Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Braxton wasn’t sure why he’d shown up early.
He could’ve slept another hour. He could’ve found a hot breakfast somewhere in town. He could’ve written to his sister back home or gone looking for new gloves after George had ruined his last pair.
Instead, here he was, pushing open the office door before the streetlamps had even finished dimming.
He told himself it was because the Merriweather sisters needed help. He’d seen the state of things yesterday—files half-fixed, telegraph messages stacked in teetering little piles like they might topple at any moment. Someone had to keep the place upright until their assistant Val came back.
That someone, apparently, was him.
But the truth he didn’t want to look at too closely was that he also wanted to see her. And that was dangerous ground.
The office door gave a small groan as he stepped inside. A fresh coat of snow had fallen overnight, and the world outside was quiet and pale. Inside, the lamps glowed warm and a bit crooked. Much like everything else in this place.
Augusta was already fluttering between desks like a hen protecting misplaced eggs. Margaret hovered over a stack of envelopes, shaking her head. Josie stood on a small stool adjusting a wreath, though the wreath was crooked and so was the stool.
And on the other side of the room, near the table, stood Phoebe.
She had several sheets of paper laid out neatly in front of her, brow furrowed in a way he’d started thinking of as her “sorting face.” George lay under the table like a loyal sentinel, snoring in contentment.
When she looked up and caught sight of him, her expression softened, just barely, but enough.
“Good morning, Mr. Jones.”
He tipped his hat. “Miss Hale.” He ignored the small, inconvenient warmth that rose in his chest whenever she spoke his name. Even if it was his last. He’d have to get them back on a first name basis.
Josie dropped the wreath. “Oh heavens!” she squeaked, hopping off the stool.
“It’s fine, dear,” Augusta said, though she sounded anything but fine. “We’ve had worse this week.”
Margaret pointed toward a leaning pile of papers. “Much worse.”
Braxton looked at the pile. “We fixin’ to tackle this together today?” he asked.
Phoebe’s smile was wry, and affected him far more than it ought to. “It appears we must.”
Before he could answer, Josie latched a ribbon around her wrist—why, he didn’t know—and began waving a stack of letters like she meant to fan flames.
George’s head shot up, his eyes locking on the ribbon.
“Oh no,” Braxton muttered.
Phoebe glanced down. “George, stay.”
George did not stay. He lunged for the ribbon with all the delight of a dog who had lived too many lives deprived of toys.
Josie shrieked and spun in a circle.
“Not again!” Augusta wailed.
Margaret gasped and grabbed at the nearest desk for balance. It was covered in loose papers and an uncapped ink bottle.
Braxton saw it unfold in a single horrifying instant. “Look out!” he yelped, lunging forward.
George jerked the ribbon. Josie spun. The table shuddered. Margaret overcorrected. Augusta tried to catch the ink bottle.
That darn ink bottle did not want to be caught. It tipped, wobbled, and then—
SPLOOSH!
A river of dark ink cascaded across the desk, soaking the nearest papers before dripping ominously toward the floor.
“Oh good heavens!” Augusta cried.
“My letters!” Josie wailed.
“My desk!” Margaret squeaked.
George barked, panicked by all the noise, and bolted straight through the spray of falling papers.
Phoebe shot out of her chair. “George, no!”
But the damage was done.
Letters flew. Envelopes spun. Ink splattered. George’s paws made little inky stamps across the floor as he darted around in chaotic confusion.
And then Braxton saw it.
A half-open folder gliding slowly, dreadfully, toward the edge of the ink-splashed desk.
The label read:
JONES, brAXTON: GROOM FILE
“Well, tarnation,” he muttered, and dove.
His boots skidded on scattered papers. His hand shot out. The file hung half-over the desk, tilting toward the puddle below.
He grabbed it just as something collided with him from the side.
No… someone. Phoebe.
She’d lunged for the same file, quick as a cat, skirts swishing, determination in her eyes. Their hands hit the folder at the same time.
George yelped, changed direction, and plowed straight into Phoebe’s ankles. She pitched forward.
Braxton had just enough time to think this is about to go badly before she toppled full-length onto him. They hit the floor together, papers cushioning the fall in the messiest, least helpful way imaginable.
The breath jangled right out of him. Some of Phoebe’s hair escaped its pins, and a soft curl brushed his cheek. She braced her hands on his chest to lift herself, and only succeeded in smearing a streak of ink across his vest.
He didn’t care about the vest. His hands had instinctively caught her waist to steady her, and her breath brushed his jaw. Phoebe’s eyes went wide, and impossibly blue as they met his at very close range.
Time hiccuped.
Braxton was acutely aware of the slight weight of her against him. The warmth radiating through her sleeves, the flutter of her breath, and the faint scent of soap and paper and something lilac.
The sisters shrieked. “Oh my stars!” Augusta cried.
“Phoebe!” Margaret gasped.
“Mr. Jones!” Josie squeaked, clutching her pearls. “That’s… oh dear!”
