Читать книгу Last Chance Wife - Janette Foreman - Страница 12
ОглавлениеDeadwood, Dakota Territory September 1878
“In case of trouble, call upon Mr. Ewan Burke at the Golden Star Mine in Deadwood.”
Clutching the crinkled note Aunt Mildred had given her, Winifred Sattler raised her gaze to the town in which she’d found herself stranded. Dust curled up as the stagecoach drove away, tinting the air with a dirty dose of failure that caked her lungs. Surely that was what stung her eyes and clouded her vision.
The dust. Not the failure.
Stuffing the note back into her pocket, Winifred wove on foot up the cramped street through a tangle of men, vegetable carts, wagons and horses. Her glance bounced between the wooden buildings and the gaping holes in the road, then scaled the hills on either side of the narrow gulch where the town rested. A slight breeze made the mining town stink of dirt, unlike the sweet aroma of pine that permeated the canyon she had ridden through to get here, and the metallic pounding of stamp mills had begun to give her a headache.
But Winifred would not lose hope. She couldn’t. Sure, she’d spent the last of her dowry traveling from Denver to Spearfish to marry Mr. Ansell. Then her remaining cash had barely covered the fifteen-mile trip to Deadwood when the mail-order match had turned disastrous.
All she needed now was money to get home. Then she could eat a little humble pie before Uncle Wilbur and devise a new plan. Place new mail-order bride advertisements in the newspapers. Send out more letters to the prospects she would gain. Pray the dear old man hadn’t been serious about marrying her off to one of his colleagues if she—again—returned unmarried.
At least this time the mail-order disaster was entirely not her fault.
As she focused ahead, a sign for the Golden Star Mine caught her attention—barely. Small and brown, it blended with its natural surroundings. Winifred approached the tall wooden building that scaled the hillside in stair-step fashion and knocked on the door. The entrance certainly didn’t feel inviting. How much prettier it would be with flowers or a hedge. Did the slat siding need to be a weathered, natural brown? Wouldn’t it be nicer painted white?
Lost in her design ideas, she almost didn’t hear the door open.
“Ma’am, may I help you?” A man stared down at her, blocking the entrance. His suit seemed a bit threadbare, though meticulously pressed. Sandy blond hair was combed up off his forehead—which pinched at the sight of her—and gray eyes narrowed in suspicion. “The shop is closed for the night. Might be closed for the rest of the week.”
She dug for the note in her pocket. “Are you Mr. Burke?”
His forehead wrinkled further. “Yes...”
Winifred released her breath. “Oh, good. I’m Winifred Sattler. Wilbur Dawson’s niece? Nice to meet you.” She wedged her way inside before he could protest against it.
She found herself in a quaint, cozy store lit by a lantern on the corner counter. Shelves of merchandise lined the walls, the entire space smaller than Aunt and Uncle’s airy sitting room. Except she had thought this to be a gold mine. Why had the man attached a store?
When Winifred turned to Mr. Burke, who didn’t appear much older than she, she noted the confidence in his stance, the square rigidity of his shoulders. Strong. Masculine. He crossed his arms and waited for her explanation, so she hastened to give one. “I apologize for my abrupt visit, but my aunt gave me your name in case I ran into trouble, and I must say, I have certainly run into trouble. You would not believe—”
“Hold on.” Mr. Burke sliced through her words. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“Winifred Sattler, sir.” She stood straighter, hoping she didn’t look too frazzled after riding the coach so long. She’d left Denver over a week ago, roomed in Deadwood last night, and traveled to Spearfish this morning...only to turn around and come back to Deadwood tonight when prospects in Spearfish turned sour. If Mr. Burke didn’t help her, what options would she have? “I’m Wilbur Dawson’s niece.”
His eyes narrowed further as he looked her over.
She moved one polished black boot against the other, touched her bonnet lined with forget-me-nots. “Lovely place you have here.”
Mr. Burke frowned deeper. “Wilbur Dawson...from Denver?”
“Yes. He works closely with your father, Peter Burke. At least that’s my understanding.”
