All too soon, though, Father released me and stepped back. He cupped my cheek with his left hand and stared at me like he wanted to remember every detail of my face. Pulling his hand back, he turned from me to face the counter. He pulled a pad of paper from somewhere and began to write. His immediate desire to communicate with me warmed my heart.

I took the opportunity to study him. His appearance hadn't changed much. He was still tall, though not as tall as I remember since my six year old mind had considered him next to a giant. There were more lines around his face, and there was an air of seriousness around him that made me sad. He'd smiled so much before the war.

He'd also gained some weight. I remembered how frail he'd been when he was discharged from the army. An infection had taken its toll on him, although it hadn't necessitated the removal of his arm. He was dressed in a suit and vest, appropriate attire for a storekeeper

As I waited to read whatever he was writing, I glanced over my shoulder. Simon was deep in conversation with the young woman, who was looking more and more upset. A hand on my arm made me refocus on my father, who handed me the paper.

Ivy, what are you doing here? Is Ruth with you?

He didn't know about Aunt Ruth's death. That distracted me from how bad his handwriting was. He'd been right handed before the injury during battle made his right arm useless. Oh, why hadn't Uncle Richard sent word? Father was Aunt Ruth's only brother. He should have sent a telegram.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped to the counter and set down the books and my reticule. Picking up the pen, I began to write. The memories made my eyes fill with tears and blurred the words.

I remembered knowing that I was too late to help Aunt Ruth, but desperation had pushed me to press my fingers against her still warm skin and to shake her shoulder. My actions had no effect and I felt no heartbeat.

That was when I thought of the doctor. Dr. Babson was just down the street. He had to be able to help her!

A sob was in my throat as I forced myself to my feet. I'd tripped over my own skirt when I rushed to the door but I caught myself against the wall. Brushing tears from my face, I pulled the front door open and just ran.

In the years since Father and Simon left Springfield, Aunt Ruth had been my protector and comforter. What would I do without her? How could I endure Uncle Richard if she were not there to shield me from him?

There was only two people sitting in the small sitting room when I entered the house Dr. Babson used as both his home and office and I paid them only enough attention to take notice of them. Mrs. Babson, who acted as nurse for her husband, rose to greet me. Through my tears I read her lips: "Ivy. What is wrong?"

My hands moved faster than ever as I tried to explain in the language that had become second nature to me and I couldn't stop crying. Mrs. Babson caught my hands and held them still. "Ivy. I don't understand," she said. Her brow was furrowed with concern as she gestured to her desk where there was paper and writing implements.

The pen she pressed into my right hand shook as I put it to paper. My aunt fell down the stairs. I think she's....

That was all I could bring myself to write but it was enough to send Mrs. Babson running to the doctor's office. I collapsed onto one of the chairs and wrapped my arms around myself in an attempt to control my trembling.

How could this have happened?

Dr. Babson, who had always looked after my family, had been quick to follow me back to the house, and, with a grave expression, covered Aunt Ruth's body with a blanket after I showed him where it had happened. I sat on the bottom step and continued to cry. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't seem to do anything else.

Through my blurry gaze, I saw him go back to the front door and then he returned a few seconds later. He patted my shoulder as he stood next to me, and I wondered what was he waiting for.

In fifteen minutes, I had the answer to that question, though it confused me more than ever. A three policemen entered, looking serious and then began talking to Dr. Babson. Why had he summoned them?

Did he think Aunt Ruth's death was the result of deliberate action? Had someone, while I was out of the house, entered and pushed her down the stairs?

Who would have done something like that?

A white handkerchief appeared in my face and I realized one of the policemen was in front of me. I accepted the item and used it to dry my face. As I looked up at his bearded face, he spoke.

"Can you tell us what happened, Miss Steele?"

At least, that's what I assume he said. Lip-reading is not an exact science and made up of guesswork, and when a man had facial hair—such as the policeman—it became near impossible. What else would he be asking me, though?

My hands had already come up for me to answer when he turned away. His focus went to Dr. Babson, who was speaking to him. Since I was to the side, I couldn't even attempt to work out what was being said. I could only guess the doctor was explaining that I could not hear.

When the man faced me again, this time he spoke with greater mouth enunciation that I could see even with his beard. It didn't help and I had to shake my head. The man's body became tense and he turned away in frustration.

This was what it was like for me when I was around many hearing people. The feeling of being left out and a frustration to those around me.

More than ever, I longed for the security and comfort I had known at school.

Dr. Babson vanished into Uncle Richard's study and returned with pen and paper along with a book so that there was a hard surface to write on. The policeman quickly wrote and handed the paper to me. It was the question I had guessed earlier.

