Last Chance Wife. Janette Foreman

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