Last Chance Wife. Janette Foreman
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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 he told her the exorbitant amount, Winifred shifted, her pulse increasing. It would take her a long time to earn that much. And once she did, would it be wise to spend it on a telegram, or simply save it for a coach ticket?
Then again, there was still the chance that Uncle would send money once he heard about her predicament, and it might arrive before she had a chance to earn fare—which would likely please Mr. Burke. “Thank you, then. I’ll return when I have the correct amount.”
“That sounds fine.” His gaze settled on her letter and froze, brows drawing together. “Can I see that?”
He reached for her letter, but she withdrew her hand. “No, remember? I won’t be sending it.”
“I’m not going to send the letter.” Mr. Star chuckled. “I just want to see the artwork on your envelope.”
This one contained a sketch of a buffalo in the prairie grass. She’d spotted a herd near the trail and had drawn one from the safety of the stagecoach.
She handed over the letter. When she’d used her envelopes as her canvas, she’d had Aunt Mildred in mind. The dear woman asked her not to stop drawing just because she traveled off to become a wife. The art had been for her, not only to prove that Winifred hadn’t stopped, but also to help Aunt see the beautiful land Winifred had planned to call home.
All for naught now. She’d have to give the sketches to her dear aunt in person when she returned home, humiliated and still unmarried, yet again. Which was why she’d wasted one of her envelopes to seal up the letter to “Mr. Businessman”—a letter that would never leave her valise in all her days.
“An envelope very similar to this came through the other day.” The postmaster turned the envelope over, following the scrawling sketch. “Ah, yes, see here? The initials embedded in the drawing itself. WS.”
Her eyes widened. She’d thought the initials were hidden quite well in the drawing. And wait—how did the postmaster know...
“Are you Miss Thoroughly Disgruntled?” The man’s gaze twinkled, meeting hers. “This buffalo is quite nice.”
“I beg your pardon?” Winifred felt the blood drain from her face, along with her ability to understand complete sentences. Surely he hadn’t just called her...
“The advertisement reply to Mr. Businessman,” Mr. Star prompted. “Your letter had no return address, so when he mailed a response, I kept it in the back in case you came in—though I wasn’t sure how I’d know you, without a name or description. Handy thing, having those drawings as a calling card. I couldn’t believe he had the gall to call you that on the envelope. Though I suppose you must’ve kept your name a secret or he would’ve used it. But ‘Miss Thoroughly Disgruntled’?”
He let out a deep belly chuckle, and Winifred had to catch herself on the counter to keep her knees from giving out beneath her.
“I think you have me confused with someone else.” No way could he have meant her. The advertisement, a reply...they had to be coincidental. Her letter still lay secured in her valise. Though she couldn’t exactly explain away how he’d guessed the nickname she’d signed to the letter or how he knew her initials were in the sketch.
“You did respond to an advertisement for a wife, didn’t you?” He cocked his head to the side. “The envelope that came through looked just like this, except it was of a hummingbird. Wait one moment.”
The man left the counter and went into a back room. Alone, Winifred plopped her valise on the counter and unhooked the buckles. It didn’t make sense. Everything he said described her response to the ad. But it couldn’t be hers. The envelope remained in her bag.
She riffled through her tangled contents. “Come on, come on...” Heart beating wildly, she yanked out her stack of envelopes and flipped through them. Empty. Every single one, and no sign of the one with the hummingbird.
“Here we are.” The postmaster returned with a letter, and she prayed it would be hers. But no, she could see the envelope’s crisp whiteness from a distance, void of her rambling sketches. As he set the envelope on the counter, he grinned as if he’d found himself involved in a most creative and intriguing plot. “Your mystery suitor replied immediately. Same day, actually. I’ve never seen someone so eager. And what providence to be in the same town, so your mail reaches each other so quickly. Do you want to know who he is?”
“No.” Winifred’s stomach flipped. “I—I need to get to work now. We’ll be opening soon.”
“Of course.”
He scooted the envelope closer, and she jumped back. Silly, it’s not a rattlesnake. With a shaking hand, she dragged the envelope to the