They began to work. Telegraph messages went into one pile, applications into another, general letters into a third. Now and then their fingers brushed when they reached for the same paper. Each time, Phoebe drew back quickly, her cheeks warming. Mr. Jones simply shifted his hand and continued.
“Tell me about your ranch, Mr. Jones,” she said after a few minutes of silence. “If you don’t mind.”
He glanced up once, then returned his attention to the telegraph messages in his hands. “There’s not much to tell. We run cattle. There’s a lot of wide-open country. The house sits on a rise, so you can see storms comin’ from a good long way. It’s not for everyone, but I like it.”
Phoebe tried to picture it as he spoke. The sky stretched wide with clouds rolling in. Flashes of lightning flickering on the horizon. The image was vivid enough that she almost felt a chill. “Do you live far from town?”
“Closer than we used to.” He tapped the corner of a telegram against the table. “Takes a spell to get there, but it’s not bad. We go in for supplies, church, that sort of thing.”
“Church,” she repeated softly.
His eyes lifted to hers again. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then he set the telegraph message aside and picked up another. “How long ya been on your own, Miss Hale? I mean, I assume you’re on your own…”
She smoothed the corner of an envelope beneath her fingers. “Almost a year. Since Mama passed.” The words still caught in her throat. “Papa… hasn’t been home in some time.”
He didn’t offer an apology. Instead, his gaze stayed steady, his voice even. “Ya get by all right?”
She thought of the empty pantry, the rent due, Mr. Randall’s constant frown whenever he saw her. Then she thought of Mama’s precious sewing basket. She’d sold it last month for grocery money. “I manage.”
He nodded once. “Reckon ya do.”
Something in his tone settled around her like a warm blanket. It wasn’t pity or disbelief. It sounded like recognition. She swallowed and looked at her hands. One of the envelopes bore smears of ink and a faint thumbprint. She placed it carefully in the “inquiries” pile.
Not a moment later, Phoebe caught a discrepancy between two applications and laid them side by side. “This groom’s name is on two different forms,” she said quietly. “He might wind up receiving the wrong bride.”
Mr. Jones leaned in, his shoulders near enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw. “Here,” he said. “Let me see.”
She pointed to the names. “The town is the same, but the bride is different. I think these two should be switched.”
He studied them and nodded. “You’re right.” He swapped the pages and stacked them neatly. “Good catch.”
Phoebe’s chest warmed.
Augusta looked up in time to see the exchange. “Oh, look at that,” she said softly. “Don’t they work together well?”
Josie hummed in agreement, then yelped when the Christmas tree almost fell on her. Margaret rushed to help. The tree ended up wedged between the wall and a chair, leaning but no longer in danger of toppling.
Augusta deposited a stack of applications on the desk before them. “We can’t make heads or tails of these,” she said. “Mind taking a look?”
They both paused, looked at the mound of paper, then at each other. “Oh dear,” Phoebe said under her breath.
Mr. Jones’ eyes crinkled at the corners. “We’ll get through it.”
Phoebe straightened, licked her thumb, and smoothed a wrinkled corner on one of the applications. Next to her, Mr. Jones organized a stack with quick, sure motions. He looked at home amid the confusion. Like a man who expected things to go wrong and simply set about putting them right.
She caught herself staring and quickly turned her attention back to the letters.
By midday, the worst of the chaos had been tamed. Papers sat in labeled piles. Telegraph messages lay sorted by date, and half the grooms’ applications were put in order. The Christmas tree still listed to one side, but at least the room no longer looked as if a small storm had hit it.
Augusta exhaled deeply. “There. Order has been restored.”
“Mostly,” Margaret said.
Phoebe flexed her fingers and glanced at her neat stacks. A pleasant sort of weariness settled over her. The feeling of having done something useful. She liked it. She sighed in satisfaction and looked around the office.
George slept under the table. Mr. Jones sat back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest. And the sisters flitted from pile to pile around the room. He smiled at their movements then turned his smile on Phoebe.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiled shyly back. She’d come to check on her own future and had somehow spent the morning untangling everyone else’s. And yet, she didn’t regret it. Not the time or effort, or even the sore fingers.
