Last Chance Wife. Janette Foreman

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