Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
The snow started up again just after noon.
Lightly at first, then thickening in lazy white curtains that blurred the street and swallowed sound.
Phoebe watched the flakes drift past the office windows, powdering the sill.
Each hour the sky dimmed until even the lamps inside seemed to glow against a world turning steadily gray.
“You two had better not tarry,” Augusta said, sweeping past with a stack of letters clasped to her chest. “The storm will worsen before long.”
Josie peered out the window with worry. “We had a messenger boy nearly blown sideways on his way here. If you’re walking home, Phoebe, you’ll need someone to see you safely.”
Phoebe glanced toward Braxton, though she didn’t know why. Possibly because he was the only person in the room who looked like he could wrestle a bear, or a snow drift, if the situation demanded.
He met her gaze. “Don’t fret. I’ll walk you home.”
Phoebe’s stomach fluttered. “Oh. Well. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll not walk alone in this weather,” Augusta said firmly, ending the matter.
The sisters bustled upstairs to their apartment soon after, claiming they needed to prepare supper and ensure their window shutters were properly fastened. “We trust you two to close up!” Margaret called from the stairs in the back.
Phoebe shared a helpless look with Braxton.
The office door on the other side of the room thudded shut behind the sisters, leaving the room oddly quiet.
A hush settled across the space, broken only by the faint crackle of the small stove Braxton had stoked earlier, and the soft snoring puffs of George, who slept in a furry heap beside Phoebe’s feet.
Braxton set down a handful of mail. “Reckon we ought to finish this last stack before we go.”
“More applications from grooms,” Phoebe stated, but she didn’t sit right away. She stood for a moment, gazing out the window. Snowflakes the size of pennies drifted downward, sticking to the glass in delicate clusters. “It’s almost… peaceful,” she murmured.
Braxton came to stand beside her. “Storm’s got a way of quietin’ things. Makes you notice what’s right in front of you.”
She felt him glance her way before he turned to the window again. Phoebe swallowed. “We should work.”
“I reckon so.”
They moved back to the table. George joined them and flopped onto the floor underneath it. Without the sisters flitting about, the office was somehow smaller, warmer. Lantern light softened every corner, and for once, the place wasn’t an explosion of papers and chaos. It was simply… still.
Phoebe sat beside Braxton to share the light. Their elbows nearly touched. Nearly. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was keeping his distance. He’d get close, but was careful not to brush against her in any way.
George shifted in his sleep, stretching until one of his paws rested across both their feet like an unconscious peace offering.
Phoebe smiled and reorganized another set of ink-damaged papers. “At the rate we’re working, we might even have this office restored before Val returns. Of course, I’m not sure when that will be.”
Braxton chuckled. “Even if it’s not until after Christmas, I’m not bettin’ on it.”
“No,” she admitted. “Me neither.” She hoped she still had a roof over her head by then.
For a few minutes they worked quietly. The rhythm was easy.
Phoebe sorted; Braxton recopied papers ruined by spilled ink in neat, steady handwriting she hadn’t expected from a man who worked outdoors all day.
Occasionally he asked where a page ought to go; while she passed him one she didn’t trust herself to decipher.
It was… companionable. And dangerously pleasant.
After a while, Braxton broke the silence. “That Mr. Pringle fella,” he said mildly. “Is he thinkin’ to court you proper, or is he waitin’ on the sisters to tell him what to do? I noticed there ain’t been any messages delivered from him or letters.”
Phoebe paused mid-stroke of her pen. “I’m hoping he’s forgotten I exist. I think Miss Poppinstock would be more to his liking.”
He huffed. “True, but I reckon George won’t forget him.”
She hid her smile. “Who can blame George? Mr. Pringle is… well, Mr. Pringle.”
“That an insult?”
“A polite one,” she said primly.
Braxton chuckled under his breath. “A man like that ought to come with a warning label.”
“He did, in fact. He opened his mouth.” Phoebe glanced up at him. “How many times did he mention training me? Three? Four?”
“Five,” Braxton corrected.
Phoebe groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Oh dear.”
“And that business about you bein’ an ornament he could show around town—” Braxton shook his head. “That man ain’t seekin’ a wife. He’s lookin’ for somethin’ to brag about.”
Phoebe’s throat tightened. Not with sadness, just the odd, wistful relief of being understood. “Like Miss Poppinstock?”
He laughed. “Exactly like her.”
She smiled. “My mother always said a marriage should be a partnership of two people working together. Not one shoving the other into a box.”
He watched her carefully. “You believe that?”
“Very much.”
“So do I.”
Phoebe knew he meant it. She could hear it in the steady warmth of his tone. She forced herself to open the next letter. She didn’t know what to do with the quiet feeling blooming in her chest. Something like safety, or admiration, or both.
She needed to change the subject. “I wonder if Miss Poppinstock has recovered from her heartbreak…”
Braxton snorted softly. “I reckon she recovered before she hit the street. Who knows how many folks she’s regaled with a tale of her rejecting me?”
Phoebe laughed, remembering the woman’s dramatic departure. “It was kind of you to decline her gently.”
