When he looked her way again, a shadow had tainted her gaze. “Ewan, you might think I’m some silly chatterbox who doesn’t know the difference between a pickax and a stick of dynamite, but I do. And what I don’t know, I learn quickly. You don’t know everything about me, and I wish you wouldn’t dismiss me so quickly all the time.”
“Winifred—” there, he’d said her name “—I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend. I do appreciate your optimism, I really do. But bolstering enthusiasm for a project won’t be enough to turn things around. It is going to take hard work and a lot of rational decisions. Most of those decisions will be very unpopular to make but necessary for the business to grow.”
“Maybe so,” she said, tipping her chin upward in a demonstration of her strong-willed demeanor, “but just because difficult decisions must be made on occasion, doesn’t mean that is always the case. Sometimes we’re looking so hard for one answer we miss the obvious ones right in front of us. Sometimes we need a little faith and ingenuity to go along with that hard work.”
“Do you really believe I don’t have faith in this mine? How do you think I got this far?” He leaned forward in his chair, too. “My twin was the star of the family. Could do no wrong. Me, I left home at sixteen to make something of myself because I was never good enough in my father’s eyes. Came home once, when I was twenty-two, but that didn’t work out, so I left again and followed boom after boom. When I heard about gold in the Black Hills, I made my way up here. I’ve busted my hide, battling snow, wind, frigid temperatures, insects and sweltering summer heat, just to find my way in the world and build this mine up out of nothing. I have never had anything handed to me, Winifred. I worked for everything I’ve got.”
“Then don’t give up so easily.” Winifred set her jaw and leaned forward on the other side of the desk, mimicking his stance with that stubborn way of hers. “I’ve seen your books, and I know you’re bringing in money. We’ll find creative ways to cut expenses, so you can make more than you spend. All right?”
How did she infuse steel-lined delivery with the softness of femininity?
Her gaze locked on his. “I’m not giving up if you’re not. There are things we haven’t tried yet, I’m certain of it.”
While he marveled at her gumption, she straightened and grinned. “Well, then. Are you with me, Ewan Burke?”
Something in the way she said his name made a smile unexpectedly hitch on his lips. “I’m with you, Winifred Sattler.”
Rolling her eyes, she reached for the pile of expense reports. “I wish you’d just call me Winnie like everyone else.”
A chuckle escaped him as he speared a forkful of eggs.
Chapter Seven
Dear Mr. Businessman,
You asked in your last letter about my dreams for the future. An interesting question. Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about dreams lately—so far mine haven’t turned out the way I’d hoped. Now I must start over, which sounds like a most daunting task. Where do I go from here? How do I go after the things I want out of life?
What is your biggest fear? It may sound silly, but mine is that I’ll always be merely tolerated. Unfortunately, that is the world in which I grew up. My family loves me, in a perfunctory sort of way, but I yearn to have my thoughts and actions truly valued. So, then, conversely, I suppose my biggest dream is for someone to cherish me, as I cherish him in return. But sometimes I fear that is too much to ask. It is hard enough to find any suitor, let alone a promising one.
Can I tell you something I haven’t told anyone? I confess, I haven’t been in Deadwood long, but it’s beginning to feel more like home than anywhere else has in a long time. The people I work with, the scenery I’ve grown to love, will be a part of me forever. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here before I embark on my next endeavor, but I’m sure it won’t be long enough. Thank you for being a part of my experience in the Black Hills. If only I could stay longer. I’ll never forget you or your kindness.
Sincerely yours,
TD
Leaning against a pine, Ewan stared at the letter a few more minutes, brows drawn, before folding it up and slipping it into the envelope. After promising himself he’d never stand in that ridiculously long post office line on mail-delivery day, he’d found himself doing that very thing today, bolstered with hope that one of TD’s letters awaited him. He inspected the envelope’s sketch, a sprawling field of wildflowers, and recalled the contents of her note. She sounded sad. Or lonely, at the very least. And he believed she feared even more the loneliness that was to come when she left Deadwood behind.
The instant she moved away, their communication would end. At least, he assumed so. They would become less anonymous once they had to actually exchange addresses, and he wasn’t so sure she’d be willing to disclose that much identifying personal information. Even more than that, TD would be in the process of rebuilding her life...and had made it clear in this letter that bidding farewell to Deadwood meant bidding farewell to him, too.
He frowned. With every letter they exchanged, he became less and less ready for that day to come.
Pocketing the note, he crossed the worn grass to the Golden Star’s side door. As he turned the knob, a voice behind him called his name.
He turned. Marcus Lieberman stood in the stamp mill’s door, his voice barely audible above the pounding. It was the start of the new shift. What could the manager need at this hour?
Ewan waved his hand in response and started in the direction of the mill. “What is it, Marcus?”
“The upper platform.” The man leaned closer. “Something’s wrong with it. I guess it ended up rotten in one spot. Or got wet, or—I don’t know. But it gave way under George, and if Ralph hadn’t been there to yank him back—”
“It gave way?” Ewan’s body went rigid. “Is George all right?”
