Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Braxton took in the renewed chaos around him and wondered if he should leave. No reputable matchmaking office operated in this much mayhem. At least the sisters were more organized now. But how long would it last?
The Christmas tree in the corner was half-decorated and leaned as though it had already given up on the season. And then there was the dog.
The messenger boy gone, the massive sheepdog lay in the center of the floor like a furry carpet someone had tripped over and forgotten to move.
Braxton cleared his throat. “Ladies, if I can have your attention, I’d like to get to my business while I’m here. Seeing as how we didn’t get much time to talk yesterday or this morning.”
The three sisters looked up from the telegraph message the boy brought and smiled at him. “Oh! Yes of course,” Augusta said. “We apologize. We put the two of you to work and forgot all about taking care of you.” She hurried to a desk and sat. “Please, Mr. Jones, join me.”
He left the table where he’d been working alongside Miss Hale and took the seat on the other side of Augusta’s desk. “I’ll get straight to it. I’m a rancher from Texas, and I need a wife. But I’m not marryin’ anyone sight unseen.”
All three Merriweather sisters froze. Even Miss Hale was staring at him.
He continued calmly, “I’d like to meet the applicants myself. Make sure they’re suited for ranch life.”
The sisters nodded hard enough to jostle hairpins. They looked enthusiastic, but also utterly bewildered.
“I’m not real particular,” he added. “But I do need certain qualities in a future bride.” He lifted a finger.
“She’s got to be practical and steady. Someone who won’t faint when somethin’ falls over.
” He lifted a second finger. “She can’t be afraid of mud or livestock.
” A third finger came up. “And she’s got to be good under pressure and helpful in an emergency. ”
George rose, stretched, and trotted over to the tree. He then turned around and backed into it with his fluffy behind. The tree wobbled, listed, and fell on its side, ornaments rolling across the floor like marbles.
The sisters didn’t flinch.
Phoebe Hale did.
She still sat at the table where they’d been working and let out a squeak of alarm. Her eyes went wide and she looked as if she was trying to determine whether she should duck for cover or run for the fire brigade.
Braxton sent her a quick glance and took in her sweet face, thick blonde hair and graceful hands. She was as delicate as spun sugar and twice as likely to melt in the rain. He doubted she’d last five minutes on the ranch. Ten if the weather was good.
Josie reached for a stack of papers on another desk. “We have several excellent candidates for you, Mr. Jones.” She brought them to Augusta.
Margaret leaned over and looked at them. “No, we don’t.”
Josie elbowed her.
Braxton took the papers anyway. Every page was worse than the last. One woman refused to walk anywhere without an escort. Another disliked animals. One insisted on a home with velvet curtains.
Velvet. In a ranch house? Dust would eat those curtains alive in a week.
He pushed the stack aside, careful not to put it anywhere George could reach. The dog had opened his mouth expectantly, as though waiting for a paper snack.
“Perhaps you’d like some tea while we prepare more files?” Augusta asked, already motioning the others toward the back room.
“Thank you kindly,” he said. “That’d be just fine.”
“Phoebe, dear? Would you mind helping us?” Augusta headed for the other side of the office.
Phoebe startled again, surprised to be included. She rose, smoothed her skirt, and hurried into the back after the others.
Moments later she returned with a tray of teacups and saucers. George lifted his head, perked his ears, and bounded toward her like a boulder rolling downhill.
Braxton jumped to his feet. “Careful there, ma’am.” He caught her elbow as she lurched forward, saving the entire tray from an airborne disaster. The cups rattled, but not a one slipped off the tray.
She gasped, then looked up at him with startled blue eyes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” He released her once she found her footing again. George barreled into him, and she almost dropped the tray again. “George!” He shooed the dog away.
Phoebe set the tray on Augusta’s desk with shaking fingers.
Braxton already concluded she wasn’t ranch wife material. Her eyes alone would tell him when a storm rolled in, because she’d panic before the thunder started. Still, she was a pretty thing, and part of him regretted the fact she was unsuitable.
He sat again while the sisters entered the room, whispering to each other.
“Mr. Jones,” Josie said brightly setting a teapot on the desk. “If you’d be so kind as to stay a bit longer, we can finish preparing the appropriate files.”
“That’s fine. But remember, I’d still like to meet a few prospects in person.”
Phoebe sank into the chair beside him. George trotted over, circled once, and flopped squarely across both their feet. Phoebe stiffened like she’d been glued to a floorboard. Braxton didn’t react; he’d lost circulation in his legs to dogs more times than he could count.
“Do you like children, Mr. Jones?” Josie asked suddenly.
“Yes, ma’am. I got four nieces, and they climb me like a tree.”
“Oh good!” Margaret said as she poured tea into everyone’s cup. “Some of our brides want families right away.”
“Well then,” Augusta began. “Tell us more about your ranch.”
He nodded and took the cup and saucer Margaret offered. “We run cattle, mostly longhorn. It’s a big spread with a lot of land to cover. Weather can be rough and chores never stop. It’s a hard life sometimes, but a good one.”
Phoebe’s eyes widened. She clutched her teacup as if the word longhorn might bite.
“You have a lot of family living on your ranch?” Augusta asked him.
“My brother and his wife. They run the place with me. My ma lives there too. Pa passed a few years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Margaret said.
