Mr. Sloan was yelling at the Johnson boy for stealing his pecans; Mrs. Conrad could be heard expressing her disapproval at the goat eating her flowers. Next door to her, Mr. Quincy was arguing with the paperboy, who had thrown the morning newspaper on the roof for the second time that week.

Grant tipped his hat to the two women gossiping over a fence and steered his horse around the wagon belonging to the dogcatcher. A terrible commotion drew Grant’s attention to an alleyway, and the dogcatcher emerged running, chased by a big yellow hound.

A half block away, the widow Rockwell walked out of her tiny house carrying a lamp. Compared to the other buildings on the street, the two tiny residences she owned looked like dollhouses. She waved at Grant, and he tipped his hat in greeting.

“Need any help?” he called. He’d already helped her move twice that week.

“No, not today.”

The widow’s two houses were located directly across from each other. Almost identical in size and style, they were called Sunday houses and had originally been built so that immigrant farmers could stay in town during weekends to run errands and attend church.

The problem was, the widow could never make upher mind which one to live in. No sooner would she haul her belongings to one side of the street than she decided to live on the other. So back and forth she traipsed from house to house, moving, always moving.

It had rained the night before, and puddles of mud dotted the dirt-packed road, causing the widow to pick her way across the street with care.

Except for a few lingering clouds, the sky was clear, and the air smelled fresh with just a hint of fall.

It was a normal day on Peaceful Lane—except for one thing. In the middle of the roadway, a woman was fighting with a pushcart.

Grant reined in his horse and narrowed his eyes against the bright morning sun. Did he know her? He didn’t think so. Still, something about her small, trim frame struck a familiar chord.

The lady pushed the cart one way and jerked it the other. A trunk or chest of some kind was perched precariously on top of the hand wagon, and it teetered back and forth like a child’s seesaw.

Apparently seeing the futility of her efforts, she leaned over to examine one of the wheels stuck in the mud. This afforded him an intriguing glimpse of a white lace petticoat beneath an otherwise somber blue dress. She surprised him by giving the pushcart a good kick with a well-aimed boot.

Hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, he leaned forward. “So what do you think, Chester? Should we offer to help before the lady does injury to her foot?”

For answer, his horse lowered his head and whickered.

“I quite agree.”

Urging his horse forward in a short gallop, Grant called, “May I be of service, ma’am?” He tugged on the reins. “Whoa, boy.”