Of course I'd known there was the risk of this happening when I began, but I had convinced myself that the stories were often exaggerated and travel was as safe as it had ever been.

How stupid I'd been.

The coach slowed and then came to a stop as our driver and his shotgun decided that there was no use in flight. As soon as the coach halted, the door was pulled open and a rifle came into sight and jerked. No doubt the owner of said gun barked out an order for us to come out.

Sending a concerned glance in my direction, the kindly man who had looked out for me was the first to climb out. He moved with slow, deliberate actions, his hands in view at all times. The other men followed suit and then it was my turn.

I swallowed hard and leaned down to pick up my slate. Then, as I stepped out, my boot caught on my long skirt and I pitched forward. Four hands caught me before I hit the ground, which I was grateful for until I looked up and discovered that the hands belonged to two of the masked men.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment and, as quick as I could, I joined the other passengers. The kind, silver haired gentleman stepped to be between me and the masked men. I peered over his shoulder, half curious and half afraid of what was happening.

That was when I saw that the brave 'shotgun', who rode up with the driver was hunched on the driver's bench. There was no sign of his rifle. Narrowing my eyes, I spotted something bright red where his hand was pressed against his shoulder.

He'd been shot?

Any charity I might have felt over the mannerly way I'd been assisted vanished in that moment. What would drive someone to do this, shooting a man and then rifling through other's belongings? Just for money and then be on the run from all society? It made no sense!

One by one, the other passengers were 'encouraged' to give up any money or valuables on their person. And then, one of the masked men gestured at me. My fingers tightened on my reticule and the kind gentleman held his arm out as though to create a barrier to keep the man from me.

A rifle came up and the man was forced to take a step to the side. Raising my chin, I stared at the man as I held out the reticule. He couldn't know that I kept the majority of my funds in my boot. It was a trick I'd learned early on, keeping just enough money in my purse for the day so that if such a thing like a robbery, a thief would think nothing of it and not search my person any further.

The thief's eyes stayed on me as he took my purse. He tossed it to one of his partners and caught my hand. The handkerchief covering his face kept me from seeing whether he spoke, but he must have. He brought my hand up and kissed my fingers through the cloth of his mask.

Swiftly, I pulled my hand away, a shiver running down my spine. His head went back as though he were laughing. My cheeks felt as though they were even more on fire, embarrassed by the attention and being helpless to stop it.

My gaze dropped down. While his brown trousers were like any other, same as his red shirt, there was a strange design on the toe of his boots. I had seen leather marked like that before—saddles and saddlebags came to my mind—but I'd never seen boots like that.

Staring at it, I tried to commit it to memory. When we reached the next town and this holdup was reported, perhaps this small detail would help identify these men. After all, I couldn't describe what their voices were.

Within a few minutes, the thieves were on their horses and going their way with the money they'd collected and all the guns. The driver—Charlie, I think was his name—jumped to assist the man who had ridden shotgun.

The other passengers were furious about what had happened. One man in a wrinkled business suit threw his hat on the ground and ran his hand through his oily hair. Whatever he had to say on the matter I couldn't see for he turned so that I could not observe. From the way the other men nodded, they agreed with what was said.

My heart refused to slow down and a tremble had found it's way into my fingers. Breathing out I tried to calm down. It hadn't been as bad as it could have been, that was for sure. I'd been told tales of hold-ups that had resulted in death. Being short a few dollars was hardly anything to cry about in light of how it could have been.

Sooner than I was ready for, the driver was calling for us to get back in, but then again, I don't think anyone wanted to stay in the area. The man who had been riding shotgun was put in the coach with the rest of us and then we were off once again.

I hoped that it wouldn't be far to the next town.

¤¤¤¤

Two days later, I arrived in Colorado City, a day later than I had expected. A sheriff had questioned all the passengers, myself included, which had been a tiresome process. Last I'd been told, the shotgun rider was expected to survive and that it could have much worse.

Needless to say, it was a relief to put it all behind me. The moment I stepped off the stage, I couldn't resist sending a quick glance around to see just where I would be living. After all, this was where my father and brother had spent most of the last ten years of their lives. Would I find a home here just as they did?

