Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The next morning, Phoebe returned to The Sister’s Mail-Order Bride Company. As soon as she entered the office, she considered stepping back outside. What was the point? The place didn’t look any more organized than it did yesterday.
The thought was lost when George spied her, making her cringe. He trotted over, his hind end wiggling, and dropped a folded paper at her feet.
She looked down at him. “Um, good boy, George.”
He gave a short bark, as if confirming his good deed, then turned and sat on her toes.
“Oh dear,” Augusta said as she entered the office area from the other side of the room. “Miss Hale. We weren’t expecting you so early.”
Phoebe bent to pick up the paper. It was crumpled at the corner and bore teeth marks along one edge.
“Good morning, Miss Merriweather.” She straightened, tucking the battered sheet into a basket on the nearest desk.
“I only came by to see if there had been any word about… well.” She glanced at the desks covered in various files and papers. “I can come back later if you’d like.”
Margaret hurried forward with a quick shake of her head. “No, no, you’re most welcome. We simply had a bit more excitement yesterday after you and Mr. Jones left. George and Cleopatra, our cat, they were fighting again, and then the ink spilled, and…”
“Margaret,” Augusta said, cutting her off.
Margaret pressed her lips together.
Phoebe stepped farther into the office, careful to avoid the scattered papers and a broken bit of ornament.
That’s when she noticed the Christmas tree.
It listed to one side toward the wall in a resigned slouch.
George stood, catching her attention, and she saw a ribbon looped around one of his legs.
“I see you’ve had a busy morning,” she said.
“Decorating were you?” Who knew how the dog got one leg wrapped in ribbon?
Augusta gave a crisp nod. “I do apologize for the state of the office. We had a small… episode… with our new lodger.” She gave the dog a pointed look.
George rolled onto his back and waved his paws in the air.
Phoebe had to stifle a giggle. “I can see that.”
“What you see,” Augusta said. “Is not our usual standard of organization.”
Josie entered the office and dropped a pile of letters on an empty chair. Half of them slid onto the floor.
Augusta smiled. “Well. Our almost-usual standard.”
Phoebe watched one envelope drift to the floor. George trotted over and sniffed it with interest. “If you like,” she heard herself say. “I could help you tidy things up around here. Just for the morning.”
Three heads turned at once.
“You would?” Margaret asked.
Phoebe nodded. Her stomach fluttered, but the decision seemed sensible.
The better organized the sisters were, the sooner they could find her a husband.
“I’ve a little time today, and it’s no trouble.
I like things in order.” She glanced at the nearest desk, where papers lay in small, precarious piles. “If it would help.”
Augusta clasped her hands together. “Miss Hale, you are an angel!”
Margaret stepped closer and took Phoebe’s arm, steering her toward the center of the room. “You’re a natural organizer. I can tell.”
She smiled at Margaret, then slipped off her gloves and laid them neatly on a chair. “Right then, let’s get to work.” She drew in a steadying breath and bent to the nearest stack of papers.
George followed her, hind end wagging, as the office door opened. Phoebe straightened with a handful of applications. Braxton Jones stepped inside. Snow dusted the shoulders of his coat and the brim of his hat, which he removed as soon as he crossed the threshold.
He stopped just inside the office and took in the scene.
Loose papers atop each desk, the lopsided tree, ink stains on files.
And of course, George on his back again with the ribbon around his leg.
Phoebe stood in the middle of it all, holding a stack of applications and tried to look away.
It was hard. Mr. Jones was a handsome man.
His jaw shifted once as he watched her but didn’t say a word.
“Mr. Jones,” Augusta said. “Good morning.”
He tipped his head toward her, then Margaret, Josie, and finally, Phoebe. “Ma’ams. Miss Hale.”
George scrambled upright and barreled toward him. He clipped a chair with his shoulder, making it wobble. Mr. Jones reached out with his free hand and caught it before it toppled over.
Phoebe watched the movement. The man didn’t even look at the chair. His hand simply found it, steadied it, and moved on. As if he’d been catching falling objects his entire life.
Augusta beamed. “We were just about to begin a small… organizational effort.”
Josie nodded eagerly. “A very small one. Hardly anything at all.”
Mr. Jones glanced once more around the room. “Looks manageable.”
Phoebe almost dropped the applications. Was he offering to help?
