Her Secret Suitor

When six-time mail-order bride Winifred Sattler is stranded in Deadwood, Dakota Territory, she’s grateful to find a temporary position at Mr. Ewan Burke’s business until she can return home. Ewan is handsome, but stuffy and serious—her complete opposite. Unlike her new anonymous correspondent, Mr. Businessman, who appreciates her bubbly optimism.

To keep his mining company afloat, Ewan can’t be distracted by Winifred’s vivacious beauty. He needs a no-nonsense wife. Someone like Miss Thoroughly Disgruntled, the only respondent to his recent ad with whom he truly connected. In person, Winifred and Ewan don’t get along, but in their letters they’re falling in love. Will they discover a perfect match in each other?

JANETTE FOREMAN is a former high-school English teacher turned stay-at-home mom with a passion for the written word. Through her romances, she hopes people see themselves as having worth in God’s eyes. When she sneaks in time for hobbies, she reads, quilts, makes cloth dolls and draws. She makes her home in the northern Midwest with her amazing husband, polydactyl cat, bird-hunting dog and the most adorable baby twin boys on the planet.

Also By Janette Foreman

Love Inspired Historical

Last Chance Wife

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Last Chance Wife

Janette Foreman

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08442-0

LAST CHANCE WIFE

© 2018 Janette Foreman

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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“You’re certain these are all the sales you’ve made?”

“Yes.”

She pointed to each name, but Ewan averted his gaze. Three sales.

“This man, Arnold Pickling, needed a screw to hold the chain on his arrastra. Do you know what an arrastra is, Mr. Burke? Mr. Pickling told me all about them.”

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 building the store, the kitchen and his office. The fight to make a living. The desire to be more than a failure to his father.

What if he lost it all?

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

Slowly he met her gaze. “Thank you,” he murmured.

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

As every man hath received the gift, even so minister the same one to another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of God.

—1 Peter 4:10

Dear Reader,

The idea of a heroine “six times ordered but never a bride” intrigued me, so when I finally got my chance to write her story, I had so much fun! It was a joy visiting the Lead-Deadwood gold mines last summer for research, even if I was experiencing morning sickness while pregnant with my twin boys. My mind came alive as I traveled the damp, dark drifts, imagining Ewan fighting to save the Golden Star...and dealing with Winifred as she jumbled his well-laid life with her unorthodox ways and unending optimism. Two real Deadwood staples are mentioned in the story—Sol Star truly was the postmaster, and the notorious and deplorable Gem Theater really employed women tricked into working there. I always wanted someone like Ewan to give down-on-their-luck people a second chance. I’m thankful to know that with Jesus, we all can have that chance at redemption.

Love,

Janette Foreman

This book is dedicated to Karen Turgeon, my second grade teacher. Because of you, I found my love for stories. Thank you for your continued support and love.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Bible Verse

Dear Reader

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Deadwood, Dakota Territory September 1878

“In case of trouble, call upon Mr. Ewan Burke at the Golden Star Mine in Deadwood.”

Clutching the crinkled note Aunt Mildred had given her, Winifred Sattler raised her gaze to the town in which she’d found herself stranded. Dust curled up as the stagecoach drove away, tinting the air with a dirty dose of failure that caked her lungs. Surely that was what stung her eyes and clouded her vision.

The dust. Not the failure.

Stuffing the note back into her pocket, Winifred wove on foot up the cramped street through a tangle of men, vegetable carts, wagons and horses. Her glance bounced between the wooden buildings and the gaping holes in the road, then scaled the hills on either side of the narrow gulch where the town rested. A slight breeze made the mining town stink of dirt, unlike the sweet aroma of pine that permeated the canyon she had ridden through to get here, and the metallic pounding of stamp mills had begun to give her a headache.

But Winifred would not lose hope. She couldn’t. Sure, she’d spent the last of her dowry traveling from Denver to Spearfish to marry Mr. Ansell. Then her remaining cash had barely covered the fifteen-mile trip to Deadwood when the mail-order match had turned disastrous.

All she needed now was money to get home. Then she could eat a little humble pie before Uncle Wilbur and devise a new plan. Place new mail-order bride advertisements in the newspapers. Send out more letters to the prospects she would gain. Pray the dear old man hadn’t been serious about marrying her off to one of his colleagues if she—again—returned unmarried.

At least this time the mail-order disaster was entirely not her fault.

As she focused ahead, a sign for the Golden Star Mine caught her attention—barely. Small and brown, it blended with its natural surroundings. Winifred approached the tall wooden building that scaled the hillside in stair-step fashion and knocked on the door. The entrance certainly didn’t feel inviting. How much prettier it would be with flowers or a hedge. Did the slat siding need to be a weathered, natural brown? Wouldn’t it be nicer painted white?

Lost in her design ideas, she almost didn’t hear the door open.

“Ma’am, may I help you?” A man stared down at her, blocking the entrance. His suit seemed a bit threadbare, though meticulously pressed. Sandy blond hair was combed up off his forehead—which pinched at the sight of her—and gray eyes narrowed in suspicion. “The shop is closed for the night. Might be closed for the rest of the week.”

She dug for the note in her pocket. “Are you Mr. Burke?”

His forehead wrinkled further. “Yes...”

Winifred released her breath. “Oh, good. I’m Winifred Sattler. Wilbur Dawson’s niece? Nice to meet you.” She wedged her way inside before he could protest against it.

