Nowhere, Washington Territory, May 1877

“Lucien, what are you doing out here?” Spencer Riley asked as he stepped out of the sheriff’s office. “Did you need somethin’?”

Lucien had been standing by Spencer’s open door. “No, I’m waiting for the stage.”

“My mistake,” Spencer said. “I’m not used to seeing you around town this time of day. You’re usually at work. Relative paying you a visit? Great time of year for it.” Indeed it was. Once May came around, the weather grew warmer, the air sweetened with the scent of budding fruit orchards. No wonder Spencer had his door open.

“Er, no,” Lucien said. He hadn’t told anyone else he had a mail-order bride coming, and true to her word, Charlotte hadn’t either. Once she arrived, he’d have to tell the town preacher and his wife, and then everyone would know. But he wanted a few days to get to know his bride first. No sense rushing into these things.

“Bank business, then? Do I need to be aware of anything?”

“No, this isn’t bank business. It’s … personal. Private.”

“I was just wondering,” Spencer looked down the street as Lucien was doing, craning his neck. “You nervous?”

Lucien jumped. “Me? Nervous? Why?”

Spencer shrugged. “Just asking.”

“Hey, Sheriff Riley!” someone called from across the street.

Spencer smiled and cringed at the same time. “Howdy, Calvin. What are you doing in town?”

Calvin Weaver strolled toward them with the most beautiful woman within a hundred miles on his arm. His wife Isabella was Italian, and the most gorgeous creature any man in Nowhere had ever seen. Lucien tipped his hat. “Mrs. Weaver, Calvin.”

“Howdy, Luce!” Calvin slapped him hard on the back.

Lucien coughed in response. If he’d hit him any harder, he’d have knocked the wind out of him. “Hello,” he replied stiffly.

“Is the bank not open today?” Mrs. Weaver asked in her Italian accent.

Lucien found it enchanting. He liked conversing with the woman and her siblings – all seven of them – when they came to town. “It is. Mr. Davis and the other employees are there.”

“He’s waiting for the stage,” Spencer volunteered, peering down the street again.

Calvin and Isabella did the same. “Relations comin’ for a visit?” Calvin asked. “That’s nice.”

“Not a relative,” Spencer tossed in.

Lucien furrowed his brow. “Nor is it banking business,” he said before the sheriff could.

Calvin and Isabella glanced at each other, then looked at Lucien. “Then who is it?” they asked at once.

Lucien sighed, just as Calvin’s older brother Arlan and Isabella’s younger sister Rufina jumped onto the boardwalk. “Howdy, everybody!” Arlan said and, as was the Weaver way, slapped Lucien on the back. He smacked Spencer just as hard, pitching him forward an inch or two in the process. At least Lucien stayed on his feet. Arlan was huge! “What’s everyone doin’ standin’ ‘round?” the eldest Weaver asked.

“Waiting for the stage,” Lucien quickly said. “And no, it’s not a relative or any bank business.”

Everyone looked at him. “Then what is it for?” Rufi asked. She was pretty like her older sibling, her Italian accent almost as thick.

Lucien pulled out his pocket watch, looked at it, then stuffed it back in his vest pocket. “Personal business.”

“Ya look nervous,” Arlan told him.

“Not at all,” Lucien said, willing himself to stay calm. He might as well get this over with. “Fine – if you must know, I’m waiting for my mail-order bride.”

“Mail-order bride?!” the men cried, exchanging astonished looks.

Isabella and Rufi smiled. “A bride – how wonderful!” Isabella said.

“What’s wonderful is that my mother isn’t around,” Spencer added. “You all know how she gets when there’s a new bride in town.”

Calvin and Arlan laughed. “Yer ma and our Aunt Betsy,” Arlan said.

“Yeah, won’t they be surprised when they find out they missed one!” Calvin added.

“Thank Heaven for that,” Spencer muttered under his breath. There hadn’t been a wedding in town since Arlan and Calvin’s younger brother Daniel’s the previous summer. Leona Riley and Betsy Quinn loved a wedding – and pity the poor bride that fell into their well-meaning clutches. That way lay madness.

“Then you’ll understand if I ask you not to mention this to your mother too soon?” Lucien said to Spencer.

“You have my word,” he said with a smile.

Lucien breathed easier. “Thank you.”

“Congratulations,” Isabella said. “We picked a good time to come to town.”

Rufi gave Lucien a shy smile. “Yes, congratulations.”

