Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Snow drifted in slow, feathery spirals outside The Sisters’ Mail-Order Bride Company, coating the windowsills in white.
Phoebe paused on the sidewalk, tightening her scarf as she looked up at the frosted windows.
She’d planned to stop by to check if the sisters had uncovered any promising grooms or at least located the correct folder with her file in it.
But after yesterday’s sorting, they’d only managed to get half of the chaos organized.
She suspected “promising” and “located” were not words this office used often.
Phoebe stepped inside the building, turned to the office door, and without thinking knocked on it. Maybe no one was there, or perhaps Mr. Jones had already come by this morning. Wait a minute, why would she think of him?
Augusta opened the door and smiled. She muttered something that sounded like, “Thank goodness!” and stepped out of the way.
Phoebe stepped through the door and gaped at the room. All the ornaments had been taken from the tree and were set on nearby desks. Papers were once again strewn everywhere, and the neat, organized piles she and Mr. Jones had worked on yesterday were now… well, she wasn’t sure where they were…
“We’ll have a perfectly calm day,” Augusta declared. She shut the door and strode past Phoebe.
Phoebe continued to take in the office. She had no idea how they managed it, but it looked worse than yesterday. At least the floor wasn’t strewn with papers. Still, what in the world happened to all their neat piles?
The door opened and George trotted inside. He made a beeline for her and sat, panting before he barked at her. “We had a lovely walk,” Margaret announced. She took off her hat and coat and hung them on the coat rack.
Josie inhaled sharply, her eyes flicking to Augusta. “You weren’t gone very long.”
“George took care of his business then I saw Miss Hale outside the office. I thought I’d better head back.”
Phoebe glanced out the front windows. There was a park across the street, and she was glad the sisters had a place to walk George.
Margaret clasped her hands before her. “Now, where is Mr. Trevor’s file? We just had it.”
“Miss Hale,” Augusta said, clearing her throat and trying to step in front of Margaret. “Once again, we didn’t expect you so early.”
George turned around and sat on her shoes. “I see you’ve had… quite a morning,” she said. Or was it a night? Phoebe didn’t care at this point. She just wanted them to find her a husband.
Margaret bent to grab some fallen envelopes. “We might have a few more prospects for you other than Mr. Trevor.”
Augusta sighed. “We had things under control last night, but then we couldn’t find Mr. Trevor’s file, and well, one thing led to another…”
Phoebe knelt, gathered a handful of papers she didn’t see earlier, and offered a small, reassuring smile. “So George isn’t to blame this time?”
Josie’s shoulders sagged. “Well, we can’t blame everything on the dog.”
Margaret clasped her hands together. “You wouldn’t happen to have some time to help us again, would you?”
Phoebe stood and set the papers on the nearest desk. She shouldn’t do this, but… “All right. Where shall I begin?”
“With Mr. Trevor’s file,” Josie said. “Where is it again?”
“We just had it,” Augusta said.
Phoebe arched an eyebrow then looked around. She spotted more random papers on the floor, but at least it wasn’t carpeted with them. “Perhaps we start with picking things up off the floor.”
The sisters nodded at once. “Right you are,” Margaret said. “And since George and I were out, we know he didn’t take Mr. Trevor’s file.”
Phoebe bent to pick up a stray envelope when the office door opened again.
Braxton Jones stepped inside. He filled the space, his hat in his hands, his expression somewhere between resigned and mildly amused, as if he’d anticipated the new mess. “Morning, ma’ams. Miss Hale.”
Phoebe straightened. “Good morning, Mr. Jones.”
George took off at once, racing toward him with a bark. He slammed into him. Mr. Jones stood solid as a tree.
Phoebe stared at him, her jaw going slack. He was such a big, strong man...
“Mr. Jones,” Augusta said, swooping toward him. “We are so pleased you’ve arrived.”
“We aren’t ready,” Josie whispered.
“We are never ready,” Margaret replied.