“She ain’t cut out for ranch life,” Braxton said. “And I ain’t cut out for lace curtains and expensive porcelain vases all over the house.
“No,” Phoebe said, trying not to picture him in such a setting. “I suppose not. She’d be much better off with someone like Mr. Pringle. Though he might be too much for her too.”
He leaned one elbow on the desk. “What about you? What kind of husband are you hopin’ for?”
Phoebe felt her breath stutter. She kept her eyes on the application, afraid of what he might read in them. “Someone dependable,” she said softly. “Someone who doesn’t disappear when things get difficult.”
There was a pause. A soft, understanding one. “Someone who don’t treat you like you’re a burden,” he said quietly.
Phoebe looked up. Braxton’s eyes held hers. They were deep, steady, and saw too much. “Yes,” she whispered.
He nodded once, almost solemnly, then went back to copying things. But something in the room had shifted. Their breaths seemed to fill the same small space. Every rustle of paper or crackle of the stove felt louder.
Phoebe forced herself to continue writing, though her pulse beat faster than before. A sudden gust of wind slapped the windows, making her jump.
“You cold?” Braxton asked immediately.
“No, I… well, perhaps a little.”
He stood before she could refuse. “Here,” he said, lifting his coat from the coat rack. He returned and draped it around her shoulders.
It was warm. Too warm. And smelled like him. Pine, leather, and something faintly smoky, like campfire nights she’d only read about in books.
“Oh,” she said. “I couldn’t possibly…”
“You can,” he said simply. “It’s going to be a cold night.”
Her fingers curled into the heavy wool and she fought the urge to snuggle into the coat.
He sat again, this time a little closer, as though unconsciously drawn toward the warmth they now shared. George adjusted his sleeping form until he touched both their feet again, snuffling in contentment.
The lamplight flickered and Phoebe’s heart thudded. She bent over a particularly smudged letter and willed her pulse to behave. But when she looked up again, Braxton was watching her. Not boldly, just with quiet attention. Like he saw her… and wanted to.
Phoebe swallowed. “What are you thinking?”
“That ink on your cheek,” he said softly. “You missed a spot earlier.”
She lifted a hand, embarrassed. “Where?”
He reached up and gently brushed his thumb just below her cheekbone.
Phoebe froze.
So did he.
His thumb left a faint streak of black on his own skin. Her breath tangled in her throat. They were too close, far too close. “Mr. Jones…” she whispered.
He didn’t move away. The wind eased outside, and the snow drifted in perfect silence.
Phoebe’s heartbeat filled the space between them.
He lowered his hand very slowly, his fingers grazing her jaw. Her skin tingled, and her lips parted! She leaned in without meaning to, drawn like a moth to fire. Goodness gracious, their foreheads were nearly touching!
His breath feathered across her mouth. She closed the remaining inch…
THUD.
A massive heap of snow slid off the roof and fell just outside the windows, rattling the glass. George leapt to his feet barking wildly, launching himself between them to get to the source of the noise.
Phoebe almost fell out of her chair with a strangled squeak, her hand hitting one of the lamps.
Braxton cursed under his breath, caught it, and sighed in relief.
The moment, perfect, delicate, and terrifying, shattered like ice beneath their feet.
“Oh goodness!” Phoebe gasped, clutching her chest. “That sound. George! Stop! Hush!”
George kept barking.
Josie’s muffled voice shrieked from upstairs, “What on earth fell?!”
Braxton steadied the lamp, his breaths uneven. “I reckon half the roof’s snow came down. It’s a good thing we weren’t standing out there.”
“It’s a good thing no one was.” Phoebe pushed a curl behind her ear with a trembling hand. She was certain her face was on fire. “We… we should get George settled and go home.”
“Right,” Braxton said gruffly. “Good idea.”
They worked after that. Not looking at each other any longer than necessary.
When the last of the letters were sorted, Braxton gathered his coat from her shoulders with care, as if touching her again were dangerous. “I’ll see you home,” he said.
Phoebe nodded, relieved and disappointed all at once.
They donned their hats, coats and scarves, and stepped outside into a world muffled by white. Snow crunched beneath their boots, and their breaths rose in soft clouds. They walked in companionable silence. Occasionally, their coat sleeves brushed. Each time set Phoebe’s heart fluttering.
When they finally reached her boardinghouse door, she turned to him. “Thank you. For everything.”
He tipped his hat, eyes softer than she’d ever seen. “Anytime, Phoebe.” To her surprise, he took her hand in his. “Sleep well.”
Her hand in his felt like a spark struck iron. Phoebe slipped inside before her knees betrayed her, leaned back against the closed door, and pressed a hand to her galloping heart.
She tried to tell herself it was the cold. Yes, that was it. She was shaking because of the cold, not because Braxton held her hand.
Phoebe took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and marched up the stairs to her room to pack. She didn’t have the money to pay her rent. She had only half. No doubt she might find herself on the street in the morning. Until then, thoughts of Braxton would hopefully calm her.
Or perhaps not…