Last Chance Wife

by Janette Foreman

  “Morning, sunshine,” Rogan Scott said to her, eyes dancing.

  Since she’d met him nearly two weeks ago, along with his buddies Walter Martin and Adrian Birkeland, she’d grown fond of the trio. Rogan told her yesterday about his wife and children back home in Illinois, how he made enough money for them to live comfortably near his wife’s aging parents in Peoria. Walter, a bachelor in his fifties, enjoyed the single life surrounded by his friends and had a penchant for deep, echoing laughter. Adrian, the young blond man who’d called her out for not meeting him when she’d made her rounds, had a mother he supported back home in Minnesota.

  Rogan leaned over the table, nose pointed at the stove. “Mmm-mmm. My, but that breakfast smells good.”

  Walter broke into boisterous laughter. “Much better than what they serve at the boardinghouse, that’s for sure.” Winifred wondered if that laugh shook the underground tunnels. And what would happen if he sneezed.

  “Here.” Winifred selected two scones and two plates for their potatoes. “Eat up. I’d hate to see what would happen if these were left entirely in my care.”

  As she passed over the second plate, she glanced at the young man with blond hair tousled over his forehead who had just walked in. His usual good-natured grin was absent today, replaced by a distracted look in his eyes.

  “Ready for breakfast, Mr. Birkeland?” She watched him as she selected another plate.

  He looked up from the table as if suddenly waking. “Ja, Miss Sattler. Breakfast would be good.”

  She passed him one of the scones and a plate of potatoes. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Adrian got bad news by telegram last night.” Rogan clapped a sympathetic hand on the man’s shoulder. “His mum’s not doin’ so good.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  Adrian shrugged, though obviously attempting to hide his emotions. “She’s been sick awhile. I’ll be talking to Mr. Burke after our shift to see if I can go home for a short time to take care of her.”

  Winifred’s heart squeezed. “I understand, though we’ll miss you here.”

  A brief smile warmed his face. “There now, Miss Sattler, I don’t mean to make everyone’s day worse. My problems are my problems. You know what would make me feel a little better? One of your cheery drawings in my lunch.”

  He dug his hand inside the pail and pulled out the page as if it were a gold nugget from a gushing spring. “A tree? Aw, now, come on, Miss Sattler.” His eyes began to sparkle as he pinned her with a look. “You can do better than a tree, can’t you?”

  “I’m running out of things to draw,” she admitted.

  “Come draw us men in the drifts.”

  Her brows pinched together. “In the drifts?”

  “The tunnels. Drifts. The roads inside the mountain.” His grin spread wider. “See, Miss Sattler? You don’t even know what a drift is, and you’re living at a gold mine. You have to come with us now.”

  “I knew what a drift was,” she protested, which made Walter burst into booming laughter. “I just didn’t know if that’s what you meant to say.” It would mean traveling into the mountain.

  “’Course it’s what I meant.” He rested his elbow on the plane of his thigh. “There’s a whole world under there you haven’t seen. And we can show it to you.”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t do that.” The last thing she needed was another stamp mill incident. Ewan would make her pack her bags for sure.

  “No, it’s no trouble at all, Miss Sattler. In fact, if you could draw me a likeness to bring back to my mor, that sure would be grand. I’m sure she’d really love to see her boy at work.” A depth reflected in his eyes that went deeper than the carefree tone of his voice, touching Winifred’s heart. “Please?”

  Go into the caves to sketch a portrait for his dying mother? Ewan might disapprove, but how could she say no?

  “I’d pay you a day’s wage,” he prompted.

  “A day’s wage—are you serious?” Rogan asked, which made Walter guffaw. “How about while she’s in there, she sketches one of me, too, to send home to my wife and daughters. Then I’ll split the cost with ya.”

  “Oh, Mr. Birkeland, Mr. Scott, I could never take your money.” She thought about it. “All right, as long as I don’t get in your way, I’ll come down for a few minutes. Just long enough to draw you three, and then I’ll need to get out. Does that sound reasonable?”

