Last Chance Wife

by Janette Foreman

  He was staring. Tearing his attention away and back to the door at the base of the stairs, he opened it for Miss Sattler. “I want to ensure you understand that this employment is temporary. If someone comes in seeking permanent employment, I need to be able to offer it.”

  Nodding, she paused in the doorway. “Understood, Mr. Burke. I’m just glad you’re giving me a chance at all.”

  Her eyes held the same earnest, warm expression they had when she’d appeared in his shop last night. Normally that kind of thing didn’t move him, at least not from privileged women like Miss Sattler, but his desperation to keep his store open tipped the scales in her favor. And he couldn’t very well permit a woman with no ready funds to search for other lodging when he had the space.

  She chattered as they made their way down the corridor, allowing Ewan to observe her unabashedly. While he had never personally met her uncle, he knew the man had a shrewd reputation when it came to his investments in gold. And an investor was exactly what Ewan needed. Had Wilbur Dawson heard about the Golden Star? Perhaps Miss Sattler had been sent to look the place over, covertly, and then report back her findings.

  Or maybe Father had sent her. No telling with that man. He might want to pry into the business to see if the mine’s progress relayed in Ewan’s letters home was true—or he might want to lure Ewan into an advantageous marriage. Advantageous for Father, of course. Not that Ewan would fall for that maneuver again. He would find a wife on his own. Someone like Miss Sattler would never suit. Not with her obvious tendency to dream, to flit from one topic to the next without much depth. He wasn’t interested in a relationship with someone who couldn’t maintain a serious conversation, couldn’t shoulder the weight of the business as his partner.

  And he certainly wasn’t interested in someone who reminded him of the woman who left him at the altar seven years ago.

  “Here we are.” At the corridor’s end, he pushed open the shop door for Miss Sattler to enter ahead of him. “We sell mining supplies and a few staple items, as well as other general merchandise. To the outside eye, it might seem strange to sell staple items alongside mining supplies—but the more merchandise I have to offer, the more money I can potentially make.”

  Even though she had seen the store before, Miss Sattler floated to the middle of the room to take it all in, as if it were a palace and she a princess presiding over its splendor. Her light blue dress brushed the floor as she turned a slow circle and gazed at each shelf—which might as well have contained priceless jewels, judging by the smile spreading her mouth.

  She met his gaze. “It’s beautiful.”

  His brow rose a little. Beautiful wasn’t a word he’d ever associated with the shop. Efficient, yes. Reliable, certainly. But beautiful?

  “I expect you here by nine sharp every morning,” he explained, getting the conversation back on track. “You may take a half-hour break to eat lunch with Cassandra at noon, and then it’s back to the shop. No dallying in the kitchen when you should be working.”

  Miss Sattler gave a definitive nod. “Of course.”

  “Close the shop at five thirty, and not before. A key hangs beneath the sales counter. Do what you’d like before and after work hours, as long as it’s legal, safe and will keep your reputation and mine in a positive light.”

  “Naturally.” She grinned. “This will be so wonderful, Mr. Burke. I can’t express to you how thankful I am for your help.”

  Though it wouldn’t stop her from trying. Ewan mustered another tight-lipped smile. “Just run the store as if you’re working for the Lord and not for man. Then we’ll get along fine.” He strode to the door leading outside. “I have an errand to run. Will you be all right on your own?”

  “Oh, yes.” She splayed her hands across the clean counter as if it, too, were made of gold. “I have everything I need.”

  Ewan suppressed a sigh. Truly, Miss Sattler was turning out to be as silly and overemotional as they came. But thankfully, this arrangement would only be temporary.

  He shut the door and crossed the wooden walkway shielded by tall ponderosa pines. Stepping into sunlight, he shook his head to clear his thoughts. That woman was something else.

  And seemed to hold a secret. He’d suspected it from the moment she walked into the store last night. Why else had she circumvented questions about her situation? Something had brought her to Deadwood, without money or resources beyond a couple of trunks and a scrap of paper bearing his name. Perhaps she really was gathering information to bring back to her investor uncle. While Ewan hoped she’d send home a favorable report, he really didn’t like the idea of being scrutinized. Or lied to.

