A Mail-Order Heart (Miners to Millionaires Book 1)

by Janelle Daniels

  A Mail-Order Heart

  Miners to Millionaires - Book 1

  Janelle Daniels

  Dream Cache Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  Summary

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Newsletter Sign Up

  Titles by Janelle Daniels

  Connect with Janelle

  A MAIL-ORDER HEART

  Dream Cache Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  www.janelledaniels.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Janelle Daniels

  Cover Art © 2016 Erin Dameron Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Clara Stewart has every intention of marrying Ivan, her mail-order groom, but her plans fall apart when he dies before her arrival—leaving not one fiancée but nine! When the female-starved town offers them Ivan’s home and claim, Clara steps forward and promises to do whatever necessary to see to the women’s future, regardless of her own attraction to the town’s sheriff.

  Sheriff Sawyer Morrison had one goal: to protect his town. But when nine women arrive, all claiming to be mail-order brides for the same man, his once quiet life is thrown into chaos. Safeguarding them from aggressive suitors is nothing compared to the inner battle he faces over Clara, a woman who heats his blood… but can never be his own.

  But when Clara is kidnapped by the same person who’s sabotaging their mine, Sawyer must choose between the life he knew and the future he craves.

  To sign up for Janelle Daniels’ mailing list and receive notice of new titles as they are available, click here.

  To Kristi, Stephanie, Tracy, Amy, and Dan. You all made this possible. Thank you!

  Chapter 1

  There came a time when a person had to admit they were insane. Clara reached that point yesterday.

  Dusting off her new traveling skirt, more brown in color than gray thanks to the dirt and grime that had accumulated on the fabric over the past week and a half of travel, she stepped onto the train platform in Promise Creek.

  She might be crazy for traveling so far to marry a man she'd never met, but she wanted to look good for Ivan, her mail-order groom. It was the least she could do after he'd helped her out of a bad situation. Besides, he would be her husband, and while she didn't see herself as a breathtaking beauty, she was passably pretty, and she hoped her future husband would find her rich chestnut hair and sparking brown eyes appealing, regardless of her state of dress.

  She curved her cupid-bow lips at the corners, glancing around for a man equally as unsure of who he was looking for. No doubt they'd be the only two left on the platform in a few moments once the other passengers left in search of a quick lunch.

  Her hand shook, but she stilled it. She would not show any nerves when her future husband first saw her. She wanted him to know that she felt confident, secure in her decision to marry him. Besides, she wasn’t some timid woman who feared the future. She embraced it.

  And she would embrace him as soon as she saw him. It was best to start things off warmly between them.

  The Promise Creek Station was small compared to others they'd stopped at, but there was still a thirty-minute layover where travelers could alight and stretch their legs while the train took on new cargo and passengers.

  Clara handed the porter a ticket to claim her baggage and waited until he brought her trunk to her. She wouldn't leave it in case someone decided to steal it. She didn't have much, but she refused to part with the few items she'd brought from home to remember her parents and siblings by.

  Ivan would have to come to her.

  As the minutes passed, Clara's shoulders slouched, and she went from perfect posture, to leaning against her trunk, to finally, using it as a seat.

  Where was Ivan? Had he changed his mind or forgotten her?

  Of course not. She was his bride. No man would forget to pick up his bride, would he? And there was no reason he’d change his mind. In his letters, he’d expressed how much he wanted her to come.

  But she didn’t know the man well. She'd only received two letters from him before her mother urged her to accept his proposal. In a family with twelve children, she the eldest, and not enough food to feed them all, her choices had been limited to two—take a position as a factory worker, knowing her life would be shortened from the strenuous labor, or take her chances out west as a mail-order bride since no men in town had chosen to make her their wife.

  After her mother's urging, she'd chosen marriage.

  But oh, how she missed the babies back home. Her twin sisters, the youngest of the brood, used to climb into her bed as she told them stories that filled their little two-year-old minds with wonder.

  She bit her lip, swallowing the lump forming in her throat. She would not cry here. She'd held it together the entire trip, and she would not break down moments before she met her future husband.

  The train whistled as the locomotive pulled from the deserted station. Large tufts of smoke shot from the engine, and she could almost taste the sooty granules on her tongue.

  Sweat slicked her neck at its departure.

  What would she do if he didn't come for her? She'd have to make arrangements for lodging that night. Mentally counting what was left in her purse, she hesitated spending any of it until she knew how long she'd need to make it last. One night in an upper-crust hotel would take half of what she possessed.

  "Is there someone you're waiting for, ma'am?" An elderly gentleman asked, clutching a faded grey cap in his hands.

  Relief pumped through her. She wasn't completely alone now. "Yes. I'm waiting for my fiancé."

  The man gulped, wringing his hat. "You're here for Crazy Ivan, aren't you?"

  "Crazy Ivan?" Heavens. "I don't think we're thinking of the same man. I'm Ivan Pavlova's fiancée."

