Читать книгу Last Chance Wife - Janette Foreman - Страница 15

Chapter Three

Dear Thoroughly Disgruntled,

Your sentiments are indeed valid. And, if I’m honest, similar to my own. If I had any other choice, I would seek a wife in a less popularized fashion. Believe me, I would much rather carry on stimulating conversation with a woman in person than run through the correspondence rigmarole of how-do-you-dos and the listing of personal facts on paper as if we were reduced to a mere checklist rather than actual hearts and souls.

A checklist gets the job done, sure, but where’s the true connection in it?

All this to say I appreciate your blunt reply. Except please allow me to correct your belief about my stance on romance. Like you, I despise the game of pursuit, but I get the feeling from your letter that you accuse me of using such a game to play women falsely. And to that, I strongly object. Honesty is what I offered in my advertisement. Romance can either be a game or be straightforward, and I intend to cultivate the latter with my future wife. As a general rule, I find it easier to have faith in people who give straight answers.

If you’d like to write again, I’d welcome the camaraderie—as friends, of course.

Sincerely yours,

Mr. Businessman

By the light of the fireplace, Winifred stared at the crisp page. She’d already read the letter three times, and yet she had to read it a fourth. The hand lettering struck her. So quickly penciled and slanted to the right, it almost looked like Greek script. Or hieroglyphics. Yet she could read it without hesitation, as if the message were coded only for her.

She dropped her head to her pillow and sighed, listening to the fire across the room crackle and pop over its kindling. Oh, how afraid she’d been to open this letter. He could’ve easily shredded her feelings by lambasting her for the rude tone her letter had employed. Instead he’d engaged her in conversation. He’d been kind in the face of her skepticism, which was something she hardly ever was—and that grace moved her.

“I suppose if my letter had to go to anyone,” she whispered to the page, “I’m glad it went to you.”

After all, she wasn’t ready for another romantic relationship, and nothing in this letter suggested that as a possibility, anyway. He’d invited her friendly correspondence. But would she write? Part of her scoffed at writing a stranger for no definitive purpose. But another part of her felt touched by his openhanded offering.

It would be nice to have a friend, especially now in this foreign place.

Except, how did she know it was truly openhanded, asking nothing in return? Mr. Businessman certainly didn’t sound like he had a hidden reason for writing her, especially since they’d both been clear about not wanting to create a romantic exchange out of this...but how was she to be certain? Perhaps he had ulterior motives, like so many other men she’d met through letter writing.

Lord, I don’t know who to trust. Which way should I go?

For now, she felt no rush to respond. She folded the note and slipped it back in the clean white envelope and placed it into her valise.

“Is that another letter you want sent?” Granna Cass stood at the preparation table, up to her wrists in dough. “Forgot to tell you I mailed one for you the other day.”

Winifred’s head shot up. “That was you?”

The woman punched the dough and flipped it, a poof of flour billowing upward. “Mail only comes through every three weeks. I had to post a letter to my son—he lives in Virginia—so I figured I’d mail yours, too. Otherwise it could’ve been weeks before it left town.”

Releasing a breath, she felt her cheeks blanch. “Where did you find my letter?”

“Sitting on the floor by the pallet. Beautiful drawing on the envelope. Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Wish I could draw like that. But these skinny fingers know nothing but how to make bread.” Laughing, she reached into her flour sack and sprinkled more over the doughy mound. “A letter home to your aunt and uncle, was it? Didn’t take time to read the address.”

How should she answer? Could she tell Granna Cass she’d never meant to send that letter, that the recipient hadn’t known Winifred existed until her letter appeared in his mailbox? A barrage of questions from the dear old woman wouldn’t entirely be—

The kitchen door burst open.

Though fully clothed in her polonaise and skirt, minus her overbodice, Winifred tugged her blanket up to shield herself. Hidden from view behind the partition, she craned her neck to find Mr. Burke in the doorway, frowning, his eyes darkened and skin creased between his brows.

“Cassandra, grab your supplies. There’s been an accident.”

“Oh, no...” Granna Cass dropped the dough and wiped her hands on her apron. Murmuring a prayer, she yanked a bag from beneath her bed and followed Mr. Burke.

An accident? Winifred dropped her blanket and scrambled from her pallet. Grabbing her overbodice from the top of the trunk and tugging it over her arms, she dashed across the kitchen, air still humid from the evening’s meal of roasted potatoes and breaded chicken.

