Rebecca Hagan Lee - [Borrowed Brides 01]
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Authors: Golden Chances
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Golden Chances
and Rebecca Hagan Lee
“Tender, enthralling romance straight from the heart!” Eloisa James,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Sparkling romance and passion that sizzles…Rebecca Hagan Lee taps into every woman’s fantasy.”—Christina Dodd,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Every Rebecca Hagan Lee book is a tender treasure!”—Teresa Medeiros,
New York Times
bestselling author
“
Golden Chance
s is delightful, warm, well-written…a ‘don’t miss’ read!”—
Romantic Times
“A clever plot with true-to-life characters and plenty of emotion create a story that will touch your heart. Special enough to read in a single sitting.”—
Rendezvous
“Historical romance fans are fortunate to have a treasure like Rebecca Hagan Lee.”—
Affaire de Coeur
“Rebecca Hagan Lee is a writer on the rise!”—
Romantic Times
A Wanted Man
Taking Chances
Gossamer
Whisper Always
A Hint of Heather
Once a Mistress
Ever a Princess
Always a Lady
Barely a Bride
Merely the Groom
Hardly a Husband
Truly a Wife
Twice Blessed (Homespun Mother’s Day anthology)
Clearly a Couple (Talk of the Ton anthology)
Coventry’s Christmas (A Regency Holiday anthology)
Golden Chances
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Copyright 1992 by Rebecca Hagan Lee. All Rights Reserved.
First e-publication 2013
Cover design by Control Freak Productions
Cover Photo Copyright Anatolypareev (Used under license from Shutterstock.com)
Published by Amber House Books, LLC
http://www.amberhousebooks.com
For more information, contact [email protected]
Golden Chances
by
Rebecca Hagan Lee
Amber House Books
Dedication
For Brenda, for liking it right from the beginning
For Teresa, who read every word
For Steve, for enduring the process
Washington City
December 1869
Reese Jordan grimaced as he finished writing out the words to the advertisement. He hoped it was right. If it was, it would change his life. He studied the lines for a moment, then scratched through a word here and there, and inked in others. He smiled, satisfied with the results. He’d done it. He’d found a way to gain his heart’s desire without compromising his beliefs. Marriage was absolutely out of the question. A real marriage anyway. But this... It would work. This was the plan of a master strategist.
His
plan.
Reese handed the sheet of paper to the clerk who placed it in the pile to be typeset.
“I want it in tomorrow’s edition.”
“That’ll be an extra two bits.”
“Fine.” Reese produced the money, including a generous tip.
“I’ll set it right away.”
Reese nodded. Early in life, he’d learned that cash gained him the respect and attention he would have preferred to garner on his own. Right now that was part of the problem. He swallowed hard. By tomorrow, his plan would be set in motion. There would be no turning back.
He slapped his hat against his thigh. The sound seemed to echo in the room. The clerk looked up at him, questioningly. Reese jammed his hat onto his head and stalked out of the office.
A wagon rolled through a puddle near the boardwalk. Mud splattered the tops of Reese’s boots and his carefully creased trousers. Reese cursed beneath his breath, damning Washington and its endless flood of traffic. The capital was readying itself for Christmas. People crowded into the city to see the sights. Greenery, red ribbons, and the sound of bells were everywhere, surrounding the inhabitants. Reese had little patience with the holiday. His mind was focused on his past and the important matter at hand. He sprinted across the muddy street to the telegraph office. It wouldn’t hurt to send the same advertisement to the Richmond newspaper.
Reese scrawled the ad copy on a sheet of paper, then paid the telegraph clerk. The cards had all been dealt. Now, all he had to do was play them carefully and wait for the results. Reese found himself whistling as he exited the telegraph office and walked back to his suite at the Madison Hotel, not some Christmas carol, but a bawdy little tune he’d learned in the war. It suited his mood.
Plan and plan carefully. That was Reese Jordan’s motto.
* * *
The clicking of the handset alerted the clerk in the telegraph office in Richmond. He quickly jotted down the words to the advertisement. The telegraph key quieted. The clerk hastily scanned the message:
WANTED: HEALTHY WOMAN BETWEEN THE AGES OF 18-23 TO PROVIDE HEIR FOR WEALTHY RANCHER. WIDOW WITH EXCELLENT LINEAGE PREFERRED. ONE CHILD ACCEPTABLE. MUST TRAVEL TO WYOMING AND REMAIN FOR ONE YEAR. EXCELLENT SALARY AND BONUS. APPLY IN PERSON TO DAVID ALEXANDER, MADISON HOTEL, WASHINGTON CITY, DECEMBER 20TH.
