Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Phoebe Hale stood outside The Sister’s Mail-Order Bride Company, her heart in her throat.
This was her last chance at survival. No one wanted to hire her because of her father.
The old coot was known as a thief and a liar, and though he’d had little to do with Phoebe and her mother, he was still her father.
She longed for the day he’d quit his philandering ways and come home.
But he was rarely home. Instead he was always chasing the “next big thing” that would make them rich.
Gold mines in the West, silver mines in Montana, and on it went.
When he did return to Chicago, it was often to collect whatever money she and Mama had managed to make in his absence.
Now Mama was gone, and Phoebe didn’t want to be around when Papa showed up next. He was a crafty thing, and who knew what he’d try to talk her into? So here she was, standing before her one means of escaping Chicago, not to mention a visit from her father.
Phoebe took a deep breath, trying to muster her courage. She never thought she’d sink so low that marrying a stranger would become her only means of survival. But here she was, ready to plunge herself into the unknown with a man she had yet to meet.
She straightened her hat, ran a hand down the front of her respectable coat, and tugged on her gloves.
Mama always told her first impressions were everything, and she had to make sure she looked good enough to land herself a husband.
If she could impress The Sister’s Mail-Order Bride Company, then they were sure to find her a suitable match.
Phoebe took another deep breath and entered the building. She stood in a large foyer with a staircase to her right and a door to her left. Before her was a wall lined with half a dozen chairs. The waiting area. She turned toward the door and knocked, unsure if she could simply enter.
A commotion erupted on the other side, and someone yelled “George!” in a frantic voice. The door flew open and a huge sheepdog bounded out, knocking Phoebe flat. “Oh!”
“George!” an older woman cried. She grabbed the dog by the collar and pulled him off Phoebe. “I’m terribly sorry about that. He hasn’t learned his manners yet. He gets overly excited, you see.”
Phoebe looked up at her. The woman had salt-and-pepper hair, a little plumpness to her figure, kind blue eyes, and a wide smile. “Hello.”
Another woman hurried into the waiting area. She was taller, also gray-haired (more salt than pepper), and wore a horrified look. “Oh dear me! George!” She turned to the dog and pointed toward the office. “Get back in there, you beast!”
The first woman blushed a deep red. “I’ll take care of him, Augusta.” She dragged the dog through the door and shut it firmly.
The woman named Augusta huffed, then turned to Phoebe. “I’m terribly sorry. Are you hurt?”
Phoebe sat up and straightened her hat. “No, I’m… I’m fine.”
Augusta offered her a hand. “Here, let me help you up.”
“Thank you.” Phoebe let her pull her to her feet, then brushed at her coat and drew in a breath. “Goodness.”
“I do apologize. I’m Augusta Merriweather. And you are?”
“Miss Phoebe Hale.” She shook the hand Augusta extended.
“Tell me, are you here to become a mail-order bride?” Augusta asked. “Or are you here about the dog?”
“The dog?”
“Yes, George. We’re looking for his owner. We put an ad in the paper.”
“Oh, I see.” Phoebe blew out a breath. “No, I’m not here about the dog. I’m here about a husband.”
“Splendid! Do come inside, dear.” Augusta opened the door slowly, peeked in, then motioned Phoebe forward.
Inside was a large office with four desks scattered throughout the room.
Another young woman sat at one of them, speaking to a woman of medium height and build, and also older.
So these were the three famous Merriweather sisters, owners of The Sister’s Mail-Order Bride Company.
They were known for making excellent matches for a bride.
In fact, Phoebe had heard they were second only to Mrs. Adelia Pettigrew, the famous matchmaker in Denver.
“Follow me, dear,” Augusta said and led Phoebe to a desk at the center of the room. She took a seat and gestured to the chair opposite. “Do sit down.”
“Thank you.” Phoebe sat and clutched her reticule in her lap.
“Name?”
Phoebe noticed a typewriter sitting on the desk. “Wow,” she breathed.
Augusta followed her gaze. “Ah, yes. Isn’t it magnificent? It’s so functional. Val insisted we each have one.”
