Last Chance Wife

by Janette Foreman

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Can we go there next?”

  Thankful for the dark, Ewan forced down the grin appearing on his mouth. Business as usual. This wasn’t a little romp to waste time for fun’s sake. He’d only offered to show Miss Sattler these places so she wouldn’t put herself in danger by venturing to them on her own. “Yes. The stamp mill next, and then back to the store to open for the day.”

  They made their way out of the mine. At the base of the mountainside, Ewan helped Miss Sattler off the final slippery crush of shale, then ushered her toward the stamp mill.

  “I assume you noticed Mr. Brennan’s eye injury.” He glanced her way.

  She nodded, her eyes glowing with compassion as she fell in line beside him. “What happened?”

  “He worked for a mine in Lead City, the town three miles from here. At the time, he worked on a two-man crew chiseling ore. A flying shard of rock blinded him in one eye.”

  “The poor man.” Miss Sattler shook her head. “Then how did he come to work here? Seems like an eye injury could prevent a man from working for a mine.”

  “Well, he came looking for work, and it was clear he didn’t have many prospects otherwise. And honestly, pulling a cart doesn’t require both eyes, so it seemed like the perfect job.”

  “It certainly does.” Miss Sattler squeezed his arm and offered a smile. “And how very thoughtful of you to offer it to him.”

  The effects of her smile lingered as they reached the stamp mill—continuing to trip up his heart. Why did her admiration suddenly mean something to him? Could it have something to do with the woman herself, or was he simply desperate for approval?

  Hopefully, the latter. As much as he hated that option, it was better than the first. Hadn’t he told himself not to care for the store clerk walking beside him? A woman like her had the potential to capture his heart if he wasn’t watching close enough. And risking his heart meant risking the chance that she would then stomp on it before he knew what happened.

  At least she wouldn’t be staying long. If he kept a wary eye, he just might survive this temporary arrangement unscathed.

  Chapter Four

  Weeds might overrun the surrounding grounds untouched by the miner’s pick, but if Winifred had anything to say about it, the front yard of the Golden Star would be immaculate.

  Not that any grass grew there, either—but still, even plain old dirt would look nicer than the unruly nest of weeds collecting at the shop entrance. Unable to locate a garden hoe around the premises—save for one she’d have to purchase to use—Winifred found herself crouched near a tangled web of flowering bindweed, plucking it at the source. She tossed handfuls into the growing pile near the wooden walkway leading to the shop door, then started in on another section.

  Though the sun had barely risen, she could already feel the heat creeping up the back of her neck. It would be a hot one. Yesterday, the best part of the day had been during these early-morning hours, seeing the claim with Mr. Burke. The only strange matter had been her sudden sense of interest in the man himself. As they trekked from place to place, she had come to see a side of him beyond being the boss. A piece of his personality had peeked through his well-crafted exterior, and she liked what she saw. If only he didn’t spend so much time being a curmudgeon.

  Even his employees seemed to distance themselves from him. She saw it in the young miner’s face when he’d asked about variety in their meals, and she’d witnessed it in Mr. Danielson’s doubt and Mr. Brennan’s discomfort. It seemed Mr. Burke’s preoccupation with saving the mine had overshadowed his ability to be cheerful and approachable.

  Then, the rest of the day hit. She sat in the shop, practically bored to tears. Mr. Burke had made it sound like the store was an important source of income, so the fact that it hadn’t made much money as of late concerned her. If no one stopped to visit again today—well, she didn’t want to think about it. Hence, the weed pulling. She needed something to distract her. Something productive but not irritating to Mr. Burke. Because if she slowed down, her thoughts would begin to wander.

  If they strayed too far, she would start thinking of her broken mail-order dreams.

  Dreams of a life with Mr. Ansell, for example. Her heart had been foolish to trust that man. She saw it now—the deceit she’d blinded herself to before. She blamed herself for not being more cautious, more suspicious of the gaps in his story. But really, how could she have guessed that he was not a bachelor, as he’d implied, but a married man with children who was seeking a new wife to replace his current spouse?