  The man winced. "I was afraid you'd say that. Come on. I'll bring you to the others."

  "What others?"

  He glanced over his shoulder. "The other women here to marry Crazy Ivan."

  Her feet rooted to the platform. "I beg your pardon?" Surely she hadn't heard him correctly. There couldn't be anyone else there to marry Mr. Pavlova. She was his fiancée and had letters to prove it. There had to be some other explanation. The man she’d corresponded with wouldn’t just throw her over without writing to her.

  "You're the ninth woman claiming to be Ivan's mail-order bride today."

  "The ninth?" she screeched. This couldn't be happening. She'd traveled too far, given up too much. "Where is Ivan? Is he with the other women?" Ivan had to straighten this out. She was out of money, and going home wasn't possible. Her family had barely scraped by, and only because her mother sacrificed two of her three meals a day.

  Clara had to marry Ivan Pavlova. Today. There was no o
ther option.

  The man's shoulders slumped. "Perhaps you should join the group, and let them explain."

  Oh, no. He wasn’t getting away without giving her more information. "Sir, I must insist that you tell me where my fiancé is immediately. He can clear up this misunderstanding. I’m not moving from this spot until you tell me what I want to know."

  He sighed and turned back toward her with pity in his eyes. "He's dead, ma'am. Crazy Ivan died three days ago."

  When a ninth bride walked into the hotel lobby, Sheriff Sawyer Morrison was ready for murder. Damn it, Ivan.

  As that thought came, Sawyer shook it right out. That was no way to think about the dead. However, if Ivan wasn't dead already, Sawyer was willing to bet one of the women screeching in the cleared-out lobby would happily perform the task.

  "Oh, no!" A dark-haired girl, the loudest of the bunch, hollered once she spotted the newcomer. "No. No. Ivan was my fiancé!"

  Sawyer snaked an arm around the banshee before she could sink her claws into the pretty brunette with the widest brown eyes he'd ever seen. "Now, Miss…" What was her name? She'd yelled it enough times he should remember, but honestly, he'd blocked every word shrieked from her mouth. "We'll get this sorted out in no time. Restrain yourself. I won’t ask again. If you attack one more person, I'll be forced to put you in a cage. Neither of us wants that."

  He sure didn’t. In a town bursting with single, wealthy men ready to establish families after their mines paid out—and too few women—he'd get an earful for throwing a woman in jail. Good reason or no.

  When she stopped fighting him, he released her slowly and turned his attention to the newcomer.

  How would she react to the news? Not only about Ivan’s death, but about the other women. From what he'd seen from the others, she'd either scream in anger like Banshee or she'd melt into a puddle of tears.

  He eyed the sturdy traveling dress and guessed the latter. A woman used to work, as her dress suggested, wouldn't have time for a tantrum. But even as he thought of her possible reactions, the attractive curves showcased by the plain garment distracted him.

  He was a man. His visceral reaction wasn’t anything he was ashamed of, but it was damned inconvenient. Not to mention, wrong. This woman had come to marry another man.

  But that man was dead.

  He cleared his throat, steering his thoughts into a more appropriate line of thought as he doffed his hat and approached her. "I'm Sheriff Morrison, ma'am. Am I correct to assume that you’re Ivan Pavlova's fiancée?"

  She nodded once, her eyes wide as she glanced at the group of women behind him.

  He stepped in her line of sight, and her gaze jerked to his. Clashing. Holding. Melding.

  The power of those coffee-bean eyes robbed him of breath.

  Mercy. She was divine.

  "Are those women also claiming to be fiancées?" she asked, but didn't try to peek at the madness behind him.

  So, she already knew.

  He looked to the old porter, and the man shrugged. "She made me tell."

  Sawyer raised a brow before turning his attention back to the woman. It wasn’t hard to loosen the man’s lips. "You're aware that you’re the ninth woman claiming to be engaged to Ivan Pavlova's, and that he passed three days ago?" he asked, making sure she had received correct information.

  "Yes. I am aware of the facts."

  Sawyer leaned forward, ready to catch her mid-swoon if need be.

  Please don't faint.

  His wish came true. She didn’t pass out. She didn't cry or scream either.

  Her face impassive, she didn't move a muscle. She didn't clench her fists, didn't yell. Didn't even blink. Blank eyes stared into his, lost. Alone.

  Numb.

  She'd gone completely numb.

  Damn.

  He'd seen enough shock to know the signs. Joining a lawless gold rush town at its peak did that. He'd witnessed more thefts and murders than he cared to think about. The victims lucky enough to survive such ordeals bore the same look plastered on this woman's face.

  "What’s your name, ma'am?" he whispered, worried he'd spook her.

  After a moment, deadened eyes trailed up from his chest. "Clara… Clara Stewart."

  He nodded slowly, allowing her time to get used to the new circumstances.

