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at home had reminded her to watch out for thieves and pickpockets who preyed on travelers. In front of her the conductor assisted a white-haired lady with a cane up the steps, then a black-shawled woman with a young boy at her side. At least Colleen wasn’t the only woman traveling alone.
    Once they were all seated and the train huffed and snorted its way out of the station, Colleen shook her head at all the streets with square little houses, many not nearly as big as her own. At least her house had an upper floor, while many of these did not.
    The conductor came by and checked the tickets. As he moved down the aisle, the white-haired woman, whose black felt hat with a matching feather stayed in place, leaned across the armrest and waved to catch Colleen’s attention.
    “Will you be getting off in St. Paul?”
    Colleen shook her head. “I’m going to Medora in Dakotah Territory.”
    “Oh, good. Since I am traveling clear to Seattle to visit my son, we have many miles ahead of us. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind humoring an old lady and taking time to chat. I have found that I make good friends when traveling like this.”
    “You travel often?”
    “This is my third trip west. My son wants me to move out there, but I would hate to leave Chicago.”
    “Leaving home is difficult.” And that might be the biggest understatement she’d ever offered. The thought of her kitchen, warm with the fragrance of baking bread or ginger cookies, filled her with memories. “I’ve never gone more than a few miles from home before.”
    “Oh, dear, this must be quite an adventure for you. Will you be visiting family?”
    Colleen thought to the time ahead. If I can find him . “Hopefully.” She could see the curiosity fairly bristle the hat feather that curved over the back of the woman’s head. The hat remained firmly seated on an upswept coil, much like her own, only without the least trace of a propensity for escaping. Black jet gleamed on the collar and lapels of the fitted black traveling jacket. She was sure the skirt and jacket were made of wool serge, at far greater cost than anything she would even dream of owning.
    “My name is Mrs. John Grant, but I prefer Agnes among friends. What is yours?”
    Colleen almost said Colleen, but paused. “Amethyst Colleen O’Shaunasy. Miss.” From now on, for this brief portion of her life, she would be the woman her mother named her to be. At least I would like to be called Amethyst, but I’m sure it is going to take some time to get used to the new name. Amethyst . Formally Miss Amethyst O’Shaunasy. That did sound rather grand.
    “Amethyst, what a lovely name. And you must be Irish by the sound of it, although I’m not surprised with all that luscious red hair and milky skin.”
    Colleen, er, Amethyst put a hand to the side of her stubborn hair. Red? She’d thought it russet, not the true red of a real Irish colleen. Like she was a sepia painting instead of the real thing.
    “Why, thank you.” Compliments had been about as scarce as hen’s teeth in her life, another saying of her mother’s. Questions buzzed within like the bees when she disturbed a hive. She could feel the heat of embarrassment climbing her neck. While this wasn’t a real lie, it most surely felt like one. What would her father say if he could hear her introduce herself like this? And her mother? Were the angels applauding her?
    “So tell me why you are going to Medora. That place has been booming. An article I read in the paper said it was almost like the gold rush back in ’49. I was but a girl, but my father took me out to see the wagon trains heading west. I often wondered if there were any people left back east of Chicago, since so many were traveling westward.”
    My, Mrs. Grant did love to chat. “I’m looking for my nephew.” Best to keep the details to herself—at least that’s what had been drummed into her since childhood. Although she’d often wondered what secrets her family had that were