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