  With a deep breath, her eyes lost some of the lifelessness and she lifted her chin. "What will happen now? I can't go home."

  Before he could speak, the other women shouted again.

  Banshee yelled, "I can't go home either!"

  "If anyone gets to stay, it'll be me," a blond woman asserted.

  Another one cried.

  He closed his eyes, lifting his face toward the ceiling. Lord, help him.

  When the women jostled each other, he stepped forward. "Don't make me follow through with my threat." All the women froze at his words.

  Good. At least he had some power over the situation. "I know you're all worried and scared. It's understandable. But I promise you, we’ll get this all straightened out. There's no need to panic. None of you will be sent home. I summoned the mayor, and he’ll figure out a solution that is acceptable to you all. Until he arrives, I need you to remain calm even if twenty more brides walk into this room."

  He lost them at that point. With the idea of twenty more women claiming to be the fiancée of the half-crazed miner, the group went berserk.

  "But how will I find a husband if there's almost thirty brides?" one of them wailed.

  Two others madly faced off while another outright screamed. Sawyer was ready to throw his hands in the air and walk away. Or better yet, he’d lock them in the jail and let them fight it out amongst themselves. "Look—"

  Clara stepped forward. "Everyone, calm down." Her words were quiet but firm.

  Sawyer's jaw sagged when the volume in the room dropped immediately. His head snapped toward the soft-spoken miracle worker and wanted to kiss her feet.

  She stepped closer to the group. "We need to think right now. This is horrible. Absolutely horrible. We all needed a marriage to Ivan or we wouldn't be here. I've traveled hundreds of miles, and I know you've all come just as far."

  Several of the women nodded, although Banshee’s lips pressed together, her arms folding with a huff.

  Clara rewarded the group with a small, reassuring smile. "I'm sure the mayor will be able to do something for us. We're women who've come to Promise Creek in good faith. Surely, the town will help us in some way. Isn't that right, Sheriff?"

  He jumped at the chance to help her. "Yes. Everything will be taken care of."

  The bright smile she gave him made him feel ridiculously pleased. One smile shouldn’t have impacted him that much.

  "See? You've heard it from the sheriff himself. Everything will work out."

  Chapter 2

  Clara's heart fluttered when an appreciative smile crossed the sheriff's lips. She could tell he'd been two seconds away from losing his temper at the bunch of raging women, and Clara had no desire to see such a sight.

  Not that a blow up wasn't deserved.

  The women were crazy. Did they not realize that each and every one of them felt the same about the situation? Each woman was upset. Desperate. Clara wanted to lay down and throw a tantrum of epic proportions, but who would that help? Certainly not herself. And certainly not everyone else in the group.

  It was time to be calm, logical. There had to be a solution to this mess.

  She stepped forward and joined the group of women, several of them trying to talk over the others.

  "Thank you for what you did," a woman with light brown hair said, a grateful grin lighting her face. "I thought they were going to brawl like those men you hear about in saloons over a…"—her cheeks flushed with color—"woman of ill repute."

  Clara smiled broadly, hoping to put the woman at ease. "Well, we couldn't have that. I'm Clara Stewart."

  "Isabelle Sweeney. Just call me Belle though, most people do."

  "All
right, Belle."

  A portly gentleman entered the room then, his hands held high once the group of women screeched at his arrival. "Ladies, please. Please!"

  Clara stepped forward, turning her back on the gentleman to face the women. "Let's hear him out first. Remember, this isn't his fault. He's here to help us."

  A few women put their heads down in shame, shoulders sinking as they realized how ridiculous their behavior was.

  Clara nodded before turning back toward the man. "Please continue, sir."

  His chin wobbled as it notched up in importance. "I am Mayor Bracken. I've been informed of the damn terrible circumstances."

  One of the women squeaked at the language, and the mayor turned a questioning brow toward Sheriff Morrison.

  The sheriff raised his hands like he had no idea what the woman's problem was. Clara held back her snort. But just barely.

  The gray-haired man continued with the shake of his head, "As I was saying, I know you’ve all come to Promise Creek in hopes of a union with Crazy—er—Ivan Pavlova. Unfortunately, that isn't possible now that he’s dead. However—" he raised his voice when the women began panicking— "However, there are still possibilities for marriages if that’s what you're after."

  A petite blonde whispered, "Marriages? But I thought Ivan was dead."

  Clara cleared her throat. "What marriages are you speaking of? Other men in town, I presume?"

  "Exactly."

  "I can't just marry anyone!" the blonde cried.

  Another huffed. "I came to marry a wealthy man."

  The murmuring collided then as each and every woman said her piece about the news.

  Clara tried to calm them, but had no luck this time. Instead, she turned her attention to the mayor. "Sir, I think I speak for the rest of us when I say that we aren't comfortable marrying just anyone. We've all corresponded with Ivan," she said, only guessing that each woman had exchanged letters with the scoundrel, "and we took a chance on him because we felt we knew him."