  “Agreed.” Adrian’s grin stretched wider, if that was a possibility.

  Even Rogan looked excited about it. “My lasses will love it, Miss Sattler. Their letters sound like they’re missing me something fierce. Makes it hard to stay here so long. But this will be of some comfort, especially coming from you, sunshine. You make everything brighter round here.”

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” Adrian said around a cheek full of potatoes, his growing excitement for the project obvious. “Just before noon, I’ll meet you outside the mine, and you can follow me in. Stick with me till you have what you need, then I’ll escort you out. Pure and simple.”

  “We promise we won’t blast while you’re in there. Only the safe stuff,” Rogan added.

  Walter laughed.

  All three looked so hopeful, Winifred couldn’t help but feel like a greater purpose could be accomplished here. On top of which, if she could enter the mine, maybe she’d be able to glean clues that would help Ewan discover if his increased expenses were indeed the result of sabotage.

  “Perfect.” Turning, she checked the time and opened the oven to pull out the second batch of scones. The other men would be along soon. “I’ll meet you at the tunnel’s entrance at lunchtime.”

  “Adit.” Rogan said.

  She stopped to face the man. “What?”

  “It’s called an adit, Miss Sattler. If you’re gonna live at a mine, you oughta know what a tunnel’s entrance is called.”

  “Right. Ewa—Mr. Burke told me that during my tour of the mine. I just forgot.”

  As the men continued their breakfasts, and other workers entered for theirs, Rogan’s words echoed in her ears. Living at the mine. Fingers of a dream wrapped around her heart. Wouldn’t it be fun to live here all the time? With the sweet smell of pine and the rich scent of soil. With Granna Cass, and Delia, and the miners. And Ewan. All those things made the mining life so much richer, and just like when she wrote Mr. Businessman, she knew that all she wanted to do was stay.

  But Ewan didn’t have room, nor the funds, to keep on a girl like her permanently, and her time here ran short. Her aching heart knew that to be true.

  Chapter Eight

  Gray clouds overlooked the Black Hills as Ewan wandered back from the post office with his hands in his suit coat pockets. He’d just dropped off another mail-order response letter to a woman calling herself Mrs. M. She showed promise—more than any of the others had. The mother of a couple grade-school-age children, she lived in Lead City, three miles away, and had heard about his advertisement through a sister who lived in Deadwood. Her husband had been killed in a mining accident this summer, and she needed a place to start over.

  The notion of bringing children into his precarious situation made him nervous, but Mrs. M said she knew the mining business. Said she knew the Lord, too. And she sounded matter-of-fact and in need of a good home. All things he’d hoped to find in a wife.

  So why hadn’t she leaped from the page and grabbed his heart?

  He’d written back a letter of cautious interest, though not one of commitment. Not yet. He had to get his bearings first.

  Instead of going through the office building’s side door, he cut right and crossed the worn grass to the stamp mill. He made rounds nearly every day to see the production and talk with Marcus Lieberman about the business. Keeping his hands in the mining process kept him grounded, kept him understanding what was needed an
d what wasn’t necessary.

  And now, more than ever, he saw the necessity of making rounds and asking questions. Was it possible that Winifred’s suspicion of foul play was true?

  The metallic pounding and grinding of rock grew louder as he opened the door. Amazing how his manager could hear at all anymore. Marcus stood in front of the nearest amalgamation table pointing to crushed materials as he shouted over the noise to Frank, the worker beside him.

  From the door, Ewan looked over the mill, and thought about all the work he’d put into this place. He remembered buying his first five-stamp battery and placing the structure on this land, exposed to the elements without a building around it for protection. He had refused to continue spending the time and money it required to send his gold to be processed at independently owned stamp mills in the surrounding towns. And when he started that battery up and watched those cams turn for the first time, listening to their clean stomp and feeding his first load of ore through the machine—ah, yes. Now there was a few-and-far-between feeling of satisfaction. The satisfaction of success.

