Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The next day, Caleb told himself he was reviewing the Nevada City correspondence. He wasn’t. The papers sat in his hands, unread, while his attention remained fixed on the table across the room.
Miss Goodhart sat with Miss Elizabeth Jepsen again, her posture attentive but relaxed, hands folded lightly on the table. She wasn’t filling the space with chatter or rushing the interview. She was listening.
Caleb recognized the difference immediately.
Most people listened to respond. Miss Goodhart listened to understand.
She’d also given Miss Jepsen King Alfred to hold.
The young woman cuddled the bunny and stroked his ears as she spoke in a quiet tone, her voice carrying just enough for him to catch fragments of their conversation.
“…poor Thomas was beside himself when we lost them,” Miss Jepsen said, her voice thin but steady. “…the fire spread too fast. My brother is still recovering. I need a man who will understand that.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened. He’d seen loss before. Plenty of it. Fires that took barns, homes, sometimes lives. He recognized the look Miss Jepsen wore: the tight composure of someone who couldn’t afford to fall apart because someone else depended on her.
He watched Miss Goodhart lean forward, eyes intent, as though nothing else in the room mattered but Miss Jepsen and her brother.
Caleb shifted his weight and set the unread letter aside. Miss Jepsen spoke of responsibility, of fear, of being forced into choices she never would have made if the world had been kinder.
And Miss Goodhart, quiet and unassuming, met her there. “I understand,” she said softly.
The words were simple, but Caleb saw the truth in them.
When Miss Goodhart spoke of her grandmother and the strange burden of becoming an adult too early, Caleb caught the shift in her voice. Not weakness. Strength, tempered by experience.
He stilled, intrigued, and listened.
When Miss Goodhart reached across the table and rested her hand lightly over Miss Jepsen’s, Caleb’s breath caught unexpectedly. Not because it was improper. Because it was natural.
The office no longer felt like a place of transactions. It felt like refuge.
Miss Jepsen’s shoulders eased as she cuddled King Alfred, a small smile on her face.
Caleb exhaled quietly through his nose. “Well, I’ll be.” He’d come here to observe brides. Instead, he was watching his co-worker reveal the kind of character that never appeared in advertisements.
Miss Jepsen rose at last. She gave King Alfred one final cuddle, kissed the top of his head, and handed him back to Miss Goodhart. Then she thanked her and remained standing, her posture entirely different than when she’d arrived. More importantly, she was smiling.
Miss Goodhart returned King Alfred to his cage, then glanced toward Augusta. “I’d like a moment, if that’s all right.”
Augusta nodded. “Of course.”
Miss Goodhart and Augusta gathered near the stove, speaking in low tones. Caleb couldn’t hear the words, but he recognized the shape of the conversation in their expressions. He’d seen negotiations before. This wasn’t one. This was advocacy.
When Miss Goodhart returned to the table, Miss Jepsen looked at her with cautious hope written all over her face.
“There is a gentleman in Silverton, Oregon,” Miss Goodhart said with a warm, encouraging smile. “He’s a blacksmith.”
Miss Jepsen hesitated. “A blacksmith?”
“Yes. He owns his shop. He’s written that he hopes for a wife—but also for family. Someone who values hard work.”
Miss Jepsen’s fingers tightened. “I don’t mind hard work.”
“I didn’t think you would,” Miss Goodhart replied gently. “And he mentioned he could use help in the shop as his business grows.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly.
“And,” Miss Goodhart added carefully, “a blacksmith’s shop is a fine place for a young boy to learn a trade. Your brother could apprentice when he’s ready.”
Miss Jepsen stared at her. “You thought of Thomas.”
Miss Goodhart nodded. “Of course.”
Miss Jepsen swallowed hard, then smiled—fragile, but bright. “I think… I think he sounds perfect.”
Something unexpected tugged in Caleb’s chest.
Miss Goodhart guided Miss Jepsen through the next steps, explaining how to draft a letter and what she might tell her prospective groom about herself.