She found herself in a quaint, cozy store lit by a lantern on the corner counter. Shelves of merchandise lined the walls, the entire space smaller than Aunt and Uncle’s airy sitting room. Except she had thought this to be a gold mine. Why had the man attached a store?

When Winifred turned to Mr. Burke, who didn’t appear much older than she, she noted the confidence in his stance, the square rigidity of his shoulders. Strong. Masculine. He crossed his arms and waited for her explanation, so she hastened to give one. “I apologize for my abrupt visit, but my aunt gave me your name in case I ran into trouble, and I must say, I have certainly run into trouble. You would not believe—”

“Hold on.” Mr. Burke sliced through her words. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“Winifred Sattler, sir.” She stood straighter, hoping she didn’t look too frazzled after riding the coach so long. She’d left Denver over a week ago, roomed in Deadwood last night, and traveled to Spearfish this morning...only to turn around and come back to Deadwood tonight when prospects in Spearfish turned sour. If Mr. Burke didn’t help her, what options would she have? “I’m Wilbur Dawson’s niece.”

His eyes narrowed further as he looked her over.

She moved one polished black boot against the other, touched her bonnet lined with forget-me-nots. “Lovely place you have here.”

Mr. Burke frowned deeper. “Wilbur Dawson...from Denver?”

“Yes. He works closely with your father, Peter Burke. At least that’s my understanding.”

“Miss Dawson—”

“Sattler.”

“Miss Sattler, please understand my confusion.” The poor man obviously grappled to keep up. “I was not expecting you. What sort of trouble are you in?”

She opened her mouth to answer, then thought better of it. “I’d rather not say.” Best to figure out her next move before sharing her embarrassing mail-order blunder with a stranger. “I can assure you it’s nothing illegal. I simply found myself in Deadwood without a place to stay or funds with which to seek lodging or get home.” She lifted her face with her brightest smile. “That’s where I hope you’ll come in. Might you have a place for me to spend a few nights? Any place would do, really. Or I can be gone in the morning if you need me to be—”

“Please.” The man held up his hand, signaling for her to stop. “I do have a place available for a few nights. If you need it.”

“Oh, I do. I do.” She wanted to clap, to shout to the ceiling in triumph—but decided it might be too much for her benefactor to handle.

Mr. Burke locked the front door, turned down the lantern, then lit a small candle. Without a word, he led the way down a long hallway, casting shadows along the wall with his flame.

She followed close, her footsteps light. Removing her bonnet so it hung down her back, she watched the surety with which he carried himself. “So, why will your shop be closed for the week?”

“My clerk quit this afternoon.”

Quit? Winifred quickened her steps. “You mean you have a job opening? I’d love to have it. Temporarily, of course.”

Mr. Burke glanced back at her. “Why would I hire temporary help, Miss Sattler?”

“To get you through the week, naturally.” She shrugged. “Or longer, if needed.”

Hopefully her request wasn’t too forceful. A temporary clerk job would help her purchase a stagecoach ticket home. When she’d chosen to accept Mr. Ansell’s romantic—albeit hasty—proposal, she hadn’t gained Uncle’s approval. Only after much discussion had he and Aunt let her go...with the understanding that she would pay her own way. Which, of course, meant finding her own way home, too.

Mr. Burke seemed to consider her offer. “Unfortunately, there are other factors I must take into account, but I’ll give you my answer in the morning.” He led her to a door and knocked. “Cassandra?”

The door opened swiftly, revealing a wiry woman whose brown skin glowed in the candlelight. “Yes, Mr. Burke?”

“This is Miss Winifred Sattler, who is to share your room tonight.” The man motioned for Winifred to step closer. “And this is Cassandra Washington.”

“But everyone calls me Granna Cass.” With a grandmotherly smile, the woman guided Winifred inside. “Everyone except Ewan. He can’t stand to call people by their nicknames.”

Winifred glanced back at Mr. Burke, who joined them inside before shutting the door.

“Thank you for letting me stay here.” Heat blasted Winifred as she entered a kitchen, complete with stove and preparation table. Various cooking tools hung along the walls, and in the back corner, a section had been partitioned off for what appeared to be Granna Cass’s sleeping quarters.

“Come on in, child.” Leaving Winifred’s side, the woman zipped back to the table, where several small pails sat side by side. “Ewan, help yourself to soup on the stove while I finish the lunch pails. Miss Sattler, fill them with me while I get to know you.”

Mr. Burke crossed to the stove and ladled soup into a bowl, his movements efficient and sure. Winifred rushed to the woman’s side and followed her lead as she constructed sandwiches and wrapped them in paper. “Pardon me, but did you say lunch?”

“For the night-shift workers.” Granna Cass set one sandwich into a pail and had a second one half made before Winifred finished her first. “Miss Winnie, tell me your story.”

“My story?” Winifred couldn’t help but glance at Mr. Burke as she placed a chunk of corned beef between two slices of bread.

Turning from the stove with his soup, he met her gaze. In the stronger light, his hair had a coppery tint. Hardened lines etched his facial features, like he always had something on his mind and didn’t stop to laugh and joke very often. Such a sad way to live. He seemed so stern, like he couldn’t be bothered with charity work—which had basically become her situation, at this point.

Her cheeks began to warm. “What do you want to know?”

The elderly woman chuckled. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

That wouldn’t be much, then, at least not with Mr. Burke staring at her like that. “I was born in Kansas and moved to Denver with my aunt and uncle when I was six.”

“Ah, chasing gold?” Granna Cass’s skilled hands moved like lightning. “Ewan’s family works in Colorado. His brother has a successful gold mine, doesn’t he?”

