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overpowering thankfulness for his existence.
    "It was nothing," Father replied, magnificently bland, "an A-l housekeeper is worth a bit of extra ink."
    Rose blushed becomingly. Modesty's rush of blood went well with her gently proportioned cheekbones and the demure expression that came to her lips. Over that, though, there still were the warm brown eyes to contemplate, and the hairdo where wavy curls and fair forehead played peekaboo in a style slightly saucy compared with, well, our notion of widows. None of which caused disturbance in any of us, let me say, including Father. Toby was not advanced enough in life yet to think about it, but Damon and I knew Father was immune to women because he missed Mother so. "I will not go through life resenting a woman because she isn't Florence," he had made plain when George and Rae pointed out that people were known to marry again. "And a stepmother for this tribe of heathens"—he meant us—"is apt to be a cure worse than the affliction." So, he was at his most academic as he sized up—or more likely, sized down—Rose Llewellyn there at the depot. All he wanted was a housekeeper, and this one had come with proclamations to that effect all over her. Besides, there were those three months of wages and a train ticket invested in getting her here.
    "Well, shall we be on our way, Mrs. Llewellyn?" His baritone was a bit brusque as he indicated to where our horses and wagon were hitched. He unrooted Damon and me and even Toby with seat-of-the-pants pushes of encouragement toward the baggage car. "The boys—the Milliron young men will gladly fetch whatever you've brought."
    An exclamation that defied translation came from Rose and she gave her head a quick little shake, her dark brunette curls flipping on her forehead, as though just then remembering something. She spun half around, her gaze flying across the now nearly empty platform.
    Our four sets of eyes followed hers to the tweed-suited traveler who had helped her off the train.
    Like her, this individual believed in sparing nothing on appearance. A paisley vest peeked from amid the tweed. A gold watch chain was swagged across the vest. The man was not at all tall, but held himself very straight as if to make the most of what he had. He was lightly built, and an extraordinary amount of him was mustache. It was one of those maximum ones such as I had seen in pictures of Rudyard Kipling, a soup-strainer and a lady-tickler and a fashion show, all in one. Almost as remarkable, he was the only bare-headed man in Montana, the wind teasing his dramatically barbered hair. As we gawked at the stranger he appeared somewhat ruffled, and not merely by the breeze.
    Rose went, took him by a wrist, and led him to us.
    "Mr. Milliron, Toby, Damon, Paul," she counted off as if we were a select regiment, "may I present my brother, Morris Morgan."
    "I'm sorry to intrude on the tableau," the newcomer articulated melodiously. "But I fear it's what comes of an attachment to Rose." My ears and Damon's and possibly Toby's perked up in interest at his cultured way with words. This was like hearing Father meet up with himself.
    "Such luck!" Rose said as if it was an explanation for his presence. "That Morrie was able to accompany me."
    "Are you also relocating to Montana?" Father inquired pleasantly enough over a handshake he obviously had never expected to make. Morris Morgan appeared not to hear that, instead glancing nervously aside.
    "Rose? My chapeau? The ransom, remember?"
    Rose's hand flew to her mouth and she whirled toward the train again. There the heavy-set conductor stood waiting, railway cap highly officious, while he twirled a nice new kangaroo-brown Stetson hat on an indicative forefinger.
    "A terrible misunderstanding," Rose rushed to tell us in a low but musical voice. "We were under the impression that our tickets would take us all the way to here. But when we had to climb onto this"—she waved a disparaging hand at the