  No matter the reason for Miss Sattler’s visit, however, he couldn’t let her distract him. He had a three-month deadline to think of. And thinking about her twirling in his shop, with those big eyes, already distracted him.

  Clearing his throat, Ewan stepped inside the Deadwood post office, which appeared empty. Most people wouldn’t come until tomorrow—the stagecoach only picked up mail and dropped it off once every three weeks, creating an incredibly long line of patrons on that day. No way would he ever stand in line like that. Nothing was that important. But he did have two letters to post today. One for Mr. Johns and one for Father. His note of thanks for the investor wasn’t much, but he hoped the small courtesy would be enough to solidify a positive memory in the man’s mind. His letter home explained the outcome of his meeting, so Father didn’t solely hear Mr. Johns’s impressions.

  “Good morning, Mr. Star.” Ewan dropped his envelopes on the counter. “I would like these to leave on the coach tomorrow, if you please.”

  “Morning, Ewan.” Mr. Star smiled, his words tinged with a slight Bavarian accent. “Denver. Are you writing home?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ewan worked to hide his lack of confidence. He needed his father to hear his side before he heard Mr. Johns’s report, to understand why his son had failed to snag the investor he’d practically handed to him. To know Ewan would do everything in his power to remedy that.

  “Oh, and I have a letter for you, too.”

  “You do?” Ewan frowned, leaning forward slightly on the countertop. “But the mail doesn’t come until tomorrow.”

  “This one’s local. I’ll fetch it.” Mr. Star left the front desk and ambled to the back room.

  Ewan drummed his fingers on the countertop. Who would send him a letter? Hopefully not Mac Glouster, owner of the Sphinx, the mine north of Ewan’s claim. He’d been trying to convince Ewan to sell out to him practically since the Golden Star began its operations. And it had better not be from that California capitalist who had been buying up claims around the area as of late. Graham Young might have bought the Glittering Nugget, the mine directly to the Golden Star’s south—for a pretty penny, too—but that didn’t mean Ewan would give in to the pressure. Selling would be shortsighted. He was certain that his land carried great wealth, and he refused to get a mere portion of money, no matter how sizable, if it meant giving up the land.

  Besides the wealth, the Golden Star Mine had become home. He had labored to build it to this level, despite the numerous letters from Father telling him to leave the venture and come work for his brother in a stable Colorado mine. Selling out now would solidify his reputation within the family and the mining community as the unsuccessful twin, the poor, unfortunate fodder for gossip.

  “Here you are.” The postmaster reentered, waving the envelope in his hand. “Looks like you’ve garnered interest of the female variety. Look at all that frilly sketching on the envelope.”

  An answer to his advertisement. Not a capitalist inquiry. He was pleased but also surprised—he hadn’t expected a response so soon. Ewan snatched up the envelope, his gaze following the pencil rendering of a bird as he turned to leave. He stopped and looked back. Where were his manners? “Thank you, Star.”

  “Sure thing. Hope it’s good news.” T
he postmaster grinned knowingly, and Ewan pretended not to notice.

  As he strolled back to the mine, his attention wandered over the sketch—a hummingbird among flowers, clear as day. Though he couldn’t deny the frivolity of embellishing envelopes, he also could not ignore the fact that the artist had talent. And oddly, part of him felt a little special that whoever wrote him back would send something this time-consuming.

  A wagon rolled by and dust swirled through his path. He ran his thumb under the letter’s seal to break it, then extracted the note.

  Dear Mr. Businessman,

  I am not actually responding to your letter in particular but to bride letters in general. To be clear, I am not looking to begin a relationship with you. I have experienced enough letter writing with other men to imagine what was going through your mind when you wrote your advertisement, and I confess I’m tired of men having ulterior motives while seeking a bride. I am convinced that most use letter writing as a coward’s way to find a wife. For once, I wish men would think about the feelings they are creating within a woman and stop acting like it’s a simple game of pursuit that could either end or carry on with little consequence. When I find someone to marry, it won’t be through letters. It’ll be in person—and to someone I trust.

