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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 tosomeone 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.
Chapter Two (#ud85a72a4-116e-5eed-a23a-29de90edaf38)
Two days down. Winifred had been on Mr. Burke’s payroll for two days without much mishap...though without obvious success, either. Mr. Burke spent hours in his office. Days for Winifred were spent alone in the store with only the very occasional customer, then nights were spent in Granna Cass’s kitchen. The hours rolled by with little action, and it had begun to drive her mad.
Sleep proved difficult due to the pounding of stamp mills rumbling the ground. So last night she’d spent a couple of extra hours awake by Granna Cass’s fire composing a letter to send home to Aunt and Uncle. While she didn’t shy away from explaining her situation, she did use plenty of graceful language to avoid the ugly particulars.
Now, in the minutes before work began for the day, she walked to the post office using the directions Mr. Burke had given her, letter in hand.
Inside the post office, her heels echoed in the empty room. The man behind the counter glanced up, his thinning hair parted and slicked to one side. A little sign on the counter stated “Sol Star—Postmaster.”
“Mornin’, ma’am.” She detected a slight accent, though she couldn’t quite guess at the origin. “Here to pick up your mail?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t have a box.” Smiling, she approached the counter with her small valise hanging around her elbow. “I came to post a letter.”
The man leaned on the counter, regarding her. “No box? Would you like to open one?”
“Oh, thank you, but I’m only planning to be in town temporarily. Any correspondence I might happen to get can be directed to the Golden Star Mine.”
She opened her bag and withdrew the letter she’d written to Uncle Wilbur. Hopefully it would keep him from panicking and hastily marrying her off. And if she were blessed, maybe her honeyed words would convince him to send the money she needed to get home, so she wouldn’t have to take advantage of Mr. Burke’s kindness. Her employer had been good to hire her, but he’d made it clear her presence was a bit of a bother.
“You do know,” the postmaster began, “that the mail came through yesterday.”
Blinking, she waited for him to continue, her envelope poised above the counter. When he didn’t, she furrowed her brow, grappling to understand his implication. “Oh?”
The postmaster looked at her like she should understand. Clearly, he thought she had missed something by not coming in the day prior, but what could it be? She certainly had no reason to watch for the arrival of any mail. No one even knew she was here. “That’s fine. I’m not expecting anything.”
“Right. But, ma’am, it means the letter you’re sending won’t leave this office for another three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” Her hand holding her letter dropped to the countertop. “The mail only comes through every three weeks? Is that common up here?”
Mr. Star nodded. “Basically, yes. It goes by coach, not train. Hopefully you’re not expecting an urgent reply.”
She was. If it took three weeks for the letter to leave Deadwood, who knew how much longer it would take to reach Uncle Wilbur in Denver? If she were fortunate enough for him to send funds, and send them immediately, his reply still wouldn’t reach her for another three weeks—unless, of course, he missed the deadline, and then it would be three weeks after that. The weeks stretched out before her, pressed down upon her, and her heart began to crumble beneath the weight. At this rate, it would be impossible to receive enough money to leave Mr. Burke’s employment any faster than if she earned the stagecoach fare herself.
She glanced at her envelope and tapped it lightly on the counter. “Then I might not send this.” No need to tell Aunt and Uncle about her situation if she’d likely be on the stage before the letter reached home.
The postmaster pressed his lips together beneath his wide, dark mustache. “Perhaps a telegram would be better?”
Winifred raised her gaze to his. “A telegram? Oh, yes, that would be splendid.” But her brow pinched as the man reached for a form on which to write the note. “I’ll have to pay for it later. I don’t have enough for a telegram yet, but I do have a job, so once I—”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The man slid a form across the counter. “Gotta have the payment first. Too many transient folks in town, you understand.”
“Oh... How much is a telegram per word?”
When he told her the exorbitant amount, Winifred shifted, her pulse increasing. It would take her a long time to earn that much. And once she did, would it be wise to spend it on a telegram, or simply save it for a coach ticket?
Then again, there was still the chance that Uncle would send money once he heard about her predicament, and it might arrive before she had a chance to earn fare—which would likely please Mr. Burke. “Thank you, then. I’ll return when I have the correct amount.”