“You could also write about your hopes,” Miss Goodhart said. “And your fears. A good man will want to know both.”
Miss Jepsen bent over the paper Miss Goodhart provided, her hand trembling as she wrote.
Caleb watched Miss Goodhart lean closer to murmur reassurance, offering a word here, a suggestion there.
When Miss Jepsen finished, Miss Goodhart read the letter through once, then nodded. “Would you like to add anything about Thomas?”
Miss Jepsen brightened. “Yes. I would.”
Caleb smiled before he could stop himself. Ivy sees the whole picture. He frowned. Ivy? He shook his head. Why had he suddenly thought of her by her Christian name?
But watching her had stirred something in him, and he realized the qualities he was searching for in a wife weren’t fleeting ones. Not charm or beauty or cleverness. They were foundational: compassion, practical wisdom, the ability to look at hardship and build something steadier from it.
Caleb straightened, his smile fading as quickly as it had come. Careful, he reminded himself. The sisters’ rules were clear. No fraternization. No courting employees. No exceptions.
He’d agreed to those rules because they protected him as much as anyone.
And yet…
Ivy glanced up, catching his expression before he could school it away. Something tightened in his chest as she gave him a small nod, as though she’d sensed his approval and accepted it quietly.
That made whatever was happening so much worse.
Miss Jepsen stood, clutching her letter. “Thank you,” she said, emotion thick in her voice. “For seeing me.”
Ivy squeezed her hand gently. “You’re very welcome.”
Miss Jepsen left the office carrying hope instead of desperation. Caleb returned to his work and forced his attention back to the correspondence. Miss Goodhart, Ivy, had made a good match. This was how the whole business was meant to work, and she seemed a natural at it.
Ivy resumed her duties, and Caleb found himself more aware than ever of the rule standing firmly between them. But what did it hurt, thinking of her by her Christian name? Didn’t everyone else? She was already calling the Merriweather sisters by theirs. And they called her Ivy…
He thought of the rules again. Calling each other by their Christian names wasn’t going to break them.
Caleb sat at his desk and tapped the letter against the surface a few times. Maybe it wouldn’t break the rules, but he was beginning to understand exactly why they existed.
“I think this calls for a celebration,” Augusta said an hour later.
Everyone looked up from their work. “Sister?” Margaret asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Lunch.” Augusta smiled at the room. “My treat. We can order from Brook’s Café.”
“What a lovely idea,” Margaret said, clapping her hands. She glanced around. “Though that will be quite an order with the five of us.”
“Not to worry,” Josie said. “I’m sure Mr. Hartwell won’t mind going.”
Margaret wrinkled her nose. “That’s still a great deal to carry.”
“I can go,” Ivy offered.
“Thank you, dear,” Margaret said. “Augusta, should I fetch money from upstairs?”
“Please.” Augusta pulled a sheet of paper toward her and began scribbling. “They’re reasonable at Brook’s. Josie, your usual?”
“Yes, and a sour pickle,” Josie said. “I love their pickles.”
Augusta nodded and wrote it down. “Mr. Hartwell, would you mind escorting Ivy? I don’t want her going alone.”
“No, of course not.”
“I’ll be fine by myself,” Ivy said at once. “It isn’t far.”
“And I can do the accounts alone,” Augusta replied calmly. “But I prefer not to. Besides, it’s too much for one person to carry, and since my sisters and I have no wish to brave the cold, the task falls to you two.”
Caleb smiled. So, none of them wanted to go outside. “Of course.”
Ivy put on her coat, gathered her gloves, and tucked a small reticule under her arm. She waited while Caleb fetched his hat and coat. Once Margaret returned with the money, they were on their way.
The wind bit into his cheeks as soon as they stepped outside. The sky hung low and pale, the street slushy from the day’s traffic. Caleb helped Ivy down the slick steps to the sidewalk, and she gave him a nod of thanks.
