Sofia Hunt

The Bride Bargain

Chapter 1

Lucy’s Journal, May 28, 1865, Port Steele, Washington Territory:

 

One year ago today, a group of twenty-four adventurous women from the East Coast set sail for the wilds of Washington Territory. We contracted to be brides for the lumbermen who inhabit this rugged land. Today, all but five of the women are married. All around me, weddings are happening. Last month there were four weddings, one every weekend.

Despite my best efforts, I’ve yet to find a suitable husband. Being a wife and mother is my greatest ambition, but I fear I am prey to petty jealousies and being undermined by some of the remaining unmarried women, not to mention some married women. I’m no stranger to jealousy as I’ve experienced such emotions throughout my life in regards to my extraordinary singing voice. As my mother once told me, a talent like mine often attracts catty remarks from those less fortunate.

I cannot help that I’ve been blessed with a voice like an angel any more than I can stifle my talents for cooking, sewing, and playing the piano.

You would think these talents would net me a man, but men are often swayed by a pretty face. While I am pleasant to look upon and have a witty personality, I cannot compete with Amelia Prescott’s beauty or Constance Kendall’s shapely curves. Furthermore, my stringent requirements for a husband present some challenges: handsome to a fault, financially comfortable, ambitious, charming, and industrious. An added plus would be a pillar of the community, but with my drive, he’ll become one regardless.

Now, where to find such a man?

* * * *

Tate McTaggert would never be late for church again.

Whenever Lucy Riley was scheduled to sing a solo, the back of the church filled up fast. The further away, the better for a person’s ears. Forced to sit in the front row, Tate paid the price for his tardiness.

Turning slightly he aimed his best “you’re in deep shit” expression at his brother in the back row. Except Jason didn’t notice in the least. His younger brother by three years had commandeered a seat next to the most sought-after single woman in town. No way would Jason move to the front just to suffer with his brother. Who said blood was thicker than water?

Tate forced a pleasant expression on his face as Lucy belted out an unrecognizable hymn, which could have been “The Old Rugged Cross” or “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Damned if he knew. Resigned to his fate, Tate rubbed the scar on his face, which itched whenever it was about to rain, which was often.

Reverend Reece stood behind his pulpit, a heavenly smile on his face, as if listening to the voice of angel, not the destroyer of eardrums. Rumor had it the man stuffed his ears with cotton whenever Lucy sang. Tate would’ve given his left nut for some cotton right about now.

He resisted the urge to stick his fingers in his ears. Unfortunately, his saint of a grandmother taught him to treat a lady with respect. Lucy was a lady, despite her gossiping and abominable voice. She didn’t swear, drink, or smoke, and certainly was as pure as the virgin snow on Mt. Rainier, which constituted a lady in his book. Hell, she didn’t even need to possess those qualities to be considered a lady in these parts.

Despite her atrocious voice, Lucy had all the right parts to be considered attractive as far as he was concerned. Tate eyed the lush fullness of her breasts, liking the extra softness that filled out Lucy’s curves. She might not turn too many heads, but she turned Tate’s. He liked his women sturdy and resilient, not willowy and fragile.

Staring too long at Lucy, Tate grunted as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Tate sighed. He’d never be more to her than an occasional dance partner. While they’d enjoyed a casual acquaintance, her actions made it clear he didn’t suit her needs as a marriage prospect. Not that he’d ever propose. He’d been down that painful road before.

It didn’t matter. No decent woman would have him with the ugly scar marring his once handsome face. Instead, they cringed at the sight of him. He knew his face scared people, except for his logging crew. They respected him, and his disfigurement actually added to their awe. His refusal to talk about the incident cast a certain air of dangerous mystery, which further kept the men in line.

His lumberjacks dismissed the jagged scar starting above his left ear and zigzagging across his cheek and under his chin. Women did not. And vain as it might sound, Tate hadn’t gotten beyond it either. He’d spent the better part of his twenty-eight years enjoying the benefits of being a handsome man. He’d spent the last three repulsing, rather than attracting, beautiful women. A weaker man might wallow in self-pity, but Tate wasn’t a weak man. Maybe his ego suffered, and his dreams of a family faded, but he still had his work.

Tate looked up when Lucy hit a particularly ear-splitting note. Tipped back on her heels, Lucy flung her arms wide and thrust her chest forward. She belted out the last few notes with such passion Tate was mesmerized. He swallowed in an attempt to clear the obstruction in his throat. Her one-size-too-small dress hugged her curves, as her lush, pink lips parted in a near perfect O.

