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?