“I’ve heard of typewriters but have never seen one.” Phoebe reached out. “May I?”
“By all means.” Augusta slid a piece of paper into the machine, turned a knob, and fed the sheet into place. “Now, name?”
“Oh, yes… Phoebe Hale.” She watched with fascination as Augusta tapped keys with just two fingers. She wasn’t sure if that was how typing was supposed to be done, but it was still marvelous to watch.
“Age?” Augusta asked.
“Twenty-two.”
Augusta studied her a moment. “Blonde hair, blue eyes, petite build.” She typed as she spoke.
Phoebe smiled. “Fascinating.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Augusta leaned closer. “Though I only use two fingers. I don’t know why Val insists we use all of our fingers the way the instructions say.”
“Val?”
“Our assistant.” Augusta sighed. “She’s not here. She left a week ago to take a group of brides to Wild Rose Ridge. That’s in the Washington Territory.”
Phoebe gasped. “So far?”
“Yes, dear. They’ve men there seeking wives.” Augusta looked her over. “Let’s see now, what brings you to us?”
Phoebe tried not to gulp. “I’m alone now, you see. My mother died almost a year ago, and, well, things haven’t been favorable when it comes to seeking employment.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Tsk, tsk. But surely you have skills.”
“Of course. I can sew, clean, do laundry, and I’m a decent cook.”
Augusta studied her a moment. “So no family left? What about your father?”
Phoebe stared at her hands. “I have no idea where he is, and frankly, don’t want to.”
“Oh dear.” Augusta typed something, though Phoebe didn’t want to ask what. “So you’re all alone in the world.”
“Yes. My… rent is overdue, and what funds I have are running dangerously low. I didn’t want things to come to this, but no one will hire me and…”
Augusta’s head came up. So did her sister’s and the young woman she’d been helping at the next desk.
Phoebe swallowed. “My father… he has a reputation, and… folks, well, you know the saying. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree? Most think that’s the case here, but I’m nothing like my father. I take after my mother.”
Augusta reached across the desk, giving her a sympathetic look. “Of course you are, dear.” She returned to the typewriter. “What sort of man are you seeking?”
Phoebe blinked. She hadn’t known she’d get a say.
“Well… a grocer or accountant would be nice. I’m good with numbers and can keep books.
” Too bad no one in Chicago thought so. It was hard for a woman to find employment.
Everyone wanted experience and references.
Good references. No one would give her any because of Papa.
“Hmmm, so a man who lives in a town or city,” Augusta said as she typed.
“Yes, preferably. I’m not one to become a bride to a man from a town like the one you mentioned.”
“Wild Rose Ridge?” Augusta asked. “Not everyone is. One needs an adventurous spirit and must be willing to live in harsh conditions.”
Phoebe shivered at the thought. “That’s not me.”
“It’s perfectly all right, dear,” Augusta assured. “Now, what else can you do? Do you sing? Play the piano or another instrument? What about children? You do want them, don’t you?”
Phoebe did her best to answer. By now the other young lady had left the office, and Augusta’s sisters were standing at the desk.
“Oh my, I think we have the perfect groom for you!” the one called Margaret gushed.
Phoebe tried to spot the sheepdog but didn’t see him.
“Are you thinking of Mr. Trevor?” the third sister asked. Phoebe still didn’t know her name.
“Yes, of course,” Augusta said. “Percy Trevor. Bookkeeper. Hails from… oh dear, where is he from?”
The other two sisters blushed and shook their heads.
“I’m not sure,” Josie said. “We haven’t found the rest of his information.”
Phoebe’s eyes widened and for the first time noticed stacks of files and papers sitting on top of desks, the filing cabinets along one wall. Everything was stacked willy nilly, as if scooped off the floor then set aside.
“Not to worry, dear,” Augusta cooed. “We had a little mishap about a week ago that we’re still recovering from.”
George barked somewhere behind a door. Margaret must’ve put him in another room.
“Yes,” the third sister said. “We, um… well, suffice it to say, in time we’ll get everything sorted.”
George barked again, louder.
“Oh dear,” Margaret said. “I’d better feed him.” She left the office and disappeared through a door on the far wall.
“Um… do you have any other grooms available?” Phoebe asked.
“Oh, of course, dear,” Augusta said. “But as Josie pointed out, we’re still trying to… well… fix things.”
Josie nodded. “We had everything in order until George came to us.”
Augusta cringed. “Then it was like a tornado came through here, and all our records, papers, and clients’ files were caught up in it, and here we are.” She plastered on a smile. “But don’t worry, we know what we’re doing. Even without Val’s help.”
“Your assistant, who isn’t here,” Phoebe stated.
“That’s right,” Augusta acknowledged adding a curt nod.
Phoebe stared at the two of them. So the place was in shambles and they hadn’t straightened it out yet. Who knew how long that would take? In the meantime, she was behind on rent, and Mr. Randal, her landlord, wasn’t going to let her get two months behind.
“That’s all we need for now, dear,” Augusta said, rising from her chair.
Phoebe stood as well. This might not save her after all. Not if the sisters couldn’t even get their grooms’ information in order. Was there another mail-order bride office in town? This was Chicago, after all, there had to be.
She backed away from the desk as Margaret emerged from the far door. George trotted out and made a beeline for Phoebe.
“Oh no, not again.” She ducked behind her chair just as the door to the office opened, drawing her attention.
A tall man entered. George skidded to a stop to eye the newcomer.
The man was rugged looking. He wore a worn pair of denims, well-worn boots, a white shirt, vest, and long brown coat.
His Stetson matched his coat, and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a few days.
He took one look at George and smiled. “Hello there, fella.”
George started toward him, then changed his mind and charged Phoebe instead. She yelped as the dog shoved her against the desk. Her gloves fell, and George snatched one before trotting back to the newcomer and dropping it at his feet. “My glove!”
The man chuckled, bent, and picked it up. “You’re a friendly one, ain’t ya?” He patted the dog’s head, then held up the glove. “Yours, ma’am?”
He had a Texan drawl, and she wondered what a man like him was doing in Chicago. Had he brought cattle to sell?
He crossed the room, George at his heels, and handed Phoebe her glove. “Ma’am.” He tipped his hat.
She took it. Goodness gracious, the man was huge. A far cry from the sort she hoped to marry. “Th-thank you.”
“Can we help you?” Augusta asked. “Are you here for the dog?”
Phoebe caught Josie biting her lower lip, as if afraid to hope…
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m here about a bride.” He took off his hat. “Name’s Jones. Braxton Jones. I’m here looking for a wife.”
Phoebe blinked, dropped her gloves, and George snatched them before anyone could react. “My gloves!”
Mr. Jones smiled, turned, and whistled.
George skidded to a stop near the door in the far wall. His rump wiggled as if he were wagging his docked tail.
Mr. Jones whistled again, and George came running. Before Phoebe could move, the man gently nudged her behind him as George slid into him and dropped the gloves.
Phoebe watched as Mr. Jones retrieved them once more. He turned to her. “The dog don’t mean ya no harm, ma’am. He’s just trying to find his way around here.” He faced Augusta, Margaret, and Josie. “I take it you’re tryin’ to find him a home?”
“Yes, he’s not ours,” Margaret said. “Though I don’t mind having him around.”
Josie shot her a disapproving look. “He’s a menace.”
“He’s adorable,” Mr. Jones said. “And seems well trained.”
“Would you like him?” Josie asked hopefully.
“No, ma’am. I didn’t come here for a dog. I came for a wife.” He glanced at Phoebe and back. “One that can handle living on a large cattle ranch.”
Phoebe tried not to sigh. That counted her out. So, she was right back to square one. How was she going to speed things along so she could get out of Chicago and into a new life before her landlord came after her?
Mr. Jones looked around the office. “Maybe this is a bad time?” He pulled out a pocket watch and flipped it open. “I have another appointment. I can come back tomorrow…”
“Me too,” Phoebe said and headed for the door. Maybe she needed to re-think this. But then, what other choice did she have?