Oh, George! Phoebe swallowed. “Mr. Trevor’s been chewed up?”
Josie stepped forward. “Mr. Jones… the bride we thought we had lined up… well… we didn’t actually have her. Not officially. We just hoped that once we sorted the files, we’d find the perfect candidate. But all we’ve come up with so far was Miss Poppinstock.”
Phoebe’s breath left her. How did the three of them stay in business?
Braxton was still beside her. “So you’re tellin’ me,” he said evenly. “There ain’t one bride in all them files of yours, that’s a good fit for me?”
Augusta looked ready to sink to the floor. “Not… anymore.”
A long silence spread across the room.
Phoebe stared at the scattered files on Margaret and Josie’s desks. All those hopes she’d clung to, structured, sensible hopes, suddenly felt like paper swept off a desk.
Augusta tried again. “We never intended to mislead either of you. We simply… lost control of the situation. George didn’t help. We wanted so much to help you both that we let the chaos get ahead of us. Honestly, we thought we’d have more new applications that might suit you, Phoebe.” She turned to Braxton, and though we’ve had some prospective brides come in, none have the inclination to live on a sprawling ranch. Like Phoebe, they’re looking for a grocer, banker, bookkeeper, or newspaper man. Even a blacksmith.”
Josie was getting teary-eyed. “We were afraid if we told you the truth, you’d never trust us again.”
Phoebe’s throat tightened, not in anger, but with tired compassion. “You should have told us sooner,” she said gently. “We could have helped you. Instead of letting you struggle in silence.”
Braxton grunted an approval. “Folks depend on you. Brides. Grooms. Ya can’t dodge that responsibility.”
Augusta wilted. “We know.”
“We want to make it right.” Margaret whispered.
Phoebe exchanged a glance with Braxton. Something unspoken sparked. An understanding built from late-night work, shared disasters, and a few warm moments. She nodded. “Then we fix this. Properly. Together.”
Braxton leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “First we’ll need a list. What’s where. Who’s where. What’s missin’.”
Margaret lit up. “A list! Yes!”
Josie looked almost hopeful. “You’ll help us?”
Braxton shrugged. “I’m already in it. Might as well see it through.”
“You’ve all been kind to me,” Phoebe said. “More than most. I won’t turn my back on you now.” She turned to Augusta. “But I will need to discuss with you what I told you earlier?”
“Of course, dear,” Augusta said. “Right away.”
When all was said and done, they sat at the table they used and set to work.
Margaret dictated the known facts: brides dispatched, grooms waiting for replies, destinations, and of course, the mismatched brides and grooms.
Phoebe wrote everything into one clean, organized ledger. Her script was steady despite the swirl of emotions inside her.
Braxton cross-checked towns and dates with her, his deep voice calm and soothing. Every time he leaned her way, their shoulders almost touched, and she even found that a comfort. She still hadn’t spoken with the sisters about paying her, but knew she would by the end of the day. She also hadn’t mentioned anything to Braxton about his paying rent. But she would. First, she wanted to get through the work they had today.
George contributed by dragging over a crushed envelope from under a chair. Miraculously, it belonged to the St. Louis bride they needed.
“Good boy!” Phoebe said.
George melted into her skirt with delight and gave a bark.
Braxton watched the dog’s reaction with a quiet, curious expression. “Fella’s taken a shine to you. Maybe you ought to walk him when the time comes.”
Phoebe’s cheeks warmed. “He’s very… enthusiastic.”
“Smart, too,” Braxton said. “Brings exactly what you need, even if he ain’t supposed to.”
