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buildings seemed to make up the town of Daisy, and only one of those was lit up. There were no lights outside, of course. Not that she’d expected them. This was not Nashville, after all. It was barely a community. According to the description Camie had sent, only a few dozen families lived on this side of the Tennessee River, although more settlers were beginning to make their way here. The other side of the river was mostly Indian Territory, although it did boast a trading post, called Ross’s Landing, and Brainerd Mission, where Reverend and Mrs. Miller lived.
    Iris wondered if she could walk to Camie’s house but realized she didn’t even know which way to go. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. Whenever she’d imagined arriving, it had been in the middle of the day, not during the gloom of night and not a whole day ahead of schedule. What was she supposed to do?
    The cool night air nipped at her cheeks as she wondered if the town of Daisy boasted an inn. She drew her shoulders back in an effort to bolster her waning confidence and walked down the street in search of a likely prospect.
    Raucous laughter spewed from the one lit building in town. It must be a tavern. Iris took a step in that direction. Perhaps they could direct her to the Sherers’ home or at least rent her a room for the evening. Another roar of laughter slowed her. She tilted her head and listened intently. Someone played a piano, and a lady sang. It sounded like a friendly place. She pasted a smile on her face, gripped her reticule tightly, and stepped past the hitching post onto the raised walkway that ran the length of the building.
    As Iris reached out a tentative hand toward the door, it swung outward. A man exited precipitously, barreling into her and pushing her down. Her teeth clacked together. “Well, I never!”
    “What are you doing on t’ ground?” His slurred voice indicated that the man had been imbibing. “Here.” He leaned over and offered his hand.
    Iris wanted to burst into tears. Maybe she was having a bad dream. But then why did the ground under her feel so solid? She put her hand in the stranger’s and allowed him to help her up. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of whiskey. In their work with the Indians at home, her parents had often had to deal with Indians who had imbibed too much “firewater.”
    The stranger bowed, still holding onto her hand. “Adam Stuart’s m’ name.”
    Iris didn’t know how to answer him. She should have been embarrassed by his casual manners. Back home she would never have considered speaking to a man without a proper introduction. And she certainly wouldn’t allow him to continue holding her hand. She gave a tug and pulled free.
    He pointed a finger at her. “Why are you wandering outside all alone?”
    Some part of her mind noticed that Mr. Stuart was tall, taller than she. He had a square chin and even features—she might even call him handsome if he was sober. His eyes were large and appeared brown in the muted light. They shone with intelligence and something else—was it vulnerability? Pain? For a brief instant, she wanted to comfort him.
    What was she thinking? Offer comfort to a complete stranger? Iris shook her head and immediately put a hand up to keep her hat from falling off. Her pins must have loosened while she napped in the coach, and then her jarring tumble had made the situation more tenuous. Now her hair seemed determined to escape captivity. She fought the heavy curls, tucking them away with little success. Finally she gave up to concentrate on her main problem. “I need to find Lance and Camie Sherer.”
    Mr. Stuart turned in a circle. “I don’t see them.”
    “Of course not.” Iris wanted to scream her frustration. Why did Mr. Stuart have to be drunk? “They are probably at home. I need someone to help me get to the home of Mr. Lance Sherer.”
    He frowned and stroked his chin with a finger as if deep in thought.
    Iris waited a moment or two for him to