Mr. Burke cleared his throat, then sipped his soup, not commenting further.

Winifred slipped another sandwich into a pail. “My uncle invests in entrepreneurs. We moved to Denver so he could find businesses to help.” Mr. Burke’s gaze narrowed again. Her chest tightened at his obvious disapproval of her. Sure, she’d shown up unannounced tonight, but was that any reason to glare at her so harshly?

“Miss Winnie, you’d better have some of that soup, too. Not much left. The boys already had their supper.” Granna Cass moved to the large pot perched on the stove.

“The boys?”

“The miners.” Mr. Burke’s voice held a guarded edge. “Many of my men eat here during the shift change. It’s a benefit I will not compromise.”

Winifred blinked as she tried to make sense of his defensive explanation. Did he expect her to disapprove of his offering food to his employees?

No sooner had she slipped a sandwich into the pail than a commotion like a thundering herd approached the kitchen door.

“There they are,” said Granna Cass. “Right on time.”

In quick motion, the kitchen door flew open. Men barreled inside, their boots clomping along the hard floor. Dirt clung to their clothes. Winifred pushed against the wall as they encircled the table like wolves surrounding prey. They plucked their pails from the table with big hands and acknowledged Mr. Burke’s presence with a solemn nod before trudging back out, circling wide rather than getting too close to their employer.

One man inspected the contents of his pail. “Corned beef again, Granna Cass?”

“Yes, sir.” The woman shot him a knowing smile, propping a fist on her hip and raising her graying eyebrows. “Just like every day before.”

The man looked like he wanted to say more, but he glanced at Mr. Burke and seemed to decide against it, then gave Granna Cass a cautious smile and left with the others.

When the door shut and silence took over the room again, Winifred thought about what the miner had said. “Does he not like corned beef?”

“Those boys, I tell you.” Granna Cass shook her head and handed Winifred a bowl of soup. “Always wanting something more. Last week, that same boy asked if we could have mutton in the sandwiches. Mutton. Sure, I’d love to fix it for them, mutton, goose, fish...”

“Why don’t you?” Winifred licked a bit of soup off her spoon, and her eyes widened at the explosion of flavor cascading over her tongue.

“Because this is a business,” Mr. Burke cut in. “Funds are limited. Cassandra, that reminds me, I have an investor coming tomorrow, if you can add an extra serving to your noon meal.” Mr. Burke placed his bowl and spoon on the table. “I’m heading out. Thank you for supper.” He turned his stare on Winifred again. “I’ll give you my answer on the clerk position in the morning.”

Winifred forced a nod. “Of course.”

Mr. Burke left, his footfalls fading down the hall.

She took another bite. “You’re quite the cook, Granna Cass.” But even as the delicious soup coated her throat, she wrinkled her nose and glanced at the door. “Mr. Burke strikes me as the pragmatic type.”

“Which tells me you’re not.” Granna Cass didn’t hide the grin spreading her brown cheeks. “Yes, Ewan Burke is the pragmatic type. But underneath that practical exterior, he’s got one of the warmest hearts I’ve ever known. You’ll see.”

Winifred doubted it. “I’m afraid I’m only in town long enough to earn coach fare back home.” She’d leave Deadwood long before she could witness whatever Granna Cass believed about Mr. Burke.

Funny how a man could be handsome and yet as stuffy as a freshly starched collar.

Not that she cared how handsome he was. Or about the striking sense in his eyes. Her only interaction with this man would center on her temporary arrangement and nothing more.

After putting away the sandwich materials, Granna Cass made up a narrow sleeping pallet at the foot of her bed inside the secluded nook. “I know it’s not much,” she said, tossing a blanket over the thin mattress, “but it seems to work until we find the women decent housing.”

“The women?” Winifred untied her bonnet ribbons from beneath her chin.

Granna Cass paused. “Ewan didn’t tell you about the women?”

Winifred raised her brows. “No...”

“Then I’ll wait to say anything else.” Granna Cass moved back to the preparation table, to the mounds of dough she’d allowed to rise there. “It’s Ewan’s mission, so I’ll let him explain. Point is, I hope your stay is comfortable, however long it may be.”

Mission? What did she mean? But Winifred’s question faded as she watched Granna Cass rotate her wiry arms and push the heels of her hands through the dough. “Want help?”

“No, no, this job relaxes me before I go to sleep. Gets me in the right mood for tomorrow. Do you do anything before bed, Miss Winnie?”

“Usually I read, but I left my books at the station with my trunks.” She would get them tomorrow, provided she still had a place to stay.

The elderly woman smiled and tossed her a newspaper. “This is all the reading material I’ve got, but you’re welcome to it.”

Winifred smiled. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Mr. Burke. He’s the one allowing you to stay.”

True. She would thank Mr. Burke in the morning. Telling herself not to think of her empty future, she finished removing her bonnet and tossed it beside her pallet. She frowned as she stared down at it, the bonnet with the golden sash and blue forget-me-nots she’d promised to wear for Mr. Ansell. After today, she’d likely burn the wretched thing, for all the good it had done her.

As she slipped beneath her thin blanket, the reality of her situation pricked her eyes, causing the newspaper print to blur. She had been so certain of Mr. Ansell. Ever since her parents died, she’d dreamed of having a love like theirs, a sacrificial, deep, abiding love that no one else would understand. With suitor after suitor, she had developed a better idea of what that love would look like, sound like, feel like—and Mr. Ansell had fed her all the right sentiments to make her believe he shared her dream and could make it come true.

