Mr. Jones nodded. “She’s right.” He looked over the desks piled with papers and files. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us. Again.”
Phoebe hurried to a stack of papers. “Let’s gather every bride currently en route to their groom and see if any are mismatched.”
Josie brightened. “We can do that!”
Margaret scrambled for a ledger. “I’ll check the train and stage monies.”
Augusta gathered a stack of telegraph messages. “I’ll handle this last week’s messages.”
They scattered, chaotically, but with purpose.
Phoebe sank into a chair at the desk and spread out the telegrams and letters. Mr. Jones moved beside her, steady as an oak tree in a windstorm, and kept George from eating anything else.
It was… strangely comforting.
“Some of these letters from grooms don’t match their brides’ destinations,” she murmured, sliding papers across the desk toward him. I don’t remember seeing any of these yesterday.”
He studied one page and tapped it. “This here’s the wrong train line. That’d put her off in Silver Falls instead of Cotton Ridge.”
Phoebe looked up at him. “Cotton Ridge.” She eyed him. “You can read this?”
“Ma’am, I’ve been chasin’ cattle manifests since I could walk. Same principle. Only brides instead of cows.”
She smiled. “I see.”
For several minutes, they worked in quiet rhythm. When their hands brushed over a pile of letters, she pulled her hand back, cheeks warming, like yesterday.
George plopped his head directly onto her lap.
“Oh,” Phoebe breathed, startled. She stroked his fur tentatively.
Mr. Jones watched, one eyebrow raised. “Seems he’s taken a liking to you.”
“Or he’s tired,” she said softly.
“Could be both.”
Something fluttered in her chest. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. She focused harder on the papers. It would do her no good having an attraction to the man.
Behind them, the sisters tried to sort through their own chaos.
“I accidentally used last year’s stage and train fare list,” Josie confessed into her hands.
“I have the wrong groom’s address on several bride’s information sheets.” Augusta said miserably.
“I sent the wrong telegrams out to grooms!” Margaret wailed.
Phoebe exchanged a look with Mr. Jones. He looked back at her with a sympathetic smile.
“All right,” Phoebe said. “We can fix this. We send a clarifying telegram to Silver Falls. We locate the correct ledger to track down stage and train fare given to brides. And we notify the correct grooms.”
Augusta stared at her in awe. “Miss Hale… you were sent from heaven.”
Phoebe felt her cheeks warm again. “I’m just trying to help.” Good grief, how did their assistant manage these three?
Mr. Jones picked up the half-chewed telegram. “I’ll walk the reply over to the telegraph office. Miss Hale, if you’d write it?”
All three sisters looked offended.