“It wasn’t unexpected. He lived hard.” Braxton shrugged. “He taught us to do the same.”
Phoebe winced. Braxton pretended not to notice that either.
“So,” Augusta said, back to business. “The type of woman you’re searching for. She need not be fancy, correct?”
“No, ma’am. Ranch life don’t stand on fancy. I need someone who won’t cry if she breaks a fingernail.”
Phoebe immediately put her hands under the table.
“And she should know how to cook,” he added. “Or be willing to learn.”
Margaret, who’d been taking notes, smiled at him. “Do you cook, Mr. Jones?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You do?” Phoebe blurted. Her cheeks went pink.
Braxton blinked at her in confusion. “Well, sure. A man gets hungry.”
Augusta leaned over the desk. “Phoebe, dear? Do you cook?”
Phoebe lifted her chin. “Quite well, thank you. I told you that yesterday.”
“So you did,” Augusta said. “Mr. Jones, would you care for a second cup of tea?”
Before he could answer, George lifted his head and let out a loud woof at the sound of clapping outside. He shuffled out from beneath the desk and barked a few times.
Phoebe pressed a hand to her chest, probably bracing for some other disaster brought on by George. Braxton offered her a steadying nod. Outside, sleigh bells jingled somewhere down the street, festive and bright. George trotted to the tall windows and looked out.
Braxton rubbed his neck. Maybe getting himself a bride this way wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had.
The next day, Augusta marched into the office. “I told you we should have worked longer last night.”
Margaret shifted her armful of folders. “And I told you we were about to fall asleep on our feet.” She looked toward the small kitchen. “Oh, dear. Poor George. He’ll have to be walked.” She went into the kitchen and opened the pantry door.
George burst out of the pantry like a cannonball.
He barreled across the office and skidded into the door to the front hall, nails scrabbling on the floorboards.
His tail, a stubby, enthusiastic nub, wagged so hard his hindquarters wiggled with it.
The three had to admit, it was one of the most endearing things about him.
What was not endearing, was how he raced around the office knocking things onto the floor.
“Good morning to you too,” Margaret said, bracing a hand on the wall as he ricocheted back to them.
Josie peered into the office and let out a small, strangled sound. “Is it safe?”
Augusta pressed a hand to her chest. “Of course it is. But it’s early yet.”
George bounded over to Josie, offering a crumpled paper as if it were a priceless treasure.
Josie took it with two fingers and shook it open. “This is Mr. Percy Trevor’s application.”
Augusta reached for it at once. “Give me that! We spent half of yesterday looking for it.” She held it with two fingers and frowned. “How did all this ink get on it?”
“I think I saw that in the pantry,” Josie said. She took the application from Augusta and dabbed at it with a rag. “Oh dear.”
“Stop dabbing,” Augusta said. “You’re making it worse.”
“The ink is dry,” Margaret said. “You can’t dab dried ink.”
Josie lifted the rag. “Oh, you’re right, it is dry.”
Augusta took in the re-scattered papers on their desks. Things got bad again after Mr. Jones and Miss Hale left yesterday. All because they were looking for Mr. Trevor’s application. “All right. We simply tidy before anyone arrives. Quickly.”
George yawned and plopped down in the middle of the floor. A small stack of bride applications underneath him.
Margaret pointed his way. “I’d best take him for a walk.”
George scrambled to his feet and barked.
“Yes, yes, I know.” Margaret disappeared into the back and emerged with a leash. She attached it to his collar, put on a coat, hat, and gloves and left.
“This is hopeless,” Josie said. “That dog has got to go.”
“Nothing is hopeless,” Augusta replied briskly. She tugged a drawer open, then another, then shut one when she found it full of dog biscuits. “We only need a system. First, we’ll gather everything off the floor. Then we…”
Josie held up a chewed hat. “What about this?”
Augusta stared at it. The teeth marks along the brim were unmistakable. It was Margaret’s.
“That,” Augusta said. “We never speak of again.”
Josie turned the hat around. “Margaret is bound to notice.”
Augusta took it and plopped it on the coat rack.
The missing piece faced the wall. “There. No one will see it. Besides, half the time Margaret takes one of our hats. She took mine when she left.” She strode to the window and yanked the curtains open.
Pale winter light spilled into the room.
“All right, let’s get started. Josie pick up any paper you see and put it on my desk. I’ll straighten the…”
Josie picked up the fallen Christmas tree instead and propped it back in the corner. It slumped sideways but at least stood. “We need to do something about this.”
Augusta stared at it, tapping a finger against her chin. “When Mr. Jones comes in today, maybe he can fix the stand for us. Let’s take all the ornaments off and get it ready.”
The two moved quickly to strip the tree. Several ornaments rolled across the floor and Josie chased them, bumping into a desk and toppling a stack of papers. “Oh, bother.”
Before Augusta could comment, a sharp rap sounded at the door.
The sisters froze for a heartbeat, then spun toward the entrance. Augusta lifted her chin. “Compose yourself. We have a customer.” She smoothed her hair, and marched toward the door to the front hall.
Josie glanced around at the scattered papers, the crooked tree, the chewed hat, and sighed. “We can’t let anyone see any of this.”
Thankfully, when the door opened, Miss Hale stepped inside. Her expression said she saw the renewed chaos, and might walk back out the door.