All she wanted was to be cherished for who she was. That wasn’t too extravagant to ask for, was it?

Now, because she’d fallen for the wrong man—a man who had proven unworthy of her trust, much less her love—she’d stranded herself in a foreign place, forced to pick up the splinters of her heart alone.

She would send a letter to Uncle and explain everything. Of course, she’d have to find a way to convince him not to marry her off as soon as she returned to Denver. She’d tried his approach before, allowing his cronies to court her, but soon learned investor businessmen were as dull as they came. When she married, she wanted a man of passion. And she wanted him to love her for who she was, not for the connection to her uncle she could offer. That’s why mail ordering seemed so ideal. She could travel to a new place, meet new people and be a part of something bigger than herself.

Winifred lowered her eyes. At least, at first, that’s what drew her to the idea of courtship through the mail. But now, after six failed attempts, she wondered if it wasn’t merely adventurous to take this path toward marriage but, in fact, downright foolhardy.

Losing her appetite to read, she picked up the newspaper to toss it away—when two small words caught her eye: “Wife Wanted.”

Frowning, she set the newspaper back on her pallet and scanned the short ad.

Wife Wanted: Mr. Businessman seeks wife. Needn’t be beautiful; must be practical.

Winifred dropped her head and groaned into her blankets.

Now she’d heard everything. This was what seeking a wife had come to—stating truth, yes, but bluntly. No romance there, not even an attempt to promise love or affection should a woman be desperate enough to answer such an ad.

An idea struck her, and she reached into her nearby valise for a pencil and stationery. For his honest request, this man deserved an honest reply. Not that she would send it. But maybe writing the silly thing would ease her frustrations about today’s events. She thumbed through her envelopes for the perfect one to seal away her pretend response. In her boredom during the coach ride from Cheyenne to Deadwood, she had resorted to sketching sprawling images across her envelopes, leaving just enough space on each one for the recipient address and the stamp.

Settling on one with a hummingbird in flight above a half dozen flowers, she smiled and tucked the rest away in her valise. Then, using the newspaper as a hard surface, she laid out her pretty floral stationery and penciled her reply. This was exactly what she needed in order to forget Mr. Ansell.

“Dear Mr. Businessman...”

* * *

If there had been a way to fail at gaining an investor, Ewan Burke had surely found it.

Judging by the firm line etched across Mr. Richard Johns’s forehead, anyway. A line that only deepened the farther he read through Ewan’s report.

Ewan rubbed a hand down his mouth, pausing on his shaven chin. He glanced at his office clock. Nearly five. The investor had read through the plans twice but still hadn’t relayed his thoughts.

“Mr. Johns...” Prompting seemed like the way to go. “May I answer any questions?”

“Yes,” the man responded in a gravelly voice, eyes still glued to the stack of papers. “When do you plan on turning a profit?”

“Very soon, sir.” Not as soon as he would like, but he had built this mine from nothing, and he counted any growth as progress. “I have worked out the numbers and estimated our growth over the next few quarters, and—”

“And you’ll still be no closer to making this into a prospering business.” The older man sighed and lifted off his spectacles. “Look, Mr. Burke. Your enthusiasm for the Golden Star Mine is admirable. And the business is new yet. But I don’t invest in charity cases. If you want my funds, then this company needs to prove it will make me money soon—not in some fairy-tale future. Understand?”

Pursing his lips, Ewan stifled his own sigh. “Of course, Mr. Johns. I agree.”

“There, now. I’d best be off.” The investor plunked the stack of papers on Ewan’s desk in a ruffled heap and stood.

Ewan hastened to meet him at the door, then escorted him out of the office and down the flight of stairs leading to the Golden Star’s main level. Only the light slapping of their shoes on the stairs filled the silence between them. Resisting the urge to cling to the banister, Ewan opened the door at the base for the middle-aged man to exit through first. Kindness, regardless of affliction. Of course his mother’s relentless teaching reverberated through him now, when tossing the investor out on his rotund rump sounded like the more tempting option.

From the moment Ewan received Father’s letter announcing his colleague’s trip to Deadwood to invest in Black Hills gold, he had spent countless hours preparing for this meeting. He’d meticulously compared the average growth of his gold production with others’, based on the year the Golden Star was a simple placer mine by the creek and the six months that followed, when it’d become a drift mine carved into the mountainside.

His business wasn’t perfect, but it was just beginning, and he’d been confident that his report showed how the Golden Star was poised to thrive, if it could only gain the support it needed to pass through these growing pains. But now after this rejection, Ewan had to fight the sinking feeling clawing at his stomach as he shut the stairwell door and followed the investor to the front of the office building. Bidding farewell to Mr. Johns might very well mean bidding farewell to his own dreams of making something of himself.

Ewan opened the next door, the one that connected the Golden Star’s offices with its tiny general store. He crossed the shop floor in haste. “Thank you for coming. I wish you safe travels back to Denver.” He turned to Mr. Johns with his hand outstretched.

The man slipped his knobby hand into Ewan’s politely, but nothing cordial appeared in his pointed stare. “Your father told me I wouldn’t be disappointed.” He pulled their hands closer to his body, causing Ewan to lean in. “I hate going back empty-handed.”

Ewan kept his stare calm and confident. “My father is never wrong, Mr. Johns. When will business bring you back to Deadwood?”

“In December.”

“Ah.” He broadened his smile to keep from wincing. “Three months.” Not much time to begin showing a profit—but then again, judging by his ledger, he didn’t really have a choice.

