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monstrosity Mother called a parlor. Against the piano was shoved a backless divan; upon it was displayed an assortment of fans and framed photographs; beside it a jardiniere of peacock feathers. She had insisted on leaving behind not one item of her life's collection of litter, and had stuffed the room with an eye-boggling clutter of umbrellas, plaster busts, wicker rockers, cushions, coat racks, china cabinets, scarves, piecrust tables, clocks, and gimcracks. The floor was covered with fillings, then Oriental rugs, and then the easychairs hidden by embroidered cushions and Turkish tidies. The lovely bay window, which Papa had installed to let in plenty of light, was nearly obscured by hanging ferns and tassled draperies.
      Perusing it all, Emily sighed. Often she wished Papa would insist on clearing it out and leaving only a wicker chaise and a table or two, but she knew her mother's illness prevailed upon him to let her have her way.
      For Mother was dying.
      They all knew it but nobody said so. If she wanted her fringed piano cover and gimcracks around her while she did, who in this family would deny her?
      Emily collapsed onto the ugly rolled divan, dropped her crossed arms and head onto her knees, and gave in to the depression that hung over this house.
      Oh, Mother, please get well. We need you. Papa needs you. He's so lonely and lost, even though he tries to hide it. He's probably worried sick right now about what will happen with another livery stable starting up right under his nose. He'd never let on to me, but he would to you if you were strong.
      And Frankie—he's only twelve and he needs so much mothering yet. Who'll give it to him if you die? Me, when I still need mothering myself? I need it at this very moment. I wish I could run to you and talk about my fears for Papa, and my hopes of becoming a veterinarian, which I want more than anything I can ever remember, and about Charles and my uncertainties regarding him. I need to know if what I feel is strong enough or if there should be more. Because he's warned me—he's going to ask me again, soon; and what should I say this time?
      With her face buried in her arms, Emily thought of Charles. Plain, good, hard-working Charles who had been her playmate since childhood, who'd been so devastated by the news of her leaving Philadelphia that he'd made the monumental decision to come along with her family to the Wyoming Territory and make his start in the world.
      Charles, whom she was so grateful to have at first, living in a new place where there were few other young people her age. Charles, who was becoming insistent about setting a date for their wedding when she wanted instead to learn veterinary medicine first. Charles, to whom she felt betrothed even before she was.
      She sighed, pushed herself up, and went to the kitchen. By virtue of necessity, it was the only room in the house devoid of extraneous decor. It had the best range money could buy, and a real granite sink with an indoor pump. A washroom was located at the back with a coal oil heater, a washing machine with metal gears and an easy-to-manipulate hand agitator, and real wooden wringers with a convenient hand crank.
      Emily took a look at it and turned away in disgust, wishing she could be at the livery barn cleaning stalls.
      Instead, she went upstairs to check on her mother.
      The house was rich by Sheridan standards, not only because Papa doted on his ailing wife, but also because Charles Bliss was a carpenter and had brought along his talent and his blueprints—a great relief to Mother, who'd been so afraid she'd have to live in a peeled-log hut with mice and insects. Instead, she'd been built an elegant frame house of two full stories with large airy rooms, long windows, and an impressive entry hall with an open stairway and spooled railings.
      Mounting that stairway, Emily turned at the top and paused in the doorway of her parents' bedroom—a spacious room with a second