  Buying his own batteries had been costlier up front but paid off in the long run.

  Or would...if he could stop acquiring more bills than he had profit.

  He caught his manager’s eye then. Marcus excused himself from the worker and met Ewan at the door. “Let’s talk outside,” Ewan shouted.

  Nodding, the manager followed. They shut the door behind them, dulling the noise enough to speak without yelling themselves hoarse.

  Ewan leaned against the railing. “How is production today?”

  “Good, for the most part. We’ll want to make a lot of progress since tomorrow is cleanup day.”

  Performed on an as-needed basis, clean-up day was the one day his stamp mill would be silent. A day of lost production but necessary to keep the batteries running smoothly. They would strip down the machinery, clearing it of dust and debris caught in the moving parts. With everything fresh, they’d start anew the next day.

  Maybe life was like that, too. Maybe some days had to be sacrificed to cleaning out the dust and debris. Maybe this season in his life was that cleanup time. That time of renewal. Soon, things could turn around for the mine and Ewan could start again fresh with long-lasting success.

  “You seem lost in thought, boss.”

  Ewan snapped out of his woolgathering. “My apologies.” Sighing, he dug his hands into his pockets again and scanned the horizon. “I guess I had my mind on other things.”

  A moment of silence passed by. Should he tell his manager about the mail-order situation? It wasn’t business related. The man really needed to get back to work. Ewan shouldn’t keep him.

  But it would be nice to have someone to confide in.

  He’d begun to confide in Winifred a little more, now that she worked in his office. But that was usually business-related, too, and frequently consisted of trading ideas on how to help the mine. Her ideas were often bizarre and would never work, but getting things off his chest had proved helpful for his mental state. And she was a great listener. Not what he’d expected from someone who flitted from idea to idea without much pause.

  “What’s on your mind, boss?”

  “Since you asked...” Ewan shot his friend a simple grin. “I’m trying to find a wife through a newspaper advertisement. Did I ever tell you that?”

  Marcus crossed his arms. “I think you mentioned it once or twice.” He slanted him a glance. “Any replies?”

  “A few. Nothing really catching my interest.” Then Ewan thought better of his statement. “Actually, the first one was intriguing. She wrote me out of frustration for the mail-order marriage system, saying it didn’t show people’s true character.”

  The manager sniffed and shifted his feet. “Probably accurate.”

  “Anyway, I have also received a second promising one. She seems perfect for the position. Young, straightforward, knows the mining business...”

  “You marryin’ this gal or hiring her for a job?”

  Ewan’s ears burned at the manager’s chuckle. “Suppose it does sound a little rigid of me. But I need a good business partner as well as a wife. A serious, practical partner.”

  Marcus shrugged. “I’ll tell ya, my wife and I have been together for twenty years. She doesn’t know the difference between gold and pyrite, but she makes the best roasted chicken.”

  “So all I need in a wife is a good cook? Are you saying I should marry Cassandra?” Ewan chuckled at his own joke.

  His manager stood stone still, like a mighty tree standing watch. “I’m saying there are some things more important than business know-how to make a marriage work for the long haul.”

  Catching the man’s meaning, Ewan lowered his gaze. “Yes, well, I tried finding a wife for love, and it hasn’t worked out.”

  “So try again.”

  The man said it like it was the most obvious and logical choice. But was it? Could Ewan let go of his safe restrictions and allow his heart to become vulnerable again? Marilee had cradled it in her hands only to dash it to the floor and trample over it, like ore sacrificed beneath the metal cams in his stamp mill, leaving nothing left.

  It had taken him years to get his heart back into place.

  “What about that other gal?”

  “Which other?”

  “The first one you wrote.” The man shrugged. “Said yourself she was intriguing.”