  Even more horrifying than his behavior and his lack of respect for his wife and for the marriage vows he had taken, was the idea that he’d expected Winifred to go along with it. He’d known she was spending the last of her money to come to Spearfish and seemed to have thought that, alone and without resources, she would simply give in to his plans to leave his wife in order to marry her.

  Of course, he had said nothing about those plans until he had her alone and far from home. In his letters, the scoundrel had been discreet about his family. He’d been secretive about his own circumstances, filling letters with questions for her, instead. Seemed attentive at the time, but really he’d been diverting the attention away from his own twisted life. He hadn’t even wanted to exchange cabinet cards, though she had offered more than once—wanting to see a picture of the man she planned to marry. That made sense now, considering he probably didn’t have a likeness of himself without his wife and children. And he probably didn’t want Winifred’s floating around, in case it fell from his pocket at home. It wouldn’t do, after all, to have his wife find out his plans before he had her replacement on hand.

  Winifred heaved a sigh, yanking harder on nearby weeds. “Thank You, Lord, for preserving me,” she whispered.

  The weeds pulled up fast. If only she could so easily tear Mr. Ansell’s words from her memory and the embarrassment from her stained heart. The words he’d spat at her in anger after she’d rejected him and boarded the stage to Deadwood. “Six times ordered but never a bride. No one will ever want you now.”

  The shop door squeaked open on the hinges she needed to oil. Footsteps sounded on the walkway. Slow, confident, deliberate. They could only belong to one man. What was Mr. Burke doing here at this early hour? But when Winifred looked up, Mr. Burke was exiting the store with two suited men behind him. She squared her shoulders. Here early, and conducting a meeting?

  Mr. Burke stopped beside her, the brim of his hat shading his face from the morning light. “Farewell, gentlemen.”

  “Farewell,” one said over his shoulder, though his voice sounded tight. The other didn’t say anything, only shot Mr. Burke a narrowed look before they headed toward downtown Deadwood.

  Winifred tipped her head back to look up at her boss. “Who were they?”

  Mr. Burke stared after them. “Graham Young and his partner, Terrance Michaels.”

  Capitalists from California. She remembered him mentioning them before—a duo of cousins who’d bought up several establishments in the area. “I gather they wanted to buy us out?”

  “Yes, and they were most displeased to hear me say that my business is my business and will remain so.” Dropping his gaze to hers, he cocked his head to one side. “What are you doing?”

  She would ignore his lack of courtesy. “I thought I’d pull weeds while I waited for customers to arrive.”

  The man blinked. “Then you plan to help customers in sweaty clothes?”

  “No, I—I...” The question caught her off guard. Mr. Burke caught her off guard. Just when she thought she knew what he’d say next, he surprised her by coming up with something even more exacting. “I wanted to work when the temperature is coolest—which is now.”

  “Except, why are you working in the yard at all?”

  She stood, brushing off her hands. “The weeds are atr
ocious. I figured as long as I worked at the store, I’d make the place look a little nicer.”

  “Miss Sattler.” The man’s eyes caught hers, a piercing crystallized gray. “I hired you as the clerk, not the gardener.”

  His statement made her eyebrows raise. “Then you should hire one of those, too, because no one’s going to shop at a place that looks like rubbish.” Sales attested to that fact. Wiping her hands on the apron she’d borrowed from Granna Cass, Winifred bypassed Mr. Burke and made her way to the store.

  For someone so concerned with the success of his shop, Mr. Burke would do well to consider the tactics that attracted customers.

  As her heels clicked over the wooden surface of the walk, she couldn’t help but string together a list of other things she wished to say—like how an occasional motivating word would go a long way in benefitting his staff, making this place wonderful and thriving instead of dull and stringent. And that life was too short to waste himself acting like a starched shirt.