Yes, his growth had been slowly climbing over the past six months, but a series of recent setbacks had put a weighty strain on his finances. Damaged and missing equipment, broken-down machinery...even production was suffering because a few of his employees had quit. According to a conversation Ewan had had with one of them, the man had learned how fledgling the business truly was and had felt it was too risky to stay. Ewan had tried explaining that every business started this way, that all they needed was time—and funds—to blossom. But apparently the man hadn’t expected the business’s financial state to be so precarious, and his worry about shutting down had spread to the others.

Like gangrene through a wounded body.

Just how many others had been infected, Ewan didn’t know. To be sure, only a few had quit, so he prayed the concerns had stopped with them.

Mr. Johns’s investment would give them a boost. And they certainly needed one. As much as Ewan hated to admit it, the Golden Star could only tread water so long, and he needed to get the mine over this financial hump before his employees’ worries came to fruition.

“Come back when you’re in town, Mr. Johns,” Ewan said, “and I’ll show you the improvements we’ve made.”

“And the money.” The man emphasized the M word like the chop of a guillotine.

“Of course, sir. How nice to meet you.”

Mr. Johns grunted as he shut the outside door behind him and was gone.

Feet stuck to the rug, Ewan stared at the door’s paned glass, not focusing on the smattering of dust collecting there, nor on the booming gold town that lay beyond his establishment.

He had three months to get the Golden Star Mine earning more than it spent. Three. Plenty of gold existed in the mountain to do that very thing. The problem was extracting it and refining it to sell. Every penny he’d made already went straight back into the business—buying equipment, digging the mine and constructing the main building, which held offices, a small kitchen and meager housing for a few employees. But in order to grow—and cover those unexpected recent expenses—the business required more money than what his current profits could cover. He still needed extra hand drills, black powder and miners to reach more gold. And what good was more gold if he didn’t purchase more stamps for his stamp mill to process it? Those were what he needed in order to produce the growth Mr. Johns wanted to see.

And aside from producing growth, he needed room in his business to offer employment options for disheartened men who no one else would hire, or when women arrived from the Gem Theater and other desperate situations with nowhere else to turn. Those situations didn’t happen often, but when they did, he refused to turn the downtrodden away.

Point being, Ewan needed to prove to Mr. Johns that the Golden Star wasn’t too much of a risk. That he wasn’t too much of a risk.

Raking his fingers through his hair, Ewan turned away. Just then, the door to the rest of the office building opened and Cassandra slipped through, holding the empty bags she always carried when she visited the venders downtown who sold vegetables from their carts.

“Good morning,” she said with all the warmth of the grandmother she’d become to him. “I’m off to fetch ingredients for the noon meal. I’ll be sure to buy extra for your investor guest.”

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 to someone 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

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.”

“That sounds fine.” His gaze settled on her letter and froze, brows drawing together. “Can I see that?”

He reached for her letter, but she withdrew her hand. “No, remember? I won’t be sending it.”

“I’m not going to send the letter.” Mr. Star chuckled. “I just want to see the artwork on your envelope.”

This one contained a sketch of a buffalo in the prairie grass. She’d spotted a herd near the trail and had drawn one from the safety of the stagecoach.

She handed over the letter. When she’d used her envelopes as her canvas, she’d had Aunt Mildred in mind. The dear woman asked her not to stop drawing just because she traveled off to become a wife. The art had been for her, not only to prove that Winifred hadn’t stopped, but also to help Aunt see the beautiful land Winifred had planned to call home.

All for naught now. She’d have to give the sketches to her dear aunt in person when she returned home, humiliated and still unmarried, yet again. Which was why she’d wasted one of her envelopes to seal up the letter to “Mr. Businessman”—a letter that would never leave her valise in all her days.

“An envelope very similar to this came through the other day.” The postmaster turned the envelope over, following the scrawling sketch. “Ah, yes, see here? The initials embedded in the drawing itself. WS.”

Her eyes widened. She’d thought the initials were hidden quite well in the drawing. And wait—how did the postmaster know...

“Are you Miss Thoroughly Disgruntled?” The man’s gaze twinkled, meeting hers. “This buffalo is quite nice.”

“I beg your pardon?” Winifred felt the blood drain from her face, along with her ability to understand complete sentences. Surely he hadn’t just called her...

“The advertisement reply to Mr. Businessman,” Mr. Star prompted. “Your letter had no return address, so when he mailed a response, I kept it in the back in case you came in—though I wasn’t sure how I’d know you, without a name or description. Handy thing, having those drawings as a calling card. I couldn’t believe he had the gall to call you that on the envelope. Though I suppose you must’ve kept your name a secret or he would’ve used it. But ‘Miss Thoroughly Disgruntled’?”

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 sweeping 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 personal 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.

It would be nice to have a friend, especially now in this foreign place.

Except, how did she know it was truly openhanded, asking nothing in return? Mr. Businessman certainly didn’t sound like he had a hidden reason for writing her, especially since they’d both been clear about not wanting to create a romantic exchange out of this...but how was she to be certain? Perhaps he had ulterior motives, like so many other men she’d met through letter writing.

Lord, I don’t know who to trust. Which way should I go?

For now, she felt no rush to respond. She folded the note and slipped it back in the clean white envelope and placed it into her valise.

“Is that another letter you want sent?” Granna Cass stood at the preparation table, up to her wrists in dough. “Forgot to tell you I mailed one for you the other day.”

Winifred’s head shot up. “That was you?”

