Chapter Nine
Braxton wasn’t sure why he’d shown up early.
He could’ve slept another hour. He could’ve found a hot breakfast somewhere in town. He could’ve written to his sister back home or gone looking for new gloves after George had ruined his last pair.
Instead, here he was, pushing open the office door before the streetlamps had even finished dimming.
He told himself it was because the Merriweather sisters needed help. He’d seen the state of things yesterday—files half-fixed, telegraph messages stacked in teetering little piles like they might topple at any moment. Someone had to keep the place upright until their assistant Val came back.
That someone, apparently, was him.
But the truth he didn’t want to look at too closely was that he also wanted to seeher.And that was dangerous ground.
The office door gave a small groan as he stepped inside. A fresh coat of snow had fallen overnight, and the world outside was quiet and pale. Inside, the lamps glowed warm and a bit crooked. Much like everything else in this place.
Augusta was already fluttering between desks like a hen protecting misplaced eggs. Margaret hovered over a stack of envelopes, shaking her head. Josie stood on a small stool adjusting a wreath, though the wreath was crooked and so was the stool.
And on the other side of the room, near the table, stood Phoebe.
She had several sheets of paper laid out neatly in front of her, brow furrowed in a way he’d started thinking of as her “sorting face.” George lay under the table like a loyal sentinel, snoring in contentment.
When she looked up and caught sight of him, her expression softened, just barely, but enough.
“Good morning, Mr. Jones.”
He tipped his hat. “Miss Hale.” He ignored the small, inconvenient warmth that rose in his chest whenever she spoke his name. Even if it was his last. He’d have to get them back on a first name basis.
Josie dropped the wreath. “Oh heavens!” she squeaked, hopping off the stool.
“It’s fine, dear,” Augusta said, though she sounded anything but fine. “We’ve had worse this week.”
Margaret pointed toward a leaning pile of papers. “Much worse.”
Braxton looked at the pile. “We fixin’ to tackle this together today?” he asked.
Phoebe’s smile was wry, and affected him far more than it ought to. “It appears we must.”
Before he could answer, Josie latched a ribbon around her wrist—why, he didn’t know—and began waving a stack of letters like she meant to fan flames.
George’s head shot up, his eyes locking on the ribbon.
“Oh no,” Braxton muttered.
Phoebe glanced down. “George, stay.”
George did not stay. He lunged for the ribbon with all the delight of a dog who had lived too many lives deprived of toys.
Josie shrieked and spun in a circle.
“Not again!” Augusta wailed.
Margaret gasped and grabbed at the nearest desk for balance. It was covered in loose papers and an uncapped ink bottle.
Braxton saw it unfold in a single horrifying instant. “Look out!” he yelped, lunging forward.
George jerked the ribbon. Josie spun. The table shuddered. Margaret overcorrected. Augusta tried to catch the ink bottle.
That darn ink bottle did not want to be caught. It tipped, wobbled, and then?—
