Last Chance Wife

by Janette Foreman

  “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 an
d 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.

  A world of good either of those types would do him. But what other choice did he have? He’d come to Deadwood with one intention—to prove himself as capable as Samuel. If everything his twin brother touched could turn to gold, then Ewan should have the same power. Yet, so far in his twenty-nine years, he had no success to show for himself. No wife and no thriving business, and he was an ongoing disappointment to his father.

  Getting an investment from Mr. Johns, and placing this newspaper ad for a wife, was his chance at redemption.

  * * *

  “I wanted to thank you again for this opportunity, Mr. Burke.”

  Ewan forced a smile at Miss Sattler as he shut his office door, leaving them both in the hallway. “And again, you are welcome. Now, follow me. I’ll show you around the store.”

  He moved down the
flight of stairs with Miss Sattler close behind him. “It’s amazing how things work out when you look for the silver lining,” she began. “And when you take the Lord’s providence into account. Even though I’m in a foreign town, I’ve wanted for nothing. I’ve had a roof over my head and food to sustain me, and everyone has been so friendly.”

  She laughed, and Ewan shot her a polite smile. But inwardly, he fought reservations. Had he been too hasty in hiring her? All she needed was temporary work—and judging by her frilly attire and what he knew of her uncle, she’d be perfectly looked after once she returned home. She was bound to be headed back there soon—which was all to the good. Ewan wanted to keep the position open for someone truly in need. That was one reason he had a store in the first place—to employ souls in desperation. He’d created a couple other jobs for the same purpose: clerical work, helping Cassandra. Though none paid as well as the store.

  Lucinda had appeared at his mine with no family and nowhere to turn, besides living on the street or returning to the brothel that had entrapped her in the first place. There were plenty more like her, just gathering the courage to ask for help. Miss Sattler didn’t have those problems. Well dressed, educated. Had a wealthy family. Her uncle would no doubt snatch Miss Sattler from trouble if she ever found herself there.

  But as much as he’d rather place Miss Sattler in a less prominent job, he couldn’t very well shut down the store until another woman came to him for help. Could be weeks. Months. And he needed the supplemental income.

  “Miss Sattler.” He interrupted her explanation. “You can stay with Cassandra as long as there is room. I have to warn you, though, I have visitors from time to time. They receive precedence. If one comes to stay, I’ll let Cassandra decide if there is still space for you, too.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” She nodded, her red earrings swinging back and forth. She wore her brown hair in a fashionable chignon with pearl combs that somehow made her grayish-blue eyes brighter.