“Oh dear,” Margaret said. “I’d better feed him.” She left the office and disappeared through a door on the far wall.
“Um… do you have any other grooms available?” Phoebe asked.
“Oh, of course, dear,” Augusta said. “But as Josie pointed out, we’re still trying to… well… fix things.”
Josie nodded. “We had everything in order until George came to us.”
Augusta cringed. “Then it was like a tornado came through here, and all our records, papers, and clients’ files were caught up in it, and here we are.” She plastered on a smile. “But don’t worry, we know what we’re doing. Even without Val’s help.”
“Your assistant, who isn’t here,” Phoebe stated.
“That’s right,” Augusta acknowledged adding a curt nod.
Phoebe stared at the two of them. So the place was in shambles and they hadn’t straightened it out yet. Who knew how long that would take? In the meantime, she was behind on rent, and Mr. Randal, her landlord, wasn’t going to let her get two months behind.
“That’s all we need for now, dear,” Augusta said, rising from her chair.
Phoebe stood as well. This might not save her after all. Not if the sisters couldn’t even get their grooms’ information in order. Was there another mail-order bride office in town? This was Chicago, after all, there had to be.
She backed away from the desk as Margaret emerged from the far door. George trotted out and made a beeline for Phoebe.
“Oh no, not again.” She ducked behind her chair just as the door to the office opened, drawing her attention.
A tall man entered. George skidded to a stop to eye the newcomer. The man was rugged looking. He wore a worn pair of denims, well-worn boots, a white shirt, vest, and long brown coat. His Stetson matched his coat, and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a few days. He took one look at George and smiled. “Hello there, fella.”
George started toward him, then changed his mind and charged Phoebe instead. She yelped as the dog shoved her against the desk. Her gloves fell, and George snatched one before trotting back to the newcomer and dropping it at his feet. “My glove!”
The man chuckled, bent, and picked it up. “You’re a friendly one, ain’t ya?” He patted the dog’s head, then held up the glove. “Yours, ma’am?”
He had a Texan drawl, and she wondered what a man like him was doing in Chicago. Had he brought cattle to sell?
He crossed the room, George at his heels, and handed Phoebe her glove. “Ma’am.” He tipped his hat.
She took it. Goodness gracious, the man was huge. A far cry from the sort she hoped to marry. “Th-thank you.”
“Can we help you?” Augusta asked. “Are you here for the dog?”
Phoebe caught Josie biting her lower lip, as if afraid to hope…
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m here about a bride.” He took off his hat. “Name’s Jones. Braxton Jones. I’m here looking for a wife.”
Phoebe blinked, dropped her gloves, and George snatched them before anyone could react. “My gloves!”
Mr. Jones smiled, turned, and whistled.
George skidded to a stop near the door in the far wall. His rump wiggled as if he were wagging his docked tail.
Mr. Jones whistled again, and George came running. Before Phoebe could move, the man gently nudged her behind him as George slid into him and dropped the gloves.
Phoebe watched as Mr. Jones retrieved them once more. He turned to her. “The dog don’t mean ya no harm, ma’am. He’s just trying to find his way around here.” He faced Augusta, Margaret, and Josie. “I take it you’re tryin’ to find him a home?”
“Yes, he’s not ours,” Margaret said. “Though I don’t mind having him around.”
Josie shot her a disapproving look. “He’s a menace.”
“He’s adorable,” Mr. Jones said. “And seems well trained.”
“Would you like him?” Josie asked hopefully.
