Last Chance Wife

by Janette Foreman

  Despite his warning, her eyes lit at the prospect. “It still sounds wonderful. I already checked downtown, and no one was interested in hiring me for temporary work. Honestly, you’ve done so much for me, Mr. Burke. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  The tips of Ewan’s ears began to burn. “Well, I—”

  “And I wanted to express again how much I admire what you’re doing for Delia. No doubt she’s seen all sorts of horrors, and you’ve given her a reason to hope again.”

  He fiddled with the corner of a page on his desk, her words touching him deeply. “Thank you. And please, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. If Cassandra wants you out of the kitchen, let me know and we’ll search for accommodations for you.”

  Her gaze snagged his and seemed to communicate gratitude deeper than her words could provide. His heart began to soften toward her until he realized what a pile of mush he’d become.

  Ewan cleared his throat. “But as long as you’re on my property, as an employee or a guest if you find other work elsewhere, I still expect you to uphold our reputation. And keep out of the miners’ way.” He could probably add a dozen more do-nots to that list.

  “Thank you, Mr. Burke.” She stood, then paused. “Actually, can I just call you Ewan? I’ve known you for nearly two weeks, and ‘Mr. Burke’ sounds so formal and distant.”

  That was the idea—especially when it came to his dealings with Miss Sattler. But Ewan didn’t say so aloud. She looked at him with that wide blue-gray expression, so hopeful it could rival a puppy’s. Whatever made her so excited to familiarize his name?

  He sighed. “Fine. You may call me Ewan.”

  “And you may call me Winnie.”

  “‘Miss Sattler’ is fine.”

  Her shoulders dropped. “But I thought we were ceasing these formal airs.”

  “You may.” A half smile tugged at his mouth. “I prefer to be professional.”

  She rolled her eyes yet couldn’t contain a grin. “Fine. How about a compromise? Instead of calling me Miss Sattler, just call me Winifred. Yes? It’s not one of those nicknames Granna Cass says you hate to use.”

  Ewan stared at her. What was it about this woman’s never-give-up attitude that won him over, even against his better judgment? “Fine. Winifred. Now head out, please. I have a lot to do.”

  “Isn’t that part of my job now?” She didn’t even try to hide her laughter. “Helping you with all that work?”

  He could already see how he’d regret giving her the office job. “No, you’ll start tomorrow. Today, I want you to show Miss Richardson around the store and help her get settled in.”

  “Well, then, Ewan, thank you again for this opportunity to continue working for you, and I hope the rest of your day goes well.” She skirted her chair, her bustled gown swinging as she practically skipped out into the hallway.

  “I expect you first thing in the morning,” he announced as she shut the door behind her.

  Stifling a sigh, he lowered his head into his hands and tried to push back a headache that threatened to begin. He really couldn’t afford to think about her right now. Instead, he must focus on the mine. This place had become his goal, his dream, his chance at a new beginning. The thing that would make him successful in his father’s eyes. But staring at the workload ahead of him to make this place perform to Mr. Johns’s standards, he began to wonder if maybe the investor had been right.

  What if he couldn’t turn enough of a profit? Or worse, what if he himself really was worthless and doomed to failure?

  Oh, he knew he’d been made in the image of God. And he knew God didn’t make junk—that’s what prompted Ewan to reach out to the downtrodden in the first place. But beyond his creation as a human being, did he hold worth? Would his mark on society be enough to truly make a difference for anyone? He tried so hard, worked so diligently, and what if it wasn’t enough to give him the same worth his brother had?

  Enough of that train of thought. He scooped up TD’s letter and immersed himself in her flowing script and genuine words.

  God has a plan for all His children, Mr. Businessman. Are you a believer? I hope so. Experiencing His steadfast care and comfort is the greatest blessing I can imagine. I draw so much encouragement from Him, and I hope I can extend some of that to you, as well.

  I’ll be praying for you in the days to come.

  Sincerely yours,

  TD

  He would try his best to keep the mine intact, to find a wife who would be a solid business partner. He would become like his brother in every way, and not merely in appearance. Because if he didn’t succeed...

  Well, he didn’t want to find out what would happen.

  * * *

  In the early morning, before even Granna Cass was up, Winifred snuggled beneath her coverlet and stared at the words her mystery friend had written, allowing the warmth of her heart to heat through the rest of her. This was her fourth letter from him, and it was as intoxicating as the first three. Was it possible to be smitten with a man’s handwriting? Or perhaps it was the way he worded his sentences. Most realistically, it was the fact that, letter after letter, he felt the same emotions she did and didn’t mind sharing them openly with her.

  Who was she kidding? All of those things made her smitten with Mr. Businessman. Totally and completely smitten.

  Which made things a little more complicated.

  Sure, she wasn’t in love with the man. She’d only known him two weeks. She didn’t have any plans to suggest herself as his new bride. Though the Golden Star had begun to feel like home, she wasn’t long for Deadwood. She belonged in Denver with Aunt and Uncle. Once she made that final amount needed for fare, she’d be gone.