  Sincerely yours,

  Thoroughly Disgruntled

  Ewan blinked a few times. Frowned. Turned the paper over, then back again. Was this some sort of joke? He checked inside the envelope again, just in case he’d missed another portion that explained the whole thing had been a tease.

  Nothing.

  Scowling, he stepped into the Golden Star store. Someone had actually paid postage to mock his attempts to find a wife. Unbelievable. Did no one have common decency anymore?

  “Mr. Burke?” Miss Sattler’s voice came from the corner, where she pulled things out from behind the counter. “Do you know where the ledger is? I need to record a sale—”

  “I don’t know.” In fact, he wasn’t certain he’d even heard her question fully. He stalked between the table displays to the door at the back, pushed through it and marched down the hall and up the steps to his office.

  The nerve of some people.

  Taking a seat at his pinewood desk, he read through the letter again. But as he did, his frown softened. Kindness, regardless of affliction. Forcing himself to see the writer’s words through the lenses his mother gave him, he recognized a distinctly different tone than what he had been aware of before.

  “I wish men would think about the feelings they are creating within a woman and stop acting like it’s a simple game of pursuit that could either end or carry on with little consequence.”

  She sounded hurt, not prideful. As if she’d been taken advantage of by someone careless.

  Ewan had known far too many women who had been used by men for their own pleasures, whether physically or emotionally. The women’s feelings had never been considered or valued in the slightest. Men like that cared only for themselves. And he had determined never to be one of them.

  Swiping a clean sheet of paper from his desk drawer, along with a pencil, he formulated a reply.

  Chapter Two

  Two days down. Winifred had been on Mr. Burke’s payroll for two days without much mishap...though without obvious success, either. Mr. Burke spent hours in his office. Days for Winifred were spent alone in the store with only the very occasional customer, then nights were spent in Granna Cass’s kitchen. The hours rolled by with little action, and it had begun to drive her mad.

  Sleep proved difficult due to the pounding of stamp mills rumbling the ground. So last night she’d spent a couple of extra hours awake by Granna Cass’s fire composing a letter to send home to Aunt and Uncle. While she didn’t shy away from explaining her situation, she did use plenty of graceful language to avoid the ugly particulars.

  Now, in the minutes before work began for the day, she walked to the post office using the directions Mr. Burke had given her, letter in hand.

  Inside the post office, her heels echoed in the empty room. The man behind the counter glanced up, his thinning hair parted and slicked to one side. A little sign on the counter stated “Sol Star—Postmaster.”

  “Mornin’, ma’am.” She detected a slight accent, though she couldn’t quite guess at the origin. “Here to pick up your mail?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t have a box.” Smiling, she approached the counter with her small valise hanging around her elbow. “I came to post a letter.”

  The man leaned on the counter, regarding her. “No box? Would you like to open one?”

  “Oh, thank you, but I’m only planning to be in town temporarily. Any correspondence I might happen to get can be directed to the Golden Star Mine.”

  She opened her bag and withdrew the letter she’d written to Uncle Wilbur. Hopefully it would keep him from panicking and hastily marrying her off. And if she were blessed, maybe her honeyed words would convince him to send the money she needed to get home, so she wouldn’t have to take advantage of Mr. Burke’s kindness. Her employer had been good to hire her, but he’d made it clear her presence was a bit of a bother.

  “You do know,” the postmaster began, “that the mail came through yesterday.”

  Blinking, she waited for him to continue, her envelope poised above the counter. When he didn’t, she furrowed her brow, grappling to understand his implication. “Oh?”

  The postmaster looked at her like she should understand. Clearly, he thought she had missed something by not coming in the day prior, but what could it be? She certainly had no reason to watch for the arrival of any mail. No one even knew she was here. “That’s fine. I’m not expecting anything.”

