Читать книгу Last Chance Wife - Janette Foreman - Страница 15

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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