scanned the buffalo coat as she set it on a chair, but he didn’t ask about it. In the kitchen the water was ready. After putting the bark in and letting it steep, she carried a mug out to him and set it down. Under his gaze she put on the coat, did up her muffler, and donned her battered, wide-brimmed, gray hat.
He asked, “Do all the women here dress like you?”
“All the ones with sense. I’ll be back shortly. Providing I can get out. If the windows are snowed over, the doors probably are, too.” Her hope was that the temperatures hadn’t dropped low enough to freeze the snow.
Leaving him with the tea, it took a few shoves with her shoulder to get the back door open. Holding the lantern she’d lit, she stepped out into the knee-high snow covering the back porch. It was cold, the moon was just rising, and the snowfall had transitioned to flurries. Her land was covered by a beautiful glistening sea of white as far as she could see. According to her grandfather Ben, the tribes had different words for various types of snow, from heavy and wet, to light and fluffy, and everything in between. He’d never taught her the words though. With a gloved hand, she scooped some up, tossed it, and it floated light as goose down. A blessing, at least for the moment. Were it heavy with moisture, making her way to the barn would be a lengthy, tiring struggle. Due to the snow’s sheer depth though, it would still take time, but its fluffiness would make the trek easier. Unable to see the porch’s stairs, she descended carefully. The last thing she needed was to fall and break something. As she reached what she guessed to be the bottom, the depth rose to midthigh. With the lantern held high, she waded slowly. The barn was a good distance from the house. With any luck, she’d make it before summer.
Chapter Two
Garrett sipped the terrible-tasting tea and mused on his journey so far. Having left Washington, he’d journeyed by train to Chicago, changed trains in Denver, and boarded another for Cheyenne. From there, he’d been surprised to learn it was the train’s last stop and he’d have to travel via stagecoach or horseback to his destination, Paradise. A few questions put to the conductor informed him that the stagecoach only ran twice a week, and wasn’t due in for another three days. Not wanting to wait, he chose horseback. The conductor sent him to the livery, where after negotiating a price for the mount and a saddle, he was advised by the owner that his thin-soled back-East shoes should be replaced by boots to protect his ankles from snakebite. Uncertain as to whether the man was pulling his leg or not, he’d counted out the coin owed and spent the night at a local boardinghouse. He set out at first light and spent the next two days atop the stiff, uncomfortable saddle and wearing the tight, ill-fitting new boots. He was then waylaid by a blizzard, thrown from the horse, and forced to walk. Between his wrenched knee and saddle-sore rump, a less determined man might be ready to return home at first light. Instead, he was seated with his belly full of the best stew he’d ever tasted in the cabin of the most unconventional woman he’d ever met.
Spring Lee was seemingly as untamed as the Wyoming mountains, and frankly, just as impressive. Unlike some of the women he knew at home, there was no artifice or pretentiousness. She was candid and frank. The question she’d asked about his sister had been unexpected yet sent the message she wanted to convey: if he got out of line she’d shoot him. He planned to mind his manners and be on his best behavior.
This was his first trip west of Chicago. Having learned of Dr. Colton Lee from a family friend, Garrett and his father thought their paper’s subscribers would be intrigued by a Colored doctor practicing medicine in a place not usually associated with members of the race. Spring mentioned a grandfather. Garrett wondered just how long the family had lived in the Territory and why’d they’d settled there. Their story would be a feather in the cap of his father’s struggling newspaper, the Crier. As far as Garrett knew, the Washington Wasp, the leading Colored paper in the District, had never run anything like the story the Crier planned