In the darkened hallway, she scurried toward the sharp turn at the end, where the faint light from Mr. Burke’s candle flickered on the wall. The side door opened and closed, leaving her in silence and darkness. Breathing a prayer for the injured, Winifred pushed open the door and rushed outside.

Night had fallen and crickets chirped in the nearby brush, a sound quickly swallowed by the clamor of Deadwood’s stamp mills. Loose shale scraped beneath her shoes as she hastened to catch up with the others, who marched directly toward the mountain. Having been employed for only a few days, she hadn’t yet ventured out to see the rest of the grounds. Now, in the moonlight, buildings loomed around her in shadowy shapes. Brilliant stars spilled over the top of the mountainside, and somewhere she thought she heard the faint trickling of creek water.

“I’m not sure exactly what happened,” Mr. Burke said to Granna Cass as Winifred drew close enough to hear. “I sent Jacobson to fetch the doctor, but I’ll need your help before he arrives.”

“What were they doing?” the woman asked.

“I don’t know, except that a timber support frame came loose. I don’t know if it hit McAllister or if the falling debris did the job.”

Winifred hastened to keep up as the two reached a rocky outcropping along the mountain’s edge. Leading out of the mountain, a track like a railroad connected to one of the large buildings she’d passed. Rocks slipped beneath her feet as she climbed, moonlight acting as the only light to guide her steps. At the mouth of the tunnel entrance, Mr. Burke paused to pluck a lantern from a hook and proceeded to light it with his candle.

Then he noticed her.

“Miss Sattler, what are you doing here?”

The surprise in his voice caught her off guard enough to make her stumble on a railroad tie. She steadied herself before she fell flat, then stood and brushed her hands off on her skirt. “I—”

“You can’t be here.” He stepped into the moonlight, his piercing eyes pleading with her. “It’s too dangerous.”

She glanced around him. Blackness swallowed the long tunnel, save for where the lantern dangled from Mr. Burke’s hand. At a short distance, Granna Cass waited.

“But you’re taking Granna Cass. Surely I can be of some help, too.”

“It’s a long way in, and if you get lost without a light, it could be days before you’re found. I’m taking Cassandra because she’s aided before in accidents while we wait for the doctor.”

“Hun—” Granna Cass’s voice drifted from within the tunnel. “Go on back to the kitchen and tend the fire. That will help us. I left in such a hurry—I’d hate for anything to happen because I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Winifred met Mr. Burke’s eyes again. Even with much of his face in shadow, he shook her resolve. As her boss, he had the right to ask her to leave, regardless of her eagerness to help. Turning away, she tried not to let her shoulders droop, but they did a little anyway. She made her way down the rocky outcropping and then across the grass in silence.

“Hey, lady?”

Winifred jumped at the voice in the darkness. A male voice. Whirling, she spotted a man standing in front of a building, the one attached to the mountain by railway.

“Were you just at the mountain?” he called to her. Hidden mostly in the shadow of the building, only the man’s crazy hair caught fragments of moonlight.

She stepped closer, making out a thin, wiry frame. “Yes, sir.”

The man looked up at the mountain. “What’s goin’ on up there? Stepped outside and saw all the commotion.”

He must work inside that building. “There was an injury. I don’t know how serious or what happened, exactly.”

“Injury, huh?” The man shook his head, his body going rigid. He stepped backward, then forward, like an uncomfortable shuffle. “I knew it. Just knew it. Lady, I tell ’im, and I tell ’im. Don’t matter.”

“Tell who?”

“The boss.”

A chilling breeze snaked by, causing Winifred to wrap her arms around herself. The man didn’t make sense. She wished she could see his face.

“What’s your name?” The man folded his arms. “I never seen you ’round here before.”

“I’m new. Winifred Sattler. Just working in the store for a short while.” She tipped her head to one side, squinting as if it would help her see him better. “Who are you?”

“Charlie Danielson.” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “I manage the night stamp-mill crew.”

The stamp mill. That’s what the building housed. “Sounds interesting. I—”

“Yeah, if the job’s around long enough. No tellin’ nowadays.”

The man’s words killed off Winifred’s intended reply. She frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“We’re losin’ the business, ma’am, like blood from a gunshot wound.” He shrugged in a helpless fashion. “Ain’t right holdin’ on to us like this. Keepin’ us from findin’ other work. Leadin’ us on like he can save the company.”

Winifred’s brows drew together. “He can save it, though...can’t he?”