Before I could take in much beyond the wooden buildings that lined the dusty street, a passenger who was anxious to disembark collided with my back and sent me stumbling forward. I braced myself to meet the boardwalk or ground, but instead I found myself with my face against a clothed chest. As I sucked my breath in with surprise, I smelled pine, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of horses.

It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it was preferable to the body order that had filled the stagecoaches I'd been in for most of my journey. It put me in mind of hard work and was rather what I thought a cowboy would smell like. Not that I'd ever put an kind of thought into how people smelled.

Two hands grabbed my shoulders, helping me to both straighten up and regain my balance. I lifted my gaze and again, my breath caught in my throat.

He had to be the handsomest young man I'd ever laid eyes on, and I had traveled over a thousand miles and seen quite a few men. I was close enough to see that freckles dotted his nose, though they were faint. A lock of sandy brown hair was visible under his brown cowboy hat. His eyes were dark brown and held a mixture of concern and impatience.

Oh, had he said something?

Flustered, I took a step away from him. "Thank you," I said, lifting my right hand to my mouth and making the sign I used most often. Whether anyone could understand me or not, I had to mind my manners.

As every other person who heard me speak, confusion made his forehead furrow and he tilted his head slightly. "Are you...right?" he said.

With a quick nod, I answered his question, trying to compose myself. It wasn't the first time I had run into someone, so why was I unsettled this time? Someone behind me brushed against me and, reminded that I was nearly in the street, I took a step to the side so that I would not block anyone else or get in anyone's way.

Would this young man know where I would find my father or brother?

Before I could work out how to ask him, someone moved into view next to him, clapping him on his shoulder. It took only a moment, but I knew him. Though younger and taller than my photograph of my father, there could be no doubt that it was my brother. His strawberry blonde hair was like my own, which we had inherited from our mother.

"Simon!" left my lips before I could stop myself. Once upon a time, he'd been my one playmate, patient with me when I first lost my hearing. I'd missed him when he first left, but school had filled my life. Seeing him once again made me happy though.

Puzzlement appeared in his hazel eyes and he frowned at me. "Do I know you, ma'am?" I watched him say.

He didn't recognize me. Of course, how would he? I'd only been six years old when he left but hadn't Aunt Ruth always said I looked exactly like Mama? Had the years made Simon forget what our mother had looked like?

As disturbing as that thought was, I tried not to let it really bother me. I'd made sure to put Mama and Father's wedding photograph in the front of the novel I had carried with me. I pulled it out and held it out to him. For a moment, he refused to take it, his eyes searching my face. It was only when I made an impatient gesture with the photograph that he took it.

The man who had saved me from hitting the ground also leaned over to have a look. My brother's eyes widened as they moved across the photograph. "No," he said, looking from the photograph to me. He shook his head as if he wanted to deny it all. "Ivy?"

Smiling broadly, I nodded. My brother didn't move to embrace me or give any kind of welcome. He merely continued to stare at me as though I were some kind of ghost and the photo fell from his hand. I told myself that I had expected this meeting to be awkward, and it was too soon to expect anything different.

The man who had rescued me rescued the photograph from the dirt and handed it to me. I placed it on my carpet bag because I couldn't contain my excitement and my hands needed to move. "I am so happy to see you, Simon," I signed, having to spell out his name with my right hand. I'd never needed to come up with a single sign for him, but I consigned the idea to the back of my mind in order to give the matter some thought. It would have to be something that fit him just right. "Where is Father?"

"She's deaf?" the stranger beside my brother asked, his eyebrows practically reaching his hat. "Do...know her? Who is she?"

An expression I didn't immediately understand appeared on my brother's face. Was that...shame? "She's my sister," he finally said. He rubbed the back of his neck and refused to look at me.

"You never said you...sister."

Simon had never talked about me? Yes, ten years was a long time but there had never been a conversation where he could have mentioned me? I found that hard to believe and it was hard not to feel a little hurt.

"We don't...." I couldn't see the rest of Simon's sentence because he turned away, but I could guess what he said.

