Phoebe tried not to read into that metaphor.
By midday, the disaster had shape. One master list now lay before them. A clean record of everything known, unknown, missing, misfiled, or mauled by George.
Augusta pressed both hands over her heart. “There. At last. Order.”
Josie nodded. “Now, surely nothing else can go wrong.”
The office door slammed open. A messenger boy stood panting in the doorway, holding up a crumpled slip of yellow paper. “Urgent telegram for the Sisters’ Mail-Order Bride Company!”
Phoebe and Braxton shared a look over George’s furry head.Of course there was.
Chapter Twelve
The telegraph boy looked like he’d run all the way from the depot. He stood in the doorway, his cheeks flushed from the cold, his cap askew. “Urgent telegram for the Sisters’ Mail-Order Bride Company!” he announced, just in case anyone had missed it the first time.
Augusta flinched. “Oh no. Not another one.” She hurried forward, snatched the slip from his hand, and unfolded it with trembling fingers. Margaret and Josie closed in on either side of her, reading over her shoulder.
Braxton stood and watched from the table where he and Phoebe were working. Phoebe stayed seated, her eyes on the messenger boy. George lay under the desk like an attentive rug, ears pricked. But he didn’t bother getting up.
Augusta’s face drained of color. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, dear heavens.”
“What?” Josie gasped. “What is it?”
Margaret plucked the telegram from her sister’s hand and read aloud. “It’s from Mr. Henderson in Cotton Ridge.” She looked at Braxton and Phoebe. “We were sending both Mr. Joseph Henderson and his brother Darrel Henderson a bride. One lives near Silver Falls, and he’s friends with Robert Newman of Cotton Ridge.” She plastered on a smile then returned her attention to the telegraph message. “No bride arrived. Stop. Groom in Silver Falls has no bride. Stop. Please advise immediately. Stop.” She heaved a sigh. “Can you see the confusion?”
Silence fell for a heartbeat. Then the sisters all started at once. This was worse than Braxton first thought.
“We’ve stranded a bride in a strange city!” Augusta cried. “But where?”
“Good grief, what if she’s somewhere in the mountains!” Margaret added. “Didn’t we send a bride off to Nevada City? Isn’t that in the Sierra Nevada?”
“Her groom is in Silver Falls with nothing but an empty platform!” Josie wailed. “Oh, wait, or is it Cotton Ridge?”
George whined and crawled deeper under the table.
Braxton stepped forward. “All right,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Panickin’ ain’t gonna bring anyone to the right place. Let’s see the names.”
Augusta thrust the telegram at him. “It doesn’t list them. It just says bride and grooms and—oh, it’s a catastrophe!”
Phoebe rose from her chair, skirts rustling, and joined them. “We have the master list,” she said. “We can trace it. If we go carefully.”
Her calm steadied him more than he wanted to admit. “Get it,” Braxton said.
She returned to the table, picked up the ledger and brought it to the nearest desk. There she spread it open. Her neat script filled the pages, each bride and groom recorded with more order than the office had seen in weeks.
He looked down at the list, then at her. Something in his chest eased. “Start from Silver Falls,” he said.
Phoebe ran her finger down the column. “Silver Falls… here. Groom: Darrel Henderson. Bride: Miss Beatrice Greeley.” She squinted at a row. “Eight-seven-two and eight-seven-three.”
“And Miss Greeley was sent to?” Braxton asked.
“Silver Falls,” Margaret said. “I’m almost entirely certain.”
Josie made a small noise. “Almost… entirely?”
Augusta let out a huff. “Look at the St. Louis column.”
Phoebe flipped a page. “St. Louis. Groom: Mr. Henry Cummings. Bride: Miss Lydia Marsh. Eight-seven-two and eight-seven-three.” She stopped. “Oh.”
