Dear Mr. Businessman,
You certainly sound like a sincere man. I want to believe you don’t play games when it comes to romance. I would like to accept your offer of correspondence—though I’ll admit the largest motivator is that I’m desperately in need of a sympathetic friend right now.
Do you ever feel like you’re trying so hard but getting nowhere? That nothing you do in life is significant enough? That you’re not appreciated? Sometimes I feel like I could disappear—move to some far-off land—and only a few people would miss me. Do you ever feel that way? Thank you for allowing me to put my thoughts on paper and send them to you. I know I don’t know you from Adam, but for some reason, as I struggle with these doubts and questions, you’re the only place where I want to turn. Even if you throw this letter straight into the wastebasket, I still appreciate the chance to explain my feelings. Sometimes I realize how alone I am in the world.
Sincerely yours,
Thoroughly Disgruntled
PS You may call me TD for short, if you feel the urge to respond. Don’t feel obligated to, however.
She should feel guilty about sending such an emotional letter to a man she didn’t know. How many times in the past had she opened her heart to potential husbands through letters? To be sure, in those cases she had thought that her openness would lay the foundation for a life together. She hadn’t stopped to consider that her suitors, in turn, had shared far less. But this time seemed different. Mr. Businessman had no intention of courting her, so she didn’t worry about being vulnerable.
An incredibly freeing realization.
She looked up as Granna Cass peeked her head around the partition. “Honey child, I’ve been thinking. If you’re so intent on gettin’ home, why are you trying so hard to improve things around here? I heard about the rearranged merchandise and the weeded front yard.”
Winifred didn’t answer right away. “I suppose I wanted to help Mr. Burke save the mine.”
A light laugh found its way out of the cook. “Bless your heart, but there is nothing you can do to save or lose this mine for Mr. Burke.” Granna Cass sat on her bed opposite Winifred, her voice soft but strong. “Let him handle those problems. You worry about getting enough money for the fare you need.”
“I may not be able to wait that long. I think I’ve outstayed my welcome.”
“Nah.” Granna Cass cupped the side of Winifred’s face. “I’m telling you, Miss Winnie, don’t worry about pleasing Ewan. He’s got his own plans to think about. If you really want to make a difference here, then help the workers. Give them a word of encouragement. Make a difference in their lives and let yourself decide that you don’t care a hill of beans what Ewan has to say about it.”
Easier said than done. But Granna Cass had a point. Winifred didn’t have to focus on helping Mr. Burke directly. She could focus on the hardworking miners. That would keep her out of the boss’s way, and maybe with God’s help, it would even be enough to make her feel needed.
Chapter Five
On the edge of his desk, Ewan tapped the corner of Thoroughly Disgruntled’s second letter, still unopened.
Of course, he’d wanted to open it from the moment he left the post office this morning, but self-control kept him from doing so until he was safe in the privacy of his office. Now that he was here, though, a bit of hesitancy kept him from breaking the seal. He’d told himself this letter wouldn’t come, after all. He’d finally convinced himself that one heartfelt note would be all he’d have to remember her by. Quite possibly, he’d built the mystery woman up unrealistically in his head, simply because her first letter had made such an impression. He’d wanted to become better acquainted with a woman who spoke her mind and shared her feelings so frankly. But maybe that wasn’t who she was after all, and the second letter would be nothing like the first.
Which was ludicrous, really, because Ewan wasn’t an idealistic person. He was rational enough not to put people on pedestals. Wasn’t he?
Enough dawdling. He slipped his thumb beneath the seal.
He unfolded the letter and started to read—and found himself poring over every word, drinking them in. When the note ended, he read it a second time before locating a pencil and paper to respond.
TD. She wanted him to call her TD. Obviously, she didn’t know of his aversion to nicknames. Then again, “Thoroughly Disgruntled” was so long—and really not a good indicator of who this woman seemed to be at her core. So, maybe just this once, once, he would use a nickname. She deserved at least that.