Phoebe's face flushed scarlet as she scrambled off him, slipping on a stray ink-splattered envelope. Braxton sat up, catching her elbow before she slipped again.
“Oh!” she breathed. “I… I’m so terribly sorry…”
“Not your fault, sweetheart,” he said, voice coming out rougher than intended, along with the endearment. “This hit us all at once.”
George, certain this was some kind of group activity, plopped his head right onto Braxton’s chest with a proud little huff.
Braxton fell back with a sigh. “George, get off…”
George didn’t budge.
Phoebe knelt beside them, her hair mussed, and giggled. Braxton noticed the hem of her skirt was decorated with small splotches of ink. She reached to steady herself and left a faint black fingerprint on his sleeve.
He gently took her by the wrist. “Phoebe…your glove.”
She looked down, horrified. “Oh no.”
“Reckon neither of us is fit for Sunday best anymore,” he said. How one of her gloves managed to be in the middle of the mess, he didn’t know.
She laughed. The sound soft, embarrassed, and musical. It hit Braxton somewhere low in the ribs, making him look away.
The sisters bustled around them, trying to collect letters and blot ink. “Why is George covered in smudges?” Josie cried. “Oh! Oh no, he’s tracking ink everywhere!”
George barked, delighted with himself.
Phoebe pushed to her feet, smoothing her skirt. Ink dotted the hem in little black freckles. Braxton rose more slowly, wiping at the smear on his vest before giving up. He held out the rescued file. “We got it.”
Phoebe accepted it carefully, her fingertips brushing his. “We did.”
There was that inconvenient little spark again. He cleared his throat. “You all right?”
“Yes,” she murmured, though she still wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.
Augusta reappeared with a bucket of sand. “Spread this! Quickly!”
Braxton did as instructed, sprinkling sand over the worst of the ink while Phoebe gathered up salvageable papers.
Margaret chased George with a damp cloth. The dog fled, thinking it was a game, while Josie tried to catch falling envelopes before they hit the floor. All she really did was knock more to the ground.
Utter chaos. And yet… when Phoebe knelt to collect a handful of letters, she smiled. A small, rueful smile that said we’re all in this together.
That did something dangerous to him.
When the frenzy died down, the sisters retreated to the back to argue about how best to sort the newly destroyed papers, leaving Braxton and Phoebe within arm’s reach of each other.
Phoebe looked down at her skirt and sighed. “I suppose this is what happens when one works in a mail-order bride office.”
He leaned a little closer, voice dropping without his permission. “Could’ve been worse.”
“Oh?” she asked.
“You could’ve landed in the ink.”
She laughed again, quiet and lovely. “I believe you cushioned the fall. Oh dear, your clothes…”
He could feel heat creep up the back of his neck. “Reckon I did. And don’t worry. I got more clothes.” A beat passed, a warm, fragile beat he wasn’t ready for.
“Mr. Jones!” Augusta called. “We need your strength to move a cabinet.”
“Coming,” he said, though he didn’t move.
Phoebe’s fingers brushed a stray curl back into place. She looked up at him, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. “You’re very kind,” she said softly. “To keep helping them out like this.”
He shook his head. “Just tryin' to keep this place from fallin' apart.”
“That’s kindness,” she said. “I’m here more for self preservation.”
Braxton stepped back before he could do something foolish… like reach for her hand.
Outside, snow drifted softly past the window, gathering on the street.
Inside, the office hummed with frantic energy, ink stains, and scattered letters.
Braxton moved toward the back to help with the cabinet, but not before glancing once more at Phoebe bending to blot a damp envelope, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Maybe he’d been wrong about her. Maybe she wasn’t a delicate city girl who’d crumble on a ranch. She was tougher, steadier, and better suited to hard days than he’d realized. Maybe… she was exactly the kind of partner he’d never thought to look for.
He ran a hand over his face, exhaled hard, and muttered to himself: “Well now. That’s a problem.” Braxton went into the back.
“This one,” Augusta said. “There’s papers and files behind it. She wrung her hands. “I admit, since we’ve been organizing, we’re finding all sorts of things around here.”
“Fancy that,” Josie said with a huff. “Val had a system, and we didn’t pay much attention to it. Now we’re paying for it.”
“What you ladies need is your own system.” He looked at the china cabinet. “Where do you want it?”
Augusta showed him, and he got to work. Braxton wanted to spend more time with Phoebe, but feared he’d discover that though she was all the things he thought she might be, she could still be too delicate for ranch life. He also didn’t dare lose his heart to her, and find her unsuitable.
He moved the cabinet then hesitated before going back into the office. So what should he do now? Continue to help the Merriweather sisters and wind up spending more time with Phoebe? Or help them help Phoebe find a decent husband?
His gut twisted at the thought. Maybe he should just go home? That thought didn’t settle his gut, so he trudged back into the office, and tried not to sit to close to Phoebe to help her sort through more piles. If he did, well, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen.