“Good… morning,” Phoebe hedged.
Josie beamed. “Wonderful, you’re here. Today is a very important day.”
Margaret clasped her hands dramatically. “Braxton Jones is at last meeting his match.”
Phoebe blinked. “His match?”
“Indeed,” Augusta said. “We have found the perfect bride for him.”
Josie nodded. “Absolutely perfect.”
Phoebe set her reticule on a chair. “Oh.” They all looked just as pleased with themselves as when they announced her perfect match. This might not bode well for poor Braxton.
Augusta pointed to a cluster of chairs Josie had created. “We’ve arranged a small interview space. It will feel intimate. Conversational. Romantic, but not too romantic.”
“What’s not too romantic?” Margaret asked.
“Whatever this is,” Josie said, waving at the chairs.
Phoebe glanced toward the far side of the office.
Braxton stood near the filing cabinets, watching the sisters with an expression that could only be described as wary. He’d taken off his jacket. His vest was gold and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing impressive forearms. Goodness, how long had he been here? She noticed his jacket, hat, and coat were not on the coat rack, but within easy reach, as if he anticipated needing a quick escape.
“This is going to be worse than yesterday,” Phoebe murmured.
No sooner than she said it, the front door opened. A woman swept into the office. She was tall, with an elaborate tower of curls pinned under a wide-brimmed hat exploding with feathers. Her gown was a riot of ruffles and ribbons, and she carried a large leather folio clutched to her chest.
“Miss Dorothea Poppinstock,” Augusta whispered reverently.
Dorothea flung her free arm wide. “Good day, ladies! And…” Her gaze swept the room and landed on Braxton. “Oh my.”
Phoebe’s stomach sank. “Oh dear.”
Josie rushed forward. “Miss Poppinstock, welcome! We are so delighted you could come.”
“Delighted,” Margaret echoed.
Augusta glided toward Braxton and steered him toward the cluster of chairs. “Mr. Jones, if you would kindly sit here. Miss Poppinstock, please, have a seat.”
Braxton sat, looking as if he’d been backed into a stall with a mountain lion or a bear.
Dorothea swooped into the chair beside him, skirts flaring. “How perfectly charming!” she declared. “So rustic. So quaint. I simply adore humble little offices like this. They promise adventure.”
Phoebe, halfway to the table on the other side of the room, stopped. Humble?
Augusta, Margaret, and Josie withdrew to the edges of the room, ignoring the other chairs. Phoebe thought they were going to sit with the two and facilitate the meeting. Instead, they pretended to tidy things around the Christmas tree.
Phoebe went to the table, gathered a stack of letters and tried to look busy. She was not. Phoebe couldn’t help but watch Braxton’s every move.
Dorothea angled herself toward Braxton and smiled with every tooth she possessed. “So. You’re the cowboy.”
Braxton blinked. “Ma’am?”
“The cowboy,” she repeated, patting his forearm with gloved fingers. “The rugged frontiersman. The man of the West.”
He shifted in his chair. “I run a cattle ranch, yes. Though I wouldn’t call myself any kind of hero.”
Dorothea laughed. It was a high, tinkling sound that made Phoebe’s teeth hurt. “Oh, how modest. I’ve always longed to marry a man of the West. I’ve read any number of novels on the subject.”