Dear TD,
You are not alone. Trust me. There are many times I feel alone in the world, too. My father had high expectations for me growing up, wanted me to reach a certain level of success. But sadly, I have disappointed the dear man time and time again. None of my efforts back home seemed to make a difference. Deadwood became my last resort. I love it here; I love what I do. But until I make my business successful and find a wife with whom to start a family, I won’t be seen as capable in the eyes of my father. And I want those things. So believe me when I say I know how it feels to be alone, to have no one to turn to. Thank you for turning to me. Honestly. I hope you don’t mind if I return the favor and send you a few of my own frustrations on occasion. Suppose I’ll sign off for now, but before I do, I wanted to make sure you knew there was one more person who would miss you if you disappeared to a far-off place...
Ewan paused, pencil poised above the paper. Did that sound too personal? He hadn’t realized he would write it until the words were already scrawled across the page.
Oh, dear. He meant it, too. That was the scary part. It was much too early in their correspondence to be so forthright. In fact, he shouldn’t be saying things like that at all. She wasn’t one of his matrimonial prospects.
Frowning, he scoured his thoughts to find a way to smooth over his sentiments. TD had no idea she’d encouraged him this afternoon, and he wanted to express his gratitude—but without frightening her away.
At least, it’s been nice to talk to someone. Wish me the best while finding a wife.
Sincerely yours,
Mr. Businessman
It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it would have to do.
Now he had to focus on saving his business. In a way, now wasn’t the time to find a wife, not with his professional future so unsteady. But he was lonely. And his father had never forgiven him for losing Marilee. He’d never really forgiven himself, either. Not that he missed Marilee or wanted her back, after seeing her true nature. But he did wish for companionship. Nights in his creaky house had become a little too empty as of late. Having someone to share his burden would be of some comfort.
Too bad TD wasn’t interested. Already, she’d struck a chord in him he hadn’t been able to replicate with any of the other mail-order responders. They each sounded fine in their own right, but their letters were too straightforward. Too dry, emotionless. Just the specific details—name, age, current situation, children, if any. It was all rather cold sounding, and not at all what he’d expected when he requested a serious wife. One could still be warm while being serious, couldn’t one?
In any case, it was too challenging to fall for women hiding behind their facts.
As Ewan pulled out his ledger, his thoughts moved to Miss Sattler. He might not feel anything for most of the women who’d responded to his advertisement, but he’d felt an uncanny connection with Miss Sattler a week ago in the forest, similar to his attraction for TD. But that was a grave problem. His parched heart drank up her charm and enthusiasm so quickly, he hadn’t realized it until he was in over his head.
A tangle of beauty and vim and sweetness—that’s what she was. A dangerous combination that lured him in unsuspectingly and then chopped him off at the knees. Oh, that draw had been powerful. Women like her—women who jumped from fancy to fancy—were his weakness. For a moment out on that path, with her so close, he’
d allowed himself to become distracted, but that must end. He had to remain on the lookout for a sensible wife.
As well as focusing on preparing the mine for Mr. Johns’s return.
A knock sounded at his door.
“Come in.”
When the door opened, Mr. Marcus Lieberman appeared, dusty from his dark, haphazard hair to the tips of his clunky boots. “Mr. Burke?”
Ewan sat forward. The manager of his stamp mill was one of his hardest workers. He never left the site during business hours for anything short of an emergency. “Is everything all right?”
“Well...” The man fidgeted, his eyes hesitant. “That gal you brought through the mill last week?”
Ewan’s muscled tensed. “Yes?”
Marcus scratched his dirty fingers against his hair. “She’s, uh...introducing herself to all the workers.”
Ewan’s brows shot upward. “She’s what?”
“She’s at the mill, and she’s shaking everybody’s hand. Kinda in the way, too.”
Closing his eyes against a developing headache, Ewan pushed back from his desk. “Of course she is.”