Margaret set a stack of ledgers on her desk and smiled at him.
“Mr. Jones, would you mind if we borrowed your… practical talents?” She pointed to a table near the back wall.
One of its legs leaned inward at a tired angle, supported by a wedge of folded paper.
“That table’s been threatening rebellion for months.
But we’re going to need it if we want to straighten out this mess. ”
Mr. Jones set his hat on a hook of the coat rack. “I can look at it.”
Augusta turned back to Phoebe. “Miss Hale, if you would be so kind as to sort all letters and applications into three piles. Arrivals, departures, and inquiries. Then we’ll deal with them as soon as we can.
” She produced a frayed bit of ribbon from her pocket and tied it around one bundle of envelopes, then frowned at the crooked bow.
Phoebe nodded. “Of course.” She carried her stack to the nearest desk and sat.
A moment later Mr. Jones knelt by the wobbly table leg across the room.
Phoebe watched from the corner of her eye as he tested the wood with his hand, then removed the folded paper and slid it aside. The table listed farther.
He caught it with his shoulder, dug a small knife from his pocket, and trimmed a bit from a stray piece of wood he’d fished from underneath the table. He wedged it under the leg, tested the table again, then leaned a little of his weight against it. The table held firm.
Phoebe turned back to her letters and applications and forced herself to focus.
The envelopes bore names and dates. Some were new.
Others had clearly been read several times.
She separated them into neat piles just as Augusta requested.
As things were put in order, a small knot in her chest loosened.
She hated when things were in chaos. Such as whenever her father came home…
“That’s better,” Margaret said waving at the table. “It looks good as new.”
Mr. Jones straightened, wiped his hands on his denims and eyed Augusta.
She stood in the middle of the office, turning slowly as if counting everything in her head.
“We’re behind, and it is only getting worse,” she said.
“Brides are coming up on departure dates. Grooms need updates. One trunk never reached its owner. Telegrams need to be sent to grooms, and I have no idea where I put half my notes.” She turned another full circle. “Has anyone found the calendar?”
Josie crossed her arms. “We had everything in order until George came to stay.”
George, busy trying to chew off the ribbon loop around his leg, ignored the accusation.
All three sisters began talking at once.
Brides. Grooms. Missing trunks. Misdelivered letters.
Augusta waved a stack of notes at no one in particular.
Margaret pointed to an open ledger, then peered at it.
And Josie tried to untangle a string knotted around another set of applications.
Their words tumbled over one another, faster and louder, the sound rising like a kettle about to boil.
Phoebe set down her letters. “Perhaps,” she said over the chatter, “Mr. Jones and I could help sort things into piles while you take care of the brides set to come in today.” Maybe she shouldn’t have volunteered him like that, but it was too late now.
The noise stopped. Three pairs of eyes turned toward her again.
Phoebe kept her tone calm. “If we separate everything… telegrams here, letters there, applications in another stack. It may seem less overwhelming. Then you can decide what must be answered first.” She swallowed and waited for Mr. Jones to tell everyone he didn’t have the time.
He glanced at the scattered papers, then at Augusta, and gave a short nod. “I reckon that makes sense.”
Augusta’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Yes. Yes, of course. Very well. Miss Hale, Mr. Jones, if you don’t mind sitting together at the table.” She pointed to the newly repaired one. “You can sort while we see to other matters.”
Phoebe’s heart skipped. Sit with Mr. Jones?
Work beside him? It was a simple thing. Practical.
Still, her stomach fluttered as she gathered her piles of letters and carried them to the table.
Mr. Jones picked up a stack of telegraph messages and followed.
George padded along between them like a furry chaperone.
They sat next to each other. George flopped under the table; his body pressed against both their feet.
“Well,” Mr. Jones said quietly. “Guess we’ve been drafted.”
Phoebe’s lips curved into a smile. “It appears so.”
They began to work. Telegraph messages went into one pile, applications into another, general letters into a third. Now and then their fingers brushed when they reached for the same paper. Each time, Phoebe drew back quickly, her cheeks warming. Mr. Jones simply shifted his hand and continued.
“Tell me about your ranch, Mr. Jones,” she said after a few minutes of silence. “If you don’t mind.”
