The Bride Lottery
Bidding on his convenient bride!
There’s no room in James Fast Elk Blackburn’s dangerous life for a wife, but the gentle beauty on offer in the town’s bridal auction would make the perfect caregiver for his orphaned niece.
Miranda Fairfax is trying to reach her sister in Arizona. Being arrested then forcibly wed to a bounty hunter is not part of her plan! Yet Jamie’s rough exterior conceals a compassionate, sensual man, and Miranda soon wishes their marriage could be for real...
The Fairfax Brides
Three sisters find rugged husbands
in the wild Wild West
Beautiful heiresses Charlotte, Miranda and Annabel Fairfax have only ever known a life of luxury in Boston. Now orphaned and in danger, they are forced to flee, penniless and alone, into the lawless West. There they discover that people will risk all for gold and land—but when the sisters make three very different marriages to three enigmatic men, they will each find the most precious treasure of all!
Read Charlotte and Thomas’s story in
His Mail-Order Bride
Already available
Miranda and James’s story in
The Bride Lottery
Available now
and
Annabel and Clay’s story
coming soon!
Author Note
When I wrote His Mail-Order Bride, the story of Charlotte Fairfax, who assumes another woman’s identity and ends up married to an Arizona Territory homesteader, I did not intend to write three books. However, it seemed natural to follow with the stories of Charlotte’s sisters, Miranda and Annabel, and it became a trilogy, The Fairfax Brides.
I wanted the heroines to have distinct personalities, and I wanted to write three different heroes, yet there are common elements throughout the books. All three sisters have to flee from their embittered cousin Gareth, who seeks to control the Fairfax fortune. All three heroes are loners, but in his own way each of them longs for a woman to love, someone to call his own, someone who will make him complete.
The Bride Lottery is the story of the middle sister, Miranda, and James Blackburn, a part-Cheyenne bounty hunter. Brave and bold, Miranda thirsts for adventure and meets new challenges head-on. James has lost everyone he has ever loved and lives in a dark world of death and danger. When fate throws them together, James finds a chance for redemption in Miranda, but the violence of his profession stands in their way.
I hope you’ll enjoy reading about Miranda and James. Annabel’s story will complete the trilogy. The youngest, clever but emotionally volatile, Annabel has some growing up to do before she can stand up to her older sisters and find her place in the world.
TATIANA
MARCH
The Bride Lottery
Before becoming a novelist, Tatiana March tried out various occupations, including being an accountant. Now she loves writing Western historical romance. In the course of her research, Tatiana has been detained by US border guards, had a skirmish with the Mexican army and stumbled upon a rattlesnake. This has not diminished her determination to create authentic settings for her stories.
Books by Tatiana March
Harlequin Historical
The Fairfax Brides
His Mail-Order Bride
The Bride Lottery
Harlequin Historical Undone! eBooks
The Virgin’s Debt
Submit to the Warrior
Surrender to the Knight
The Drifter’s Bride
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Excerpt from Claiming His Defiant Miss by Bronwyn Scott
Chapter One
Boston, Massachusetts, July 1889
The night had fallen. In the darkness of her bedroom at Merlin’s Leap, Miranda Fairfax held up a single candle. The flickering light fell on the pale features of her younger sister, Annabel. “I don’t like leaving you behind, Scrappy.” Miranda used the childhood nickname reserved for moments of tenderness. “Cousin Gareth could set his sights on you next.”
“No.” Annabel spoke calmly, even though fear lurked in her amber eyes. “He might have gotten away with declaring Charlotte dead but to do the same with you would raise suspicion. One dead sister is feasible. Two dead sisters would trigger an alarm. I’ll be safe, even after you’ve gone.”
Miranda agreed, and yet the thought of leaving Annabel alone at Merlin’s Leap filled her with dread. The gray stone mansion by the ocean just north of Boston had been a happy home, until four years ago, when their parents died in a boating accident. Since then, the sisters had been at the mercy of their Cousin Gareth, who had come to live with them and was determined to get his hands on the Fairfax fortune.
Charlotte had been the heiress, and Cousin Gareth had attempted to force her into marriage. After Charlotte ran away two months ago, Cousin Gareth had claimed the body of some unknown woman as her. With Charlotte officially dead, Miranda stood to inherit, and now Gareth’s efforts to bring about a marriage were focused on her, forcing her to flee.
“Write to Charlotte and post the letter as soon as you can,” Miranda reminded Annabel. “She needs to understand what Gareth has done. When she turns twenty-five next May and gains access to Papa’s money, she’ll need to prove she is alive before she can claim her inheritance.”
“I’ll write and find some way to mail the letter.” Annabel’s voice quivered. “Just think...if we hadn’t agreed on a code word for Charlotte to get a message to us, we might believe she is dead, instead of hiding in the Arizona Territory, pretending to be some homesteader’s mail-order bride.”
