September, 1888

The farther west the stagecoach traveled, the less familiar the world became.

Boston had been left behind days ago—its brick buildings, crowded streets, horse-drawn omnibuses, and familiar church bells replaced by endless miles of prairie, scrubland, mountains, and great open skies.

Now, after weeks upon the road, Miss Olive Ulster was somewhere in the American West.

And San Francisco was still ahead.

The stagecoach groaned and swayed beneath her, its iron-rimmed wheels throwing up clouds of dust as it rattled along the rough road. Every rut sent a little jolt through the carriage.

Olive had long since learned that there were two sorts of stagecoach passengers:

Those who complained about the road...

...and those who eventually surrendered to it.

She had surrendered somewhere around Nebraska.

She sat with her gloved hands folded neatly over her traveling bag, her blue dress somewhat less pristine than it had been when she'd departed Boston. Her brown hair was pinned carefully into place, though several wisps had escaped despite her best efforts.

Freckles dotted her fair complexion.

Her blue eyes watched the passing countryside through the dusty window.

She was, by any reasonable measure, an unlikely traveler for such an arduous journey.

A respectable young woman.

Well educated.

Well spoken.

Raised with the manners expected of a lady.

And now traveling nearly three thousand miles across the country to meet a solicitor she'd never seen before regarding an inheritance left to her by her late father.

Her father.

The thought made her expression soften.

He had been gone nearly a year.

The estate had taken months to settle. There had been correspondence, legal notices, signatures, and finally a letter from his solicitor explaining that certain matters could not be concluded until Olive appeared in person.

The solicitor practiced in San Francisco.

Thus, Olive had packed what little she could reasonably take.

Three blouses.

Three skirts.

Five sets of undergarments.

Socks.

An extra pair of shoes.

A sleeping gown.

And thirty dollars in cash.

Her mother's wedding ring was also with her.

Though not on her finger.

Olive had hidden it carefully in her trunk, beneath her clothing, rather than risk losing the precious heirloom during the journey.

Her trunk was presently secured atop the stagecoach.

Hopefully.

She had discovered rather quickly that worrying about one's possessions on the roof of a stagecoach did absolutely nothing to make them safer.

A small paper parcel sat in Olive's lap.

Inside were humbug candies.

A civilized comfort in an increasingly uncivilized journey.

She had no idea what part of the country they were in, but the coachman said they'd stopping up ahead to pick up more travelers.

Olive hoped they were at least civilized as she sucked on another of her candies.