  Besides, she couldn’t trust another man with her heart any time soon, not after Mr. Ansell—and all the others before him. Not even Mr. Businessman could be completely trusted, and especially not through letters—of course, that didn’t keep her heart from betraying her as she reread his note.

  Dear TD,

  I’ve not yet found a promising match, but someday I know she’ll come along. And to answer your question, yes, I am a believer. You’re right about the comfort of God’s everlasting love. Thank you for encouraging me. You have no idea the impact you have made. Even in such a short time, you’ve become a good friend.

  As my friend, you have me curious...what are you dreams? What do you hope for your future?

  Her hopes and dreams? Winifred sighed. When she finished the letter, right down to his scrawled “Sincerely yours,” she dropped the page on her lap. Sentimental heart. It betrayed her, led her in every direction, whichever way fit her present whims. And it often disappointed her.

  Love—true, deep, sacrificial love—didn’t happen often between a husband and wife. She had seen it in her parents but in no one else. Even Aunt and Uncle had their little silent patches and eye-rolling moments. And if she had any dreams for the future, that would have to be it. A realistic, practical love where she was not merely tolerated but cherished. But a love like that seemed so out of reach. Could a deep, sacrificial love exist for her one day, or was she doomed to chase it forever?

  Her vision blurred behind tears, so she folded up the note and turned onto her side.

  Mind too full for sleep, she quietly slipped from her coverlet and dressed in her robe. Delia’s pallet lay beside hers, and the woman slept soundly beneath a pile of blankets. For the hundredth time in the past week and a half, Winifred thanked God that Delia had had the courage to leave the dangerous life she’d lived and that she was slowly blossoming here into the woman she was supposed to be.

  Grabbing her sketchpad, Winifred stepped over Delia’s bed and made her way to the kitchen window. Small, it faced mostly trees, but it seemed as good a spot as any to draw. In the days since she’d been relieved of her duties in the store, she’d spent a few hours each day helping Ewan
in his office, filing papers and calculating expenses. Then a few more hours were spent helping Granna Cass in the kitchen. But in her free time, she had begun to revisit her artistic hobby.

  Pulling up a chair and sitting, Winifred looked out the window at the trees, listening to the stamp mill’s pounding that thrummed through her chest and tapping her pencil against the side of her paper. Her artistic gaze analyzed the angle of the evergreens’ boughs, the smoke rising from far-off buildings, the men moving along the road into town and the jagged profile of the mountain in the background.

  She lifted her pencil and tried to capture the image. Gliding the pencil lines across the textured surface, she shaded the dark shadows and accented the spots of emerging sunlight. She had barely realized she’d begun before she finished the drawing. As a small sketch, it was something easily accomplished in a matter of minutes and miniscule enough to fit in the palm of her hand.

  An idea sparked, and Winifred sat up straight. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? There might indeed be a way to reach the miners, to give them something of herself to cheer and encourage them. Her drawings.

  The notion burst through her, sending her heartbeat full steam ahead. She flipped the page and began another sketch of the same landscape, focusing on a cute pair of trees. Little sketches would do the trick. Small enough that she could fit four on a sheet of paper and light enough that she could hand them out during a meal. No one would have trouble holding on to a sketch that size all day before heading home. It could easily fit inside their lunch pails, even. And she wouldn’t have to stop with one drawing for each man. She could write Bible verses, words of encouragement, artwork they could take home to their wives...

  Purpose drove deep within her, her head spinning so fast, she almost didn’t hear Granna Cass and Delia stirring for the day.

  Winifred snapped shut her sketchbook and hastened back to the sleeping quarters. “Good morning,” she whispered, her usual excitement increased tenfold. “Isn’t it just a lovely day?”

  * * *

  Rubbing a sore spot on his shoulder, Ewan crested the stairs and approached his office. After a late night poring over his books and a restless night’s sleep, the muscles in his neck and shoulders were feeling the brunt of his efforts to keep the mine afloat. And now for another day of shifting costs. A yawn pushed past his lips as he opened the office door. He wouldn’t rest well until he found a solid solution.

  “Good morning!”

  The greeting nearly sent him out of his skin. Bright eyed, Winifred stood beside his shelving unit in a stunning yellow gown. Boxes and boxes surrounded her on the floor, and stacks of papers were in her arms as well as lying in heaps along the shelf.

  Was he in a nightmare? Blinking, Ewan scanned the room. Minus the accounts he’d studied on his desk yesterday, his office had been immaculate when he’d left for the night.

  “What is going on here?”

  “I thought you could use a little organization. It’s hard to find anything in this office.”

  Scoffing, he motioned to the piles covering the floor. “Well, sure, it is now.”

  “Ewan—” she tipped her head to one side “—don’t tell me you knew where anything was in this mess.”

  “Of course I did. And it wasn’t a mess.”

  “Well, I got to thinking this system could use a little help. Have you ever thought of purchasing a cabinet letter file? My uncle has a couple in his office. They’re new, and they’d be much better than the system you’re using now, I promise. Though, for now, I’m thinking multiple boxes on this shelf could be a good temporary fix.” She twirled to face the bookcase. “See, here, I’m putting last year’s files in a box labeled ‘1877.’ This year’s files are split into several boxes, according to what records are contained within them...”

