Accidental Sweetheart

by Lisa Bingham

  When the door shut and silence took over the room again, Winifred thought about what the miner had said. “Does he not like corned beef?”

  “Those boys, I tell you.” Granna Cass shook her head and handed Winifred a bowl of soup. “Always wanting something more. Last week, that same boy asked if we could have mutton in the sandwiches. Mutton. Sure, I’d love to fix it for them, mutton, goose, fish...”

  “Why don’t you?” Winifred licked a bit of soup off her spoon, and her eyes widened at the explosion of flavor cascading over her tongue.

  “Because this is a business,” Mr. Burke cut in. “Funds are limited. Cassandra, that reminds me, I have an investor coming tomorrow, if you can add an extra serving to your noon meal.” Mr. Burke placed his bowl and spoon on the table. “I’m heading out. Thank you for supper.” He turned his stare on Winifred again. “I’ll give you my answer on the clerk position in the morning.”

  Winifred forced a nod. “Of course.”

  Mr. Burke left, his footfalls fading down the hall.

  She took another bite. “You’re quite the cook, Granna Cass.” But even as the delicious soup coated her throat, she wrinkled her nose and glanced at the door. “Mr. Burke strikes me as the pragmatic type.”

  “Which tells me you’re not.” Granna Cass didn’t hide the grin spreading her brown cheeks. “Yes, Ewan Burke is the pragmatic type. But underneath that practical exterior, he’s got one of the warmest hearts I’ve ever known. You’ll see.”

  Winifred doubted it. “I’m afraid I’m only in town long enough to earn coach fare back home.” She’d leave Deadwood long before she could witness whatever Granna Cass believed about Mr. Burke.

  Funny how a man could be handsome and yet as stuffy as a freshly starched collar.

  Not that she cared how handsome he was. Or about the striking sense in his eyes. Her only interaction with this man would center on her temporary arrangement and nothing more.

  After putting away the sandwich materials, Granna Cass made up a narrow sleeping pallet at the foot of her bed inside the secluded nook. “I know it’s not much,” she said, tossing a blanket over the thin mattress, “but it seems to work until we find the women decent housing.”

  “The women?” Winifred untied her bonnet ribbons from beneath her chin.

  Granna Cass paused. “Ewan didn’t tell you about the women?”

  Winifred raised her brows. “No...”

  “Then I’ll wait to say anything else.” Granna Cass moved back to the preparation table, to the mounds of dough she’d allowed to rise there. “It’s Ewan’s mission, so I’ll let him explain. Point is, I hope your stay is comfortable, however long it may be.”

  Mission? What did she mean? But Winifred’s question faded as she watched Granna Cass rotate her wiry arms and push the heels of her hands through the dough. “Want help?”

  “No, no, this job relaxes me before I go to sleep. Gets me in the right mood for tomorrow. Do you do anything before bed, Miss Winnie?”

  “Usually I read, but I left my books at the station with my trunks.” She would get them tomorrow, provided she still had a place to stay.

  The elderly woman smiled and tossed her a newspaper. “This is all the reading material I’ve got, but you’re welcome to it.”

  Winifred smiled. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Mr. Burke. He’s the one allowing you to stay.”

  True. She would thank Mr. Burke in the morning. Telling herself not to think of her empty future, she finished removing her bonnet and tossed it beside her pallet. She frowned as she stared down at it, the bonnet with the golden sash and blue forget-me-nots she’d promised to wear for Mr. Ansell. After today, she’d likely burn the wretched thing, for all the good it had done her.

  As she slipped beneath her thin blanket, the reality of her situation pricked her eyes, causing the newspaper print to blur. She had been so certain of Mr. Ansell. Ever since her parents died, she’d dreamed of having a love like theirs, a sacrificial, deep, abiding love that no one else would understand. With suitor after suitor, she had developed a better idea of what that love would look like, sound like, feel like—and Mr. Ansell had fed her all the right sentiments to make her believe he shared her dream and could make it come true.