“Miss Dawson—”
“Sattler.”
“Miss Sattler, please understand my confusion.” The poor man obviously grappled to keep up. “I was not expecting you. What sort of trouble are you in?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then thought better of it. “I’d rather not say.” Best to figure out her next move before sharing her embarrassing mail-order blunder with a stranger. “I can assure you it’s nothing illegal. I simply found myself in Deadwood without a place to stay or funds with which to seek lodging or get home.” She lifted her face with her brightest smile. “That’s where I hope you’ll come in. Might you have a place for me to spend a few nights? Any place would do, really. Or I can be gone in the morning if you need me to be—”
“Please.” The man held up his hand, signaling for her to stop. “I do have a place available for a few nights. If you need it.”
“Oh, I do. I do.” She wanted to clap, to shout to the ceiling in triumph—but decided it might be too much for her benefactor to handle.
Mr. Burke locked the front door, turned down the lantern, then lit a small candle. Without a word, he led the way down a long hallway, casting shadows along the wall with his flame.
She followed close, her footsteps light. Removing her bonnet so it hung down her back, she watched the surety with which he carried himself. “So, why will your shop be closed for the week?”
“My clerk quit this afternoon.”
Quit? Winifred quickened her steps. “You mean you have a job opening? I’d love to have it. Temporarily, of course.”
Mr. Burke glanced back at her. “Why would I hire temporary help, Miss Sattler?”
“To get you through the week, naturally.” She shrugged. “Or longer, if needed.”
Hopefully her request wasn’t too forceful. A temporary clerk job would help her purchase a stagecoach ticket home. When she’d chosen to accept Mr. Ansell’s romantic—albeit hasty—proposal, she hadn’t gained Uncle’s approval. Only after much discussion had he and Aunt let her go...with the understanding that she would pay her own way. Which, of course, meant finding her own way home, too.
Mr. Burke seemed to consider her offer. “Unfortunately, there are other factors I must take into account, but I’ll give you my answer in the morning.” He led her to a door and knocked. “Cassandra?”
The door opened swiftly, revealing a wiry woman whose brown skin glowed in the candlelight. “Yes, Mr. Burke?”
“This is Miss Winifred Sattler, who is to share your room tonight.” The man motioned for Winifred to step closer. “And this is Cassandra Washington.”
“But everyone calls me Granna Cass.” With a grandmotherly smile, the woman guided Winifred inside. “Everyone except Ewan. He can’t stand to call people by their nicknames.”
Winifred glanced back at Mr. Burke, who joined them inside before shutting the door.
“Thank you for letting me stay here.” Heat blasted Winifred as she entered a kitchen, complete with stove and preparation table. Various cooking tools hung along the walls, and in the back corner, a section had been partitioned off for what appeared to be Granna Cass’s sleeping quarters.
“Come on in, child.” Leaving Winifred’s side, the woman zipped back to the table, where several small pails sat side by side. “Ewan, help yourself to soup on the stove while I finish the lunch pails. Miss Sattler, fill them with me while I get to know you.”
Mr. Burke crossed to the stove and ladled soup into a bowl, his movements efficient and sure. Winifred rushed to the woman’s side and followed her lead as she constructed sandwiches and wrapped them in paper. “Pardon me, but did you say lunch?”
“For the night-shift workers.” Granna Cass set one sandwich into a pail and had a second one half made before Winifred finished her first. “Miss Winnie, tell me your story.”
“My story?” Winifred couldn’t help but glance at Mr. Burke as she placed a chunk of corned beef between two slices of bread.
Turning from the stove with his soup, he met her gaze. In the stronger light, his hair had a coppery tint. Hardened lines etched his facial features, like he always had something on his mind and didn’t stop to laugh and joke very often. Such a sad way to live. He seemed so stern, like he couldn’t be bothered with charity work—which had basically become her situation, at this point.
Her cheeks began to warm. “What do you want to know?”
The elderly woman chuckled. “Whatever you want to tell me.”