This wasn’t what he needed right now. He led the way down the stairs, shoes clamoring a quick rhythm that echoed off the walls. He pushed through the door at the base of the stairwell and marched down the hall to the side door leading outside.
Breaking into the sunshine and crossing the field, he ignored the soot filling his lungs and the incessant sound of stamp mills pounding in his chest. When he told that woman not to meddle with his store, not to meddle with him, he hadn’t realized he’d need to include the miners in the list, too. Of all ridiculous ideas, to go about interfering with men hard at work! He’d take shelf rearrangement any day over her pestering his staff.
A haze of dust met him inside the stamp mill, but with a quick scan he spotted her. Plain as day, Miss Sattler stood on the upper-level platform in a stream of light from one of the high windows. The metal cams churned his stamp batteries up and down like clockwork. Seemingly oblivious to it all, Miss Sattler offered George Bates, his deaf employee, a handshake as if they were attending a church picnic instead of standing in the middle of a working mine operation.
Of course, she had no idea he couldn’t hear. She yelled a greeting over the rumbling stamps crushing ore beneath the platform—her skirts precariously close to a battery’s spinning power wheel and belt.
Ewan’s heart seized, and he hopped the steps to the second level. He caught Miss Sattler’s arm, snatching her back toward the stairway—away from the miner, the spinning power wheel and the railing-less edge.
She startled. “Mr. Burke! What are you doing?”
“Getting you out of here.” Anger clogged his throat nearly as much as the dust did. Encircling Miss Sattler’s upper arm with his hand, he barreled down the stairs and out of the building.
“Mr. Burke—” her voice strained as the mill’s grinding faded some “—you’re hurting me.”
Immediately he released her. Standing in the sunshine, he turned to face her, working to quell the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He hadn’t meant to grip her so tightly, but when he imagined what could have happened to her while standing so close to that power wheel...
“Do you have any idea the danger you put yourself in?”
Miss Sattler blinked those wide gray-blue eyes, as if she tried desperately to think of what he meant. “I—”
“My office. Now.” He ushered her ahead of him and worked to calm his breathing as they crossed the field and entered the main building. Kindness, regardless of affliction echoed in his thoughts, but he pushed the words away. They didn’t apply to this situation—not when she had made it clear that only firm, direct orders got through to her at all. But for all that, he’d wait until they got inside. It was high time for a strict conversation, and he didn’t feel right about scolding her in the open where any passersby would see.
Once inside his office, he shut the door and crossed to his desk.
“Have a seat, Miss Sattler.”
She did so, wringing hands perched on her lap. Too much energy kept him from following suit. Instead, he paced behind his desk like a caged animal, stopping occasionally to look at her small and forlorn person seated across from him.
“The stamp mill is hardly a place for a lady,” he began. “I have told you that before. It is incredibly dangerous. That platform has no railing. If you had fallen, you would have landed on an amalgamation table among the mercury and shards of ore, or worse, if the hem of your skirt had caught in the belt on the power wheel, it would have been disastrous.”
“I promise I watched where I stood.”
“Accidents happen, Miss Sattler.” He dropped both hands on his desk and leaned closer to her. “My men don’t try to get in the way of their dynamite blasts, or want to cause the occasional cave-in, but the smallest moment of inattention can lead to frightful consequences. Mining is a dangerous job, and you are not allowed over there. It is a liability, and I can’t protect you all the time.” Suddenly drained of energy, he sank into his own chair. Breathing deeply, he prayed his headache would cease. “What’s worse, you could have put George Bates in danger.”
“George Bates?”
“The man you were speaking to when I interrupted. He lost his hearing in a mining explosion years ago in Colorado. Now he works for me in the stamp mill. It’s a dangerous job, and everyone has strict orders not to sneak up on him while he works.” Ewan rubbed at his temples. “Apparently, I have to reiterate that you belong in the store, where you are employed. You are not to romp around the property like Little Red Riding Cape on her way to Grandmother’s house. Do you understand me?”
