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West into a foreign world in my mind, and it was. Simply not the one I'd imagined.
    West Glory boasted a whitewashed church and wooden sidewalks—those, at least, came as I expected. But the false fronts of the stores were painted in gay colors, bright sparks among the gold of the prairie and the gray of the dust.
    Though it seemed most of the women wore loose corsets or none at all, their blouses and full skirts were entirely familiar to me—exactly what my mother wore to work in the kitchen; what I would have worn if I had gone to clerk in my father's office.
    An Indian woman crossed in front of us. Her black hair flowed loose down her back, and her clothes—though different from mine—were made out of familiar cotton and calico. She wore no paint or feathers, and I had begun to suspect that Buffalo Bill's dispatches from the West were, at best, embellishments and, more likely, fictions.
    The starkest difference was that all the men seemed to go in dungarees and shirtsleeves, held together by suspenders. Without jackets and ties, and often without hats, they were shockingly visible.
    Whenever my gaze trailed to Emerson, I had to snatch it away again. I had no business noticing his muscles, well developed from working the land, through his blue cambric shirt. And, I reminded myself, I did Thomas' memory a terrible disservice for wanting to look at all.
    "Where does your aunt live?" Emerson asked.
    His voice startled me, so I reached for my suitcase. It took a moment to remember it was gone. All I had left was a bundle of filthy dresses, some ruined stamps, and a dance card.
    Folding my hands in my lap, I kept my eyes forward and said, "I'm not entirely sure. We've always sent letters to Birdie Neal, West Glory, and they arrived."
    "We'll stop at the post office, then."
    The sweet scent of apple pie suddenly caught my attention. I turned to find its source—the little restaurant beside the general store was my best guess. It would have been decadent to have pie for breakfast, but I was starving. Emerson and I had shared the remains of the rabbit stew between us—a modest meal compared with the one I would have had at home.
    No, I told myself. This is home now.
    The moment Emerson stopped the buckboard, I let myself down. He protested handsomely, and I thought it just a little funny to leave him cursing under his breath in my wake.
    But my smile faltered when I stepped inside and saw the clerk behind iron bars. For a moment, I wondered if I hadn't walked into the jail by mistake—Emerson would be the one laughing then, wouldn't he?
    But the clerk cleared his throat at me. "Got something to post, miss?"
    Stirring through the still heat, I approached the counter. "No, sir. But could you tell me where I can find Mrs. Beatrice Neal? I know that she has several acres nearby, but I'm not entirely sure where."
    The clerk disappeared beneath the counter, then rose again with a groan. Flopping a giant ledger open, he flicked through pages efficiently, then turned it toward me. "This here is the town district. You want to head three miles northeast, more or less. If she's got her lot stake still up, it'll be 325."
    "Three miles northeast, plot 325," I repeated.
    He let me look at the book a moment more, then snapped it closed. "Anything else I can do you for?"
    "No, no, thank you," I said, turning for the door. Then I turned back, my curiosity too sharp to ignore. "Actually, pardon me for asking, but why have they got you caged up like that?"
    The clerk narrowed his eyes at me, then smiled. Running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, he said, "Because I'm just that damned irresistible, darling."
    My face flushed, and I hurried outside. Emerson loitered at my side of the buckboard. When he caught sight of me, he frowned. "What's the matter?"
    The attention only deepened my blush. Squeezing Emerson's hand overhard, I all but leapt into the wagon. "Three miles northeast, plot three two five."
    My voice came out brittle, which