Chapter 8 #2
Dorothea opened her mouth to respond. At that moment, Augusta bustled closer, wringing her hands in excitement. “Isn’t she lovely, Mr. Jones? Miss Poppinstock is a fine match and comes from a respectable family.”
Dorothea beamed. “And I have an excellent sense of color.”
Braxton looked from Dorothea to Augusta, to Josie and Margaret hovering in the background. “She’s… somethin’, all right.”
Augusta didn’t notice his tone. “Miss Poppinstock, Mr. Jones is a very responsible gentleman. What with his running of a large ranch.”
“So you’ve told me,” Dorothea said. She turned back to Braxton. “You will of course be buying me a new wardrobe once we’re married. For riding. And calling. And entertaining.”
Braxton cleared his throat. “Ma’am, before we talk about clothes or callers, I reckon we ought to see if we suit.”
Dorothea laughed again. “I accept, Mr. Jones.”
“Accept what?” he asked.
“Your proposal,” she said. “Naturally. Consider this our understanding.”
Phoebe inhaled sharply.
Across the office, one of the ribbons Josie had been fiddling with slipped from her fingers and floated to the floor.
Braxton ignored the sisters and sat straighter. “Ma’am, I ain’t proposed.”
“Oh, don’t be shy,” Dorothea said. “You spoke of needing a partner. I shall be that partner. With some adjustments.”
“I meant someone comfortable around animals and work,” he said. “With respect, you just told me you don’t care for either.”
“That’s what growth is for,” she said. “I will adapt. It’s very fashionable these days, personal growth.”
Phoebe set down her letters before she crumpled them. She couldn’t watch him flounder any longer. She rose and crossed the room, smoothing her skirt with one hand. “Miss Poppinstock?”
Dorothea turned, surprised. “Yes?”
Phoebe offered her most sympathetic smile. “Might I say something?”
Dorothea sat taller. “By all means. I adore heartfelt speeches.”
Phoebe folded her hands in front of her. “Ranch life is very hard. From everything I’ve heard Mr. Jones say, it requires a woman who is… comfortable being outdoors. Around animals. In mud. In storms and who knows what else.”
Dorothea’s mouth pinched.
“And,” Phoebe continued gently. “It seems your talents lie in other directions.”
“Such as?” Dorothea asked stiffly.
“Creating beauty,” Phoebe said at once. “Appreciating art. Playing music. Brightening a parlor. There are men who would be delighted with a wife who prefers salons to corrals. It would be a shame to force yourself into a life that doesn’t suit you.”
Dorothea’s shoulders eased a fraction. “You think so?”
“I do,” Phoebe said. “And I think Mr. Jones is trying very hard not to hurt your feelings.”
Dorothea glanced at him.
Braxton met her gaze and nodded once, solemn and honest. “Truth is, ma’am, I don’t want a wife who’s miserable. And I think you’d be miserable on my ranch.”
Dorothea dabbed at the corner of her eye with a lacy handkerchief. “Well. That is… quite direct.”
“Sorry,” he said.
She sniffed. “You could have at least let me faint dramatically.”
“I’d rather not catch you if I can help it,” he said dryly.
Phoebe pressed her lips together.
Dorothea drew herself up. “Very well. I shall not marry a cowboy. I shall marry a banker. Or a poet. Or perhaps a man with a shop. Men with shops are less… muddy.” She snapped her folio shut. “Good day.”
She swept past them, feathers bouncing, her perfume trailing like a banner. The door closed behind her with a theatrical swish of skirts.
George sneezed.
Augusta shook her head. “Perhaps she would be better suited to a nice bookkeeper.” She brightened. “Oh! Mr. Pringle is still available.” She gave Phoebe a hopeful look. “Is he?”
“He most certainly is,” Phoebe said.
“Lord help him,” Braxton muttered.
Phoebe had to turn away to hide another smile.
The sisters drifted toward the back room, still chattering about possible new matches for Miss Poppinstock and hypothetical husbands for other brides. Leaving Braxton, Phoebe, and George alone.
Braxton released a long breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Well. That was somethin’.”
Phoebe clasped her hands behind her back. “To be fair, you did say you wanted a wife.”
“I didn’t say I wanted one who hates animals, work, and everything about my life,” he said.
Phoebe’s lips twisted into a smile. “A small oversight.”
George ambled over and nudged her hand. She scratched him behind his ear. “You were very patient.”
Braxton watched her for a moment, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
She looked up. “For what?”
“For sayin’ what I was tryin’ to,” he said. “I reckon you spared her a worse disappointment.”
Phoebe shrugged. “Better a brief embarrassment than a lifetime of misery, don’t you think?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
Their gazes held for a heartbeat and her stomach did that odd little flutter, which she sternly ignored.
He went to the desk, rolled down his sleeves and put on his jacket. “Miss Hale,” he said with a wink.
“Mr. Jones,” she replied, her cheeks warming.
He moved away and headed for the door leading to the back. George trotting faithfully at his heels. He probably wanted to speak to Augusta and the others.
Phoebe returned to the table and sat, picking up the same letter she’d been pretending to read earlier. The words swam a little. She pressed the paper flat and drew a slow breath.
She had no claim on Braxton. None at all. He was free to court any woman he liked. He’d come here looking for a bride, and the sisters would keep foisting women at him until they found someone half-suitable.
That was the arrangement. That was the point. And yet…
Just through the door on the other side of the office, Braxton’s low voice rumbled as he spoke with Augusta.
Phoebe tried to focus on the words in front of her. It was more difficult than it had been yesterday. The question now was, would it be worse tomorrow? How was she going to keep herself from falling for Braxton Jones?