For a time, they walked in silence, the clop of a wagon ahead of them and the crunch of boots on grit and ice filling the space. Women passed with baskets, a man carried a crate on his shoulder, and a small boy darted between adults chasing a small ball.
Caleb should have been thinking of the Nevada City letters. Instead, he noticed the way Ivy walked a few steps ahead of him, purposeful and unhurried. He cleared his throat. “Miss Jepsen seemed… improved when she left.”
“She was frightened when she arrived,” Ivy said. “She needed someone to hear her before she could think.”
Caleb nodded and kept quiet. He was already more aware of her than he ought to be.
They passed a row of brick-and-wood buildings, their signs creaking in the cold wind. No wonder the sisters hadn’t wanted to run this errand themselves.
When they reached Brook’s Café, the heavenly smell of soup and bread hit the moment Caleb opened the door. Ivy’s cheeks were pink from the cold as she approached the counter and handed over Augusta’s list. The waitress smiled and promised it would be ready shortly.
When the order was bundled up, Caleb paid, and they stepped back onto the street. They were halfway down the block when a man brushed past them, bumping Ivy’s shoulder. “Beg your pardon,” he muttered, moving on.
Ivy frowned, then took a few more steps… and stopped. She blinked and lifted one arm. “Oh no.”
Caleb followed her gaze. The man was ahead of them, his shoulders hunched, and walking too fast for someone with nowhere to be.
“Sir!” Ivy called. “Sir, stop!”
The man didn’t turn.
“You’ve taken something that belongs to me!”
He spun around, irritation flashing across his face before his eyes landed on Caleb and narrowed. “What are you talking about?” he snapped.
“My reticule,” Ivy said evenly. “I would like it returned.”
The man sneered. “You accusing me of thieving?”
Caleb stepped forward without thinking, placing himself between them. “Return it.”
The man’s sneer deepened. “And who are you?”
“Someone with no patience for nonsense.”
More than a few pairs of eyes were on them now. A woman stalled in a shop’s doorway, a couple of passersby slowed. Several people stopped as they reached this side of the street after crossing and watched the exchange. The man’s hand slid into his coat.
Caleb’s pulse surged as he feared for Ivy’s safety. Was he reaching for a knife, a gun?
“Sir,” Ivy said calmly. “There’s no need for this. Simply return my bag.”
“Or what?” He stepped closer.
Ivy shifted, positioning herself so Caleb could act. Sensible woman. A partner’s move.
The man drew out her reticule and held it aloft. “Here. Take it,” he hissed, closing the distance.
Caleb dropped the food, shoved Ivy behind him, and caught the man’s wrist in one swift motion.
The man yelped.
“Hand it over,” Caleb said quietly. “And walk away.”
Ivy stepped out and took the reticule from the man’s grip. “Thank you.”
Caleb released him with a shove. “Now get out of here.”
The man swore, glanced at the watching crowd, and disappeared down the street.
Caleb turned to Ivy. She stood still other than the slight trembling of her hands, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No.” She drew a breath. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “Keep it closer next time.”
A smile flickered. “I thought I was.”
He smiled back. “So did I.”
They retrieved the food and continued on. Ivy walked closer now, her reticule tucked tight beneath her arm.
Caleb’s thoughts refused to settle. His body still thrummed with the need to watch and guard her. When she spoke, he almost jumped.
“I grew up in a neighborhood where one learned to be careful,” Ivy said quietly. “I thought this one would be better.”
“You weren’t wrong to believe it,” Caleb said. “The world should be as it appears.”
She nodded. “Unfortunately, it isn’t.”
At the office, Caleb opened the door and ushered her inside where it was safe and warm. He set the food down and forced his hands to unclench.
“I’ll tell them we’ve returned,” Ivy said, heading toward the back parlor.
Caleb watched her go, aware of how close instinct had come to something dangerous.
Calling her Ivy wasn’t the problem. It was everything that had surged through him when a stranger had touched her.
He didn’t want to think about what he might have done if the pickpocket had pulled out a knife or a gun.
All he knew was that he would protect Ivy, no matter what.