He glanced up once, then returned his attention to the telegraph messages in his hands. “There’s not much to tell. We run cattle. There’s a lot of wide-open country. The house sits on a rise, so you can see storms comin’ from a good long way. It’s not for everyone, but I like it.”
Phoebe tried to picture it as he spoke. The sky stretched wide with clouds rolling in. Flashes of lightning flickering on the horizon. The image was vivid enough that she almost felt a chill. “Do you live far from town?”
“Closer than we used to.” He tapped the corner of a telegram against the table. “Takes a spell to get there, but it’s not bad. We go in for supplies, church, that sort of thing.”
“Church,” she repeated softly.
His eyes lifted to hers again. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then he set the telegraph message aside and picked up another. “How long ya been on your own, Miss Hale? I mean, I assume you’re on your own…”
She smoothed the corner of an envelope beneath her fingers. “Almost a year. Since Mama passed.” The words still caught in her throat. “Papa… hasn’t been home in some time.”
He didn’t offer an apology. Instead, his gaze stayed steady, his voice even. “Ya get by all right?”
She thought of the empty pantry, the rent due, Mr. Randall’s constant frown whenever he saw her. Then she thought of Mama’s precious sewing basket. She’d sold it last month for grocery money. “I manage.”
He nodded once. “Reckon ya do.”
Something in his tone settled around her like a warm blanket. It wasn’t pity or disbelief. It sounded like recognition. She swallowed and looked at her hands. One of the envelopes bore smears of ink and a faint thumbprint. She placed it carefully in the “inquiries” pile.
Not a moment later, Phoebe caught a discrepancy between two applications and laid them side by side. “This groom’s name is on two different forms,” she said quietly. “He might wind up receiving the wrong bride.”
Mr. Jones leaned in, his shoulders near enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw. “Here,” he said. “Let me see.”
She pointed to the names. “The town is the same, but the bride is different. I think these two should be switched.”
He studied them and nodded. “You’re right.” He swapped the pages and stacked them neatly. “Good catch.”
Phoebe’s chest warmed.
Augusta looked up in time to see the exchange. “Oh, look at that,” she said softly. “Don’t they work together well?”
Josie hummed in agreement, then yelped when the Christmas tree almost fell on her. Margaret rushed to help. The tree ended up wedged between the wall and a chair, leaning but no longer in danger of toppling.
Augusta deposited a stack of applications on the desk before them. “We can’t make heads or tails of these,” she said. “Mind taking a look?”
They both paused, looked at the mound of paper, then at each other. “Oh dear,” Phoebe said under her breath.
Mr. Jones’ eyes crinkled at the corners. “We’ll get through it.”
Phoebe straightened, licked her thumb, and smoothed a wrinkled corner on one of the applications. Next to her, Mr. Jones organized a stack with quick, sure motions. He looked at home amid the confusion. Like a man who expected things to go wrong and simply set about putting them right.
She caught herself staring and quickly turned her attention back to the letters.
By midday, the worst of the chaos had been tamed. Papers sat in labeled piles. Telegraph messages lay sorted by date, and half the grooms’ applications were put in order. The Christmas tree still listed to one side, but at least the room no longer looked as if a small storm had hit it.
Augusta exhaled deeply. “There. Order has been restored.”
“Mostly,” Margaret said.
Phoebe flexed her fingers and glanced at her neat stacks. A pleasant sort of weariness settled over her. The feeling of having done something useful. She liked it. She sighed in satisfaction and looked around the office.
George slept under the table. Mr. Jones sat back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest. And the sisters flitted from pile to pile around the room. He smiled at their movements then turned his smile on Phoebe.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiled shyly back. She’d come to check on her own future and had somehow spent the morning untangling everyone else’s. And yet, she didn’t regret it. Not the time or effort, or even the sore fingers.
Augusta clasped her hands in front of her. “I just knew today would go smoothly.” It was hard to miss the delight in her voice.
The door burst open.
A messenger boy stumbled in, huffing and puffing, his cap askew. “Telegram!” he shouted. “Urgent telegram for the Sisters’ Mail-Order Bride Company!”
George jerked awake and barked.
So much for smooth. Phoebe looked from the boy to the sisters, then the neat stacks of paper on each desk. Mr. Jones, whose chair had dropped back onto all four legs with a quiet thump, heaved a sigh.
“Oh no,” Phoebe muttered under her breath. “Now what?”