The woman punched the dough and flipped it, a poof of flour billowing upward. “Mail only comes through every three weeks. I had to post a letter to my son—he lives in Virginia—so I figured I’d mail yours, too. Otherwise it could’ve been weeks before it left town.”

Releasing a breath, she felt her cheeks blanch. “Where did you find my letter?”

“Sitting on the floor by the pallet. Beautiful drawing on the envelope. Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Wish I could draw like that. But these skinny fingers know nothing but how to make bread.” Laughing, she reached into her flour sack and sprinkled more over the doughy mound. “A letter home to your aunt and uncle, was it? Didn’t take time to read the address.”

How should she answer? Could she tell Granna Cass she’d never meant to send that letter, that the recipient hadn’t known Winifred existed until her letter appeared in his mailbox? A barrage of questions from the dear old woman wouldn’t entirely be—

The kitchen door burst open.

Though fully clothed in her polonaise and skirt, minus her overbodice, Winifred tugged her blanket up to shield herself. Hidden from view behind the partition, she craned her neck to find Mr. Burke in the doorway, frowning, his eyes darkened and skin creased between his brows.

“Cassandra, grab your supplies. There’s been an accident.”

“Oh, no...” Granna Cass dropped the dough and wiped her hands on her apron. Murmuring a prayer, she yanked a bag from beneath her bed and followed Mr. Burke.

An accident? Winifred dropped her blanket and scrambled from her pallet. Grabbing her overbodice from the top of the trunk and tugging it over her arms, she dashed across the kitchen, air still humid from the evening’s meal of roasted potatoes and breaded chicken.

In the darkened hallway, she scurried toward the sharp turn at the end, where the faint light from Mr. Burke’s candle flickered on the wall. The side door opened and closed, leaving her in silence and darkness. Breathing a prayer for the injured, Winifred pushed open the door and rushed outside.

Night had fallen and crickets chirped in the nearby brush, a sound quickly swallowed by the clamor of Deadwood’s stamp mills. Loose shale scraped beneath her shoes as she hastened to catch up with the others, who marched directly toward the mountain. Having been employed for only a few days, she hadn’t yet ventured out to see the rest of the grounds. Now, in the moonlight, buildings loomed around her in shadowy shapes. Brilliant stars spilled over the top of the mountainside, and somewhere she thought she heard the faint trickling of creek water.

“I’m not sure exactly what happened,” Mr. Burke said to Granna Cass as Winifred drew close enough to hear. “I sent Jacobson to fetch the doctor, but I’ll need your help before he arrives.”

“What were they doing?” the woman asked.

“I don’t know, except that a timber support frame came loose. I don’t know if it hit McAllister or if the falling debris did the job.”

Winifred hastened to keep up as the two reached a rocky outcropping along the mountain’s edge. Leading out of the mountain, a track like a railroad connected to one of the large buildings she’d passed. Rocks slipped beneath her feet as she climbed, moonlight acting as the only light to guide her steps. At the mouth of the tunnel entrance, Mr. Burke paused to pluck a lantern from a hook and proceeded to light it with his candle.

Then he noticed her.

“Miss Sattler, what are you doing here?”

The surprise in his voice caught her off guard enough to make her stumble on a railroad tie. She steadied herself before she fell flat, then stood and brushed her hands off on her skirt. “I—”

“You can’t be here.” He stepped into the moonlight, his piercing eyes pleading with her. “It’s too dangerous.”

She glanced around him. Blackness swallowed the long tunnel, save for where the lantern dangled from Mr. Burke’s hand. At a short distance, Granna Cass waited.

“But you’re taking Granna Cass. Surely I can be of some help, too.”

“It’s a long way in, and if you get lost without a light, it could be days before you’re found. I’m taking Cassandra because she’s aided before in accidents while we wait for the doctor.”

“Hun—” Granna Cass’s voice drifted from within the tunnel. “Go on back to the kitchen and tend the fire. That will help us. I left in such a hurry—I’d hate for anything to happen because I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Winifred met Mr. Burke’s eyes again. Even with much of his face in shadow, he shook her resolve. As her boss, he had the right to ask her to leave, regardless of her eagerness to help. Turning away, she tried not to let her shoulders droop, but they did a little anyway. She made her way down the rocky outcropping and then across the grass in silence.

“Hey, lady?”

Winifred jumped at the voice in the darkness. A male voice. Whirling, she spotted a man standing in front of a building, the one attached to the mountain by railway.

“Were you just at the mountain?” he called to her. Hidden mostly in the shadow of the building, only the man’s crazy hair caught fragments of moonlight.

She stepped closer, making out a thin, wiry frame. “Yes, sir.”

The man looked up at the mountain. “What’s goin’ on up there? Stepped outside and saw all the commotion.”

He must work inside that building. “There was an injury. I don’t know how serious or what happened, exactly.”

“Injury, huh?” The man shook his head, his body going rigid. He stepped backward, then forward, like an uncomfortable shuffle. “I knew it. Just knew it. Lady, I tell ’im, and I tell ’im. Don’t matter.”

“Tell who?”

“The boss.”

A chilling breeze snaked by, causing Winifred to wrap her arms around herself. The man didn’t make sense. She wished she could see his face.

“What’s your name?” The man folded his arms. “I never seen you ’round here before.”

“I’m new. Winifred Sattler. Just working in the store for a short while.” She tipped her head to one side, squinting as if it would help her see him better. “Who are you?”

“Charlie Danielson.” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “I manage the night stamp-mill crew.”

The stamp mill. That’s what the building housed. “Sounds interesting. I—”

“Yeah, if the job’s around long enough. No tellin’ nowadays.”