  The boss fed and housed his employees, took in strangers, and hired people who didn’t have a chance anywhere else. So, obviously kindness existed in his heart. He only needed to show it.

  A hollow spot in her heart ached for encouragement from Mr. Burke, but she kept her mouth shut. So far, she had created havoc nearly every time she stood in his presence. Enough damage had been done for one morning.

  * * *

  Ewan watched Miss Sattler disappear inside the store, her skirts nearly getting caught in the closing door. She had the gall to accept a position at his store, then talk to him like she had ownership of the place? Turning, he strode from the walkway and headed for the post office, forcing that young woman from his mind—as well as the two men he’d met with this morning.

  Graham Young and Terrance Michaels were his gold-mining neighbors in most directions, save to the north, which was a plot owned by the Sphinx Mine. After the pair of cousins cornered him last night on his way home, Ewan had reluctantly agreed to meet them for a discussion early today. But he’d been quick to turn down their offer to buy. Or swindle might really be the best descriptor.

  Their offer had been extremely low, and most importantly, the cousins cared very little about what would happen to the Golden Star’s current workers. Not only would Ewan be a failure for selling out, he’d also jeopardize the future of his employees. Some of them, like Lars Brennan, wouldn’t easily find work elsewhere. And Young and Michaels certainly wouldn’t have employment options for women in dire straits, like Lucinda Pratt. If Ewan gave up control of the Golden Star, they would have no employer available to help them escape their circumstances.

  Not a choice he’d be willing to make.

  Sol Star looked up as Ewan stepped into the post office. “Howdy, Burke. What can I do for you?”

  Ewan approached the counter, suddenly noticing a little sweat slicking his palms. “I wondered if I’d received any more local mail.”

  The postmaster grinned, the devious goat. “I’ll see what I can find.” He wasn’t in the back long before he returned with two envelopes. “Looks like your popularity is growing, my friend.”

  He passed the two envelopes over the counter’s surface, each addressed to “Mr. Businessman” in two distinctly feminine scripts.

  Two crisp, white envelopes, unblemished and...undecorated.

  “They’re not from Miss Thoroughly Disgruntled.” Star offered an apologetic shrug.

  Did Ewan wear his disappointment so obviously? “No, of course not.” He swiped up the envelopes and slipped them into the pocket inside his coat. “I figured as much. She didn’t suit me anyway.”

  She’d made herself very clear about not wanting to become romantically involved. Furthermore, he was silly for being disappointed in her lack of a reply. Had he really expected the woman to choose him, a complete stranger, as a safe place to lay her burdens? She’d said she didn’t trust letter writing. He’d be foolish to think she would consider friendship and correspondence with him.

  He’d gone and gotten attached to the first woman who responded to his ad. That was all. A natural response. Didn’t mean she was more special than the rest.

  Surprising, though, how sad the envelopes looked without a cheery sketch overtop.

  Ewan lightly slapped the counter, announcing his departure and breaking his mental wallowing. “See you around, Star.”

  “Hey, Burke?”

  Ewan turned. “What?”

  Star scratched at his head, then smoothed down his hair, brows crinkled above brown eyes. “This mail-order deal—how long will your identity stay a secret?”

  “Until I find someone I trust.”

  The postmaster hesitated, his brows crinkling further. “So...you’re gonna build mutual trust...by hiding portions of yourselves?”

  The man had a point—but he also didn’t understand the nature of the mail-order correspondence. “A name shouldn’t matter, Star. Two people should find attraction through discourse and common interests. Not in their names.”

  His name didn’t mean much here, but back in Denver, it’d been enough for Marilee to agree to marry him, as wished for by their fathers in a business agreement. She hadn’t needed anything else on which to base her decision—which became an indicator of exactly how strong her commitment to the match would be. When a bigger name showed interest, she left Ewan behind.

  Ewan exited the post office with a full mind. Was he doing the right thing by trying to locate a wife through the paper? Seemed so ludicrous, if one really thought about it. Choosing a life partner by mail.