He read the advertisement a second time. “That can’t be right,” he said aloud, “I must have missed a word.” He carefully penciled in the word, “for” in front of “heir”, then read the whole thing aloud. “‘Wanted: Healthy woman between the ages of 18-23 to provide for heir for wealthy rancher. Widow with excellent lineage preferred. One child acceptable. Must travel to Wyoming and remain for one year. Excellent salary and bonus. Apply in person to David Alexander, Madison Hotel, Washington City, December 20th.’”
The clerk nodded, silently congratulating himself for catching his error. He placed his fingers on the handset, telegraphed his receipt of the message back to Washington, then handed the corrected copy to the errand boy.
December 1869
Richmond, Virginia
The rain continued to pound on the roof and against the few remaining glass window panes in the Collins House on Clary Street. Inside, the members of the Richmond Ladies Sewing Circle shivered in front of the meager fire, the tips of their fingers numb with cold as they protruded from the open ends of their knitted gloves. Several women muttered beneath their breath as they wielded the sharp needles against the hated blue wool of army uniforms.
Faith Collins shifted in her uncomfortable chair and turned her head from side to side, stretching the stiff muscles and tendons in her neck. She laid her sewing aside and got up to empty three of the larger pans scattered around the parlor floor collecting the rain that poured through the roof of the battered house.
Faith hated emptying the pots and pans. It was a boring, repetitious chore and to Faith, a complete waste of time. The floor was already damaged by fire and rain. A few more drops wouldn’t make much difference. And the sound of the water pinging against the empty metal grated on her nerves. It reminded Faith of gunfire and death and everything she’d lost.
But her ladies insisted on using pans to catch the water and Faith grudgingly obliged. She was fighting a losing battle with the inclement weather and the roof. She had been fighting the battle for years. Her own private war.
The firing of the arsenal during the retreat had been responsible for the majority of the damage to her home, and the repairs she’d been able to manage since the end of the war had not included a new roof.
It was hard enough to keep food on the table, clothes on their backs, and shoes on their feet. She might have managed on her own, but Faith had to feed and clothe the other members of the household who made up the roster of the Richmond Ladies Sewing Circle.
The weather was the least of her worries. It was uncontrollable. Faith was concerned with the basics—food, shelter and clothing. Those were the primary topics of interest on this cold, rainy afternoon.
“Faith, you really shouldn’t lift that heavy pan that way. You’ll strain your back.”
Faith looked up at her aunt, Virtuous May Hamilton Jessup. “Yes, ma’am, I know that, Aunt Virt, but…” She shrugged resignedly, knowing help would not be forthcoming from that direction.
Virtuous Jessup, with her still-black hair and deep blue eyes, would have been a handsome woman, if she could have stopped thinking about the past and finding fault with everything and everybody. Aunt Virt would never let them forget all they’d had and all they’d lost.
“I would be happy to help you, Faith, dear, but you know I have lumbago in my lower back. I’ve had it ever since my son, Will, was born. I nearly died giving birth to that boy. He was supposed to take care of me in my old age and what did he do except get himself killed on a dreary battlefield in the wilderness?” Aunt Virt probably would have continued to rattle on about her woes if Aunt Tempy hadn’t entered the parlor and interrupted the oft-told tale of her sister’s ruined life.
“Here, let me help you with that, Faith.” Aunt Tempy helped Faith carry a heavy enameled chamber pot to the wooden cistern.
The house had been so heavily damaged that the upper floor was unsafe and off limits to the household. Faith, her aunts, Virt and Tempy, Mrs. Everett and Mrs. Colson, who were sisters -in-law to Aunt Virt, and Faith’s sister, Joy, occupied the first floor of the house, living in the front parlor, back parlor, library, dining room, and office. They did the cooking in the dining room on a cast-iron stove Faith had purchased secondhand.
Faith smiled at Aunt Tempy. “This would be so much easier if we just pushed the cistern into the parlor and opened the lid. Most of the rain would fall into it.”
Temperance Hamilton laughed aloud. She was completely different in looks and character from her older sister, Virt. Petite, and red-haired, Tempy was always ready with a smile, a helping hand, or a shoulder to cry on. Faith didn’t know what she would do without her. “I tried to tell you this barrel wouldn’t blend with the style of the room.”