“Because I had no words before. None. But now I want to throttle you so I’m speaking my mind instead.”
Phoebe thought she would prefer being throttled. “Nothing’s happened. Nothing. As for hanging on his words, he’s instructive, Fiona. When he has the time, which is not often in spite of what you think, he is teaching me about Twin Star, about the land, about the business of ranching. I am going to learn to ride.”
“Thaddeus can teach you all of that.”
“Yes, he can, and I’ve asked, but he’s the one who pointed me to Remington. First, there is the matter of his time. He wants to spend it with you. Also, he believes that his son is the better teacher.”
“Hogwash.”
Phoebe chuckled. “I’ve noticed you’ve acquired the local vernacular.”
Fiona sniffed. “Here’s a word from the old neighborhood: yenta.”
Phoebe spared a fond thought for Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler. “You’re saying he’s a busybody?”
“Meddler,” said Fiona. “He’s meddling.”
“Remington?”
“No. Really, Phoebe, could you be more obtuse? I’m talking about my husband. Thaddeus is the meddler. Do you remember Mrs. Meir?”
“The diamond merchant’s wife?”
“Theshadkhnte,” said Fiona. “The matchmaker. She brokered seventeen marriages before she died. I think Thaddeus would be happy to broker one.” Her mouth flattened as she shook her head. “Theshadkhn.”
Phoebe did not try not to laugh. She pictured Thaddeus Frost wearing Mrs. Meir’s black woolen shawl, eating kosher, and kibitzing with the other yentas. Alternatively, she saw Mrs. Meir in a Stetson and chaps. She had to stop walking to catch her breath.
“What is wrong with you?”
“I’m not going to even try to explain,” she said. She opened her beaded reticule, which Thaddeus had returned to her, and took out a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “Anyway, there really isn’t time.” She lifted her chin to indicate a point farther down the sidewalk. “You asked about Remington. There he is.”
“I see him. He came out of the leather goods store. He has packages, Phoebe, and we are empty-handed.” She sighed. “Topsy-turvy.”
“It’s not the end of the world.”
“So say you.”
“Why don’t we help with his packages?” Phoebe suggested. “And no one who sees us will be the wiser. Besides, we have hats waiting for us at Mrs. Palmer’s.”
Fiona brightened. “That’s right. We do.”
Together, they barred Remington’s path and plucked the parcels from his arms. He offered a few protests, but they would have their way, and he finally gave up everything save for the box with the carrying string.
Phoebe was only interested in the contents of the box he would not surrender. “What’s in there?”
“Something I’ve been set on buying for a while now.”
“And that would be...”
“None of your business.”
Fiona said, “Don’t wheedle him.”
Phoebe looked askance at Remington. He was grinning. Phoebe couldn’t really blame him. It must be a relief for him to be out of Fiona’s sights. There had been quite a few barbs directed his way as they rode to town, and she doubted that he had been able to deflect all of them.
“I want to go to the apothecary,” Fiona said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Phoebe, you should have said something. You know I wanted scented bath salts. And it occurs to me now that I am in need of headache powders.”
Phoebe smiled weakly. She could use a packet of the powder herself. “Are we having lunch at the Butterworth?”
