Dorothea opened her mouth to respond. At that moment, Augusta bustled closer, wringing her hands in excitement. “Isn’t she lovely, Mr. Jones? Miss Poppinstock is a fine match and comes from a respectable family.”
Dorothea beamed. “And I have an excellent sense of color.”
Braxton looked from Dorothea to Augusta, to Josie and Margaret hovering in the background. “She’s… somethin’, all right.”
Augusta didn’t notice his tone. “Miss Poppinstock, Mr. Jones is a very responsible gentleman. What with his running of a large ranch.”
“So you’ve told me,” Dorothea said. She turned back to Braxton. “You will of course be buying me a new wardrobe once we’re married. For riding. And calling. And entertaining.”
Braxton cleared his throat. “Ma’am, before we talk about clothes or callers, I reckon we ought to see if we suit.”
Dorothea laughed again. “I accept, Mr. Jones.”
“Accept what?” he asked.
“Your proposal,” she said. “Naturally. Consider this our understanding.”
Phoebe inhaled sharply.
Across the office, one of the ribbons Josie had been fiddling with slipped from her fingers and floated to the floor.
Braxton ignored the sisters and sat straighter. “Ma’am, I ain’t proposed.”
“Oh, don’t be shy,” Dorothea said. “You spoke of needing a partner. I shall be that partner. With some adjustments.”
“I meant someone comfortable around animals and work,” he said. “With respect, you just told me you don’t care for either.”
“That’s what growth is for,” she said. “I will adapt. It’s very fashionable these days, personal growth.”
Phoebe set down her letters before she crumpled them. She couldn’t watch him flounder any longer. She rose and crossed the room, smoothing her skirt with one hand. “Miss Poppinstock?”
Dorothea turned, surprised. “Yes?”
Phoebe offered her most sympathetic smile. “Might I say something?”
Dorothea sat taller. “By all means. I adore heartfelt speeches.”
Phoebe folded her hands in front of her. “Ranch life is very hard. From everything I’ve heard Mr. Jones say, it requires a woman who is… comfortable being outdoors. Around animals. In mud. In storms and who knows what else.”
Dorothea’s mouth pinched.
“And,” Phoebe continued gently. “It seems your talents lie in other directions.”
“Such as?” Dorothea asked stiffly.
“Creating beauty,” Phoebe said at once. “Appreciating art. Playing music. Brightening a parlor. There are men who would be delighted with a wife who prefers salons to corrals. It would be a shame to force yourself into a life that doesn’t suit you.”
Dorothea’s shoulders eased a fraction. “You think so?”
“I do,” Phoebe said. “And I think Mr. Jones is trying very hard not to hurt your feelings.”
Dorothea glanced at him.
Braxton met her gaze and nodded once, solemn and honest. “Truth is, ma’am, I don’t want a wife who’s miserable. And I think you’d be miserable on my ranch.”
Dorothea dabbed at the corner of her eye with a lacy handkerchief. “Well. That is… quite direct.”
“Sorry,” he said.
