The Maverick's Bride-To-Order

“Maybe old Grandpa Stockton owns the place,” Eli suggested.

Aunt Rita grimly shook her head. “That would certainly be a travesty. The old man didn’t seem to care what happened to his grandchildren. He didn’t deserve the property.”

“Well, the place looks like it has potential. But we’ll see. Some other nice place might come up for sale,” Phil said.

In the chair next to his, Cole tilted his head close to Zach’s and muttered under his breath, “Let’s hope it’s soon. Six extra men in this house are way too many.”

The house was definitely crowded, but Zach wasn’t going to complain. He wanted their father to heal from the grief of losing his wife. And being with his brother Charles seemed to be working wonders for Phil’s spirit. As for Zach and his brothers, they each had to deal with the loss of their mother in their own private way.

“Hush and eat your cobbler,” Zach mumbled. “We’ll survive.”

* * *

Later that night, after Zach had retired to the bedroom he shared with Booker, he finally had a chance to look at the mail he’d collected from the Gazette.

Stretched out on the single bed, with his head propped on a pair of pillows, he began to sift through the emails and a few letters in envelopes that had been hand delivered to the newspaper office. Some of the women chose the short and sweet method to garner his attention, while others had gone into great detail about their cooking, cleaning and, last but not least, bedroom qualifications.

Just reading the erotic promises was enough to turn Zach’s face beet red and he was glad the explicit letters had been in sealed envelopes. Just thinking of Lydia reading this sort of stuff in an email message made him cringe.

Lydia. Lydia.

He looked across the room to where the open curtains gave him a view of a bright, full moon rising over the trees. Was Lydia out strolling beneath the moonlight tonight with a favorite guy? he wondered. Or was she alone in her apartment or house, watching TV?

Hell, Zach, what is the matter with you? You have dozens and dozens of prospective brides lying right here in your lap and you’re thinking about a woman who is so far from your ideal it’s not even funny. Sure, Lydia is easy to talk to, but that’s where it ends. And there’s damn sure more to marriage than just talk. So get your mind off Lydia Grant and back on the business at hand.

Grimacing at the pestering voice in his head, he picked up another envelope and slid a letter opener beneath the flap. When he pulled out a single piece of paper, a photo fell to the side.

Picking it up, he read the brief information scrawled across the back of the glossy paper. Twenty-two years old. College graduate. Blonde with the word natural to the side in parenthesis. Blue eyes. Five foot nine.