  Unfortunately, he’d become desperate enough to do it. He needed a wife and a business for his life to be in order. If he failed at his business, then failed—again—in getting married, he wouldn’t be able to look his father in the eye.

  He could still hear his father’s muttering, “Why can’t you be more like your brother, Samuel?”

  His boots clomped over the wooden walkway leading to his store. Pausing, he took notice of the bare dirt where Miss Sattler had cleared away the weeds. Pivoting his gaze, he examined the rest of the yard and all its snarled, neglected vegetation.

  It really did look horrible.

  He shouldn’t have been so short with the woman. Among all her other well-meaning, idealistic behavior, she’d had a point about the yard. She’d seen a problem and had tried her best to fix it.

  Crouching to his knees, Ewan wrapped his fingers around a weed and tugged.

  It pulled free, the weak root trailing beneath it in the breeze. He dropped it beside him as the start of a pile, then moved on to another unwanted plant. As he worked, the door to the shop creaked open. Miss Sattler poked her head out, eyeing him with an unreadable expression. He met her gaze for a moment before dropping his back to the work at hand.

  Slowly, the door shut and he heard Miss Sattler’s heels scuff lightly across the boardwalk. She lowered herself beside him and reached for a nearby weed.

  They worked in silence for a while. Ewan couldn’t help but glance at her a few times as the breeze threaded through her light brown hair. Her hands, petite with slender fingers, yanked weeds from the ground like she was made of steel instead of flesh and bone. What a curious combination of vigor and idealism she was. A mystery he couldn’t quite grasp, no matter how hard he tried.

  “Miss Sattler, how did you come to be in Deadwood without a place to stay?”

  Her glance shot to his but immediately dropped. “It’s like I told you when I arrived—I ran into some trouble in Spearfish and need to get home but only had funds to get this far.”

  “See, that’s the part I don’t understand.” He leaned a forearm on his bent knee. “What were you doing all the way in Spearfish when your family lives in Denver?”

  “Just visiting.” She uprooted a couple small ones.

  Did she hide something? “Family? Friends?”

>   A look of pure annoyance darkened her blue-gray eyes. “I thought I had an opportunity to move to Spearfish, but the position ended up far different from what I was led to believe. I had no choice but to leave right away.”

  As her words sank in, his shoulders began to sag. Her story sounded all too familiar. “Sorry to hear that,” he murmured. “I’ve seen enough girls duped into believing one thing that turned into something else entirely.”

  She lifted her head, and he swore he could see questions in her eyes—hoping for him to understand, yet fearing he would discover whatever secret she kept and be disgusted by her poor choices.

  “I don’t know what deceitful activities go on in Spearfish, but the Gem Theater is our culprit here. One of them, at least.” Ewan added a handful of weeds to the growing pile between them, the scent of dirt and vegetation lingering on his fingers. “Last year, the owner advertised back east that his variety theater needed women entertainers to sing and dance. Paid for their one-way ticket and said he would make them stars. Except when they arrived, they were forced to join his brothel instead.”

  A gasp escaped Miss Sattler. “How awful!”

  “Yep. Join up or live on the streets. Most don’t come with enough money to get home.” He pressed his lips tightly before continuing. “Or they don’t have a home to go back to. Which is why they took the job in the first place.” Lucinda Pratt had been among those unfortunate ones.

  “The dilemma I faced in Spearfish was not quite that drastic.”

  He met her gaze, and though her face had blanched from the topic of conversation, she maintained eye contact.

  “I came because I chose to, because I thought an opportunity...of a different nature...awaited me.” Her voice came out a near whisper. “It wasn’t what I thought, so I left, thankful that I had money enough to pay for part of the journey and for the information about you my aunt had given me. But no harm befell me, and I always remained in control of my choices and actions.” For just an instant, her gaze wavered. “It’s nothing like what those women encountered, but all the same, I beg you not to ask about it.”