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after the first train leaving St. Louis and falling—very literally—into the midst of something called the Ladies Emigration Society had opened entirely new possibilities. Dare she entertain them?
    She’d expected to be found out at lunch, but as it turned out, Hamilton Drake wasn’t a very organized man. Hettie wasn’t the only woman he didn’t seem to remember from whatever meetings it was he’d held in St. Louis, and as the ladies each stood in turn and introduced themselves, Hettie was able to gather enough information to do a convincing job of things when it was her turn to speak. “I’m Hettie Raines,” she’d said without hesitation. Then, shoving her spectacles up, she’d looked away and said, “My husband is—was—a physician. And I . . . I really can’t talk about it.” With that, she’d sat down. The tears she shed at the mention of a husband were sincere enough. So was the comforting little pat on her arm and the smile from “the General’s wife.”
    As the other women in the group began to stir, Zita looked Hettie’s way and waved her back to sit up front. Smoothing her hair, Hettie rose to rejoin her new friends. All things considered, it had been very simple to do away with Hettie Gates.

    “We can’t be ‘here.’ ” Hettie turned in the direction of Mavis Morris, who warbled, “There’s no station. No town. There’s nothing but—” She pointed toward the water and the wide plank they would each have to walk to board the ferry waiting to take them across the Missouri. “I can’t possibly ride that little thing across that water.” Both chins quivered as Mavis fought back tears.
    Tiny Zita Romano hurried past them all. Placing both feet on the plank, she turned about and waved for them to follow. “It’s nothing,” she said, gesturing toward the pilot, who waited just at the far end of the plank. “He’s done this a hundred times—perhaps a thousand—and it’s really nothing. Only a little river. Now, an ocean? Crossing an ocean with no land in sight for weeks. That was something.” After Zita nearly skipped up the plank, what could the others do but follow?
    Still, Hettie lingered, not out of fear of the crossing, but because the river represented a final dividing line between her past and present. Behind her lay anguish and brokenness. Across the river with these ladies lay . . . oh, how she hoped something better. She glanced down the tracks toward Kansas City to the south. There’s nothing to go back to. Everything you worked for has been destroyed and can’t be restored. You have to face that and move on. You’ve been given a second chance. Hope lies across that river. With a last glance toward the south, Hettie went aboard the Omaha Queen .
    Good-bye, Forrest . . . good-bye.

    All beauty dwindled away. Oh, things stayed green, but after their next train left Omaha, meandering curves and gentle slopes gradually gave way to miles and miles of track headed due west atop an expanse of flat land that Ruth wouldn’t have known how to describe even if she did write Margaret—and she wasn’t certain she would write. At least not for a while. Being tossed out still stung. With a sigh, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. It wasn’t long before murmured protests made her open them again. Black earth stretched from horizon to horizon, somehow even more desolate juxtaposed against a cloudless blue sky.
    Mr. Drake stepped through the door into the car. “Now, I know,”
    he said, “that this looks bleak.”
    Mrs. Morris spoke first. “You will keep your promise, right? If we want a return ticket—”
    “Of course.” Drake nodded. “If, by Saturday of this week, any of you wishes to return, the Ladies Emigration Society has agreed to provide a ticket at no expense to you. Except, of course, a small fee for baggage and handling charges.” He waited until the murmured objections to this new information died down before continuing. “But you must realize