Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Phoebe wasn’t sure why she was back after yesterday’s meeting with Mr. Pringle. What if the sisters wanted an answer about him? Not that she wasn’t ready to give one. It was more the dread that he was her only prospect. And why were all three of the Merriweather sisters smiling?
“Good… morning,” Phoebe hedged.
Josie beamed. “Wonderful, you’re here. Today is a very important day.”
Margaret clasped her hands dramatically. “Braxton Jones is at last meeting his match.”
Phoebe blinked. “His match?”
“Indeed,” Augusta said. “We have found the perfect bride for him.”
Josie nodded. “Absolutely perfect.”
Phoebe set her reticule on a chair. “Oh.” They all looked just as pleased with themselves as when they announced her perfect match. This might not bode well for poor Braxton.
Augusta pointed to a cluster of chairs Josie had created. “We’ve arranged a small interview space. It will feel intimate. Conversational. Romantic, but not too romantic.”
“What’s not too romantic?” Margaret asked.
“Whatever this is,” Josie said, waving at the chairs.
Phoebe glanced toward the far side of the office.
Braxton stood near the filing cabinets, watching the sisters with an expression that could only be described as wary.
He’d taken off his jacket. His vest was gold and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing impressive forearms. Goodness, how long had he been here?
She noticed his jacket, hat, and coat were not on the coat rack, but within easy reach, as if he anticipated needing a quick escape.
“This is going to be worse than yesterday,” Phoebe murmured.
No sooner than she said it, the front door opened. A woman swept into the office. She was tall, with an elaborate tower of curls pinned under a wide-brimmed hat exploding with feathers. Her gown was a riot of ruffles and ribbons, and she carried a large leather folio clutched to her chest.
“Miss Dorothea Poppinstock,” Augusta whispered reverently.
Dorothea flung her free arm wide. “Good day, ladies! And…” Her gaze swept the room and landed on Braxton. “Oh my.”
Phoebe’s stomach sank. “Oh dear.”
Josie rushed forward. “Miss Poppinstock, welcome! We are so delighted you could come.”
“Delighted,” Margaret echoed.
Augusta glided toward Braxton and steered him toward the cluster of chairs. “Mr. Jones, if you would kindly sit here. Miss Poppinstock, please, have a seat.”
Braxton sat, looking as if he’d been backed into a stall with a mountain lion or a bear.
Dorothea swooped into the chair beside him, skirts flaring. “How perfectly charming!” she declared. “So rustic. So quaint. I simply adore humble little offices like this. They promise adventure.”
Phoebe, halfway to the table on the other side of the room, stopped. Humble?
Augusta, Margaret, and Josie withdrew to the edges of the room, ignoring the other chairs. Phoebe thought they were going to sit with the two and facilitate the meeting. Instead, they pretended to tidy things around the Christmas tree.
Phoebe went to the table, gathered a stack of letters and tried to look busy. She was not. Phoebe couldn’t help but watch Braxton’s every move.
Dorothea angled herself toward Braxton and smiled with every tooth she possessed. “So. You’re the cowboy.”
Braxton blinked. “Ma’am?”
“The cowboy,” she repeated, patting his forearm with gloved fingers. “The rugged frontiersman. The man of the West.”
He shifted in his chair. “I run a cattle ranch, yes. Though I wouldn’t call myself any kind of hero.”
Dorothea laughed. It was a high, tinkling sound that made Phoebe’s teeth hurt. “Oh, how modest. I’ve always longed to marry a man of the West. I’ve read any number of novels on the subject.”
“That so,” he said, sounding doomed. “Erm, I’m from Texas. That’s not exactly west from Chicago. A bit southwest…”
“Yes!” She hugged the leather folio to her chest. “You’re a prince of the plains. I’ve dreamed of standing on a porch at sunset, watching the herds sweep past while my husband rides home across the snow-dusted hills.”
Phoebe’s hand slipped on the envelope she was holding. Snow-dusted hills?
Braxton cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, mostly I watch cows eat and try not to let ‘em wander into the creek when it’s running fast or sink in a mud hole.”
Dorothea waved this aside. “How delightfully practical. But we shall elevate your existence.”
“Ma’am?” he asked.
She leaned closer and lowered her voice as if sharing a grand secret. “I intend to transform your ranch into an elegant oasis.”
Braxton’s gaze drifted to his own big, callused hands. “You understand, Miz Poppinstock, it’s a workin’ place. Dirt. Mud. Livestock. Sure, I like a well-kept house but…”
“Nonsense.” She tapped his arm again. “You simply haven’t had a woman’s touch. That’s what I shall provide. I will bring refinement, grace, and artistic vision.”
Phoebe pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Or objecting. Or both.