That wouldn’t be much, then, at least not with Mr. Burke staring at her like that. “I was born in Kansas and moved to Denver with my aunt and uncle when I was six.”
“Ah, chasing gold?” Granna Cass’s skilled hands moved like lightning. “Ewan’s family works in Colorado. His brother has a successful gold mine, doesn’t he?”
Mr. Burke cleared his throat, then sipped his soup, not commenting further.
Winifred slipped another sandwich into a pail. “My uncle invests in entrepreneurs. We moved to Denver so he could find businesses to help.” Mr. Burke’s gaze narrowed again. Her chest tightened at his obvious disapproval of her. Sure, she’d shown up unannounced tonight, but was that any reason to glare at her so harshly?
“Miss Winnie, you’d better have some of that soup, too. Not much left. The boys already had their supper.” Granna Cass moved to the large pot perched on the stove.
“The boys?”
“The miners.” Mr. Burke’s voice held a guarded edge. “Many of my men eat here during the shift change. It’s a benefit I will not compromise.”
Winifred blinked as she tried to make sense of his defensive explanation. Did he expect her to disapprove of his offering food to his employees?
No sooner had she slipped a sandwich into the pail than a commotion like a thundering herd approached the kitchen door.
“There they are,” said Granna Cass. “Right on time.”
In quick motion, the kitchen door flew open. Men barreled inside, their boots clomping along the hard floor. Dirt clung to their clothes. Winifred pushed against the wall as they encircled the table like wolves surrounding prey. They plucked their pails from the table with big hands and acknowledged Mr. Burke’s presence with a solemn nod before trudging back out, circling wide rather than getting too close to their employer.
One man inspected the contents of his pail. “Corned beef again, Granna Cass?”
“Yes, sir.” The woman shot him a knowing smile, propping a fist on her hip and raising her graying eyebrows. “Just like every day before.”
The man looked like he wanted to say more, but he glanced at Mr. Burke and seemed to decide against it, then gave Granna Cass a cautious smile and left with the others.
When the door shut and silence took over the room again, Winifred thought about what the miner had said. “Does he not like corned beef?”
“Those boys, I tell you.” Granna Cass shook her head and handed Winifred a bowl of soup. “Always wanting something more. Last week, that same boy asked if we could have mutton in the sandwiches. Mutton. Sure, I’d love to fix it for them, mutton, goose, fish...”
“Why don’t you?” Winifred licked a bit of soup off her spoon, and her eyes widened at the explosion of flavor cascading over her tongue.
“Because this is a business,” Mr. Burke cut in. “Funds are limited. Cassandra, that reminds me, I have an investor coming tomorrow, if you can add an extra serving to your noon meal.” Mr. Burke placed his bowl and spoon on the table. “I’m heading out. Thank you for supper.” He turned his stare on Winifred again. “I’ll give you my answer on the clerk position in the morning.”
Winifred forced a nod. “Of course.”
Mr. Burke left, his footfalls fading down the hall.
She took another bite. “You’re quite the cook, Granna Cass.” But even as the delicious soup coated her throat, she wrinkled her nose and glanced at the door. “Mr. Burke strikes me as the pragmatic type.”
“Which tells me you’re not.” Granna Cass didn’t hide the grin spreading her brown cheeks. “Yes, Ewan Burke is the pragmatic type. But underneath that practical exterior, he’s got one of the warmest hearts I’ve ever known. You’ll see.”
Winifred doubted it. “I’m afraid I’m only in town long enough to earn coach fare back home.” She’d leave Deadwood long before she could witness whatever Granna Cass believed about Mr. Burke.
Funny how a man could be handsome and yet as stuffy as a freshly starched collar.
Not that she cared how handsome he was. Or about the striking sense in his eyes. Her only interaction with this man would center on her temporary arrangement and nothing more.
After putting away the sandwich materials, Granna Cass made up a narrow sleeping pallet at the foot of her bed inside the secluded nook. “I know it’s not much,” she said, tossing a blanket over the thin mattress, “but it seems to work until we find the women decent housing.”
“The women?” Winifred untied her bonnet ribbons from beneath her chin.
Granna Cass paused. “Ewan didn’t tell you about the women?”
Winifred raised her brows. “No...”
“Then I’ll wait to say anything else.” Granna Cass moved back to the preparation table, to the mounds of dough she’d allowed to rise there. “It’s Ewan’s mission, so I’ll let him explain. Point is, I hope your stay is comfortable, however long it may be.”
Mission? What did she mean? But Winifred’s question faded as she watched Granna Cass rotate her wiry arms and push the heels of her hands through the dough. “Want help?”
“No, no, this job relaxes me before I go to sleep. Gets me in the right mood for tomorrow. Do you do anything before bed, Miss Winnie?”
“Usually I read, but I left my books at the station with my trunks.” She would get them tomorrow, provided she still had a place to stay.
The elderly woman smiled and tossed her a newspaper. “This is all the reading material I’ve got, but you’re welcome to it.”
Winifred smiled. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Mr. Burke. He’s the one allowing you to stay.”
True. She would thank Mr. Burke in the morning. Telling herself not to think of her empty future, she finished removing her bonnet and tossed it beside her pallet. She frowned as she stared down at it, the bonnet with the golden sash and blue forget-me-nots she’d promised to wear for Mr. Ansell. After today, she’d likely burn the wretched thing, for all the good it had done her.
As she slipped beneath her thin blanket, the reality of her situation pricked her eyes, causing the newspaper print to blur. She had been so certain of Mr. Ansell. Ever since her parents died, she’d dreamed of having a love like theirs, a sacrificial, deep, abiding love that no one else would understand. With suitor after suitor, she had developed a better idea of what that love would look like, sound like, feel like—and Mr. Ansell had fed her all the right sentiments to make her believe he shared her dream and could make it come true.
All she wanted was to be cherished for who she was. That wasn’t too extravagant to ask for, was it?
Now, because she’d fallen for the wrong man—a man who had proven unworthy of her trust, much less her love—she’d stranded herself in a foreign place, forced to pick up the splinters of her heart alone.
She would send a letter to Uncle and explain everything. Of course, she’d have to find a way to convince him not to marry her off as soon as she returned to Denver. She’d tried his approach before, allowing his cronies to court her, but soon learned investor businessmen were as dull as they came. When she married, she wanted a man of passion. And she wanted him to love her for who she was, not for the connection to her uncle she could offer. That’s why mail ordering seemed so ideal. She could travel to a new place, meet new people and be a part of something bigger than herself.
Winifred lowered her eyes. At least, at first, that’s what drew her to the idea of courtship through the mail. But now, after six failed attempts, she wondered if it wasn’t merely adventurous to take this path toward marriage but, in fact, downright foolhardy.
Losing her appetite to read, she picked up the newspaper to toss it away—when two small words caught her eye: “Wife Wanted.”
Frowning, she set the newspaper back on her pallet and scanned the short ad.
Wife Wanted: Mr. Businessman seeks wife. Needn’t be beautiful; must be practical.
Winifred dropped her head and groaned into her blankets.
Now she’d heard everything. This was what seeking a wife had come to—stating truth, yes, but bluntly. No romance there, not even an attempt to promise love or affection should a woman be desperate enough to answer such an ad.
An idea struck her, and she reached into her nearby valise for a pencil and stationery. For his honest request, this man deserved an honest reply. Not that she would send it. But maybe writing the silly thing would ease her frustrations about today’s events. She thumbed through her envelopes for the perfect one to seal away her pretend response. In her boredom during the coach ride from Cheyenne to Deadwood, she had resorted to sketching sprawling images across her envelopes, leaving just enough space on each one for the recipient address and the stamp.
Settling on one with a hummingbird in flight above a half dozen flowers, she smiled and tucked the rest away in her valise. Then, using the newspaper as a hard surface, she laid out her pretty floral stationery and penciled her reply. This was exactly what she needed in order to forget Mr. Ansell.
“Dear Mr. Businessman...”
* * *
If there had been a way to fail at gaining an investor, Ewan Burke had surely found it.
Judging by the firm line etched across Mr. Richard Johns’s forehead, anyway. A line that only deepened the farther he read through Ewan’s report.
Ewan rubbed a hand down his mouth, pausing on his shaven chin. He glanced at his office clock. Nearly five. The investor had read through the plans twice but still hadn’t relayed his thoughts.
“Mr. Johns...” Prompting seemed like the way to go. “May I answer any questions?”
“Yes,” the man responded in a gravelly voice, eyes still glued to the stack of papers. “When do you plan on turning a profit?”
“Very soon, sir.” Not as soon as he would like, but he had built this mine from nothing, and he counted any growth as progress. “I have worked out the numbers and estimated our growth over the next few quarters, and—”
“And you’ll still be no closer to making this into a prospering business.” The older man sighed and lifted off his spectacles. “Look, Mr. Burke. Your enthusiasm for the Golden Star Mine is admirable. And the business is new yet. But I don’t invest in charity cases. If you want my funds, then this company needs to prove it will make me money soon—not in some fairy-tale future. Understand?”
Pursing his lips, Ewan stifled his own sigh. “Of course, Mr. Johns. I agree.”
“There, now. I’d best be off.” The investor plunked the stack of papers on Ewan’s desk in a ruffled heap and stood.
Ewan hastened to meet him at the door, then escorted him out of the office and down the flight of stairs leading to the Golden Star’s main level. Only the light slapping of their shoes on the stairs filled the silence between them. Resisting the urge to cling to the banister, Ewan opened the door at the base for the middle-aged man to exit through first. Kindness, regardless of affliction. Of course his mother’s relentless teaching reverberated through him now, when tossing the investor out on his rotund rump sounded like the more tempting option.
From the moment Ewan received Father’s letter announcing his colleague’s trip to Deadwood to invest in Black Hills gold, he had spent countless hours preparing for this meeting. He’d meticulously compared the average growth of his gold production with others’, based on the year the Golden Star was a simple placer mine by the creek and the six months that followed, when it’d become a drift mine carved into the mountainside.
His business wasn’t perfect, but it was just beginning, and he’d been confident that his report showed how the Golden Star was poised to thrive, if it could only gain the support it needed to pass through these growing pains. But now after this rejection, Ewan had to fight the sinking feeling clawing at his stomach as he shut the stairwell door and followed the investor to the front of the office building. Bidding farewell to Mr. Johns might very well mean bidding farewell to his own dreams of making something of himself.
Ewan opened the next door, the one that connected the Golden Star’s offices with its tiny general store. He crossed the shop floor in haste. “Thank you for coming. I wish you safe travels back to Denver.” He turned to Mr. Johns with his hand outstretched.
The man slipped his knobby hand into Ewan’s politely, but nothing cordial appeared in his pointed stare. “Your father told me I wouldn’t be disappointed.” He pulled their hands closer to his body, causing Ewan to lean in. “I hate going back empty-handed.”
Ewan kept his stare calm and confident. “My father is never wrong, Mr. Johns. When will business bring you back to Deadwood?”
“In December.”
“Ah.” He broadened his smile to keep from wincing. “Three months.” Not much time to begin showing a profit—but then again, judging by his ledger, he didn’t really have a choice.
Yes, his growth had been slowly climbing over the past six months, but a series of recent setbacks had put a weighty strain on his finances. Damaged and missing equipment, broken-down machinery...even production was suffering because a few of his employees had quit. According to a conversation Ewan had had with one of them, the man had learned how fledgling the business truly was and had felt it was too risky to stay. Ewan had tried explaining that every business started this way, that all they needed was time—and funds—to blossom. But apparently the man hadn’t expected the business’s financial state to be so precarious, and his worry about shutting down had spread to the others.
Like gangrene through a wounded body.
Just how many others had been infected, Ewan didn’t know. To be sure, only a few had quit, so he prayed the concerns had stopped with them.
