“That so,” he said, sounding doomed. “Erm, I’m from Texas. That’s not exactly west from Chicago. A bit southwest…”
“Yes!” She hugged the leather folio to her chest. “You’re a prince of the plains. I’ve dreamed of standing on a porch at sunset, watching the herds sweep past while my husband rides home across the snow-dusted hills.”
Phoebe’s hand slipped on the envelope she was holding. Snow-dusted hills?
Braxton cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, mostly I watch cows eat and try not to let ‘em wander into the creek when it’s running fast or sink in a mud hole.”
Dorothea waved this aside. “How delightfully practical. But we shall elevate your existence.”
“Ma’am?” he asked.
She leaned closer and lowered her voice as if sharing a grand secret. “I intend to transform your ranch into an elegant oasis.”
Braxton’s gaze drifted to his own big, callused hands. “You understand, Miz Poppinstock, it’s a workin’ place. Dirt. Mud. Livestock. Sure, I like a well-kept house but…”
“Nonsense.” She tapped his arm again. “You simply haven’t had a woman’s touch. That’s what I shall provide. I will bring refinement, grace, and artistic vision.”
Phoebe pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Or objecting. Or both.
Dorothea snapped open the folio and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I have already sketched several possible improvements.” She thrust the page at him.
From where she sat, Phoebe could see the drawing. Was that supposed to be a horse? It looked more like a large cat with hooves. How was that going to improve anything? Did she want to dress the livestock?
“I shall require a riding wardrobe,” Dorothea went on. “And a proper saddle designed for my comfort. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your wife to suffer as she accompanies you across the plains.”
“Ma’am, I don’t ride for pleasure,” Braxton said, studying the drawing with a grimace. “It’s work. Sometimes long days in bad weather.”
“Exactly,” she said. “But if I can’t accompany you, then I shall be your inspiration. I’ll sit on the porch, and you shall be motivated by the sight of me.”
Phoebe’s fingers tightened around the letter she held. She looked down, pretending to read the same sentence for the third time, and snorted.
“Motivated?” Braxton asked.
“Of course,” Dorothea said. “I have strong opinions about motivation.”
“That so,” he murmured, one eyebrow creeping up.
She leaned closer. “Now, tell me about your home, dear cowboy. How many rooms? How many servants? How large is the parlor?”
“Four bedrooms. Big kitchen. No servants,” he said. “Just family.”
Dorothea recoiled. “No servants?”
“No, ma’am. We do for ourselves.”
She shuddered. “I see we have much to improve.”
Across the room, Phoebe felt something hot spark in her chest. She’d not grown up with servants. She’d scrubbed her own floors and cooked her own meals. The idea of looking down on a household because people worked instead of paid others to work irritated her more than it should.
George rose from her side and wandered toward the interview circle, sniffed the air, and sneezed.
Dorothea ignored him and moved on. “Now tell me about the dangers. I’ve read of wild bison stampedes, hostile outlaws, and wolves howling beyond the fence.”
“We’ve got coyotes and occasional rustlers,” Braxton admitted. “And storms.”
Dorothea clasped her hands fervently. “How thrilling. Do you often get shot at?”
His eyebrows shot to the ceiling. “No, ma’am. We take care not to.”