“Ma’am—” the man shook his head “—he’s been fightin’ a losin’ battle for this mine since it began. And even though I tell ’im so, he’s too stubborn to give in.”

Winifred’s thoughts flashed back to their conversation at the store, when Mr. Burke had opened up about the Golden Star needing an investor. How protective he’d been. And the wounded look he displayed when they examined the ledger, like his worth was wrapped up in those three tiny sales.

And now, an accident had compromised one of his men.

“Mr. Burke carries the weight of this mine on his shoulders, Mr. Danielson.” Straightening her spine, she stuck out her chin. “He cares about the well-being of those who work here. I, for one, am glad he’s sticking to his vision.”

Nodding farewell, she continued her trek to the office building.

Mr. Burke was a tough man who didn’t smile. But now she knew meanness wasn’t the reason for his stalwart behavior. Fear was. Fear of losing everything he had labored so long to build. And he deserved his dream.

He seemed to work hard to keep this place afloat, despite the doubt that had crept into some of the staff. She could only imagine the pressure. Her constant push to find a husband seemed like the closest experience she had to relate. The failed mail-order attempts, the downcast glances of Aunt and Uncle’s society friends. Mr. Ansell’s comment that because she’d been six times ordered but never a bride, there must be something wrong with her and that no one else would ever want her.

If Mr. Burke felt anywhere near how she felt, then he needed encouragement. The mine needed encouragement. She understood his persistence, his refusal to give up or give in to despair. What woman who had accepted six proposals wouldn’t?

Winifred didn’t know what needed to be done, but she determined to help Mr. Burke find more success than she had. Her mind buzzed with ways to help—provided she didn’t rearrange the potatoes and gold pans while at it.

* * *

Ewan’s footsteps clipped down the corridor toward the kitchen. Dawn had come much too early after a late night inside the mine, but with help from everyone, they were able to secure the timber support beams lining the damaged drift and get McAllister to safety.

First thing after a few meager hours of sleep, Ewan had bathed, but the stench of sweat and soot still lingered somewhat—a constant reminder of how yesterday could’ve been so much worse. He’d thanked God over and over for His mercy on McAllister’s life.

But what baffled him was why the timber frame had collapsed in the first place. Nothing like that had ever happened at the Golden Star. He used high-quality wood, never willing to skimp on something so essential, and held his miners to a high standard of safety, which they had always seemed to follow.

Perhaps he simply needed to check in more often, maybe inspect their work at closer intervals for a while to ensure the utmost safety.

But for now, he had a new order of business. Stepping into the kitchen, he located Miss Sattler.

She stood at the preparation table filling lunch pails for the day shift. Her trim, plum-colored gown brushed the hardwood floor as she worked, her brown hair piled on her head in a confusing puzzle of twists and curls and pins. The ways of women—in both appearance and behavior—baffled him, and yet, he couldn’t help but appreciate their efforts. This woman’s in particular. A realization that had taken him by surprise last night.

“Morning, Ewan.” Cassandra wiped her hands on a towel. “Breakfast is in the oven still but won’t be long.”

“Not a problem. I’ll be back for breakfast. For now, I’m actually here to collect Miss Sattler.”

The young woman’s head shot up. A sandwich hung in her clutches above a pail as if time had stopped. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” He motioned toward the door. “I am giving you a tour of the grounds this morning.”

Miss Sattler stared at him. Flicked her gaze to Cassandra and back. “You are?”

Good grief. Did he have to spell it out? If her current behavior held any indication, he’d be surprised if she didn’t venture out on her own at some point in the near future to explore the claim: both the outbuildings and the mine itself. And if he was any judge of her character, he’d expect her to approach the dangerous passages with glowing enthusiasm and no caution whatsoever. So, rather than finding himself in the middle of a fiasco later, he’d take control of the situation now.

“If you’ll be employed here for a while, then it’s time you learned how the mine operates. We’ll look around at the beginning of the morning shift, so we cause the least amount of disturbance.”

He could have sworn the twinkle in her eyes brightened a hundredfold. Dropping the sandwich in the pail, she applauded the outing, then scooted across the room to join him.

“I’m so excited about this,” she said as they made their way down the corridor. “I’ve wanted to look around.” Suddenly, her hand landed on his arm. “How is the worker from the accident? Is he going to be all right?”

Unbidden warmth traveled through him. “He should be fine. He is at the doctor’s now, but I was told this morning he might be able to go home this afternoon. Regardless, he’ll be out of work several days to recover.”

