Braxton chuckled. “Even if it’s not until after Christmas, I’m not bettin’ on it.”
“No,” she admitted. “Me neither.” She hoped she still had a roof over her head by then.
For a few minutes they worked quietly. The rhythm was easy. Phoebe sorted; Braxton recopied papers ruined by spilled ink in neat, steady handwriting she hadn’t expected from a man who worked outdoors all day. Occasionally he asked where a page ought to go; while she passed him one she didn’t trust herself to decipher.
It was… companionable. And dangerously pleasant.
After a while, Braxton broke the silence. “That Mr. Pringle fella,” he said mildly. “Is he thinkin’ to court you proper, or is he waitin’ on the sisters to tell him what to do? I noticed there ain’t been any messages delivered from him or letters.”
Phoebe paused mid-stroke of her pen. “I’m hoping he’s forgotten I exist. I think Miss Poppinstock would be more to his liking.”
He huffed. “True, but I reckon George won’t forget him.”
She hid her smile. “Who can blame George? Mr. Pringle is… well, Mr. Pringle.”
“That an insult?”
“A polite one,” she said primly.
Braxton chuckled under his breath. “A man like that ought to come with a warning label.”
“He did, in fact. He opened his mouth.” Phoebe glanced up at him. “How many times did he mention training me? Three? Four?”
“Five,” Braxton corrected.
Phoebe groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Oh dear.”
“And that business about you bein’ an ornament he could show around town—” Braxton shook his head. “That man ain’t seekin’ a wife. He’s lookin’ for somethin’ to brag about.”
Phoebe’s throat tightened. Not with sadness, just the odd, wistful relief of being understood. “Like Miss Poppinstock?”
He laughed. “Exactly like her.”
She smiled. “My mother always said a marriage should be a partnership of two people working together. Not one shoving the other into a box.”
He watched her carefully. “You believe that?”
“Very much.”
“So do I.”
Phoebe knew he meant it. She could hear it in the steady warmth of his tone. She forced herself to open the next letter. She didn’t know what to do with the quiet feeling blooming in her chest. Something like safety, or admiration, or both.
She needed to change the subject. “I wonder if Miss Poppinstock has recovered from her heartbreak…”
Braxton snorted softly. “I reckon she recovered before she hit the street. Who knows how many folks she’s regaled with a tale ofherrejectingme?”
Phoebe laughed, remembering the woman’s dramatic departure. “It was kind of you to decline her gently.”
“She ain’t cut out for ranch life,” Braxton said. “And I ain’t cut out for lace curtains and expensive porcelain vases all over the house.
“No,” Phoebe said, trying not to picture him in such a setting. “I suppose not. She’d be much better off with someone like Mr. Pringle. Though he might be too much for her too.”
He leaned one elbow on the desk. “What about you? What kind of husband are you hopin’ for?”
Phoebe felt her breath stutter. She kept her eyes on the application, afraid of what he might read in them. “Someone dependable,” she said softly. “Someone who doesn’t disappear when things get difficult.”
There was a pause. A soft, understanding one. “Someone who don’t treat you like you’re a burden,” he said quietly.
