Father came through magnificently. Before his death a mere six months later, he had that trust purring along nicely, with Phil as co-signer. I found out later that Father funneled my inheritance from him into that account as well. “Make sure she knows I never meant to leave her penniless,” he told Mama before he died. I have wanted for nothing, except the earnest wish that I could have told him how much I loved him, before he died. Mama knows, though.

Duncan and I bided our time through that winter and into the spring of 1883. I taught the reservation school, which came in handy, as I would eventually be teaching my own children. When Phil finished his third year at Harvard, I kissed Duncan goodbye and met my brother in Omaha, using our lifetime UP passes to go West in style.

Duncan knew where he wanted me to look. Letters to and from Lapwai had mentioned some property going up for sale in Oregon’s Grande Ronde Valley. A long-time settler had died, and his widow had no desire to remain in such an isolated place, especially with Umatilla and Cayuse Indians to the north and west and Nez Perce Christians to the east. I entered into correspondence with her and her bank in faraway Portland.

“I’d like to see it with you,” my husband said that night before I left The Hot Place.

“Let me assuage your pains and assure you that Elizabeth Ann the Fierce will not fail you,” I told him. I assuaged him in other ways that night, too, which was the beginning of our eldest son, as near as we could figure. If any man tries to tell you that women are feeble creatures, I dare him to travel a long distance, stay in indifferent hotels, choke down poor food, and negotiate a good deal during bouts of morning sickness.

The ranch was perfect, with beautiful rolling hills, ample pasturage, and fine soil that eventually became the orchards. There was the added bonus of a warm spring, which we still enjoy, clothed in company and bare otherwise. To call the ranch house rustic would be charitable. As it turned out, the hovel didn’t matter. Once both Stuarts arrived and our neighbors got a good look at Mr. Stuart, someone burned it down for us. How thoughtful.

But that was twenty years ago. The final replacement house is lovely, and often the scene of pinochle games with our neighbors. Duncan likes to tell the story how he lost his moccasins in a game of cards with Poker Joe and they all laugh, shuffle the cards, and try to cheat him.

I’m getting ahead of the story. My brother signed for the property and I handed over two thousand dollars to the widow. I now owned a ranch only a day’s drive from Lapwai Reservation. Phil returned to Harvard and I went back to Indian Territory, throwing up every morning.