If I were to pen a letter to a dear relative, it is what I would write. One never complained or shared discomfort, especially when the missive would not arrive for months. Based on the disaster and ensuring delay, a letter would have arrived in the Montana Territory faster than I. Ever since Chicago, I had ridden alone, no chaperone. It would have been best if I had one, but there was no one I knew who wished to venture into the wilds and unsettled land of the Indians. I didn't wish to venture there either, but the choice was not mine to make. And so I rode up on a borrowed horse to not be greeted by my husband, but a ranch hand. He'd directed me to the largest of houses dotted across the almost treeless landscape. This time, when I slowed my horse, I was greeted not by one man, but many. I had no idea which belonged to me or—more accurately—which one to whom I belonged. Several had dark hair, some had fair, another had the coloring of ginger, yet all were large, well muscled and decidedly handsome.
