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Authors: Stephanie Grace Whitson
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have a written agreement stating dat we are equal partners. Assuring dat I vill freight only for our store and ve split profits equally. I should have suggested all of dese tings. I apologize for being so concerned for my own problems and treating you—”
“Mrs. Jannike,” Mr. English said abruptly, “if I may interject a word?”
Swede broke off. She nodded even as she braced herself for what was to come. He wouldn’t shout. She felt certain of that. But he would most definitely take the opportunity to agree with her that she had been rude. She’d overstepped her bounds as a woman. She’d presumed on his quiet nature.
“As for the name of the store, I don’t really care if my name is on it or not. I think it will be grand for Freddie and Eva to see their father’s name on the store their mother built—at least partially as a tribute to him. And as for our partnership, I think we both understand exactly how it will work. You are the freighter, I am the storekeeper. You bring the goods to Deadwood and I maintain the ledger. We split the profits in half, and—” he paused—“as for a written contract, I don’t think that’s necessary between two honest people who respect each other.”
“You—” Swede sputtered. “You aren’t angry vit me?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. I’m grateful to have been rescued from the obvious problems this lot presents. And I’m honored that you’d trust me with overseeing your construction project. And,” he said, chucking Eva under the chin, “I’m actually looking forward to working with you or for you, and I don’t honestly care how that was worded yesterday.
“Now,” he continued, “I do have one other thing I’d like to request to seal our agreement.” He winked at Eva. His brown eyes crinkled at the edges as he said, “I’d like it very much if you would call me Tom.”
As Mattie climbed up to Dillon’s claim on Friday morning, the sun broke through the clouds, and by the time she ducked into the tent to change into mining garb, the promise of sunshine had become reality. She opened Dillon’s storage box, and as the aroma of his pipe tobacco wafted upward, she blinked back tears. I will not cry I will not cry I will not. She jerked a pair of pants and a shirt out and shut the box. She began to talk to herself. “You’ve done some shocking things in your life, Mattie O’Keefe, but this—this is an entirely new level of shocking.” Her throat relaxed. She kept talking to herself. “What would the folks in Kansas say . . . Miss Mattie O’Keefe dressing like a man . . .” She stepped into the pants and bent to roll up the cuffs. “I’m going to need suspenders,” she said aloud. Twine laced through the belt loops would have to do today. The wool socks were warm. She just might keep wearing those even when she donned her other clothes. She slipped into a green flannel shirt. “Thank goodness Dillon isn’t . . . wasn’t . . . six . . . feet. . . .” She swallowed. Dillon isn’t. Dillon was . . . but now he isn’t.
Her resolve melted. She cried again. She cried more. She sprawled on Dillon’s pallet and cried until she was exhausted. Finally, she took the three steps to the “front door” in her stocking-clad feet and looked down the trail toward Deadwood.
“Tom said to tell you that he will be here soon.”
With a little gasp, Mattie saw Freddie perched on a rock ledge, whittling. He gave no sign of having heard her crying. Instead, he smiled and said, “You look pretty.”
As if her red eyes and runny nose didn’t even exist. Bless him. “Do I look like a real miner?”
He shook his head. “You are too clean to be a real miner.”
She laughed and with the laughter came release from the threat of more tears. Putting her hand atop her head, she said, “I need a hat.”
Freddie jerked his off his head and sent it sailing through the air. It landed at her feet. Mattie pulled it on and they both laughed as all of
“Mrs. Jannike,” Mr. English said abruptly, “if I may interject a word?”
Swede broke off. She nodded even as she braced herself for what was to come. He wouldn’t shout. She felt certain of that. But he would most definitely take the opportunity to agree with her that she had been rude. She’d overstepped her bounds as a woman. She’d presumed on his quiet nature.
“As for the name of the store, I don’t really care if my name is on it or not. I think it will be grand for Freddie and Eva to see their father’s name on the store their mother built—at least partially as a tribute to him. And as for our partnership, I think we both understand exactly how it will work. You are the freighter, I am the storekeeper. You bring the goods to Deadwood and I maintain the ledger. We split the profits in half, and—” he paused—“as for a written contract, I don’t think that’s necessary between two honest people who respect each other.”
“You—” Swede sputtered. “You aren’t angry vit me?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. I’m grateful to have been rescued from the obvious problems this lot presents. And I’m honored that you’d trust me with overseeing your construction project. And,” he said, chucking Eva under the chin, “I’m actually looking forward to working with you or for you, and I don’t honestly care how that was worded yesterday.
“Now,” he continued, “I do have one other thing I’d like to request to seal our agreement.” He winked at Eva. His brown eyes crinkled at the edges as he said, “I’d like it very much if you would call me Tom.”
As Mattie climbed up to Dillon’s claim on Friday morning, the sun broke through the clouds, and by the time she ducked into the tent to change into mining garb, the promise of sunshine had become reality. She opened Dillon’s storage box, and as the aroma of his pipe tobacco wafted upward, she blinked back tears. I will not cry I will not cry I will not. She jerked a pair of pants and a shirt out and shut the box. She began to talk to herself. “You’ve done some shocking things in your life, Mattie O’Keefe, but this—this is an entirely new level of shocking.” Her throat relaxed. She kept talking to herself. “What would the folks in Kansas say . . . Miss Mattie O’Keefe dressing like a man . . .” She stepped into the pants and bent to roll up the cuffs. “I’m going to need suspenders,” she said aloud. Twine laced through the belt loops would have to do today. The wool socks were warm. She just might keep wearing those even when she donned her other clothes. She slipped into a green flannel shirt. “Thank goodness Dillon isn’t . . . wasn’t . . . six . . . feet. . . .” She swallowed. Dillon isn’t. Dillon was . . . but now he isn’t.
Her resolve melted. She cried again. She cried more. She sprawled on Dillon’s pallet and cried until she was exhausted. Finally, she took the three steps to the “front door” in her stocking-clad feet and looked down the trail toward Deadwood.
“Tom said to tell you that he will be here soon.”
With a little gasp, Mattie saw Freddie perched on a rock ledge, whittling. He gave no sign of having heard her crying. Instead, he smiled and said, “You look pretty.”
As if her red eyes and runny nose didn’t even exist. Bless him. “Do I look like a real miner?”
He shook his head. “You are too clean to be a real miner.”
She laughed and with the laughter came release from the threat of more tears. Putting her hand atop her head, she said, “I need a hat.”
Freddie jerked his off his head and sent it sailing through the air. It landed at her feet. Mattie pulled it on and they both laughed as all of
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