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  Table of Contents

  Praise for Golden Chances and Rebecca Hagan Lee

  Books by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  Copyright Info Golden Chances

  Golden Chances

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  Harvest Moon

  Steal a sneak peek at Rebecca Hagan Lee’s A Wanted Man

  Praise for 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 Chances 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

  Books by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  Golden Chances

  Harvest Moon

  Something Borrowed

  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)

  Copyright Info 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

  Prologue

  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.

  Chapter O
ne

  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.”

  “What style?” Faith glanced around at the bare walls and floors. The once magnificent dining room was unfurnished except for the stove, a rough pine table and benches, a broken cherry sideboard, three wooden crates, a battered copper tub for bathing and the oak barrel.

  “I’m glad Mama and Papa didn’t live to see this,” Faith said softly.

  Even the huge crystal chandelier was gone, a victim of looters. The scavengers had used it for target practice, then cut the support rope and allowed the gilded frame and the remaining crystal prisms to crash to the floor.

  “I don’t know,” Aunt Tempy teased to lighten the mood. “I’ll bet that chandelier was the devil to clean. At least, that’s one less thing to worry about.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Aunt Tempy,” Faith agreed. “We have enough to worry about without that. What with the roof and the price of everything going up except what we get paid for sewing and our property taxes due next month. I just don’t know where to turn. We’ll never be able to earn enough money to pay for everything.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “But the taxes are due at the end of next month,” Faith said.

  “What about the bank?” Mrs. Everett asked. “Have you tried to take money out of the bank? That’s what my dear late husband used to do.”

  Faith looked at Mrs. Everett. She hadn’t realized the others were listening so closely.

  “Agnes,” Aunt Virt scolded her sister-in-law, “you always were such a featherbrain. Even I understand that in order to get money out of the bank, you must first put money in it, and that’s just what we can’t do.”

  Faith rubbed at her temples, trying to blot out the angry voices.

  Couldn’t they see it did no good to argue?

  The squabbling between Aunt Virt and her sisters-in-law was a constant source of irritation to Faith. She needed help and guidance, not quarrels and accusations.

  “And why not?” Agnes Everett asked indignantly, “We can put all our sewing money together and open an account at the bank, then we tell the banker how much we need for the roof and the taxes and all, and we just draw it out.”

  “I wish it were that simple, Mrs. Everett,” Faith said with a sigh, “but it isn’t. Our earnings from sewing amount to sixty-eight dollars and thirty-two cents, and that includes Joy’s ten dollar gold piece. The roof alone will cost more than that. A banker would be out of his mind to lend us money on the basis of sixty-eight dollars and thirty-two cents.”

  “Can’t we use the house and land as collateral?” Aunt Tempy asked, “I seem to remember Papa using the farm as collateral to get the money to build the new barn and stables.”

  “We could try, Aunt Tempy, but I wouldn’t want to do that unless we had no other choice. The carpetbaggers are eager to snatch up land, and if we can’t pay back the loan, we’ll lose the house and the land.”

  “If we don’t pay the taxes, we’ll lose the house and the land,” Aunt Tempy pointed out.

  “I know,” Faith said miserably. “What we need is a miracle.” Faith sat back down in her chair and picked up her sewing.

  “What we need,” Aunt Virt said bluntly, “is a man.”

  “A man?” Faith murmured, perplexed. “Another mouth to feed?”

  “No, a man. A husband. A provider. Someone to shoulder the burden,” Aunt Virt elaborated. “Someone to get us out of this mess. Someone who knows how to go about things. A husband.”

  “For whom?” Aunt Tempy asked her know-it-all sister. “There are five of us if we exclude Joy.” She glanced to the settee where five-year-old Joy lay curled up sound asleep.

  “Well, of course, we must exclude Joy, she’s only five,” Hannah Colson replied reasonably. “I wouldn’t mind getting married again. Surely, one of us can find a husband.”

  “Within a month?” Mrs. Everett was incredulous. “That’s impossible.”

  “I’m afraid Agnes is right, Hannah,” Temperance admitted, “Most of the women
in the South are looking for husbands. I’m afraid there just aren’t enough men to go around. The war has made a lot of widows and left a great many girls waiting at the altar. There will be too many old maids and widows in the years to come.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Virt chimed in, “look at Faith. I don’t see any men beatin’ down the door asking to marry her and she used to be considered quite a catch.”

  Faith frowned at Virtuous. She knew she was getting older, losing her looks, but she was only twenty-four, not eighty.

  “There aren’t many men Faith’s age left around Richmond except Union soldiers and undesirables.” Temperance leaped to Faith’s defense. “Joy has a better chance of marrying a gentleman than Faith does.”

  “I agree, Aunt Tempy,” Faith said, “but by that time we’ll all be homeless and hungry.”

  “Or dead,” Virt added ominously.

  “Like I said,” Faith continued. “What we need is a miracle—and fast.”

  “I think we have one,” Hannah Colson said in a voice trembling with excitement. “I think we have it. Look!” She handed Temperance a folded newspaper. “I found it in Major Butler’s overcoat.”