Calvin reached over and gave a strand of her long hair a tug. “One day ya’ll get married too. But ya ain’t gonna be no mail-order bride.”

“Says who?” she asked defiantly. Despite being a recent arrival, Rufi had picked up the Western American dialect quickly.

Her sister laughed. “For one, sorella, we are already out in the West.”

“And ‘cause none of us could stand it if ya left.” Arlan pulled her into a bear hug and tickled her.

Rufi laughed and squirmed out of his embrace. “I am not ready to marry anyway.”

“True – ya ain’t old enough,” Calvin replied.

“I am so! I am seventeen next month!”

“Don’t matter. Yer not gettin’ hitched ‘til yer sister and I say so.”

“Stop it,” Arlan said. “Here comes the stage.”

Lucien gulped. This was it! He’d written two letters and received one from Miss Billie (short for Wilhelmina) Jane Sneed. She described herself as twenty-four years of age, just two younger than himself, with brown hair and blue eyes. Twenty-four and unwed had him worried at first, until he saw further down in her letter that she’d been raised by her sea-captain father and traveled widely.

All that made an appealing picture. He thought it exciting and romantic, and more than once envisioned her pulling her shawl tightly about her as she stood on the windswept deck of her father’s ship. He was full of questions about her adventures and where she’d traveled. That she spoke French and German also had him intrigued – he also spoke French, and Latin besides. Would she like to learn Latin, he wondered?

“Hoo boy!” Calvin said happily, smacking Lucien on the back again. Unprepared this time, he almost fell off the boardwalk as the stage pulled up.

“Steady on your feet, Luce,” Arlan said with a grin. “I bet she’s beautiful!”

Lucien nodded and wiped his palms on his trousers. “Yes, I’m sure she will be,” he said as the driver climbed down. “She comes from the same agency as your sister-in-law Ebba.”

“She does?” Calvin smiled again. “Well, don’t that beat all!”

The driver came around, opened the stage door and helped the first passenger disembark. “Is that her?” Rufi asked.

“No … hey, it’s Abigail!” Spencer jumped off the boardwalk and headed for the woman. “Abbey!”

“Who is this Abbey?” Rufi asked.

“She’s cousin Charlotte’s sister,” Calvin explained. “She’s prob’ly come to visit her parents.”

“Billy!” Spencer shook the hand of the next passenger to disembark.

“Billy Blake used to be Spencer’s deputy,” Arlan explained. “Good man. He married Abbey some years back.”

Lucien watched Abbey help a little boy out of the stage. He looked to be about four – Billy and Abbey’s son, he presumed. He swallowed hard and wiped his hands on his trousers again.

Calvin elbowed him in the ribs. “Okay, Luce, she must be next.”

The driver reached up. A purple-gloved hand appeared and took the one he offered. Those remaining on the boardwalk leaned forward in anticipation as a dark purple hat with white feathers emerged, then the rest of the woman as she disembarked the stage. Everyone took a breath as they got their first look at what had to be his mail-order bride, then stood in stunned silence.

Except Rufi. “Is she a pirate?”

Arlan put a hand over her mouth. “Hush.”

“If’n she ain’t, she could be,” Calvin mumbled.

“Calvin!” Isabella hissed. “You are as bad as Rufi!”

Lucien’s jaw dropped. She was tall … taller than even he’d had the right to hope for. And strong – not fat, but broad and … he cocked his head to one side as he studied her. Buxom, that was the word. My, my, he thought. This was a lot of woman! Mrs. Pettigrew had certainly delivered.

Arlan gave him a nudge. “Don’t just stand there, Luce, go greet her.”

“Of course.” He hurried off the boardwalk to the street. He approached her slowly, as one would a bear, then caught himself and straightened. “Miss Sneed, I presume?”

She turned to him, having been staring at the cluster of Weavers on the boardwalk. Lucien stiffened. He’d seen the eyepatch from a distance, but didn’t realize until now that it was, in fact, an eyepatch – a purple one that matched her outfit, no less. She’d clearly been in some sort of adventure, or at least an accident – three thin scars poked out the top and bottom of the patch, up her forehead and down her right cheek. He batted down a frisson of anger – if someone had hurt her, he suddenly felt compelled to avenge it.

“Mr. Miller?” she said. Her voice was higher than he expected and decidedly British, but not the same British as, say, the Cookes over in Clear Creek, Oregon.