“Yeah, thankfully.” Marcus shook his head, crossing his arms. “I can’t figure what happened, though. Seemed fine yesterday.”
“I’d better take a look.”
Pushing through the door after his manager, Ewan met the scent of dust and the thundering of his stamps unmasked by the building surrounding them. He scanned his two five-stamp batteries, ten stamps in all. Business continued as usual around him. Men fed ore into the batteries, and turning cams caused the stamps to churn up and down, crushing the ore into fine pieces. The fractured dust of quartz and gold filtered through screens to land on long amalgamation tables coated in mercury.
George had been restationed to the ground level, scraping mercury and amalgamated gold from the tables to be separated.
Ewan breathed a prayer of relief. After checking with George to ensure he was fine, Ewan made his way to the far end of the ground floor, following Marcus as the manager pointed up at the second-level platform’s underside. The splintered hole where platform boards had ripped free caused Ewan’s brow to tighten.
“See here?” His manager pointed out neighboring V-shaped supports that were still intact and showed no signs of rot. “These sections seem to be fine, but somehow this middle part collapsed.”
Ewan inspected the platform and the fallen pieces of wood, now a pile of kindling on the floor. Crouching by the pile, he picked up pieces of the platform and its support posts, turning them over in his hands. “Strange thing is, Marcus, this wood doesn’t appear rotten.”
Marcus didn’t respond right away. When he came closer, he knelt beside Ewan, his mouth firm. “I worried that we’d find as much. Suppose I was being hopeful thinking it could have been something we’d missed.”
Hopeful that the support post had rotted? Why would he hope for that? What other possibility could be worse? His words caused Ewan’s heart to stall. Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet the manager’s. “What are you saying, exactly?”
Drawing in a breath, Marcus set his jaw. “I’m saying, if this damage wasn’t done by something natural
, then it had to be something unnatural.”
Tampered with. His manager didn’t have to say the words for them to ring in Ewan’s ears.
They continued to haunt him as he climbed the stairs back to his office. When he stepped inside, he found Winifred seated before the safe, where he’d asked her to organize a box of files. She lifted her head at the sound of his entrance, and immediately Ewan noticed the pursed shape of her usually carefree mouth.
The look stopped him just inside the door. “What is it? Did you find something?”
“Well...” She seemed to hesitate, glancing over the papers in her lap as if she wanted to be certain of what she’d say. “I’m finding a lot of extra expenses from the past couple of months.”
Was that all? Ewan closed the door. “Yes, I had to make quite a few purchases after those beams collapsed in the mine.”
Winifred shook her head. “No, other things, too. Before the accident. Repair to Lars Brennan’s cart—”
“A broken axle.”
“New hammers...”
“A few went missing.” Ewan shrugged, making his way to his desk. “Things like that happen from time to time.”
But her frown only deepened. “A medical bill for a Mr. Jones after an unexpected dynamite blast, a repair to your scaffolding after part of a stope wall caved in...” She flipped through the pages, shaking her head. “There are a lot of mishaps here, Ewan.”
Tampered with... The words rang again through his mind, resounding like a gong warning of danger. She was right. There were a lot of mishaps as of late. But no, they couldn’t all be related, could they?
“That’s the way of the business,” he said. “Accidents happen, and sometimes machinery needs to be replaced.” He lowered himself into his office chair, that warning gong still clanging through his thoughts. “Mining is a dangerous job by nature.”
Ewan picked up his pencil and let the silence hover, its weight heavily pressing down on him, no matter how desperately he wanted to deny the truth. Who was his explanation kidding? Not Winifred, judging by her raised eyebrow. And certainly not himself. “Winifred...the mine is in trouble, isn’t it?”
She bit the corner of her mouth and took a breath before launching in. “Well, now, maybe not. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions until we’ve looked more thoroughly at the evidence...”
“I can more or less explain away all of these problems except for the feeling I have that something isn’t right.” He placed his pencil on the desk and looked up at her. “Something happened at the stamp mill today.”
She sat a little straighter, the pile on her lap forgotten for now. “What happened?”
“Part of the platform broke—the floor of it just collapsed into pieces. But it doesn’t appear to have rotted.” He ran a hand down his mouth, wanting to deny the suspicion Marcus had implied. “Maybe the supports wiggled loose over time.”
Winifred blinked. “Doesn’t someone inspect everything?”
Yes—on a regular basis. Exhaling, he looked away, hating the hole of suspicion eating through his gut. “Maybe the platform’s underside was neglected during inspections.”
She glanced at the pile of papers on her lap, then slowly looked back to him. “I’ve been calculating your books, going back to the beginning to see if I could find a place for you to save money—and I’ll be honest, Ewan. You’ve spent more these past couple of months than you have since you purchased and assembled your stamp mill at the beginning of your operation. Prior to that, you would occasionally have unexpected costs from something breaking or getting lost, but now it’s happening over and over again.” She grimaced, sympathy glinting in her eyes. “Something’s wrong here. This doesn’t feel like a fluke.”
“You think these repairs, these accidents, are connected?”