Despite being in God’s house, Tate’s wayward thoughts centered around various methods he could use to stop her singing. The good Lord knew if she made that kind of sound in his bed, he’d be obligated to shush her up.

He jerked his gaze away and drew in a sharp breath, irritated at the reaction of his body. His cock grew hard under his Sunday-best trousers. His heart thumped a little faster. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and covered his erection with his hymnal.

Damn, it’d been too long since he’d bedded a woman. Despite his situation, he refused to lower himself like many men who visited Madame Chen and requested her laundry service. Rumors had it her girls did more than a man’s laundry. Tate snorted. He didn’t pay attention to rumors. Facts were all he cared about. Whatever Madam Chen and her staff did behind closed doors was none of his business.

As soon as the service ended, Tate stood quickly, fully intending to hightail it out of there. His brother, Jason, cut him off at the pass. The spoiled and flirtatious Amelia stood next to Jason, her hand resting on the crook in Jason’s arm. Even though her smile appeared welcoming, she avoided looking at Tate’s face.

“We saved you a seat next to us at the table, brother.” Jason grinned like a fool, obviously flying high with Amelia at his side. Tate witnessed her in action too many times. She flirted with every eligible man in town—except him—and strung his brother along by his dick, one of a herd of admirers. Everyone in town knew Andrew Gallagher ranked at the head of that pack. Jason couldn’t compete with the Gallaghers’ assets or power. Even now, the usually glib Andrew stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest and an uncharacteristic scowl on his face. The fierce light of possession gleamed in his eyes. Tate sighed and hoped he wouldn’t be breaking up a fight before the night ended.

Turning away, Tate followed Jason and Amelia through the potluck line. His stomach rumbled. Food abounded, and he heaped his plate with a thick stew.

“Don’t.” Hattie Rose, the local innkeeper and former madam of a San Francisco brothel, stood next to him. The older woman’s strong perfume smothered the air around them, and he stifled a sneeze. Her red-tipped fingernails dug into his arm.

“Why?” He smiled, amused at Hattie’s reaction.

“Lucy made that dish.” Hattie looked up at him, one of the few women not bothered by his scar.

Tate dropped the serving spoon into the large pot as if it’d burnt his hand. “Thanks for the warning. I have to work tomorrow. It looked good. Her stuff usually looks as bad as it tastes.” Even the bravest lumberjacks with cast-iron stomachs avoided her dishes at the church potlucks.

Before he could move onto the next dish, Lucy rushed up to him. Her flowery scent swirled around his nostrils. His cock happily signaled its readiness to get down to serious business.

“Tate, don’t pass this by. It’s my signature stew. I know how you love my cooking.” Not giving him an opportunity to respond, Lucy heaped his plate full. Tate stood in line, holding his plate, fully aware others ducked past them in an attempt to avoid Lucy’s current culinary disaster.

Hattie raised one eyebrow and winked at him. “Good luck,” she whispered.

Taking a seat next to his brother, he caught sight of Lucy out of the corner of his eye. She sat next to her best friend Constance. The black-haired beauty sat next to Miles Petty, a cousin to the Gallaghers and also their nemesis, at a table on the opposite side of the room. Tate, nice guy that he was, always pretended to eat Lucy’s cooking at these potlucks. There’d be no pretending this time, as Lucy kept one eye on him. Steeling himself, he brought the spoon up to his mouth and forced himself to swallow. He forced a pleased expression on his face, which made Lucy smirk with pride.

Despite Lucy’s faults, he admired her ability to create her own reality, making her life what she wanted it to be. Dragging his eyes away from Lucy, Tate frowned and wondered why he felt a tug inside every time he gazed at this woman, who talked too much about nothing, couldn’t cook or sing, or keep a secret to save her soul.

Tate managed to choke down the entire plate of food. He congratulated himself on his cast-iron stomach as it growled in protest. His satisfaction was short-lived when Lucy hustled over to him, her roasting pan in hand.

“Tate, you’re one hungry man. Please have some more.” Lucy leaned over him to fill his plate. One ample breast rubbed his arm. He lost all ability to think as he stared at the bosom only a few inches from his face. Damn. Double damn. He wanted to rip her bodice open and fill his mouth with her rosy nipples, sucking and nipping at them until they were swollen from his mouth and red from the burn of his whiskers.

Oblivious to his discomfort, Lucy flounced off, leaving him with a raging hard-on and a protesting stomach.

Home | About Me |Books |Coming Soon| Photo Gallery | Links | Contact| Blog