  All she wanted was to be cherished for who she was. That wasn’t too extravagant to ask for, was it?

  Now, because she’d fallen for the wrong man—a man who had proven unworthy of her trust, much less her love—she’d stranded herself in a foreign place, forced to pick up the splinters of her heart alone.

  She would send a letter to Uncle and explain everything. Of course, she’d have to find a way to convince him not to marry her off as soon as she returned to Denver. She’d tried his approach before, allowing his cronies to court her, but soon learned investor businessmen were as dull as they came. When she married, she wanted a man of passion. And she wanted him to love her for who she was, not for the connection to her uncle she could offer. That’s why mail ordering seemed so ideal. She could travel to a new place, meet new people and be a part of something bigger than herself.

  Winifred lowered her eyes. At least, at first, that’s what drew her to the idea of courtship through the mail. But now, after six failed attempts, she wondered if it wasn’t merely adventurous to take this path toward marriage but, in fact, downright foolhardy.

  Losing her appetite to read, she picked up the newspaper to toss it away—when two small words caught her eye: “Wife Wanted.”

  Frowning, she set the newspaper back on her pallet and scanned the short ad.

  Wife Wanted: Mr. Businessman seeks wife. Needn’t be beautiful; must be practical.

  Winifred dropped her head and groaned into her blankets.

  Now she’d heard everything. This was what seeking a wife had come to—stating truth, yes, but bluntly. No romance there, not even an attempt to promise love or affection should a woman be desperate enough to answer such an ad.

  An idea struck her, and she reached into her nearby valise for a pencil and stationery. For his honest request, this man deserved an honest reply. Not that she would send it. But maybe writing the silly thing would ease her frustrations about today’s events. She thumbed through her envelopes for the perfect one to seal away her pretend response. In her boredom during the coach ride from Cheyenne to Deadwood, she had resorted to sketching sprawling images across her envelopes, leaving just enough space on each one for the recipient address and the stamp.

  Settling on one with a hummingbird in flight above a half dozen flowers, she smiled and tucked the rest away in her valise. Then, using the newspaper as a hard surface, she laid out her pretty floral stationery and penciled her reply. This was exactly what she needed in order to forget Mr. Ansell.

  “Dear Mr. Businessman...”

  * * *

  If there had been a way to fail at gaining an investor, Ewan Burke had surely found it.

  Judging by the firm line etched across Mr. Richard Johns’s forehead, anyway. A line that only deepened the farther he read through Ewan’s report.

  Ewan rubbed a hand down his mouth, pausing on his shaven chin. He glanced at his office clock. Nearly five. The investor had read through the plans twice but still hadn’t relayed his thoughts.

  “Mr. Johns...” Prompting seemed like the way to go. “May I answer any questions?”

  “Yes,” the man responded in a gravelly voice, eyes still glued to the stack of papers. “When do you plan on turning a profit?”

  “Very soon, sir.” Not as soon as he would like, but he had built this mine from nothing, and he counted any growth as progress. “I have worked out the numbers and estimated our growth over the next few quarters, and—”

  “And you’ll still be no closer to making this into a prospering business.” The older man sighed and lifted off his spectacles. “Look
, Mr. Burke. Your enthusiasm for the Golden Star Mine is admirable. And the business is new yet. But I don’t invest in charity cases. If you want my funds, then this company needs to prove it will make me money soon—not in some fairy-tale future. Understand?”

  Pursing his lips, Ewan stifled his own sigh. “Of course, Mr. Johns. I agree.”

  “There, now. I’d best be off.” The investor plunked the stack of papers on Ewan’s desk in a ruffled heap and stood.

  Ewan hastened to meet him at the door, then escorted him out of the office and down the flight of stairs leading to the Golden Star’s main level. Only the light slapping of their shoes on the stairs filled the silence between them. Resisting the urge to cling to the banister, Ewan opened the door at the base for the middle-aged man to exit through first. Kindness, regardless of affliction. Of course his mother’s relentless teaching reverberated through him now, when tossing the investor out on his rotund rump sounded like the more tempting option.