“Judging by the evidence, that’s what I would guess.” Standing, she placed the pile of receipts and records on his desk before him, evidence supporting the theory he didn’t want to believe. “I’m certainly no detective, but it does make me wonder if someone is trying to keep your mine from making money.”
* * *
Winifred filled the lunch pails sitting out for the morning crew. As Granna Cass made sandwiches, bare of all but a thin slice of salted pork—an indicator of the cost-saving measures—Winifred took the opportunity to slip her drawings into the pails.
This would be her fifth day doing so. Sketches of the mine, of the trees, of the rolling horizon, of the town. Whatever she could see, she drew. Sometimes even people, though it was much easier to find those walking by than in the mine itself, since she’d been more or less banned from the stamp mill and knew she’d get lost—not to mention getting in severe trouble with Ewan—if she tried to find miners within the mountain.
Every morning and evening, she slipped the sketches into the lunch pails for the men to enjoy. Wasn’t much, but it didn’t cost Ewan a thing. And it seemed to help with morale—the men took their lunch pails like usual the first day, not expecting a thing, but the next day they all had something to say about the gift they’d found when sitting down to eat. They eagerly asked if they’d receive more. She hoped the gesture would motivate them to mine with more zeal in their steps.
“Such a fun idea.” Granna Cass glanced at Winifred as they worked side by side.
“That’s a talent, for sure.” Delia set a pot of roasted potatoes on the table for the men’s breakfast. With her hair washed and pinned off her face and her facial wounds healed, she was quite a pretty woman. The most beautiful part proved to be the shine reappearing in her eyes.
“Thank you.” Winifred grinned as she stuck in each drawing, none the same, each different from the last. Growing up in her uncle’s world, which was dominated by numbers and strategies, her artwork had never been appreciated, except by Aunt Mildred. What an honor it was to brighten others’ days with her talent.
Just as she slipped the second to last drawing into a pail, she heard the doorknob twist. She looked up as Ewan walked in and stuffed the last drawing behind her back.
Ewan hardly noticed her awkward stance. He nodded a greeting to her and Delia before turning to Granna Cass. “Cassandra, I need my lunch in the office today, please.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Thank you.” With that, he headed back toward the door. As he left, he sent Winifred a smile. She returned it, trying to ignore the flutters swirling in her middle. Things had become cordial between them while working side by side in his office. But all was still held together with an exceedingly tentative thread. At least he didn’t glare at her anymore.
Since their discussion concerning his expenses, she could think of little else. Could someone really be sabotaging the mine? Or was it simply her overactive imagination?
He shut the door and Winifred released a puff of air.
“Missy Winnie, are you hiding your artwork from the boss?” Granna Cass eyed her beneath arched brows.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She stuck the last picture into the last pail with a surge of triumph.
Delia shook her head. “A shame to hide your art like that, next to a pork sandwich. Drawings this good should be shown to everybody.”
“No...” Winifred crossed to the stove where a cooling sheet of breakfast scones lay. Granna Cass had done wonders with the latest food restriction meant to save money. Somehow, she’d still managed scones. Snagging one and taking a bite, Winifred leaned a hip against the stove. “It’s better to keep things like this small and hidden, not drawing much attention. I’ve been reprimanded by Ewan before for my nontraditional ways.”
Delia leaned her hands on the table. “When?”
Granna Cass cackled. “When not?”
Winifred sighed. “I tried to rearrange a few things in the store, and he’d have none of it. Then I tried going around the property introducing myself to the workers and thanking
them for their hard work, but he put a stop to that as well.”
One of Granna Cass’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s because you were standing next to a power wheel in your big fancy gown. He probably saved your life.”
Heat tinged Winifred’s cheeks. The woman’s statement was likely true. “Anyway, Delia, no matter what I do, I tend to make a mess of it without even trying. The bigger the gesture, the bigger the mess. Better to keep things small.”
For all the good intentions she had in the world, she probably would be injured—or worse—if Ewan didn’t set up perimeters around her. In that way, his rational thought overshadowed her whimsicality. And honestly, she probably needed more of that in her life from time to time.
“I’m heading to the meat market,” Granna Cass said, removing her apron and hanging it on a nail near the stove. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”
“No, ma’am,” they chorused. The only errand Winifred needed to run in town was to drop off her latest letter to Mr. Businessman. Her insides warmed at the thought of his latest note—his encouragement for sticking things out even when they were tough. Winifred took another bite of the scrumptious scone. “Unless you need more supplies to make these again. They’re so good. I can’t stop eating them.”
Granna Cass laughed on her way out the back door. “You’re something else, Miss Winnie. Now watch those pails until the men have picked them up.”
“I will do that.”
“I’m going to work,” Delia announced as she sneaked a scone from behind Winifred. If they weren’t careful, there wouldn’t be enough scones left for the men, and they’d be stuck with only potatoes.
“The store doesn’t open for another hour.”
“Yeah, but I want to make sure there’s not a speck of dust in that place.”
Winifred smiled before taking another bite of her breakfast. That gal certainly had pride in her new job and worked hard at it.
After Delia left, the door opened again and a few men popped inside, ready to start their day of work, dressed in their mining clothes and heavy boots.
Last Chance Wife Page 11
