Last Chance Wife

by Janette Foreman

  He let out a deep belly chuckle, and Winifred had to catch herself on the counter to keep her knees from giving out beneath her.

  “I think you have me confused with someone else.” No way could he have meant her. The advertisement, a reply...they had to be coincidental. Her letter still lay secured in her valise. Though she couldn’t exactly explain away how he’d guessed the nickname she’d signed to the letter or how he knew her initials were in the sketch.

  “You did respond to an advertisement for a wife, didn’t you?” He cocked his head to the side. “The envelope that came through looked just like this, except it was of a hummingbird. Wait one moment.”

  The man left the counter and went into a back room. Alone, Winifred plopped her valise on the counter and unhooked the buckles. It didn’t make sense. Everything he said described her response to the ad. But it couldn’t be hers. The envelope remained in her bag.

  She riffled through her tangled contents. “Come on, come on...” Heart beating wildly, she yanked out her stack of envelopes and flipped through them. Empty. Every single one, and no sign of the one with the hummingbird.

  “Here we are.” The postmaster returned with a letter, and she prayed it would be hers. But no, she could see the envelope’s crisp whiteness from a distance, void of her rambling sketches. As he set the envelope on the counter, he grinned as if he’d found himself involved in a most creative and intriguing plot. “Your mystery suitor replied immediately. Same day, actually. I’ve never seen someone so eager. And what providence to be in the same town, so your mail reaches each other so quickly. Do you want to know who he is?”

  “No.” Winifred’s stomach flipped. “I—I need to get to work now. We’ll be opening soon.”

  “Of course.”

  He scooted the envelope closer, and she jumped back. Silly, it’s not a rattlesnake. With a shaking hand, she dragged the envelope to the edge of the counter and dropped it into her bag.

  “You said you work at the Golden Star Mine?”

  “Yes, in the store.”

  A strange smile lifted his lips, one she didn’t know how to read. Then he cleared his throat. “If I come across a letter for you, I’ll direct it there. Your name, ma’am?”

  “Winifred Sattler.” Why, oh, why couldn’t she disguise the tremor in her voice?

  Muttering a farewell, she took to the street, weaving through passersby and breathing in dust without really noticing it as she returned to the Golden Star Mine. With every step, her heart plummeted farther into her gut. The realization that somehow her letter had been mailed washed over her again and again until all she wanted to do was sink into a mine shaft and disappear forever.

  What had he thought of her? While the poor man had used an unfortunately phrased ad to seek a wife, that did not mean he deserved to be barraged with the bitter sentiments of a jaded woman. The valise bounced against her hip as she walked, almost like it begged her to look inside at his reply.

  Why had he written her back? To berate her, lash out at her careless words? No one spoke to strangers in such a forthright way, least of all through formal written correspondence.

  At least she hadn’t used her real name, so he couldn’t hunt her down in person. As her feet hit the long wooden walkway that led to the shop’s door, she glanced at the sky and groaned. “Lord, please help me know what to do now.”

  “Miss Sattler?”

  Having just stepped over the threshold, Winifred gasped at the sound of her name. She hid her bag behind her as if she’d been caught with pilfered goods. Mr. Burke stood at the counter. He raised one brow at her jittery response, so she forced a smile. No reason to look guilty in front of her employer. She’d done nothing wrong. He acted suspicious of her enough as it was—the last thing she needed was for him to think she’d been up to something.

  * * *

  Ewan felt the smooth wooden counter beneath his fingertips, hoping the action would calm his irritation. Kindness, regardless of affliction.

  Miss Sattler scrambled into the store in a manner not unlike a little whirlwind. Commonplace behavior for her, it seemed. “I’m not late, am I?”

  He glanced at the small clock perched on a shelf. “No, you’re on time.”

  “Oh.” Miss Sattler relaxed her shoulders and made her way to the counter, then slipped her bag beneath it, out of sight. “I had to...run an errand.”

  Did a blush color her cheeks? She was permitted to run errands in her free time, so why the embarrassment? And why had she paused in her explanation? “Miss Sattler, I need to discuss something very important with you.”

  Miss Sattler brushed a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear and exhaled, like she needed to calm herself before listening to what Ewan had to say.

  Ewan stepped away from the counter. “Please explain to me what you’ve done with my store.”

  Miss Sattler stared at him, wide-eyed. “What do you mean?”

  Did she honestly not know, or was she pretending? “You moved things.” He strolled into the room, touching merchandise as he went. “The potatoes, the dry goods, the shovels...”

