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 on the counter stated “Sol Star—Postmaster.”
“Mornin’, ma’am.” She detected a slight accent, though she couldn’t quite guess at the origin. “Here to pick up your mail?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t have a box.” Smiling, she approached the counter with her small valise hanging around her elbow. “I came to post a letter.”
The man leaned on the counter, regarding her. “No box? Would you like to open one?”
“Oh, thank you, but I’m only planning to be in town temporarily. Any correspondence I might happen to get can be directed to the Golden Star Mine.”
She opened her bag and withdrew the letter she’d written to Uncle Wilbur. Hopefully it would keep him from panicking and hastily marrying her off. And if she were blessed, maybe her honeyed words would convince him to send the money she needed to get home, so she wouldn’t have to take advantage of Mr. Burke’s kindness. Her employer had been good to hire her, but he’d made it clear her presence was a bit of a bother.
“You do know,” the postmaster began, “that the mail came through yesterday.”
Blinking, she waited for him to continue, her envelope poised above the counter. When he didn’t, she furrowed her brow, grappling to understand his implication. “Oh?”
The postmaster looked at her like she should understand. Clearly, he thought she had missed something by not coming in the day prior, but what could it be? She certainly had no reason to watch for the arrival of any mail. No one even knew she was here. “That’s fine. I’m not expecting anything.”
“Right. But, ma’am, it means the letter you’re sending won’t leave this office for another three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” Her hand holding her letter dropped to the countertop. “The mail only comes through every three weeks? Is that common up here?”
Mr. Star nodded. “Basically, yes. It goes by coach, not train. Hopefully you’re not expecting an urgent reply.”
She was. If it took three weeks for the letter to leave Deadwood, who knew how much longer it would take to reach Uncle Wilbur in Denver? If she were fortunate enough for him to send funds, and send them immediately, his reply still wouldn’t reach her for another three weeks—unless, of course, he missed the deadline, and then it would be three weeks after that. The weeks stretched out before her, pressed down upon her, and her heart began to crumble beneath the weight. At this rate, it would be impossible to receive enough money to leave Mr. Burke’s employment any faster than if she earned the stagecoach fare herself.
She glanced at her envelope and tapped it lightly on the counter. “Then I might not send this.” No need to tell Aunt and Uncle about her situation if she’d likely be on the stage before the letter reached home.
The postmaster pressed his lips together beneath his wide, dark mustache. “Perhaps a telegram would be better?”
Winifred raised her gaze to his. “A telegram? Oh, yes, that would be splendid.” But her brow pinched as the man reached for a form on which to write the note. “I’ll have to pay for it later. I don’t have enough for a telegram yet, but I do have a job, so once I—”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The man slid a form across the counter. “Gotta have the payment first. Too many transient folks in town, you understand.”
“Oh... How much is a telegram per word?”
When