Dorothea snapped open the folio and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I have already sketched several possible improvements.” She thrust the page at him.
From where she sat, Phoebe could see the drawing. Was that supposed to be a horse? It looked more like a large cat with hooves. How was that going to improve anything? Did she want to dress the livestock?
“I shall require a riding wardrobe,” Dorothea went on. “And a proper saddle designed for my comfort. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your wife to suffer as she accompanies you across the plains.”
“Ma’am, I don’t ride for pleasure,” Braxton said, studying the drawing with a grimace. “It’s work. Sometimes long days in bad weather.”
“Exactly,” she said. “But if I can’t accompany you, then I shall be your inspiration. I’ll sit on the porch, and you shall be motivated by the sight of me.”
Phoebe’s fingers tightened around the letter she held. She looked down, pretending to read the same sentence for the third time, and snorted.
“Motivated?” Braxton asked.
“Of course,” Dorothea said. “I have strong opinions about motivation.”
“That so,” he murmured, one eyebrow creeping up.
She leaned closer. “Now, tell me about your home, dear cowboy. How many rooms? How many servants? How large is the parlor?”
“Four bedrooms. Big kitchen. No servants,” he said. “Just family.”
Dorothea recoiled. “No servants?”
“No, ma’am. We do for ourselves.”
She shuddered. “I see we have much to improve.”
Across the room, Phoebe felt something hot spark in her chest. She’d not grown up with servants. She’d scrubbed her own floors and cooked her own meals. The idea of looking down on a household because people worked instead of paid others to work irritated her more than it should.
George rose from her side and wandered toward the interview circle, sniffed the air, and sneezed.
Dorothea ignored him and moved on. “Now tell me about the dangers. I’ve read of wild bison stampedes, hostile outlaws, and wolves howling beyond the fence.”
“We’ve got coyotes and occasional rustlers,” Braxton admitted. “And storms.”
Dorothea clasped her hands fervently. “How thrilling. Do you often get shot at?”
His eyebrows shot to the ceiling. “No, ma’am. We take care not to.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed.
Phoebe shook her head. Braxton looked about as impressed with Miss Poppinstock as she’d been with Mr. Pringle.
“So,” Dorothea said, brightening again. “I assume you expect a wife who will stand at the fence, waving a handkerchief as you ride out in the morning?”
“Reckon I expect a wife who won’t be bothered by mud,” he said. “Or long days or having to feed animals.”
“Oh, animals.” Her nose wrinkled. “You mean… actual animals?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Braxton said slowly. “Cows. Horses. Chickens. A couple of dogs and cats.”
Dorothea shuddered. “I can’t abide animals. They smell. They make noises… and messes.”
Braxton blinked. “You want to live on a ranch but don’t like animals.”
“I like the idea of them,” she said. “From a distance. Or in pictures. Speaking of which…” She rustled through her folio and drew out several more drawings, each horse more alarming-looking than the last. “I’ve been studying equine form.
I’m sure, given the right instruction, I can learn to ride.
Once someone lifts me into the saddle. And holds the reins. ”
Braxton stared at the sketches. “Might be easier to start with a cow.”
Phoebe coughed into her hand to hide a laugh.
Dorothea fluffed her curls. “I am delicate, Mr. Jones. I admit it. But I can learn. I shall be an ornament to your life.”
“My ranch doesn’t need an ornament,” he said. “And I need a partner.”
She waved this aside. “Men always say such things. You think you want a partner, but what you really want is admiration.”
“That so?” he asked mildly.
“Of course,” she said. “Now, about living conditions. I assume you’ll be willing to modify your schedule. I’m a light sleeper. I can’t abide noise too early or too late.”
Braxton blinked again. “Ma’am, the sun and the cattle don’t much care about schedules.”
“Well, they shall have to learn,” Dorothea said.
George sat down directly in front of Braxton and rested his head on his lap.
Dorothea eyed him warily. “Is this one of your dogs?”
“No, ma’am, he’s not mine.” Braxton said. “He belongs to the Merriweather sisters. This here’s George.”
George sniffed her shoes and snorted.
She drew her feet back. “Does he bite?”
“Not unless you’re a hat,” Braxton said.
Phoebe smiled. She’d noticed the other day one of the sister’s hats had teeth marks in it.
Dorothea shuddered again. “I don’t care for animals indoors. Particularly ones that shed.” She eyed George’s coat like it personally offended her. “I hope your dogs and cats are kept outside.”
George tilted his head and gave a soft, unhappy whine.
Braxton’s jaw tightened.
“Perhaps,” Dorothea said. “You could build a separate dwelling for the animals. Far from the house.”
“The animals live where they’re needed,” Braxton said. “Same as the people.”