  From the moment Ewan received Father’s letter announcing his colleague’s trip to Deadwood to invest in Black Hills gold, he had spent countless hours preparing for this meeting. He’d meticulously compared the average growth of his gold production with others’, based on the year the Golden Star was a simple placer mine by the creek and the six months that followed, when it’d become a drift mine carved into the mountainside.

  His business wasn’t perfect, but it was just beginning, and he’d been confident that his report showed how the Golden Star was poised to thrive, if it could only gain the support it needed to pass through these growing pains. But now after this rejection, Ewan had to fight the sinking feeling clawing at his stomach as he shut the stairwell door and followed the investor to the front of the office building. Bidding farewell to Mr. Johns might very well mean bidding farewell to his own dreams of making something of himself.

  Ewan opened the next door, the one that connected the Golden Star’s offices with its tiny general store. He crossed the shop floor in haste. “Thank you for coming. I wish you safe travels back to Denver.” He turned to Mr. Johns with his hand outstretched.

  The man slipped his knobby hand into Ewan’s politely, but nothing cordial appeared in his pointed stare. “Your father told me I wouldn’t be disappointed.” He pulled their hands closer to his body, causing Ewan to lean in. “I hate going back empty-handed.”

  Ewan kept his stare calm and confident. “My father is never wrong, Mr. Johns. When will business bring you back to Deadwood?”

  “In December.”

  “Ah.” He broadened his smile to keep from wincing. “Three months.” Not much time to begin showing a profit—but then again, judging by his ledger, he didn’t really have a choice.

  Yes, his growth had been slowly climbing over the past six months, but a series of recent setbacks had put a weighty strain on his finances. Damaged and missing equipment, broken-down machinery...even production was suffering because a few of his employees had quit. According to a conversation Ewan had had with one of them, the man had learned how fledgling the business truly was and had felt it was too risky to stay. Ewan had tried explaining that every business started this way, that all they needed was time—and funds—to blossom. But apparently the man hadn’t expected the business’s financial state to be so precarious, and his worry about shutting down had spread to the others.

  Like gangrene through a wounded body.

  Just how many others had been infected, Ewan didn’t know. To be sure, only a few had quit, so he prayed the concerns had stopped with them.

  Mr. Johns’s investment would give them a boost. And they certainly needed one. As much as Ewan hated to admit it, the Golden Star could only tread water so long, and he needed to get the mine over this financial hump before his employees’ worries came to fruition.

  “Come back when you’re in town, Mr. Johns,” Ewan said, “and I’ll show you the improvements we’ve made.”

  “And the money.” The man emphasized the M word like the chop of a guillotine.

  “Of course, sir. How nice to meet you.”

  Mr. Johns grunted as he shut the outside door behind him and was gone.

  Feet stuck to the rug, Ewan stared at the door’s paned glass, not focusing on the smattering of dust collecting there, nor on the booming gold town that lay beyond his establishment.

  He had three months to get the Golden Star Mine earning more than it spent. Three. Plenty of gold existed in the mountain to do that very thing. The problem was extracting it and refining it to sell. Every penny he’d made already went straight back into the business—buying equipment, digging the mine and constructing the main building, which held offices, a small kitchen and meager housing for a few employees. But in order to grow—and cover those unexpected recent expenses—the business required more money than what his current profits could cover. He still needed extra hand drills, black powder and miners to reach more gold. And what good was more gold if he didn’t purchase more stamps for his stamp mill to process it? Those were what he needed in order to produce the growth Mr. Johns wanted to see.

  And aside from producing growth, he needed room in his business to offer employment options for disheartened men who no one else would hire, or when women arrived from the Gem Theater and other desperate situations with nowhere else to turn. Those situations didn’t happen often, but when they did, he refused to turn the downtrodden away.

