As the wagon train rolled into St. Louis, Sarah welcomed the reprieve. She was tired, worn, dirty and hungry. For the first time in her young life, she felt nothing like a lady. She knew her Grandmother had been right in advising her to go west. A war was coming to her homeland. She had skills to draw upon and make a new life for herself, away from the coming turmoil. She wondered now, which was the greater evil, becoming something new or defending what she was.
She would do as she had been instructed, guard her monies, look about the towns for opportunities. Seamstresses, innkeepers, school teachers would be in demand in the growing western settlements.
As Sarah disembarked the wagon, he caught her eye. Tall, bearded, cloked in his longtail split leather coat, he was the very image of the west.
Marshall was a man of great stride, announcing his own authority even before he entered the building. At home on the ranch, or the trail, this man reeked adventure and stirred a young girl's curiosity. Just looking at him was reason to trust his leading her to the western desert.
Droughts, Indians, hunger could be conquered at his voice. This man shouldered responsiblity and ability like a mule wore a harness. He knew when to plow on or when to hold his ground.
These things could be seen just by the confidence of his gait. Sarah knew, she must find her way to his protection. This, she knew, was a man. A man for whom stories would be told and legends be born. She must be there to ensure the accuracy of the telling.