At the very least, thankfully, Miss Sattler had followed orders last night. Her response to danger had been rash and reckless...and heartwarming. Before she’d even known what the situation would hold, she’d been eager to help. But he hadn’t wanted to worry about her getting injured, too, in the midst of all the chaos. Surprising how much her well-being suddenly meant to him.

To begin the tour, he led her up the mountainside. “First things first, these are some of the employees you’ll need to know about. Gerald Foster watches the grounds. He lives in his own apartment off the kitchen. He might be an old man, but he has impeccable aim. We’ve never had troubles here, but having him around is a security that helps me sleep at night.”

“Can’t be too careful,” Miss Sattler agreed.

“Exactly. Then there’s Marcus Lieberman, who manages the day shift of the stamp mills, while Charlie Danielson manages the night shift. And of course, you know Cassandra.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll also want to know a few terms.” He indicated the opening of the mine as they reached it. “This entrance is called an adit or a portal. Inside, the horizontal tunnels are called drifts. The vertical tunnels are shafts.”

“Adits, drifts and shafts,” Winifred repeated. “Got it. Do we get to go inside?”

“Yes, but stick close.” A chill ran through him as he lifted his lantern from a spike driven into the wall. Safety first, especially after yesterday. Miss Sattler should be perfectly safe by his side...but yesterday, he’d thought his men were safe inside the mine, as well. At least the men knew their way around, however. “I meant what I said about how easily you could get lost in a maze of drifts. Do not venture off on your own for any reason.”

He lit his lantern, and they traveled into the darkness, the dank chill familiar to him. Water dripped nearby. Rubble scraped beneath his feet as he followed the rails embedded in the walkway. Soon, the familiar ching-ching-ching of miners’ chisels and hammers reached Ewan’s ears.

“So, the mine covers much of the inside of this mountain?” Miss Sattler’s voice sounded close and small in the tight space.

“Yes. I’ll show you one stope, and then we’ll go back outside.”

“What is a stope?”

“An excavation room.” Ewan paused at the entrance to the stope and waited for his employee to join him before lifting his lantern.

He heard her sharp intake of breath as she stared upward into the cavernous room several stories high. The closest miners didn’t pay them too much mind, just glanced their direction before continuing to drive their chisels into the rocky walls with long-handled hammers.

“Truly amazing.” Miss Sattler shook her head and stepped closer.

Ewan glanced at the woman beside him, now close enough to brush shoulders. The wonder on her face sent a surge of pride through his chest. “I gather you’ve never been inside a mine before?”

“No, never. Uncle talks about them sometimes, but this is the first I’ve seen.” She shifted her gaze until it collided with his. “It’s very impressive, Mr. Burke.”

Lantern light flickered against the wisps of her brown hair. It made a far prettier picture than one would ever expect to find inside a dark, dirty mine.

The squeak of metal on metal rose above the sound of hammers against chisels. Ewan broke his stare and guided his light toward the sound. Leaving the stope, a mule pulled a large cart, and alongside, a man walked the rail line.

Ewan stepped out of the way, gently tugging on Miss Sattler’s elbow. The miner eyed him, then Miss Sattler, before halting his cart and mule beside them. His thick, graying beard shone beneath his crinkled good eye and black eye patch. “Miss Sattler, this is Lars Brennan. He ensures that all the ore reaches the stamping mill.”

The man removed his cloth hat. “Howdy, ma’am.”

Miss Sattler smiled back as she dipped her chin. Ewan watched for any indication that Lars’s eye patch might scare her, but she looked boldly into his face as if she saw nothing wrong. “That sounds like an important job,” she said. “How much ore is that, Mr. Brennan?”

“This cartload right here’s about a ton.”

The amount made the woman laugh with surprise. “A ton? Really?”

“And he does sixteen of them by the end of each day.” Ewan clapped Lars on the shoulder. “Not a cart less.”

The man glanced between Ewan and Miss Sattler, rubbing his fingers against his gray hair before sticking his hat back on his head. Fidgeted a little.

“Feel free to continue on your way.” Miss Sattler ushered him forward, still smiling. “Thank you for meeting me.”

Lars grunted, like he wasn’t really sure what to say, then continued down the track with his mule and one-ton cart of ore.

As soon as Lars turned the corner, Miss Sattler whirled to Ewan. “The ore goes to the stamp mill from here?”

“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.