  Point being, Ewan needed to prove to Mr. Johns that the Golden Star wasn’t too much of a risk. That he wasn’t too much of a risk.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, Ewan turned away. Just then, the door to the rest of the office building opened and Cassandra slipped through, holding the empty bags she always carried when she visited the venders downtown who sold vegetables from their carts.

  “Good morning,” she said with all the warmth of the grandmother she’d become to him. “I’m off to fetch ingredients for the noon meal. I’ll be sure to buy extra for your investor guest.”

  Ewan exhaled. “No need. He left.”

  She paused in her trek across the shop. “Left? So soon?”

  “He doesn’t want anything to do with us until we’re more profitable. He’ll be back in three months’ time to see if we’ve changed enough to justify his interest.”

  Cassandra tilted her head, a knowing look crossing her gaze. “That’s not much time.”

  “I know.” Ewan allowed his focus to trail to the clerk counter, where Lucinda Pratt had stood since nearly their opening—until she surprised him yesterday with her resignation, due to a marriage proposal from some gentleman she barely knew. They were riding off to Montana Territory at that very moment to start their new life together. The store was only a small part of his business, but it brought in some money. Money he would have to do without until he found a replacement for her.

  “Never underestimate what God can accomplish.” Eyes glittering, Cassandra continued toward the door as if the matter were settled. Then she spun back again. “Oh, I almost forgot. Here’s yesterday’s paper, which you never had the chance to read.” She deposited the copy of The Black Hills Daily Times on the counter. “By the way, I saw your mail-order bride advertisement inside.”

  A teasing lilt to her voice coated the comment. Ewan felt his spine straighten. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “For one thing, it doesn’t include your name.”

  “Advertisements can be expensive. Every word costs. The rest of the content was essential—including my name was not. If someone responds, I’ll gladly send her my name.” The letter would get to him regardless. The postmaster, Sol Star, knew of his pseudonym, much to Ewan’s chagrin. Sadly, he couldn’t even hide his marital struggle from the postmaster.

  Mr. Businessman. How prosaic, even for him. Finding a mail-order bride hadn’t been his first choice, but after feeling the shame of being left at the altar, Ewan had moved out of Denver to
start over in the wilds of Wyoming Territory and then Dakota. Problem was, once his string of moves had led him to Deadwood to finally set down roots and claim his mine, wifely prospects practically shrank to nil.

  Sometimes a man had to swallow his pride if he wanted to achieve a greater goal—to succeed in his personal life as well as his professional to make his father proud.

  “Is the high cost also the reason behind your brief, oh-so-endearing description of your ideal bride?” Rustling the newspaper, Cassandra cut through Ewan’s thoughts, bringing the advertisement closer to read. “‘Needn’t be beautiful; must be practical.’” She dropped the paper and eyed him.

  Ewan fidgeted. When read like that, it did sound a bit harsh. “It’s the truth. I know what my match should be like—staid and sensible. The vivacious, effervescent type is not for me.”

  He’d tried that kind of romance once before. Never again.

  “Well, love finds people in the strangest places sometimes. If the Lord has a bride for you, you’ll find each other somehow—even if it’s by newspaper.” Her eyes glittered brighter, like his situation amused her. “I’m off. I hope you find your no-nonsense wife.” The door shut behind her, and again, Ewan stood on the shop rug, staring through the dusty windowpanes, at a complete loss for words.

  What a day. First, he hadn’t gained the investor he needed. Second, his store had no clerk. Third, Lucinda, a woman he’d vowed to keep from prostitution, had moved on with life too prematurely. She was throwing herself into marriage with the same impetuosity she’d shown when she’d come to town to answer an ad for singers for a local theater, never guessing that the ad was a scam and the “theater” was nothing more than a brothel. Would this latest plan of hers, this whirlwind wedding, end in disaster as well? And what of his own marriage prospects? His fourth problem today was that he had to seek a wife through the local paper, where his only options were uncouth like Calamity Jane, or at the very least, were pining insatiably for adventure. They’d never be in a male-heavy, primitive mining town otherwise.