  “Right. But, ma’am, it means the letter you’re sending won’t leave this office for another three weeks.”

  “Three weeks?” Her hand holding her letter dropped to the countertop. “The mail only comes through every three weeks? Is that common up here?”

  Mr. Star nodded. “Basically, yes. It goes by coach, not train. Hopefully you’re not expecting an urgent reply.”

  She was. If it took three weeks for the letter to leave Deadwood, who knew how much longer it would take to reach Uncle Wilbur in Denver? If she were fortunate enough for him to send funds, and send them immediately, his reply still wouldn’t reach her for another three weeks—unless, of course, he missed the deadline, and then it would be three weeks after that. The weeks stretched out before her, pressed down upon her, and her heart began to crumble beneath the weight. At this rate, it would be impossible to receive enough money to leave Mr. Burke’s employment any faster than if she earned the stagecoach fare herself.

  She glanced at her envelope and tapped it lightly on the counter. “Then I might not send this.” No need to tell Aunt and Uncle about her situation if she’d likely be on the stage before the letter reached home.

  The postmaster pressed his lips together beneath his wide, dark mustache. “Perhaps a telegram would be better?”

  Winifred raised her gaze to his. “A telegram? Oh, yes, that would be splendid.” But her brow pinched as the man reached for a form on which to write the note. “I’ll have to pay for it later. I don’t have enough for a telegram yet, but I do have a job, so once I—”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” The man slid a form across the counter. “Gotta have the payment first. Too many transient folks in town, you understand.”

  “Oh... How much is a telegram per word?”

  When he told her the exorbitant amount, Winifred shifted, her pulse increasing. It would take her a long time to earn that much. And once she did, would it be wise to spend it on a telegram, or simply save it for a coach ticket?

  Then again, there was still the chance that Uncle would send money once he heard about her predicament, and it might arrive before she had a chance to earn fare—which would likely please Mr. Burke. “Thank you, then.
I’ll return when I have the correct amount.”

  “That sounds fine.” His gaze settled on her letter and froze, brows drawing together. “Can I see that?”

  He reached for her letter, but she withdrew her hand. “No, remember? I won’t be sending it.”

  “I’m not going to send the letter.” Mr. Star chuckled. “I just want to see the artwork on your envelope.”

  This one contained a sketch of a buffalo in the prairie grass. She’d spotted a herd near the trail and had drawn one from the safety of the stagecoach.

  She handed over the letter. When she’d used her envelopes as her canvas, she’d had Aunt Mildred in mind. The dear woman asked her not to stop drawing just because she traveled off to become a wife. The art had been for her, not only to prove that Winifred hadn’t stopped, but also to help Aunt see the beautiful land Winifred had planned to call home.

  All for naught now. She’d have to give the sketches to her dear aunt in person when she returned home, humiliated and still unmarried, yet again. Which was why she’d wasted one of her envelopes to seal up the letter to “Mr. Businessman”—a letter that would never leave her valise in all her days.

  “An envelope very similar to this came through the other day.” The postmaster turned the envelope over, following the scrawling sketch. “Ah, yes, see here? The initials embedded in the drawing itself. WS.”

  Her eyes widened. She’d thought the initials were hidden quite well in the drawing. And wait—how did the postmaster know...

  “Are you Miss Thoroughly Disgruntled?” The man’s gaze twinkled, meeting hers. “This buffalo is quite nice.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Winifred felt the blood drain from her face, along with her ability to understand complete sentences. Surely he hadn’t just called her...

  “The advertisement reply to Mr. Businessman,” Mr. Star prompted. “Your letter had no return address, so when he mailed a response, I kept it in the back in case you came in—though I wasn’t sure how I’d know you, without a name or description. Handy thing, having those drawings as a calling card. I couldn’t believe he had the gall to call you that on the envelope. Though I suppose you must’ve kept your name a secret or he would’ve used it. But ‘Miss Thoroughly Disgruntled’?”