It took him a second to get his brain to work, and another for his mouth. “Yes. Lucien Miller, at your service.” He bowed.

She stared at him in disbelief and stepped toward him. They were almost at eye level, and he was six-foot-two! Was she wearing heels? He watched her swallow and nod to herself, looking worried enough that he wondered if she was thinking about jumping back onto the stage.

“Your bags?” he prompted, if only to keep her there.

She blinked in dismay. “Oh yes.” She looked up. “They’ll have to be brought down.”

“Of course.” He waved at the driver. “Miss Sneed’s luggage, please.”

The driver took one look at her – actually, at her ample chest – then hurried to comply. Lucien did his best not to let his eyes wander in the same direction, but it was difficult. God and all His angels, she was magnificent! Tall and strong and certainly no wilting violet. At least he hoped not – he’d need the Weavers’ help to carry her if she fainted. But he suspected she wasn’t. She looked like the kind of warrior goddess Vikings wrote sagas about.

He’d never really bought stories of love at first sight, but now that he was experiencing it … Oh, Madame Pettigrew – how did you know?

“Your trunk, ma’am,” the driver said as he swallowed hard and quickly set it at her feet.

“Thank you,” she said, then turned back to Lucien. “Mr. Miller …”

“You must be quite tired,” he said, cutting her off. He didn’t know why he felt the need to interrupt – it was rude, but something deep down compelled him to do everything he could for her. She looked so frightened, this statuesque woman with a story or six to tell. She also looked like it would take a lot to frighten her, which made him wonder what the stories were.

“Er, yes, I am.”

“I’ve arranged a room for you at the hotel,” he said with a smile. He noticed her hair had red highlights when the sun hit it just so, and she had large hands (did she play the piano?) Her purple velvet jacket and white blouse were loose – for comfort, or was she trying to hide her amble bosom? – but clearly well-made and fashionable, as were her matching hat and skirt. Did she come from money? These questions and more raced through his head as he hefted her trunk onto his shoulder. “Right this way.”

She didn’t speak, just nodded gravely.

What could be wrong? “Are you hungry? Once you get settled, we could get something to eat.”

She smiled weakly. “Of course – whatever you want.”

“No, Miss Sneed – what do you want?”

She stared at him like a poleaxed steer for a moment. “I … er … well, I am hungry.”

What was wrong with her? Dare he ask? Was she having second thoughts? And how could he broach the subject without being rude? He’d have to give that some thought. “Follow me, then.”

“Of course.”

Lucien forced his smile to widen as he continued toward the hotel, hoping she didn’t turn tail and flee back onto the stage. For whatever reason, she looked like that’s exactly what she wanted to do.

What was she doing here? Why did she ever think this would work? Billie followed the handsome (and boy, was he ever!) Lucien Miller to the small hotel down the street. The group on the boardwalk followed, staring at her like she was a carnival exhibit and happily chatting and laughing behind them. They were too far away to make out what they were saying, but close enough to hear the amusement in their voices. They were probably laughing at her.

Mrs. Pettigrew had insisted on the ridiculous hat she wore, saying it would set off the outfit perfectly. The matching eyepatch was also her idea – if she had to wear one, she might as well wear a nice one. Mrs. de la Rosa had made her several others, all just as frilly as the one she had on (the pink one trimmed in white lace was especially nauseating). How did she ever let that mad matchmaker talk her into this?

She watched Mr. Miller walking in front of her. He was a mite taller than her, thank Heaven for that! He was broad of shoulder, though nothing like the two men following her. That pair looked similar – probably related. The two women definitely were, and were exotically beautiful – French maybe, or Italian. Regardless, what was she next to them? No wonder they laughed at her.

She quelled the urge to turn and glare daggers at them. Let them laugh – she had done and could do things those two puny pansies couldn’t dream of. And if she didn’t scare Mr. Miller off, she would soon be married – take that!

“Would you prefer to lie down first?” Mr. Miller asked as they reached the hotel. “Then we could have a late lunch.”

“No, we might as well …” She stopped. Was she jumping to conclusions? After all, shouldn’t she give the man a chance to get to know her a little?

“Miss Sneed, is everything all right?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m just tired.”

“I could have them bring lunch to your room if you prefer, then join you for dinner?”

He was being so accommodating. Why didn’t he just get it over with and tell her she’d never do? Someone as handsome as him should be with someone like one of the beauties behind them.

She turned and saw them approaching. The older and prettier of the two smiled. “Welcome to Nowhere! We are so happy we are in town to meet you.”