The man’s words killed off Winifred’s intended reply. She frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“We’re losin’ the business, ma’am, like blood from a gunshot wound.” He shrugged in a helpless fashion. “Ain’t right holdin’ on to us like this. Keepin’ us from findin’ other work. Leadin’ us on like he can save the company.”

Winifred’s brows drew together. “He can save it, though...can’t he?”

“Ma’am—” the man shook his head “—he’s been fightin’ a losin’ battle for this mine since it began. And even though I tell ’im so, he’s too stubborn to give in.”

Winifred’s thoughts flashed back to their conversation at the store, when Mr. Burke had opened up about the Golden Star needing an investor. How protective he’d been. And the wounded look he displayed when they examined the ledger, like his worth was wrapped up in those three tiny sales.

And now, an accident had compromised one of his men.

“Mr. Burke carries the weight of this mine on his shoulders, Mr. Danielson.” Straightening her spine, she stuck out her chin. “He cares about the well-being of those who work here. I, for one, am glad he’s sticking to his vision.”

Nodding farewell, she continued her trek to the office building.

Mr. Burke was a tough man who didn’t smile. But now she knew meanness wasn’t the reason for his stalwart behavior. Fear was. Fear of losing everything he had labored so long to build. And he deserved his dream.

He seemed to work hard to keep this place afloat, despite the doubt that had crept into some of the staff. She could only imagine the pressure. Her constant push to find a husband seemed like the closest experience she had to relate. The failed mail-order attempts, the downcast glances of Aunt and Uncle’s society friends. Mr. Ansell’s comment that because she’d been six times ordered but never a bride, there must be something wrong with her and that no one else would ever want her.

If Mr. Burke felt anywhere near how she felt, then he needed encouragement. The mine needed encouragement. She understood his persistence, his refusal to give up or give in to despair. What woman who had accepted six proposals wouldn’t?

Winifred didn’t know what needed to be done, but she determined to help Mr. Burke find more success than she had. Her mind buzzed with ways to help—provided she didn’t rearrange the potatoes and gold pans while at it.

* * *

Ewan’s footsteps clipped down the corridor toward the kitchen. Dawn had come much too early after a late night inside the mine, but with help from everyone, they were able to secure the timber support beams lining the damaged drift and get McAllister to safety.

First thing after a few meager hours of sleep, Ewan had bathed, but the stench of sweat and soot still lingered somewhat—a constant reminder of how yesterday could’ve been so much worse. He’d thanked God over and over for His mercy on McAllister’s life.

But what baffled him was why the timber frame had collapsed in the first place. Nothing like that had ever happened at the Golden Star. He used high-quality wood, never willing to skimp on something so essential, and held his miners to a high standard of safety, which they had always seemed to follow.

Perhaps he simply needed to check in more often, maybe inspect their work at closer intervals for a while to ensure the utmost safety.

But for now, he had a new order of business. Stepping into the kitchen, he located Miss Sattler.

She stood at the preparation table filling lunch pails for the day shift. Her trim, plum-colored gown brushed the hardwood floor as she worked, her brown hair piled on her head in a confusing puzzle of twists and curls and pins. The ways of women—in both appearance and behavior—baffled him, and yet, he couldn’t help but appreciate their efforts. This woman’s in particular. A realization that had taken him by surprise last night.

“Morning, Ewan.” Cassandra wiped her hands on a towel. “Breakfast is in the oven still but won’t be long.”

“Not a problem. I’ll be back for breakfast. For now, I’m actually here to collect Miss Sattler.”

The young woman’s head shot up. A sandwich hung in her clutches above a pail as if time had stopped. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” He motioned toward the door. “I am giving you a tour of the grounds this morning.”

Miss Sattler stared at him. Flicked her gaze to Cassandra and back. “You are?”

Good grief. Did he have to spell it out? If her current behavior held any indication, he’d be surprised if she didn’t venture out on her own at some point in the near future to explore the claim: both the outbuildings and the mine itself. And if he was any judge of her character, he’d expect her to approach the dangerous passages with glowing enthusiasm and no caution whatsoever. So, rather than finding himself in the middle of a fiasco later, he’d take control of the situation now.

“If you’ll be employed here for a while, then it’s time you learned how the mine operates. We’ll look around at the beginning of the morning shift, so we cause the least amount of disturbance.”

He could have sworn the twinkle in her eyes brightened a hundredfold. Dropping the sandwich in the pail, she applauded the outing, then scooted across the room to join him.

“I’m so excited about this,” she said as they made their way down the corridor. “I’ve wanted to look around.” Suddenly, her hand landed on his arm. “How is the worker from the accident? Is he going to be all right?”

Unbidden warmth traveled through him. “He should be fine. He is at the doctor’s now, but I was told this morning he might be able to go home this afternoon. Regardless, he’ll be out of work several days to recover.”

At the very least, thankfully, Miss Sattler had followed orders last night. Her response to danger had been rash and reckless...and heartwarming. Before she’d even known what the situation would hold, she’d been eager to help. But he hadn’t wanted to worry about her getting injured, too, in the midst of all the chaos. Surprising how much her well-being suddenly meant to him.

To begin the tour, he led her up the mountainside. “First things first, these are some of the employees you’ll need to know about. Gerald Foster watches the grounds. He lives in his own apartment off the kitchen. He might be an old man, but he has impeccable aim. We’ve never had troubles here, but having him around is a security that helps me sleep at night.”

