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stone house looked so warm and nurturing, the roses in the garden so vibrant, the twisted vines of the grape arbor so lush as they had on that last day. As Pino drove the old swayback nag up the road, Rosa promised herself that her new home would have a rose garden.
    The old wagon labored up the hill and passed beneath the archway beside the church. When they reached the front of the church, Rosa asked him to stop. She climbed down and hurried across the piazza. The heavy wooden door of the church whined mournfully as she pushed it open just far enough to allow herself to slip inside. The interior of San Genesio’s was cool and dark, an incense-scented retreat lit only by the colored shards of light that pierced the stained-glass windows to penetrate the gloom. Her gaze had been drawn upward to the vaulted ceiling that loomed above the darkened interior. There had been something ominous about leaving the church behind. How well she remembered kneeling on a hard wooded priedieu when she was barely tall enough to see over the top. At the end of the long aisle formed by neat rows of kneelers, shrouded in pristine white linen and dark mystery, the altar stood silent.
    She could not help but think of how Giovanni might have looked as he celebrated his first mass here in the village church—but he had married her instead. God forgive me, she had prayed, for taking him from you. Then, unwilling to make Pino wait any longer, Rosa had whispered one final prayer, one for safe passage to America, crossed herself, and slipped out the door.
    Now, as she stared out of the train window at the passing landscape, she thought of the flowers of Crotte, the empty church of San Genesio, and she wondered if she would find roses, or even a church, in mis place called Wyoming.
    As the train rattled down the line toward her destination, Rosa unconsciously smoothed the lush velvet of the black traveling dress her mentor, the Contessa de Raphael, had given her for the trek to America.
    The contessa was a member of one of the many noble families that had chosen Corio as their summer residence. When the old count had died, the childless widow had decided to remain in the mountain retreat. The contessa, who could read and write both Italian and English, had been Rosa’s only hope. Mustering her courage, Rosa had knocked at the great double doors of the contessa’s villa and asked the woman for a position as a housemaid. Rosa then brazenly suggested that instead of paying her in coin, the contessa teach her to read and write English.
    Rosa would not soon forget the relief she felt when the lady had laughed and shrugged, “Why not? It will be a challenge that will help fill the loneliness of my days.” In time, the contessa had become more of a confidante than an employer. On Rosa’s last visit to the villa the great lady had presented her with the velvet gown. “I am old, Rosa. I will never go to America. You must take my dress. At least that way it will be as if a part of me is there.”
    The train swayed on toward Wyoming. Rosa pressed her forehead against the windowpane seeking relief from the stifling heat in the long, narrow car that housed immigrant travelers. Other cars on the train were just as extreme in their plainness and designated for various groups of travelers. One was set aside for single men, another for Chinese and others of obvious exotic origins. Few windows were fully open, for the air outside was as hot as, or even hotter than, the air inside. What fresh air the passengers were afforded was no luxury, for it carried with it cinders and ash that poured from the locomotive’s smokestack.
    A barrel-chested conductor sporting a waxed mustache drew her attention as he walked along the passage between the wooden benches on either side of the aisle. The same man had been on duty the previous evening, and Rosa wondered how he managed to remain so cool and unruffled in the tailored midnight coat ornamented with its shining brass