The sun climbed higher in the sky; she guessed that she had been gone about an hour. To her left, the land dipped and rolled. She saw a vast expanse of pink up ahead and pulled Chester over to the side of the road.

Sweeps and swaths of roses ran low to the ground. Their petals, deep pink shading to cream, surrounded centers so sunny and golden that each blossom looked like a cheerful little face. She walked around breathing in their perfect scent—light, fresh, sweet but not cloying.

Hanna picked out half a dozen of the smaller plants, mostly in bud rather than bloom. She had brought with her a shovel, a trowel, and the big tin washtub, as well as a bucket of water. Carefully she dug up each of the bushes and moved them to the washtub. Then she put the tub into the wagon bed. Lifting shovelfuls of soil over the side of the wagon to cover the base of each bush wasn’t easy. But if she had filled the tub with soil on the ground, she would probably not have been able to lift it.

Finally she gave all the plants a good watering. With the last of the water in the bucket, she rinsed the dirt from her hands. I’ll need something to put the rosebushes in. Lard cans, maybe. With fabric tied around them. And with luck all the buds will bloom just in time for the opening.

Satisfied, she climbed back onto the wagon seat and took a last look at the prairie.

Something to the south caught her eye.

She stared hard, seeing nothing except the endless miles of rolling grasses. Just my eyes playing tricks?

Then she saw it again: A few people were emerging from a dip in the land, walking away from her.

Black hair. No sunbonnets.

Indians.

While she stared, a woman at the back of the group turned to glance behind her. Hanna recognized her at once: the gray-haired elder she had encountered earlier, the day before arriving in LaForge.

Their eyes met. The woman looked at Hanna for a long moment. Then she made an unmistakable gesture with her chin, both acknowledging Hanna and beckoning her.

Hanna walked briskly to catch up with the group. They had stopped on a stretch of prairie with a slight rise. They were definitely the same Sioux women she had met before. The gray-haired elder nodded at her. The little girls giggled, and Hanna smiled at them in recognition. The baby had changed the most; although still tied to her mother’s back, she—or he—was much bigger now.

They scattered along the rise, each carrying a stick. Hanna stayed with the gray-haired woman, who then spoke to her.

—To’khel yau’n he

Hanna nodded, then pointed to herself. “Hanna,” she said. “My name is Hanna.”

“Hanna,” the woman repeated. She tapped her own chest with a flat hand and said, “Wichapiwin.”