Billie stared at them, unable to speak.

“Miss Sneed,” Mr. Miller broke in. “May I present Mrs. Isabella Weaver and her sister Rufina Cucinotta.”

Italian, then. “Come va?” Billie said reflexively.

Mrs. Weaver’s face lit up. “Molto bene, grazie! You speak Italian?”

Billie nodded. “Only a little.” She didn’t add that most of that was foul language and imprecations, picked up from a Genoese mechanic her father had once employed. Her misgivings about getting married were only growing – with women like this in town, what chance did she have? Then again, a man usually sent off for a mail-order bride if there were no single females in the area. Isabella was obviously married, and Rufina might be too young.

The question was, would Mr. Miller keep her? She’d prepared herself for the worst, fully expecting him to reject her. So far, he’d been a perfect gentleman, but if Mrs. Weaver and her sister represented the caliber of women in Nowhere, then she was far below par. Mr. Miller would notice that soon enough, and then she’d be in a pickle.

Miss Cucinotta hadn’t said anything, being too busy staring at her eyepatch. The larger of the two men gave the girl a poke with his elbow. “Arlan Weaver, ma’am. Welcome to Nowhere.”

“And I’m Calvin Weaver – happy to meet ya! Mind if’n I ask where yer from? Ya got a funny accent … well, not funny like a joke, but …”

She wasn’t offended. “I was born and raised in England – County Cornwall, specifically.”

“That is a lovely hat,” Mrs. Weaver commented. “Did it come from there?”

Billie’s eyes were drawn upward. Was she making fun of it? “Thank you. And no, I got it in Denver.”

“And your outfit too?” the younger said. “Or did you make it?”

“No, it was made for me.”

“I knew you were a woman of taste,” Mrs. Weaver said. “You let me know if you have need of a dressmaker. I make dresses for the mercantile.”

“But we live a whole day from town,” Rufina warned.

“True,” Mrs. Weaver said with a sigh. “But Mrs. Jorgensen lives here in town – she could also make you something.”

One dressmaker referring her to another? And in a small town, no less, where the competition would be keener. They were making fun of her outfit, but being subtle about it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The women smiled. “You must be tired,” Mrs. Weaver said. “I remember I was when I arrived in town.”

“My wife was a mail-order bride too,” Calvin volunteered.

Billie felt her belly go cold. “Is that so?” She glanced at Mr. Miller, who patiently waited, her trunk still on his shoulder. “I’d best get checked in. If you will excuse us?”

“Sure thing, ma’am,” Arlan said. “Hope to see you again soon.”

She nodded goodbye and followed Mr. Miller inside.

The hotel wasn’t anything special. There was a front lobby but no restaurant. “This is Miss Sneed,” Mr. Miller told the middle-aged woman tending the front desk.

The woman smiled before her eyes locked on Billie’s face. “How many nights, Lucien?”

“I’m not sure yet. Let’s start with three.”

The icy feeling in Billie’s stomach spread to her limbs. She might as well get back on the stage – why prolong the torture? Maybe he didn’t know how to tell her he’d made a mistake by sending for her in the first place. Maybe he needed time to work up to it.

Maybe he’ll actually like you, a tiny voice in her mind suggested.

Billie ignored it and signed the register.

“Room seven,” the woman said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ferguson.” He smiled at Billie. “Shall we?”

She preceded him up the stairs and down a hall, reading room numbers as she went. The hotel was as charming as the rest of the town looked. A small part of her wanted to see more of it, but she quickly told it to hush. No sense getting familiar with anything until she knew her fate.

“Ah, here we are.” Mr. Miller unlocked the door, entered, set down her trunk and rotated his shoulder a few times. “There, that’s better.”

“Thank you for carrying it up for me. That was most kind.”

He studied her a moment. They were standing closer than they’d ever been, close enough for Billie to notice the tiny flecks of blue in his grey eyes. “I know you’re tired. Shall I call on you for dinner?”

He was so very handsome. Would he tell her over their meal, maybe after buying her return stage ticket while she rested? Was she being a pitiful fool? “Yes, thank you.”

“Very well, then. Rest now, and I’ll see you later.” He bowed, turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Billie stared at the door. Maybe she should purchase her stage ticket now and save him the trouble. But at the moment, she was too tired. She lay down fully clothed, determined to at least enjoy a real bed for the three days he’d paid for. It was more than she’d expected of him.