No matter the reason for Miss Sattler’s visit, however, he couldn’t let her distract him. He had a three-month deadline to think of. And thinking about her twirling in his shop, with those big eyes, already distracted him.
Clearing his throat, Ewan stepped inside the Deadwood post office, which appeared empty. Most people wouldn’t come until tomorrow—the stagecoach only picked up mail and dropped it off once every three weeks, creating an incredibly long line of patrons on that day. No way would he ever stand in line like that. Nothing was that important. But he did have two letters to post today. One for Mr. Johns and one for Father. His note of thanks for the investor wasn’t much, but he hoped the small courtesy would be enough to solidify a positive memory in the man’s mind. His letter home explained the outcome of his meeting, so Father didn’t solely hear Mr. Johns’s impressions.
“Good morning, Mr. Star.” Ewan dropped his envelopes on the counter. “I would like these to leave on the coach tomorrow, if you please.”
“Morning, Ewan.” Mr. Star smiled, his words tinged with a slight Bavarian accent. “Denver. Are you writing home?”
“Yes, sir.” Ewan worked to hide his lack of confidence. He needed his father to hear his side before he heard Mr. Johns’s report, to understand why his son had failed to snag the investor he’d practically handed to him. To know Ewan would do everything in his power to remedy that.
“Oh, and I have a letter for you, too.”
“You do?” Ewan frowned, leaning forward slightly on the countertop. “But the mail doesn’t come until tomorrow.”
“This one’s local. I’ll fetch it.” Mr. Star left the front desk and ambled to the back room.
Ewan drummed his fingers on the countertop. Who would send him a letter? Hopefully not Mac Glouster, owner of the Sphinx, the mine north of Ewan’s claim. He’d been trying to convince Ewan to sell out to him practically since the Golden Star began its operations. And it had better not be from that California capitalist who had been buying up claims around the area as of late. Graham Young might have bought the Glittering Nugget, the mine directly to the Golden Star’s south—for a pretty penny, too—but that didn’t mean Ewan would give in to the pressure. Selling would be shortsighted. He was certain that his land carried great wealth, and he refused to get a mere portion of money, no matter how sizable, if it meant giving up the land.
Besides the wealth, the Golden Star Mine had become home. He had labored to build it to this level, despite the numerous letters from Father telling him to leave the venture and come work for his brother in a stable Colorado mine. Selling out now would solidify his reputation within the family and the mining community as the unsuccessful twin, the poor, unfortunate fodder for gossip.
“Here you are.” The postmaster reentered, waving the envelope in his hand. “Looks like you’ve garnered interest of the female variety. Look at all that frilly sketching on the envelope.”
An answer to his advertisement. Not a capitalist inquiry. He was pleased but also surprised—he hadn’t expected a response so soon. Ewan snatched up the envelope, his gaze following the pencil rendering of a bird as he turned to leave. He stopped and looked back. Where were his manners? “Thank you, Star.”
“Sure thing. Hope it’s good news.” The postmaster grinned knowingly, and Ewan pretended not to notice.
As he strolled back to the mine, his attention wandered over the sketch—a hummingbird among flowers, clear as day. Though he couldn’t deny the frivolity of embellishing envelopes, he also could not ignore the fact that the artist had talent. And oddly, part of him felt a little special that whoever wrote him back would send something this time-consuming.
A wagon rolled by and dust swirled through his path. He ran his thumb under the letter’s seal to break it, then extracted the note.
Dear Mr. Businessman,
I am not actually responding to your letter in particular but to bride letters in general. To be clear, I am not looking to begin a relationship with you. I have experienced enough letter writing with other men to imagine what was going through your mind when you wrote your advertisement, and I confess I’m tired of men having ulterior motives while seeking a bride. I am convinced that most use letter writing as a coward’s way to find a wife. For once, I wish men would think about the feelings they are creating within a woman and stop acting like it’s a simple game of pursuit that could either end or carry on with little consequence. When I find someone to marry, it won’t be through letters. It’ll be in person—and to someone I trust.
Sincerely yours,
Thoroughly Disgruntled
Ewan blinked a few times. Frowned. Turned the paper over, then back again. Was this some sort of joke? He checked inside the envelope again, just in case he’d missed another portion that explained the whole thing had been a tease.
Nothing.
Scowling, he stepped into the Golden Star store. Someone had actually paid postage to mock his attempts to find a wife. Unbelievable. Did no one have common decency anymore?
“Mr. Burke?” Miss Sattler’s voice came from the corner, where she pulled things out from behind the counter. “Do you know where the ledger is? I need to record a sale—”
“I don’t know.” In fact, he wasn’t certain he’d even heard her question fully. He stalked between the table displays to the door at the back, pushed through it and marched down the hall and up the steps to his office.
The nerve of some people.
Taking a seat at his pinewood desk, he read through the letter again. But as he did, his frown softened. Kindness, regardless of affliction. Forcing himself to see the writer’s words through the lenses his mother gave him, he recognized a distinctly different tone than what he had been aware of before.
“I wish men would think about the feelings they are creating within a woman and stop acting like it’s a simple game of pursuit that could either end or carry on with little consequence.”
She sounded hurt, not prideful. As if she’d been taken advantage of by someone careless.
Ewan had known far too many women who had been used by men for their own pleasures, whether physically or emotionally. The women’s feelings had never been considered or valued in the slightest. Men like that cared only for themselves. And he had determined never to be one of them.
Swiping a clean sheet of paper from his desk drawer, along with a pencil, he formulated a reply.
Two days down. Winifred had been on Mr. Burke’s payroll for two days without much mishap...though without obvious success, either. Mr. Burke spent hours in his office. Days for Winifred were spent alone in the store with only the very occasional customer, then nights were spent in Granna Cass’s kitchen. The hours rolled by with little action, and it had begun to drive her mad.
Sleep proved difficult due to the pounding of stamp mills rumbling the ground. So last night she’d spent a couple of extra hours awake by Granna Cass’s fire composing a letter to send home to Aunt and Uncle. While she didn’t shy away from explaining her situation, she did use plenty of graceful language to avoid the ugly particulars.
Now, in the minutes before work began for the day, she walked to the post office using the directions Mr. Burke had given her, letter in hand.
Inside the post office, her heels echoed in the empty room. The man behind the counter glanced up, his thinning hair parted and slicked to one side. A little sign