“Can’t be too careful,” Miss Sattler agreed.

“Exactly. Then there’s Marcus Lieberman, who manages the day shift of the stamp mills, while Charlie Danielson manages the night shift. And of course, you know Cassandra.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll also want to know a few terms.” He indicated the opening of the mine as they reached it. “This entrance is called an adit or a portal. Inside, the horizontal tunnels are called drifts. The vertical tunnels are shafts.”

“Adits, drifts and shafts,” Winifred repeated. “Got it. Do we get to go inside?”

“Yes, but stick close.” A chill ran through him as he lifted his lantern from a spike driven into the wall. Safety first, especially after yesterday. Miss Sattler should be perfectly safe by his side...but yesterday, he’d thought his men were safe inside the mine, as well. At least the men knew their way around, however. “I meant what I said about how easily you could get lost in a maze of drifts. Do not venture off on your own for any reason.”

He lit his lantern, and they traveled into the darkness, the dank chill familiar to him. Water dripped nearby. Rubble scraped beneath his feet as he followed the rails embedded in the walkway. Soon, the familiar ching-ching-ching of miners’ chisels and hammers reached Ewan’s ears.

“So, the mine covers much of the inside of this mountain?” Miss Sattler’s voice sounded close and small in the tight space.

“Yes. I’ll show you one stope, and then we’ll go back outside.”

“What is a stope?”

“An excavation room.” Ewan paused at the entrance to the stope and waited for his employee to join him before lifting his lantern.

He heard her sharp intake of breath as she stared upward into the cavernous room several stories high. The closest miners didn’t pay them too much mind, just glanced their direction before continuing to drive their chisels into the rocky walls with long-handled hammers.

“Truly amazing.” Miss Sattler shook her head and stepped closer.

Ewan glanced at the woman beside him, now close enough to brush shoulders. The wonder on her face sent a surge of pride through his chest. “I gather you’ve never been inside a mine before?”

“No, never. Uncle talks about them sometimes, but this is the first I’ve seen.” She shifted her gaze until it collided with his. “It’s very impressive, Mr. Burke.”

Lantern light flickered against the wisps of her brown hair. It made a far prettier picture than one would ever expect to find inside a dark, dirty mine.

The squeak of metal on metal rose above the sound of hammers against chisels. Ewan broke his stare and guided his light toward the sound. Leaving the stope, a mule pulled a large cart, and alongside, a man walked the rail line.

Ewan stepped out of the way, gently tugging on Miss Sattler’s elbow. The miner eyed him, then Miss Sattler, before halting his cart and mule beside them. His thick, graying beard shone beneath his crinkled good eye and black eye patch. “Miss Sattler, this is Lars Brennan. He ensures that all the ore reaches the stamping mill.”

The man removed his cloth hat. “Howdy, ma’am.”

Miss Sattler smiled back as she dipped her chin. Ewan watched for any indication that Lars’s eye patch might scare her, but she looked boldly into his face as if she saw nothing wrong. “That sounds like an important job,” she said. “How much ore is that, Mr. Brennan?”

“This cartload right here’s about a ton.”

The amount made the woman laugh with surprise. “A ton? Really?”

“And he does sixteen of them by the end of each day.” Ewan clapped Lars on the shoulder. “Not a cart less.”

The man glanced between Ewan and Miss Sattler, rubbing his fingers against his gray hair before sticking his hat back on his head. Fidgeted a little.

“Feel free to continue on your way.” Miss Sattler ushered him forward, still smiling. “Thank you for meeting me.”

Lars grunted, like he wasn’t really sure what to say, then continued down the track with his mule and one-ton cart of ore.

As soon as Lars turned the corner, Miss Sattler whirled to Ewan. “The ore goes to the stamp mill from here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Can we go there next?”

Thankful for the dark, Ewan forced down the grin appearing on his mouth. Business as usual. This wasn’t a little romp to waste time for fun’s sake. He’d only offered to show Miss Sattler these places so she wouldn’t put herself in danger by venturing to them on her own. “Yes. The stamp mill next, and then back to the store to open for the day.”

They made their way out of the mine. At the base of the mountainside, Ewan helped Miss Sattler off the final slippery crush of shale, then ushered her toward the stamp mill.

“I assume you noticed Mr. Brennan’s eye injury.” He glanced her way.

She nodded, her eyes glowing with compassion as she fell in line beside him. “What happened?”

“He worked for a mine in Lead City, the town three miles from here. At the time, he worked on a two-man crew chiseling ore. A flying shard of rock blinded him in one eye.”

“The poor man.” Miss Sattler shook her head. “Then how did he come to work here? Seems like an eye injury could prevent a man from working for a mine.”

“Well, he came looking for work, and it was clear he didn’t have many prospects otherwise. And honestly, pulling a cart doesn’t require both eyes, so it seemed like the perfect job.”

“It certainly does.” Miss Sattler squeezed his arm and offered a smile. “And how very thoughtful of you to offer it to him.”

The effects of her smile lingered as they reached the stamp mill—continuing to trip up his heart. Why did her admiration suddenly mean something to him? Could it have something to do with the woman herself, or was he simply desperate for approval?

Hopefully, the latter. As much as he hated that option, it was better than the first. Hadn’t he told himself not to care for the store clerk walking beside him? A woman like her had the potential to capture his heart if he wasn’t watching close enough. And risking his heart meant risking the chance that she would then stomp on it before he knew what happened.

At least she wouldn’t be staying long. If he kept a wary eye, he just might survive this temporary arrangement unscathed.

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.

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