Another autumn had come to Omaha. I thought in terms of seasons then, more often than I realized. It had been three autumns since I was sent by the army to the Tongue River Cantonment and away from The People. This autumn, the autumn of 1880, I was still marking off each day on my calendar, as if it mattered. I don’t do that now.

That Thursday began as most Thursdays, with Mother going as regular as clockwork to an old friend’s house to play bridge. Father was in his office downtown by eight in the morning as always. Eugenie and Phil were at their respective academies. I promised the housekeeper I would polish the silver. Winter’s more active social schedule, even in Omaha, demanded the niceties, which meant – ugh – polishing the silver. Bridget was hanging out the week’s wash in the backyard while I made faces in the polished serving trays in the butler’s pantry.

Bridget pounded up the back steps, calling for me. I heard something close to panic in her voice and hurried to the door.

“Miss, miss,” she began, then pointed at a man standing by the carriage house, a valise at his feet. “He wants Lizzie. Oh, miss, he’s…he’s…”

I saw what he was. For the tiniest, most wonderful moment, I thought it was Hawk, but no. “Go inside,” I said, my eyes on the distant figure. “I’ll see what he wants.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked, her eyes wide. Bridget had come from County Cork only last spring.

“Heavens no,” I assured her. I shooed her inside and closed the door. I hurried down the back steps as the Indian came closer cautiously, clearly more apprehensive than I.

“Yes? May I help you?”

He gave me that swift scrutiny I was familiar with from The People. He must have seen what he liked, because he lowered his shoulders and relaxed. “My Aunt Mary said to look for dark red hair. You are Lizzie?”

“I am,” I said, my voice soft to match his. With a sweet sort of ache – I can’t explain it better – I remembered the way everyone called me Lizzie, only it sounded like Lissie. “Mary? A Presbyterian lady who made the journey to Bear Paw?”

When he nodded, I tried to swallow my ready tears and nearly succeeded. I had last seen Mary, Blue Mountain Woman’s friend, at Bear Paw, before I was forbidden to mingle with the captives. I dabbed at my eyes with my apron, wondering what news he brought.

He had no wish to linger. “I have to hurry,” he said. “My train leaves in half an hour.” He held out his hand. “I am Thomas Adams, from the Lapwai Reservation in Idaho Territory.”