Miranda lifted the candle higher. “We would have known she’s alive from the telegram you retrieved after Cousin Gareth tossed it in the fireplace. The way the constables described the dead woman found on the train made it clear it couldn’t be Charlotte.”
“But without Charlotte’s message we would have feared the worst,” Annabel suggested.
“I know.” Miranda’s tone was bleak. “We’ll keep the same code word. Once I’m safe, I’ll write to Merlin’s Leap as Emily Bickerstaff. Cousin Gareth will intercept the letter, but with any luck he’ll share the contents with you.”
“Make it a letter of condolence,” Annabel suggested. “Emily was Charlotte’s friend. One could assume she might have heard about Charlotte’s passing and would write to the surviving
sisters, to express her sympathies.”
Miranda forced a smile. “Good idea.”
Despite being sensitive and prone to weeping, Annabel was the cleverest of them. The best way to calm her nerves was to get her focused on some practical dilemma. The middle sister at twenty-two, Miranda knew she was considered the brave one. She suspected the others had no idea how much her feisty front was bravado.
In the parlor, the clock chimed midnight.
“It’s time.” Miranda blew out the candle and set it down on the rosewood bureau. Solid darkness fell over the room. She would have to make her way downstairs without the benefit of light, for even at this hour the servants might be spying on them.
“Good luck.” Annabel’s tearful voice rose in the darkness. Slim arms closed around Miranda in a trembling hug. Miranda returned the embrace. One more gesture of sisterly love. One more moment of comfort before she faced the unknown. She wanted to cry but suppressed the need. She was the strong one. She had to be.
Gently, Miranda eased away from her sister’s clinging hold. “Check the escape route.”
Annabel fumbled over to the window, parted the thick velvet drapes. A thin ray of silvery light spilled into the room. Craning her neck, Annabel studied the sky through the glass. “The clouds are thinning. There’ll be moonlight.”
“Damn,” Miranda muttered. Normally she avoided swearwords, but tonight she’d employ any means to bolster her courage. Anger might hasten her footsteps as she raced down the gravel path and across the lawns into the shelter of the forest.
She wore a black gown and bonnet, a mourning outfit from when their parents died. The dark clothes would blend into the shadows. And if she pretended to be a widow, it might make things easier during the journey. Men might be less likely to bother a woman grieving for a recently departed husband.
For men would bother her, Miranda knew. She had beauty that attracted them. Her sisters had complained about it often enough, saying it was unfair how she had inherited the best features in the family—their father’s fair hair and blue eyes, their mother’s slender height and patrician elegance.
Miranda had never cared about her looks before. But now she did. They would be a nuisance for a lone female traveling out to the lawless West. To rebuff unwanted advances, she would have to rely on the rest of her heritage, for she had also inherited Papa’s fiery temper that flared up like a firecracker and fizzled out again just as quickly, leaving her to regret things said or done in a moment of anger.
“Hold the curtains ajar to let in the moonlight,” Miranda instructed her sister.
“Promise you’ll write the instant you get there,” Annabel pleaded. “And send money.”
“I’ll write.” Miranda sighed in the shadows. “And I’ll try to send money.”
Promises were cheap, and that’s all she could afford right now. To help Charlotte escape, she’d been able to steal a gold coin, but twenty dollars could not have taken Charlotte very far. To have ended up in the Arizona Territory she must have traveled without a ticket on the train.
After discovering the theft, Cousin Gareth had taken care not to leave money lying around in his pockets. Miranda only had two dollars and a quarter, and their mother’s ruby-and-diamond brooch she’d managed to stash away. Like Charlotte, she would have to take her chances, travel on the train without paying her fare.
Annabel claimed to be too timid for such brazen acts and had chosen to stay behind. When Miranda reached Gold Crossing, she’d find Charlotte, and together they would come up with a way to send money for their youngest sister to join them.
One more time, Miranda went over the plan with Annabel. “Keep a lookout as I go downstairs. Remember, if lights come on in the house, you’ll need to create a diversion. Start screaming. Pretend there is an intruder. Get the servants to search the rooms. Keep them indoors, to minimize the chances they might spot me as I make my dash for freedom.”
Annabel nodded, long dark hair gleaming in the moonlight. “I’m not totally useless.” Irritation sharpened her tone. “Screaming is my specialty.”
“That’s the spirit, Scrappy,” Miranda said and took a deep breath. “Here I go.”
She pulled the door open, slipped out without a sound. Like a silent wraith, she moved through the house. She’d been practicing, taking the stairs with her eyes closed while the servants were busy with their chores. Now her diligence paid rewards. One, two, three...