  As she explained her new ideas, Ewan riffled through the papers on his desk. He plopped a large pile off onto another pile and scowled. “Where is my ledger?”

  She turned. “This year’s ledger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here, in the box marked ‘Current Sales and Expenses.’” She lifted the ledger from a box she’d already shelved and handed it over. “Just put it back when you’re done. The system won’t work if you don’t use it.”

  Ewan stifled a sigh and took a seat, opening his ledger to where he’d stopped his calculations the night before. “Miss Sattler, I think I need a few minutes alone. Why don’t you go down to the kitchen and see if Cassandra needs anything?”

  The firm line of her mouth told him she didn’t like the idea. But at least she didn’t complain. “All right, but please don’t move anything while I’m gone. I have everything where I want it.”

  And he was expected to concentrate in this jungle of papers? He silently prayed this new project wouldn’t stretch out over a period of several days.

  As soon as she left, he set to work, comparing proceeds to costs and looking for clues. Unfortunately, he’d already cut expenses wherever he could think to do it, and thought up some ways to increase productivity, and still his mine wasn’t making enough money.

  After a series of frustrating calculations, he stood and paced behind his desk—the only place not covered in boxes—surprised he hadn’t worn a hole clear through his rug for how many times he’d worried the floor in this manner in the past month.

  But what else could he do? He’d tried everything.

  God, please help me find a way to impress Mr. Johns. There has to be a way.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. He paused and looked up. “Come in.”

  The door slid open a couple of feet, and Winifred poked her head inside. “Ewan?” He still hadn’t grown accustomed to hearing her say his first name. He hadn’t had the gumption to call her by her name, either—saying it was like taking down another barrier between them.

  He blinked. “You’re back soon.”

  “Actually, it’s been an hour,” she said, a smile tilting one corner of her mouth.

  “Oh.” Must’ve been more preoccupied with his books than he thought. He shuffled papers. “Well, first thing I want from you is to go through this pile of expense reports and see if you find anything else we could possibly cut—”

  “Actually, first,” she piped up, “Granna Cass has sent your breakfast up with me. Everyone else has eaten.”

  Breakfast. Yes. In the midst of his meticulous mathematics, he’d completely forgotten about sustenance.

  Winifred gently placed a steaming mug of coffee and a heaping plate of eggs and potato slices on the edge of his desk.

  Ewan lowered himself into his chair. “Thank you.” Though he didn’t have much of an appetite, he couldn’t mention that after all the work Cassandra had gone to.

  He reached for the fork, then realized Winifred still stood beside his desk. “Did—you need to say something else, too?”

  Her half smile grew. “She also wanted me to tell you to be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.”

  A soft chuckle escaped him, the Bible verse unexpectedly filling him with a small sense of peace. “That woman.” He shook his head. Cassandra spoke truth through the darkness like a lighthouse in a storm. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  “So, is that what you’re working on this morning?” She stepped into the room again. “Looking for ways to increase the mine’s earnings?”

  She took a seat as Ewan nodded. “I had figured the numbers weeks ago for my report for Mr. Johns, but since he wants me to turn a profit before he’ll invest, I felt I had to revisit those numbers yesterday. I need to cut more expenses if I’m to make more than I spend, but I’m coming up short. I won’t compromise on my extra jobs available for people in need—that’s my ministry—but I will need to make some difficult decisions about cutting something else.”

 
“What have you cut already?”

  “Some food, the amount of candles they take into the mine... I’m not sure what else I can do.” Shaking his head, Ewan folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t think it’d ever come to this.” The mine, his dreams. Vanishing like fog in the sun. “Maybe I should get rid of the evening meal altogether to save costs.”

  “No.” Winifred straightened in her chair. “You can’t do that. When I arrived, you were adamant about keeping it.”

  “Yes, but I’m running out of expenditures to cut.”

  “It sets you apart from other mines,” she explained, her voice unusually calm and rational. “If you take away all of the perks, what’s to keep your employees here and not hiring on somewhere else?”

  Her question poked at his insecurities. He dropped his gaze to his desk for a moment, racking his brain for a possible solution. “I don’t know what else to do, short of firing workers.”

  “Which you definitely can’t do. Fewer employees would give you a lower payroll, but it would also mean lower production. And if you did happen to pick up production again and want to rehire those employees, well...” She shook her head. “What would make them trust you enough to come back after you’d fired them once already?”

  Ewan realized he was nibbling the inside of his lip. Ceasing the habit that only showed weakness, he rolled her words over in his mind. “I’ve looked at this from every angle.” Every way he turned was a dead end. Each decision he was tempted to make would only haunt him. Maybe even ruin him.

  “Surely there is something.” Winifred rested her hands on her knees. She gazed at him with earnestness in her blue-gray eyes. She implored him to believe. “We will find places to cut costs that won’t hurt everyone in the end. I know we will. There is always a way to fix things if we think about it long and hard enough.”

  Ewan sighed and glanced away. “Well, I forgot who I was talking to.”