They don't talk about me. Because I was deaf? Because as long as I wasn't there, they didn't have a need to think or make mention me?

It was obvious, in any event, that I was not expected by my family. Shouldn't Uncle Richard have sent a telegram or some kind of notice that I was coming, and it just hadn't arrived? Or had he simply sent me on my way without a care about what happened to me once I left his house?

The last wasn't so difficult to believe, actually.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my carpetbag come sailing down from the top of the stagecoach and it landed by my leg. It was a good thing I didn't have anything breakable in there. My hand mirror I'd packed carefully in my trunk, which, when I looked over my shoulder, was in the process of being brought down for me.

Simon and his friend were still talking, my brother's body language becoming more and more defensive. What was being said? I reached out and touched Simon's arm to get his attention. He faced me with a start.

'Father?' I mouthed, not trusting myself to use my voice again. I held up one finger and moved it from side to side, like I would search a map for a location. 'Where?'

My brother's shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. He bent over and picked up my carpet bag. "See you," I saw him say before he'd turned.

I offered the young man a smile before I hurried after Simon and he gave me a brief nod in acknowledgement. There would time enough for introductions later. I hoped.

Simon's steps were fast, almost like he wished he could outrun me. I suppose to have a sister one was ashamed of show up out of nowhere, with no warning, would put anyone in a bad mood. He could have been a little more considerate about it, though.

Four 'blocks' from where the stagecoach had stopped, I saw my family's store for the first time. The sign, Steele General Store, was not as nice as the sign in Springfield, but it gave me a sense of home to see it. There were several differences between the store Aunt Ruth and Father had been joint owners of in Springfield and the one here in Montana, mostly in the materials of the structure.

Without slowing his steps at all, Simon charged into the building and didn't give me much time to really study the outside or to get an idea of what was displayed in the windows. No one was browsing the shelves, which was preferable for a family meeting. How would Father react to seeing me?

An unfamiliar young woman, her black hair in a long braid that rested on her shoulder, was behind the counter. She was taller than me by about six inches, which made me feel even smaller than usual. "What...wrong, Si?" she asked, her gaze flicking over me in a curious way. Did she just call my brother, 'Si'?

With Simon's back to me, I couldn't see what he said, but I could see the change of emotions of her face. Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "What? You're joking."

By this point, I was tired of watching people express their shock and surprise at my appearance. Was it really strange for someone to return to their family after such a long time apart? But, no. I couldn't forget that apparently no one in this town knew about me, so I suppose it would be a surprise to everyone.

Forcing a smile, I stepped forward to stand next to my brother and held my gloved hand out to her. As soon as I crossed the Mississippi, I'd learned quickly that this was the common way of greeting people. The young woman just stared at me with brown eyes full of suspicion and I self consciously pulled my hand back.

"Your father...in...back," she said, moving her gaze back to Simon. "I'll–"

Her offer to get Father, which was what I guessed she had been about to say, was cut off by something Simon said. My brother dropped my carpet bag on the floor and then stepped around the counter. He vanished through the doorway, and I remained where I was.

The young woman flipped her braid over her shoulder and then came out from behind the counter. In a manner that hinted she was ignoring me, she walked to the front of the store. I twisted around to watch her. She flipped over a sign that indicated the store was closed and closed the door. Instead of returning to the counter, she walked down one of the aisles, out of my sight.

Nervousness made me flex my fingers. This was not how I expected this to go. I wasn't sure what I expected, but this upset was definitely not it.

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and I turned back. For the first time in ten years, my father was in front of me and he looked...much better than I remembered. No longer was he ill from the infection in the wound that had sent him home from the war. The beard he'd had the last time I saw him, that had graced his face for his wedding photograph, and that was in all of my memories, was gone.

There was no getting around that he stared at me as though I were a ghost. "Ivy." That was all he said as he came toward me. His brown eyes, which Simon and I had inherited from him, were bright with emotion. Then, his arms came around me and my face was pressed against his vest as he embraced me tightly.

In that moment, I was exactly where I wanted to be.