It would all be worthwhile soon. When she greeted her father and they settled into the lovely house he’d built. Four bedrooms. Imagine. And a parlor with windows facing west. Delightful. Undoubtedly, she’d have to do some redecorating. Men never thought about such niceties as curtains and throw rugs. She’d enjoy it. Once she had the glass shining and fresh flowers in the vases he would see how much he needed her. Then all the years in between would have been worthwhile. Sarah felt a line of sweat trickle down her back. The first thing she wanted was a bath--a nice, cool bath laced with the fragrant lilac salts Lucilla had given her as a parting gift. She sighed. She could almost feel it, her body free of the tight corset and hot clothes, the water sliding over her skin. Scented. Delicious. Almost sinful.

When the coach jolted, Sarah was thrown against the fat woman to her left. Before she could right herself, a spray of rotgut whiskey soaked her skirts.

“Sir!” But before she could lecture him she heard the shot, and the screams.

“Indians!” The chicken leg went flying, and the fat woman clutched Sarah to her bosom like a shield. “We’re all going to be murdered.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Sarah struggled to free herself, not certain if she was more annoyed by the sudden dangerous speed of the coach or the spot of chicken grease on her new skirt. She leaned toward the window to call to the driver. As she did, the face of the shotgun rider slid into view, inches from hers. He hung there, upside down, for seconds only. But that was long enough for Sarah to see the blood trickling from his mouth, and the arrow in his heart. Even as the woman beside her screamed again, his body thudded to the ground.