. He must’ve knocked Pike on the head with his gavel, for Pike’s screech snagged her attention back just in time to see Mr. Kochler’s good-sized fist holding that heavy gavel an inch from Pike’s crown.
“Consider that a warning.” Sam’s voice brooked no room for argument.
“I ain’t done nothin’.” Pike rubbed his head, fussing at it as if the gavel had raised a goose egg.
“Looks to me like you’re not getting off to a good start with the lady.”
Pike glowered at her.
Evelyn smiled ever so sweetly. “I do agree. He is, indeed, off to a very poor start. Not much of a conversationalist, this one.”
“You could do your part,” Pickle Pike groused. “But you just sit there all stiff and shut me out.” He smirked, obviously believing he’d won that round.
Before she could formulate a fitting rebuttal, Sam Kochler stepped in. “Eyes on the lady’s face, Pike. First impressions, my friend, first impressions.”
So he’d seen…he knew Pike’s attention had been focused completely on her bosom. And he’d cracked the fellow over the head with his gavel, and told him to shape up.
Sam met her gaze then, a long, meaningful exchange that clearly communicated his concern for her wellbeing. Something about his mere presence knocked sense into Putrid Pickle, because he shook himself, sat up straighter in his chair, and actually located her eyes for a point of focus.
“Where’d you say you was from?”
Evelyn sighed. “New York.”
“How tall is you?”
She smiled sweetly. “How tall are you?”
“Tall enough,” he muttered. “But you—you’re tall—for a female.”
Though he hadn’t meant it as a compliment, she decided to needle him by choosing to misinterpret. She put on a bright smile. “Thank you, Mr. Pike.”
Whatever remained of her wretchedly long five minutes across from Putrid Pickle were precious moments she’d never regain. If the likes of Gerry and Pike resembled even a third of their candidates, Evelyn had made a huge mistake in getting off that train.
Her gaze landed on Sam Kochler, slowly making his way back to the grandstand. The brim of his dark hat shaded his face, the shadows emphasizing his square jaw and well-proportioned features. He checked the time and slipped his watch back into his pocket. Regret washed through her, bitter and heavy.
One man in forty, the only fellow she wanted to spend any amount of time with, and he had a sweetheart back home in Georgia. A gal he’d proposed marriage to, making him as good as wed.
Oh, she’d learned that lesson good and well.
In that moment, the stark realization settled into undeniable fact. If Sam
Kochler was off the market, Prosperity hadn’t a thing to offer her. True, there were plenty of tall-enough, handsome-enough, charming-enough fellows that might make amiable husbands. But only one sparked her interest.
She simply had to know the truth…was he engaged to a sweetheart back home?
She could wait for tomorrow morning and her appointment with him. One way or another, she’d ask him directly if the rumors were true, if he had a sweetheart at home.
If he did, she’d enlist his help to return to Leadville, trade in her remaining tickets, and make her way west.
But if he didn’t—well, then, perhaps not all was lost.
Sam Kochler opened the mercantile doors promptly at eight o’clock. Morning sunlight streamed through the shop’s front door. The weather outside was so pleasant, he propped the door open with a five-pound river rock to let the air in.
He’d barely made it to collect his broom from the closet when Miss—Mrs., rather—Brandt came in. “Morning,” she called.
Today she wore a navy blue suit with long sleeves that brought out the blue of her eyes and complemented the red-gold of her hair. The fashion was still as high, the tailoring exquisite. Her boots tapped on the hardwood floor as she crossed past his display shelves and made her way to the counter.
“Morning, ma’am. Thanks for coming.” Sam set aside his broom and collected the sheet of paper he’d brought downstairs for just this purpose. He could interview Mrs. Brandt between customers, if any, so he’d have her specifics for the upcoming talent show. No sense letting this late addition miss out on a proper introduction.
He moved a sturdy chair from its place by the stove nearer to the counter and offered it. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to stand.”
“As you wish, ma’am.” He made his way behind the counter, opened an ink well, and freshened his pen.
He caught her smiling at him. A sweet, shy smile that reminded him of the society circles Octavia had moved in. Ah, yes. These two ladies were cut from the same bolt of cloth.
And that, right there, ought to be enough to keep him at a safe distance.
But the realization didn’t douse his curiosity. Why would this woman leave home and hearth and take a risk in Prosperity, a last minute add-on? Mrs. Mumford had to have contracted with her at the eleventh hour, after posting the letter and before seeing the brides off at the station.