  Miss Sattler hastened to open the curtains in the front windows. “You walked through here last night as I rearranged and didn’t say a word about it, so I figured it was fine.”

  He flicked her a glare. Had he really been that preoccupied? “I wouldn’t give permission to move my merchandise. You’re supposed to watch the store, take customers’ money. Not fiddle with design.”

  “I was bored. I needed something to do.”

  Ewan almost laughed. “Then mop the floors or dust the shelves.” He gestured toward the mop and broom propped in the corner behind the counter. “There is plenty you could do, but do not touch my arrangement again under any circumstance.”

  “All right, I’m sorry.” Throwing up her hands, she yanked the broom from behind the counter, giving vent to her obviously building nerves. “Although I fail to see why it’s a problem.”

  “It’s a problem because this store needs to be in pristine condition. It’s the public face of the mine.” And, right now, a major source of income to keep the whole business afloat.

  “My point exactly.” She paused midsweep to look at him, maintaining eye contact surprisingly well. “People like things that are new and fresh. Isn’t it dull to go into a store that always looks exactly the same? And the current arrangement didn’t make sense, so I fixed it.”

  Ewan narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t make sense?” He’d put a lot of thought into where things went. “Tell me, have you decorated a store with success in the past?”

  “Really, Mr. Burke, the shovels by the onion bulbs?” Her thin hand gestured at the basket near the door.

  He folded his arms in return. “That makes perfect sense.”

  “No, shovels should be with other mining supplies.”

  “Or with gardening supplies, where I put them, next to the onion bulbs.”

  She didn’t reply—only lowered her brows and stared at him. What emotion was that? Confusion or defiance?

  Ewan crossed the floor toward her, his shoulders feeling square and severe, like he’d been carved from wood. “Just...ask next time. In fact, there shouldn’t be a next time. I can’t allow this kind of whimsical nonsense to affect my business. It is my name on the line, not yours.”

  “Will switching a couple baskets and crates tarnish your reputation, Mr. Burke?”

  Ewan cocked his head and watched as fire ignited Miss Sattler’s cheeks while she focused on sweeping. Had he been too harsh? Might’ve been, to coax such sarcastic responses from her.

  Kindness, regardless of affliction.

  Turning away, Ewan ran a hand over his hair and then down over his mouth. When he faced her again, he worked to keep his voice lowered. “I apologize for speaking so harshly. I overreacted.”

  Miss Sattler stopped her swee
ping and looked up.

  Exhaling, he reached the counter, facing her on the opposite side. “I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell you this, but it seems you need to understand what I’m up against—why every aspect of this business is crucially important to me. The Golden Star Mine sits on prime real estate. Our water rights are coveted by every mining camp downstream, and while our gold production isn’t where it should be yet, our current findings promise quite the delivery.”

  He paused, formulating his next sentence. Miss Sattler watched him with wide, interested eyes, nudging him to continue.

  “Right now, the store is a major source of income. A potentially steady source of income, when we don’t know what the yields will be in the mine from one day to the next. There are many other shops in town offering the same things, so nothing really makes us stand out—all we can do is offer good quality, fair prices and a pleasant shopping experience. Which means having all the goods right where people know they can find them. I must have complete control over what happens. I can’t afford to let anyone else handle it.”

  Miss Sattler set aside her broom. “Why do you need the store to supplement your mine’s earnings?”

  An innocent question, but it stung just the same. “I need capital to expand this mine into what it should be, but so far all of our proceeds go back into the business simply to stay afloat. There are veins in the mountain I’m sure will lead to large quantities of gold, but I don’t have enough resources yet to mine or process it. More machinery is needed, both inside the mine and out, and more drifts need to be driven. I’m currently seeking an investor to help me over this hurdle.”

  “Yes, you met with one the other day. It must be easy to find an investor in this town.”

  He gave her an ironic smile. “Only easy if you want him to buy you out completely, or at the very least become a majority shareholder.” He shook his head. “No, I need someone who wants a small share rather than control of the whole operation. Someone who can offer capital and gain a profit but not dip his greedy fingers in too deeply and change all I’ve worked hard to create.”

  She nodded as if she understood, then tipped her head to one side. “So, where will you find one of those? In Denver? Might your father know someone?”

  “Yes—my father spoke with a business friend, the one interested enough to visit.”

  “See, there you go!” She flashed him a bright smile. “Who was it? Perhaps I know of him.”