Mr. Johns’s investment would give them a boost. And they certainly needed one. As much as Ewan hated to admit it, the Golden Star could only tread water so long, and he needed to get the mine over this financial hump before his employees’ worries came to fruition.
“Come back when you’re in town, Mr. Johns,” Ewan said, “and I’ll show you the improvements we’ve made.”
“And the money.” The man emphasized the M word like the chop of a guillotine.
“Of course, sir. How nice to meet you.”
Mr. Johns grunted as he shut the outside door behind him and was gone.
Feet stuck to the rug, Ewan stared at the door’s paned glass, not focusing on the smattering of dust collecting there, nor on the booming gold town that lay beyond his establishment.
He had three months to get the Golden Star Mine earning more than it spent. Three. Plenty of gold existed in the mountain to do that very thing. The problem was extracting it and refining it to sell. Every penny he’d made already went straight back into the business—buying equipment, digging the mine and constructing the main building, which held offices, a small kitchen and meager housing for a few employees. But in order to grow—and cover those unexpected recent expenses—the business required more money than what his current profits could cover. He still needed extra hand drills, black powder and miners to reach more gold. And what good was more gold if he didn’t purchase more stamps for his stamp mill to process it? Those were what he needed in order to produce the growth Mr. Johns wanted to see.
And aside from producing growth, he needed room in his business to offer employment options for disheartened men who no one else would hire, or when women arrived from the Gem Theater and other desperate situations with nowhere else to turn. Those situations didn’t happen often, but when they did, he refused to turn the downtrodden away.
Point being, Ewan needed to prove to Mr. Johns that the Golden Star wasn’t too much of a risk. That he wasn’t too much of a risk.
Raking his fingers through his hair, Ewan turned away. Just then, the door to the rest of the office building opened and Cassandra slipped through, holding the empty bags she always carried when she visited the venders downtown who sold vegetables from their carts.
“Good morning,” she said with all the warmth of the grandmother she’d become to him. “I’m off to fetch ingredients for the noon meal. I’ll be sure to buy extra for your investor guest.”
Ewan exhaled. “No need. He left.”
She paused in her trek across the shop. “Left? So soon?”
“He doesn’t want anything to do with us until we’re more profitable. He’ll be back in three months’ time to see if we’ve changed enough to justify his interest.”
Cassandra tilted her head, a knowing look crossing her gaze. “That’s not much time.”
“I know.” Ewan allowed his focus to trail to the clerk counter, where Lucinda Pratt had stood since nearly their opening—until she surprised him yesterday with her resignation, due to a marriage proposal from some gentleman she barely knew. They were riding off to Montana Territory at that very moment to start their new life together. The store was only a small part of his business, but it brought in some money. Money he would have to do without until he found a replacement for her.
“Never underestimate what God can accomplish.” Eyes glittering, Cassandra continued toward the door as if the matter were settled. Then she spun back again. “Oh, I almost forgot. Here’s yesterday’s paper, which you never had the chance to read.” She deposited the copy of The Black Hills Daily Times on the counter. “By the way, I saw your mail-order bride advertisement inside.”
A teasing lilt to her voice coated the comment. Ewan felt his spine straighten. “What’s wrong with it?”
“For one thing, it doesn’t include your name.”
“Advertisements can be expensive. Every word costs. The rest of the content was essential—including my name was not. If someone responds, I’ll gladly send her my name.” The letter would get to him regardless. The postmaster, Sol Star, knew of his pseudonym, much to Ewan’s chagrin. Sadly, he couldn’t even hide his marital struggle from the postmaster.
Mr. Businessman. How prosaic, even for him. Finding a mail-order bride hadn’t been his first choice, but after feeling the shame of being left at the altar, Ewan had moved out of Denver to start over in the wilds of Wyoming Territory and then Dakota. Problem was, once his string of moves had led him to Deadwood to finally set down roots and claim his mine, wifely prospects practically shrank to nil.
Sometimes a man had to swallow his pride if he wanted to achieve a greater goal—to succeed in his personal life as well as his professional to make his father proud.
