Last Chance Wife. Janette Foreman

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.”