  “Mr. Richard Johns.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s a good friend of my uncle’s, too.” But then her smile faded. “You don’t seem too excited about his visit.”

  “He wasn’t ready to invest at this time. I...have some work to do before he’s interested.” What that work would entail, Ewan wasn’t sure. How would he yield the proceeds Mr. Johns sought if he didn’t have the capital to make it happen? “He’ll be back in three months to see the mine again. Hopefully I’ll be able to impress him then.” If only Ewan’s voice didn’t sound so heavy. He didn’t really want to be this vulnerable.

  Miss Sattler stood a little straighter. “Mr. Johns was here that day?” She pursed her lips in what appeared to be disappointment. “If only I’d known. I could’ve caught a ride with him and repaid him for the fare when I reached home. Or at least had him carry a message to my uncle so that he could wire me the fare.”

  “Is fare money all that keeps you here?”

  “Basically.”

  “Why don’t you let me pay for a ticket?”

  She shook her head. “Thank you, but with mail the way it is, it would take months to pay you back. Besides, I don’t want to owe anyone anything. A quick repayment is one thing, like getting fare from an investor living in the same town as my family. But I’m not interested in accepting seemingly innocent gifts from men.”

  Seemingly innocent gifts from men? How should he respond to that? “I can assure you, Miss Sattler, my offer to pay your fare is purely platonic. I have no romantic or other interest in you.”

  Her brows jumped. “Oh—no, not you, specifically. I only meant in principle—”

  Now his cheeks burned. Ewan dragged a finger along his collar. “Let’s get back to business. I want to show you how to calculate sales and keep track of them in the ledger.”

  “No need.” Miss Sattler seemed to weather the change in subject easily, reaching for the ledger beneath the counter. “I have already calculated the sales I’ve had since my first day.”

  “You have?” Frowning, he flipped open the book as soon as she placed it on the countertop. From his angle, the ledger lay upside down, but just as she’d said, Ewan found her numbers scrawled in the appropriate columns.

  Unfortunately, she’d listed only three entries.

  He scrunched his nose. “You’re certain these are all the sales you’ve made?”

  “Yes.”

  She pointed to each name, but Ewan averted his gaze. Three sales. The store used to make so much more money than that. What had happened? He carried quality merchandise and had competitive prices. Nothing more could be done.

  “This man, Thomas Thornton, came in looking for a new gold pan because he’d lost his when it fell from his pack,” she said. “I helped him find the right size for the spot in Whitewood Creek where he headed next. And this man, Arnold Pickling, needed a screw to hold the chain on his arrastra. I wasn’t sure we’d find one, but we did, with a little digging! Do you know what an arrastra is, Mr. Burke? Mr. Pickling told me all about them. They’re contraptions used to crush ore if you don’t have a stamp mill. It’s a ring in the ground made of stone—”

  Irritation built in his gut. “I know what an arrastra is, Miss Sattler.” Sighing, he rubbed his hand down his face. “I used one before I built up the mine.”

  The mine. The years of defending his claim, of mining gold along the creek in the beginning, battling the rain and the snow. Of driving drifts into the mountainside and finding veins of ore running deep, like lifeblood. Of building the store, the kitchen and his office. The cash he’d sunk into this place to get gold dust in return. The fight to make an honest living in an occupation many looked down upon. The desire to be more than a failure to his father.

  What if he lost it all?

  Miss Sattler reached across the counter and placed her hand on his forearm, jarring him out of his thoughts. “Everything will work out, Mr. Burke.”

  Slowly he met her gaze, but otherwise he didn’t move. Had her gesture offended him or scared him frozen, he had no idea. But flecks of softness hovered around his hardened heart, coaxing him not to worry so much.

  “Thank you. Except it’s going to take more than encouraging words to save the mine,” he murmured, then thought better of it. “That doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to rearrange my store.”

  She smiled. A nice smile, if he were honest. Genuine. Warm. For all her faults, Miss Sattler wasn’t malicious. He’d do well to respect her, even if he didn’t agree with her methods, even if her personality grated on his patience.

  “I mean it.” He leveled a gaze at her, unable to ignore the gray-blue in her eyes. “No more moving the store around. Is that clear?”

  She didn’t answer immediately.

  “I won’t give up until you acquiesce.”

  Finally, she nodded. “I promise.”

  “Good.”

  Miss Sattler might have promised not to meddle—but as Ewan withdrew his arm from beneath her hand, he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d hold to that agreement.

  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 per
sonal 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.