She didn’t answer right away. When he finally glanced up, he saw she still stared at her hands, eyes misting over.
Oh, dear. Hurting her feelings made him feel like an oaf. But rules were rules, and they were there for a reason. “Just do your job and don’t interfere in the miners’ work, all right?”
Pursing her lips, she nodded and stood. “I understand. I’m sorry.”
She left the office, the door closing quietly behind her. Ewan turned his focus back to the paperwork on his desk, but as he picked up his pen, he found it difficult to ignore the niggling guilt rising within his chest. Perhaps he should have let her explain why she’d been among the miners in the first place.
Except it wouldn’t have changed his rules. She had endangered herself and George, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of allowing another accident to happen.
Folding his hands, he propped his forehead against them and closed his eyes. For a long moment, he didn’t think anything—just allowed the worry and stress from the past six months to wash over him. “God,” he whispered. “Why isn’t anything working as planned? She says she ruins things, but honestly, I can’t help but think the ruin comes from me.”
His father had been right, back when Marilee left. Standing in his parents’ home just after the wedding ceremony debacle, Ewan had met his father’s eyes and heard him say, “Son, why does it seem like everything you do comes to ruin?”
“Whatever happens moving forward,” he prayed, “please help me not to mess it up.”
* * *
Winifred reached the store and shut the door behind her, pressing her back against the surface. Tears squeezed from her closed eyes. No, she wouldn’t cry. Strong, capable women bowed at the force of the wind—they did not break. She could weather this just like she weathered everything else.
But that was the problem. She hadn’t yet learned to weather everything else. Rather than overcoming obstacles, she seemed to just carry them along with her. Her sixth mail-order flop. Being stranded away from home. Feeling so utterly alone. She hadn’t triumphed over any of it.
Now something as simple as a reprimand caused her wobbly knees to buckle.
She�
�d thought she’d finally found a way to boost morale without irritating Mr. Burke, but apparently not. It didn’t matter that she’d made her rounds during lunch instead of eating with Granna Cass, or that some of the miners seemed to genuinely enjoy her friendly introduction. Mr. Burke saw what he wanted to see. And he saw her as annoying. Dangerous, even. Someone who was only ever in the way.
Mr. Ansell’s words suddenly played through her head, like a terrible song stuck there. What if she was just as incapable of helping others as she was at finding love? What if she would never be appreciated but merely tolerated?
At five o’clock, she stepped out on the front porch and locked the door. Turning, she took a few minutes to gaze at the sun hanging lower in the sky than it had this same time a week and a half ago. Crispness sparked the September air, promising that autumn wasn’t too far away. And not long after that, the anticipated visit from Mr. Richard Johns. The future of the Golden Star would then rest in his hands.
These workers seemed so glum, moving from task to task, day to day. Where was the passion for their jobs? She saw that fire in Mr. Burke, and it was a shame his miners didn’t share in it.
Releasing a pent-up breath, Winifred rounded the outside of the store to the side door that led directly into the kitchen. When she opened the door, the place already bustled with men. Some at the table, others lining the walls.
Granna Cass spotted her and waved her closer. “Come on, Miss Winnie. Grab those rolls coming out of the oven, please?”
Winifred did as she was told, the sound of the scraping of the baking sheet coming out of the oven barely disguised by the din of male chatter.
As the men ate their meals, she and Granna Cass kept the warm biscuits coming.
“Hey, ma’am?” one of the men said behind her at the table. “I heard you were walkin’ around meeting all the fellas. Why didn’t you come meet me?”
A few other men chuckled. Slowly, Winifred turned around, baking sheet balanced in her apron-covered hands. Did he mean to ridicule her? But when she met the young man’s eyes, nearly covered by his shock of blond hair, she only detected friendly mirth in their depths.
Last Chance Wife Page 8