“Is the high cost also the reason behind your brief, oh-so-endearing description of your ideal bride?” Rustling the newspaper, Cassandra cut through Ewan’s thoughts, bringing the advertisement closer to read. “‘Needn’t be beautiful; must be practical.’” She dropped the paper and eyed him.
Ewan fidgeted. When read like that, it did sound a bit harsh. “It’s the truth. I know what my match should be like—staid and sensible. The vivacious, effervescent type is not for me.”
He’d tried that kind of romance once before. Never again.
“Well, love finds people in the strangest places sometimes. If the Lord has a bride for you, you’ll find each other somehow—even if it’s by newspaper.” Her eyes glittered brighter, like his situation amused her. “I’m off. I hope you find your no-nonsense wife.” The door shut behind her, and again, Ewan stood on the shop rug, staring through the dusty windowpanes, at a complete loss for words.
What a day. First, he hadn’t gained the investor he needed. Second, his store had no clerk. Third, Lucinda, a woman he’d vowed to keep from prostitution, had moved on with life too prematurely. She was throwing herself into marriage with the same impetuosity she’d shown when she’d come to town to answer an ad for singers for a local theater, never guessing that the ad was a scam and the “theater” was nothing more than a brothel. Would this latest plan of hers, this whirlwind wedding, end in disaster as well? And what of his own marriage prospects? His fourth problem today was that he had to seek a wife through the local paper, where his only options were uncouth like Calamity Jane, or at the very least, were pining insatiably for adventure. They’d never be in a male-heavy, primitive mining town otherwise.
A world of good either of those types would do him. But what other choice did he have? He’d come to Deadwood with one intention—to prove himself as capable as Samuel. If everything his twin brother touched could turn to gold, then Ewan should have the same power. Yet, so far in his twenty-nine years, he had no success to show for himself. No wife and no thriving business, and he was an ongoing disappointment to his father.
Getting an investment from Mr. Johns, and placing this newspaper ad for a wife, was his chance at redemption.
* * *
“I wanted to thank you again for this opportunity, Mr. Burke.”
Ewan forced a smile at Miss Sattler as he shut his office door, leaving them both in the hallway. “And again, you are welcome. Now, follow me. I’ll show you around the store.”
He moved down the flight of stairs with Miss Sattler close behind him. “It’s amazing how things work out when you look for the silver lining,” she began. “And when you take the Lord’s providence into account. Even though I’m in a foreign town, I’ve wanted for nothing. I’ve had a roof over my head and food to sustain me, and everyone has been so friendly.”
She laughed, and Ewan shot her a polite smile. But inwardly, he fought reservations. Had he been too hasty in hiring her? All she needed was temporary work—and judging by her frilly attire and what he knew of her uncle, she’d be perfectly looked after once she returned home. She was bound to be headed back there soon—which was all to the good. Ewan wanted to keep the position open for someone truly in need. That was one reason he had a store in the first place—to employ souls in desperation. He’d created a couple other jobs for the same purpose: clerical work, helping Cassandra. Though none paid as well as the store.
Lucinda had appeared at his mine with no family and nowhere to turn, besides living on the street or returning to the brothel that had entrapped her in the first place. There were plenty more like her, just gathering the courage to ask for help. Miss Sattler didn’t have those problems. Well dressed, educated. Had a wealthy family. Her uncle would no doubt snatch Miss Sattler from trouble if she ever found herself there.
But as much as he’d rather place Miss Sattler in a less prominent job, he couldn’t very well shut down the store until another woman came to him for help. Could be weeks. Months. And he needed the supplemental income.
“Miss Sattler.” He interrupted her explanation. “You can stay with Cassandra as long as there is room. I have to warn you, though, I have visitors from time to time. They receive precedence. If one comes to stay, I’ll let Cassandra decide if there is still space for you, too.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” She nodded, her red earrings swinging back and forth. She wore her brown hair in a fashionable chignon with pearl combs that somehow made her grayish-blue eyes brighter.
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.” The 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.