Phoebe hid a smile. Were these three ever ready for anything?
“Mr. Jones, could you possibly help with the Christmas tree?” Augusta asked.
“And possibly the entire filing system?” Josie muttered under her breath.
Phoebe caught the remark and turned to him. “I told them I’d help tidy a little.”
Augusta smiled at her. “Miss Hale, we apologize that everything is in utter disarray. But it was all for a good cause. Mr. Trevor. We think he’s perfect for you.”
Phoebe hesitated, glancing around at the mountains of papers. “I suppose he might be…”
“Wonderful!” Margaret said. “As soon as we find his file, you can tell us if he meets all your requirements.”
Phoebe wasn’t sure what to think about anything at this point. Did Mr. Trevor even exist?
Mr. Jones, meanwhile, moved to the Christmas tree and began examining its wooden stand. “I’m going to need a hammer.”
Phoebe looked away quickly and sat at the desk to start sorting.
“Right away,” Margaret said and hurried through the door to the rooms in the back.
Not minutes later, the pounding started. Mr. Jones had already taken the stand off the tree, and was now reattaching it.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The front door rattled. Mr. Jones’ hammering wasn’t the only rapping going on.
Josie gasped. “What if it’s a groom?”
Augusta hurried to the door and opened it. “Stop your fussing, Josie. We’re fine.”
Another messenger boy burst inside, red-cheeked from the cold. “Telegram for the Sisters’ Mail-Order Bride Company. It’s marked urgent, ma’am!” He waved the envelope dramatically.
Margaret staggered backward and grabbed the nearest chair. “Urgent? Oh no. We aren’t ready for urgent.”
“The sender want’s an immediate response.” The boy handed the envelope to Augusta.
Augusta snatched the telegram and tore it open. She sucked in a breath. “Oh no…”
“What is it?” Phoebe asked.
“It’s from Miss Wrightwood. Apparently, we sent her to the wrong groom!”
“What?! How could we have sent her to the wrong groom?!”
Phoebe exchanged a knowing look with Mr. Jones. He pressed his lips together and returned his attention back to the tree stand.
Margaret pressed a hand to her forehead and fell into the chair. “I knew it. If this gets out, we’ll lose business, then starve!”
Phoebe rolled her eyes and pushed back from the desk. “Let me see that.” She went around the desk and joined Augusta, who thrust the telegram at her.
Phoebe scanned the message quickly. “Silver Falls? I remember seeing the paperwork for Miss Wrightwood. She was supposed to go to Buffalo, Wyoming.”
Margaret wailed. “We’ve misplaced a bride!”
Josie wrung her hands. “On dear!”
Mr. Jones stepped forward, calm as a sunrise. “Ma’ams, if you’d just calm down, you can better sort the mess out.”
“A bride sent to the wrong town! How did she not catch it?” Josie looked at her sisters. “I mean, yes, we’re a little absent minded, but Miss Wrightwood seemed levelheaded.”
“Perhaps she’s as absent minded as we are,” Margaret suggested. “She was desperate to leave Chicago, after all.”
Phoebe took a steadying breath. She had no idea who this Miss Wrightwood was, but she could relate to being desperate to get out of Chicago. “Let’s think. Which bride was supposed to travel to Silver Falls? Did she wind up getting sent to Wyoming?”
“We have no idea!” Josie said.
“None whatsoever!” Margaret added.
George, sensing stress, wandered closer and sniffed the telegram in Phoebe’s hand. Before she could stop him, he snatched it.
“GEORGE!” all three sisters screamed.
He trotted proudly toward the coat rack, chewing.
Phoebe ran after him. “George, no! Give that back… oh!”
Mr. Jones intercepted like a professional sheepdog wrestler. He gently caught George by the collar, pried the telegram from his mouth, and handed it, slobbery and folded, to Phoebe. “Here you are, ma’am.”
Phoebe wiped a corner of the paper with her sleeve. “Well… at least we still have most of it.”