  “She’s not interested in pursuing a relationship.” Ewan toed a rock with his shoe. “We only write to let off steam.”

  “How long you been writin’ her?”

  “A month.”

  “And she’s still talking to you after all that time?” He grunted, his expression sparkling with amusement. “Sounds to me like you’re having a hard time finding a gal to marry because you already found one.”

  Ewan raised his head. Could that be true?

  A thundering sound crashed and ground inside the stamp mill. Shouts filtered through the walls. The two men met eyes before rushing inside.

  * * *

  Shivering, Winifred glanced around. Not that she could see much. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “Sure thing, Miss Sattler.” Adrian smiled at her over his shoulder as he led the way into a drift. Or, at least she thought he’d smiled—hard to tell in the dim candlelight.

  They had left sunlight behind them a while ago. She hadn’t been this far into the mountain before, and when the outside light faded behind them, gooseflesh climbed her arms and legs. This time felt different than when Ewan had been with her. It hadn’t even crossed her mind to be afraid when he was by her side. Now, though...did the walls feel like they were closing in?

  Darkness enveloped her and she hastened to catch up with Adrian, whose candle was the only source of light. Clutching her pad of paper and pencil against her chest, she glanced behind her. She should’ve paid attention to which way they’d headed. They’d turned left once then branched off the original drift, hadn’t they?

  “Is there going to be more light where we’re going?” Her voice echoed softly off the walls of dirty wood planks and tall, thick support columns. A track ran beneath her feet for the ore cart, and she had to focus on not tripping over it. Somewhere she could hear the sound of water dripping, and the air felt cold and moist against the back of her neck.

  “Not much. Rogan and Walt each have a candle, so we take turns using ’em. They wear down fast. But we often blow ’em out at lunchtime to save the wax. Especially now, since we only get two candles a day, each. Used to get three. The Homestake Mine gives their employees three candles a day.” She heard him scoff at the injustice.

  The Homestake Mine. She remembered someone mentioning that place in passing. It was one of the largest, most lucrative mining establishments up in Lead City.

  Adrian swung to walk backward. “Hey—ma
ybe you could convince the boss to give us three candles again instead of two.”

  They needed a whole chandelier of candles at all times, if she had anything to say about it. Winifred managed a weak smile, though her insides trembled. Why did he think she could change Ewan’s mind? He never approved of her ideas. And anyway, considering how much he’d already cut, there hadn’t been much else for him to choose besides candles.

  “I don’t know what it is...” He swiped off his cap and scratched at his haphazard hair. “The boss...he don’t like listening to nobody.”

  “He just wants what’s best,” she murmured.

  Adrian watched her a moment, as if weighing her comment. “I hope you’re right,” he finally said, turning forward again. “Not long now, ma’am. I reckon you don’t wanna be in here any longer than you gotta. Can’t blame you there.”

  Even in the darkness, where no one could see her, she worked to mask her frown. “Mr. Birkeland, you sound a little doubtful. Are you dissatisfied with your job here?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  She walked in silence for a few yards, listening to the dripping water and pebbles scraping beneath her shoes. One of the reasons she’d agreed to this outing was so she could try to find out more about possible sabotage. From what she’d learned of him so far, Adrian Birkeland seemed as harmless as a puppy—certainly one of the last people she’d suspect of purposefully hurting the Golden Star, but what else did Winifred have to go on? Maybe he’d seen or heard something that could be useful.

  How much information could she get out of him without sounding too suspicious? “Are you mostly dissatisfied with the candle ration?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “And other things. Main problem is not knowing if this operation will stay open much longer.”

  A similar sentiment to what Mr. Danielson had told her a few weeks ago. “Is there talk of the mine closing?”

  “All the time. Surprised you haven’t heard the rumors. Watch your step, ma’am.” His hand moved backward to steer her away from the left side of the tunnel. Only when he forced her to move did Winifred notice the gaping hole in the ground.