Christians call it “waiting upon the Lord.” I never asked Hawk what he called it. I doubt the Nez Perce even have an expression for that sort of holy patience that burns away the dross, simply because it is already part of the air The People breathe.

I just sort of let go. I can’t express it any better than that, really. I stopped crying every night. I went about the business of being a good daughter and a good sister, because I knew I had no control over anything else. I could be good. I could be kind. I would wait.

The winter helped, as much as it aggravated, because it gave me a respite from the increasing attention of that Red Cloud Nebraska cattle baron. Mother brought his name up in conversation often enough to remind me that time was marching on. (In an idle moment, I counted all the calendars in our house: ten. None of them marched.) She told me I could do a lot worse than marry the man, which has never struck me as a ringing endorsement. I know she was right; I hoped she meant well.

Oh, that winter. I know the winter of 1886-87 broke records, which is probably why no one remarks on that winter of 1880-81. Still, we live in a fickle state, regarding moisture. The year before had been somewhat parched, so the everyone welcomed more snow, including me. And as our Episcopal priest said, to the ire of the congregation’s more censorious busybodies: “For what Nebraska is about to receive, may Nebraska be truly thankful. Amen.”

I welcomed our overlong winter. Red Cloud is some ten miles from the Kansas border. With livestock challenges and his distance from Omaha, my determined suitor had to content himself with letters. We wrote – him more frequently than I – and I relished the pause in his headlong courtship. Because Mother was certain that the rancher had already captured my heart, she did not foist other suitors on me.

I did have social obligations that winter, as it turned out. The bright spot for my mother was my appointment to head the refreshments committee for the annual Knights of Saint Mark grand ball and fundraiser. In my mother’s mind, this signal honor indicated that Omaha society had declared all to be forgiven and forgotten, and that I was now like everyone else. I established my committee, and dutifully held meetings to discuss the merits of macarons over eclairs, and where to get champagne, if trains from the East weren’t dependable. You know, thorny issues.

The Knights of St. Mark, you ask? My father was one of the founders of this philanthropic organization, which sponsored an orphanage for children of deceased railroad workers. It seems to me that if the Union Pacific made railroading a safer occupation, there would have been no need for the orphanage; perhaps I am quibbling.