Margaret put both hands to her cheeks. “We’re finished. Ruined. We must close the office.”
“Or move to Canada,” Josie whispered.
Augusta shook her head sharply. “We are not moving to Canada!”
Phoebe stood straighter and lifted her voice. “Everyone, please, listen.”
They all turned to her.
“First, which bride should be in Silver Falls? Second, who are the grooms? Third, which grooms need updates? Good grief, the bride that was supposed to go to Silver Falls could be anywhere.”
The sisters blinked.
Mr. Jones nodded. “She’s right.” He looked over the desks piled with papers and files. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us. Again.”
Phoebe hurried to a stack of papers. “Let’s gather every bride currently en route to their groom and see if any are mismatched.”
Josie brightened. “We can do that!”
Margaret scrambled for a ledger. “I’ll check the train and stage monies.”
Augusta gathered a stack of telegraph messages. “I’ll handle this last week’s messages.”
They scattered, chaotically, but with purpose.
Phoebe sank into a chair at the desk and spread out the telegrams and letters. Mr. Jones moved beside her, steady as an oak tree in a windstorm, and kept George from eating anything else.
It was… strangely comforting.
“Some of these letters from grooms don’t match their brides’ destinations,” she murmured, sliding papers across the desk toward him. I don’t remember seeing any of these yesterday.”
He studied one page and tapped it. “This here’s the wrong train line. That’d put her off in Silver Falls instead of Cotton Ridge.”
Phoebe looked up at him. “Cotton Ridge.” She eyed him. “You can read this?”
“Ma’am, I’ve been chasin’ cattle manifests since I could walk. Same principle. Only brides instead of cows.”
She smiled. “I see.”
For several minutes, they worked in quiet rhythm. When their hands brushed over a pile of letters, she pulled her hand back, cheeks warming, like yesterday.
George plopped his head directly onto her lap.
“Oh,” Phoebe breathed, startled. She stroked his fur tentatively.
Mr. Jones watched, one eyebrow raised. “Seems he’s taken a liking to you.”
“Or he’s tired,” she said softly.
“Could be both.”
Something fluttered in her chest. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. She focused harder on the papers. It would do her no good having an attraction to the man.
Behind them, the sisters tried to sort through their own chaos.
“I accidentally used last year’s stage and train fare list,” Josie confessed into her hands.
“I have the wrong groom’s address on several bride’s information sheets.” Augusta said miserably.
“I sent the wrong telegrams out to grooms!” Margaret wailed.
Phoebe exchanged a look with Mr. Jones. He looked back at her with a sympathetic smile.
“All right,” Phoebe said. “We can fix this. We send a clarifying telegram to Silver Falls. We locate the correct ledger to track down stage and train fare given to brides. And we notify the correct grooms.”
Augusta stared at her in awe. “Miss Hale… you were sent from heaven.”
Phoebe felt her cheeks warm again. “I’m just trying to help.” Good grief, how did their assistant manage these three?
Mr. Jones picked up the half-chewed telegram. “I’ll walk the reply over to the telegraph office. Miss Hale, if you’d write it?”
All three sisters looked offended.
Phoebe smiled anyway. “Of course.” She sat and wrote the reply in neat script. When she finished, Mr. Jones reached for it. When their fingers collided, Phoebe’s heart skipped and her belly did a flip. No, no, no! He wasn’t looking for someone like her.
She fixed her eyes on the desk. Mr. Jones didn’t move. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said quietly.
George nudged her elbow with his nose, jealous or helpful, she couldn’t tell. She was just glad for the distraction.
Mr. Jones turned toward the door just as a second messenger boy burst in. “Urgent telegram from Nevada City!”
Augusta put a hand to her temple. “Now what?”
Margaret grabbed the chair again. “Canada,” she whispered. “We must flee to Canada.”
Mr. Jones took the telegram from the boy, gave him a coin, then sighed.
Phoebe closed her eyes. “This is going to be one of those days.”