Miranda counted out the twenty-seven steps down to the hall, sliding her hand along the polished mahogany balustrade. She kept her eyes open, letting them become adjusted to the lack of light. It would be impossible to see anything in the house, but it might help her when she stepped out into the moonlight.
In the hall, Miranda dragged her feet, in case there was a boot or an umbrella carelessly flung about. She fumbled at the air until her fingers tangled in the fronds of the big potted palm. Three steps to the right. Her outreached hand met the carved timber panel of the front door, homed in on the iron lock.
Slowly, slowly, she twisted it open. Click.
The sound broke the silence, as loud as a gunshot in her ears. Miranda flinched, waited a few seconds. When the house remained quiet, she eased the door open, stepped across the threshold, pushed the door shut behind her and leaned back against it, applying pressure until the lock clicked again.
Ahead of her, the arrow-straight gravel drive and the lawns flanking it loomed dark in the moonlight, the colors flattened to black and gray. Night air enveloped her, soft and warm. It was a small consolation she was making her escape in July instead of the winter.
Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she set off at a cautious run along the drive. After a dozen paces, she turned left, across the lawn. Scents of lavender and roses drifted over from the flowerbeds. Beyond the gardens, Miranda could hear the dull roar of the ocean. Nothing else disturbed the quiet. No sounds of alarm from the house.
But what was that? Another crunch of gravel? Was someone following her?
Like a hunted animal, Miranda froze on the lawn, halfway between the drive and the shelter of the forest. Listen! Listen! She swallowed, a labored movement of her fear-dry throat. For a few seconds, she waited, poised in utter stillness.
Nothing but the steady crashing of the ocean against the cliffs. She must have been mistaken about the sound of footsteps. Bursting back into motion, Miranda darted into the cover of the trees. She had hidden a bag there, smuggling out the contents bit by bit, pretending to be coming out to admire a goldfinch that nested in the big maple by the edge of the forest.
First step completed. She was clear of the house. Next, she’d have to walk four miles to the railroad station in Boston, where she’d sell her mother’s ruby-and-diamond brooch and use the proceeds to buy a train ticket to New York City. From there on she would have to find her way to Gold Crossing, Arizona Territory. Without money. Without the protection of an escort.
But Charlotte had managed it, and so could she.
Her bag was a soft canvas pouch, sewn in secret from a piece of sailcloth. Miranda hoisted it from its hiding place, dusted off the moss and dried leaves and flung the bag over her shoulder.
The thick forest canopy blocked out the moonlight, and she fumbled her way through the oaks and maples, arms held out, feeling her way forward like a blind man. Branches swiped across her face. Twigs snapped beneath her feet.
Her footsteps seemed to have an echo. Twice, Miranda paused, suspecting she might have heard the stealthy sounds of someone following. Both times, the crashing and thudding and the snapping of twigs ceased as soon as she stopped moving.
It must be her imagination, Miranda decided. She had made her escape. She was on her way to join Charlotte in the rough, uncivilized West.
To her surprise, new sensations stirred inside her. A wildness. A sense of adventure. All her life, she’d
felt stifled by the constraints that fell upon a young woman in polite society. Now those constraints were gone. She could be whatever she wanted to be.
* * *
Dawn came. Woken by birdsong, Miranda got up from the grassy knoll where she had settled for a few hours of sleep, so she could walk to Boston in daylight. By now, her escape might have been noticed. The footmen and grooms might be looking for her, and it remained imperative to avoid capture.
She brushed twigs and bits of grass from her hair and clothing, then set off walking along the forest path, her body stiff from the rough night, her stomach growling with hunger, her skin itchy beneath the dew-damp gown of black bombazine. As the sun climbed higher, the air grew cloying with heat.
A loud crash sounded ahead, followed by alarmed voices. A public road skirted the edge of the forest. Miranda crept closer and peered between the trees.
A fine carriage, drawn by a matching team of four, had come to a halt. Silver gleamed on the harnesses. A burly coachman in green livery sat high up on the bench. Miranda craned forward for a better view. The coach was listing to one side, a wheel loose from its bearings.
The coachman climbed down from his perch. “Mrs. Summerton?” he bellowed. “Are ye all right?”
“I am fine, Atkins.” The reply came in a calm, refined voice.
Miranda waited. Atkins went to the coach door, yanked it open. He held out not one hand, but both. Puzzled by the boldness of the gesture, Miranda watched, got an explanation as the coachman lifted out a little girl with blond ringlets and a frilly dress.
He repeated the action. Again. And again. Four little girls, as alike as peas in a pod. Next, a beautiful woman emerged. She was fair-haired, dressed in an elegant blue gown tailored to accommodate her rounded belly. She looked no more than twenty-five.
“Thank you, Atkins.” The woman glanced around. “Where is Jason?”
“The footman ran ahead for help.”
Frowning, the woman surveyed the listing conveyance. “How long before we can get going again?”