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“But Indians?” Mary said.

I ignored her. Nothing was going to stop me from having my visit. My longing had turned into desperation. I needed to talk to a woman what understood about children getting lost, what understood how hard it was to make food stretch, and what might even know something about living with a man with a stubborn streak.

“Hurry up,” I said. “Go meet Mrs. Fills the Pipe and get Rounder in the barn.” I turned to Alise and Emma and made them come inside with me.

In the kitchen, excitement rose up again in my chest. Thank goodness yesterday there had been enough flour to make a half batch of soda biscuits. I carefully wiped the dust off my china plate with the hand-painted pink roses. I laid out four soda biscuits, one each for my guests. Four biscuits looked skimpy, but I couldn’t spare any more. I broke the four into halves, making eight. Likely nobody’d be fooled, but a person had to at least try to keep up appearances. Once you stopped caring about that, you might as well quit living.

There were a couple of pinches of chokeberry tea in the bottom of the canister. It was just enough to make a few cups if nobody minded it thin. I blew on the smoldering cow chips in the cookstove, stoking the fire. I put a little water in the teakettle. Guilt twisted my heart. I wasn’t using all that much water, I told myself. Isaac would be back tomorrow with plenty more. It was all right.

I looked out the parlor window. Mary was on her way to meet the wagon, and Liz was hurrying to catch up. Pushing my guilt to the side, I got out two of our good blue porcelain cups. Tea. All at once I felt like singing. I was serving tea.

The wagon, I saw now, was stopping under the cottonwood. I pulled off my hair kerchief, licked my palms, and patted my hair into place. I got my straw sun hat from the bedroom and checked myself in the parlor mirror as I tied the ribbons. I looked out the window.

The boy on the buckboard jumped down. He was tall and his shoulders had breadth to them. He wasn’t full grown but close. He put his hands around Mrs. Fills the Pipe’s waist as she backed one foot onto the high side step, and he lifted her like she was a child. Once on solid ground, she shook out her shoulders and stomped her feet to bring the life back to them.

The boy helped Inez down. On the ground, Inez took off her duster, folded it, and gave it to the boy to put in a basket on the floorboard. The child in the back of the wagon jumped—flying, more like—over the tailboard but landed on his feet, his knees bent and his arms out before him to hold himself steady like he was daring the wind to push him over.

I couldn’t remember the last time I was this pleased to see company.

I hurried and put away my ironing board. I glanced into the parlor, thinking how Mrs. Fills the Pipe had probably never been in such a fine room. Not that I had any intention of inviting her inside; Isaac would never stand for that. I brushed the grit off the front of my dress, and then me, Alise, and Emma went out on the porch to wait for our company.

I put my hand up in greeting as the Indians and the girls walked up the rise. Mrs. Fills the Pipe raised her hand to me. She looked older and slower than she had in the spring. Her back was bent with a little hump, reminding me how women folded in on themselves when their childbearing years had passed. I straightened my own shoulders.

Air caught in my throat. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Inez looked like a young lady—a white lady—the kind you see in catalog advertisements. She was fresh and clean as if the wind was not full of grit. Her dress was cream colored, and there was a wide pink sash gathered around her narrow waist. The dress was short, a good six inches above her ankles, showing off her white stockings. Her sheer pink head scarf was tied with a big bow angled to one side of her chin.

Was this, I thought, what the government was passing out to Indians while hardworking, honest ranchers were making do on next to nothing?

At least Mrs. Fills the Pipe looked the way an Indian should; that took