Mott had expected to inherit Evangeline, along with the property and his father’s money, a prospect that still caused her to shudder whenever the thought overtook her in an unguarded moment. Their small Pennsylvania town had been depleted of eligible men, as had the surrounding countryside, owing to the ravages of the late and tragic conflict of arms, and Evangeline, left with no honorable means of support, was desperate to marry.

Just when she’d begun to fret that she would have to give in and accept Mott Keating as a mate—his father, at least, had been a mild-tempered man, if not precisely kind—the letter had arrived. Mr. John Keating, a lonely but well-situated rancher, wrote to extend his condolences. He also enclosed a murky tintype of himself and a bank draft of not inconsiderable size, made out to Evangeline.

If she cared to make the journey west, he stated, he would marry her and raise her daughter as his own. He claimed to be an easy-going man, God-fearing, with simple wants and expectations. He had been among the first to drive cattle up from Texas, and there was a good, sturdy house on his property, one that wouldn’t let in the rain. He had a fine and trustworthy partner, who kept mostly to himself. The work was hard, he admitted, and the ranch was a lonely place, there being few folks about. There were virtually no women, no schools as yet, and no churches, although Mr. Jacob McCaffrey, who, with his wife, June-bug, ran the Springwater station, a stagecoach stop some ten miles away, could be persuaded to preach a sermon now and again.

Evangeline had packed her and Abigail’s few belongings into a single trunk, and ridden the railroads from Philadelphia to St. Paul, where they had boarded the first of numerous stagecoaches, traveling across the Nebraska and Montana Territories. The journey had taken weeks, calling upon every personal resource of courage, stamina and persistence Evangeline possessed. Only hours ahead of last night’s blizzard, exhausted, hungry and cold to the marrow of their bones, mother and daughter had at last reached the Springwater station, where the McCaffreys had made them welcome.

The rider gained the barn, dismounted and, after dragging open the door, led the puffing horse inside. In a few minutes, he came out again, blowing clouds as he slogged toward the station. When he raised his head and saw Evangeline and Abigail at the window, a grin flashed across his face, as dazzling, in its own way, as the sun-washed snow.

Evangeline stepped back quickly, reached up to touch her hair, which was an unremarkable shade of blonde, by her reckoning, but very neatly tended. She was, at her own assessment, neither plain nor pretty, with her tall, sturdy frame and strong hands. She had brown eyes, good teeth, healthy skin, and a shy, rare smile. She knew how to work, she was honest, and she was smart with numbers and words. She could grow vegetables, raise chickens, milk cows, keep a clean house, cook and sew. All in all, she was quite adequate as wife material.