Trying to be quick, I wrote my explanation: how I had gone to the butchers, had taken the long way back, and had searched the upstairs until I went to the front staircase. Of course, the man—why didn't he give me his name or introduce himself?—had more questions. Was this routine? Had I noticed anything missing? Did I know of anyone who had been angry with my aunt?

Yes, it was a routine, though I hadn't been gone as long as I might have been on other days. No, nothing was missing, but I hadn't really looked. No one was ever upset with Aunt Ruth.

It wasn't hard to see that my answers were not what the policeman wanted to hear. While he tried to get more information from me, the two other policemen removed Aunt Beth's body from the floor and carried it out of the house.

In the middle of all this walked Uncle Richard. As he did, he said, "What...girl...done...." He was far enough away I missed most of the words but understood enough to know he thought this was somehow my fault.

If I had come home immediately after my errand was done instead of taking the long way, would Aunt Ruth still be alive?

Uncle Richard became the focus of the policemen and Dr. Babson. Still sitting on the stairs, I felt isolated and lonely.

The one person I relied on was gone forever.

Dr. Babson shifted to the side and I had a clear view of my uncle's face. He didn't look distressed about the fact his wife was dead. In fact, he seemed to be calm and composed as he spoke. I shifted my gaze to his lips in time to see him say, "...sick...some time...dizzy and fell...wife would never listen to...."

What was he saying? Aunt Ruth, sick? She wasn't sick when I left, or at least, she hadn't looked ill. Why would uncle Richard lie about that?

His words were making the other men nod in understand and I could see the tension leave their stances. They believed him? Was it easier to think a niece simply neglected a small fact? That an ill woman, who refused to rest, had gotten dizzy on the stairs and fallen to her death, the victim of an unfortunate accident?

I must have made some sort of sound because they all turned towards me. Uncle Richard pushed past the other men before I could figure out how to convey my doubts. He grabbed my shoulders and forced me to my feet. "Make yourself useful," he said, his face uncomfortably close to mine. He spoke each word in a slow, deliberate way. "Make some coffee."

Then, he spun my around and gave me a solid push. I caught myself against the wall and then glanced over my shoulder. Uncle Richard once again had everyone's attention and was gesturing as he talked.

Maybe I was over thought the matter and it had been an accident. Aunt Ruth could have kept her health to herself in order not to worry me.

In any event, I wasn't wanted. Ducking my head, I hurried to the kitchen to do as my uncle had ordered. Making coffee seemed a mundane task in view of what had happened but I couldn't deny that I was glad to have something to do.

Somehow, I condensed all of those memories into a short explanation for my father as fast as I could move the pen across the paper. There was more, like why I was there, what I suspected, but it didn't seem important right then.

There would be time enough for that humiliating memory later.

Father read my words, the frown furrowing his forehead going deeper and deeper. When he finished, he shook his head and covered his face with his left hand. When he dropped his hand, he handed my news out and Simon took it.

"Poor girl," I say Father say as he lifted his head. Grief was written on his face and I felt awful at having to have given him the news so abruptly. He blinked rapidly, his eyes shining brightly with tears. "What have you been through?"

A great deal, but I had no desire to add to his grief. I forced a smile.

Reaching out, Father hugged me once again with his good arm. I felt the rise and fall of his breathing with my head against his chest. It was amazing how comforted I felt.

After just a few moments, I was released once more and Father was in motion. He collected his hat and coat from the back. Hefting my carpet bag with his good hand, he led the way out of the store.

He gave several commands to Simon and the woman as he went out, one of which was for them to lock up. On the sidewalk, he set off to the right, walking away from the main part of the small town. I kept pace beside him, trying to take everything in.

There was a freshness in the air that was refreshing with undertones of pine and cattle. Men on horses tipped their hats as they went by, just as cowboys in other towns had done. Ladies inclined their heads, pausing in their conversation to greet my father. I garnered curious glances with every step I took.

The last house before the town officially ended was where Father left the road. It was much smaller than Aunt Ruth's brick house in Springfield, and only made of wood. There was a charming flowerbed along the porch and a whitewashed fence around it.

As Father opened the gate, the front door of the house opened. A brown haired child in a blue dress came running out, barefeet flying on the wood porch. There was a delighted grin on her face as she came down the steps.

"Papa! Papa!" her lips said as she clapped her hands together.

Dropping my bag, Father knelt down and caught the child in a hug, his head tilted back with a laugh. How I remembered greeting him in such a manner when I was little more than a toddler! But who was this?

I knew he had remarried four years ago, but his letters had never mentioned I had a new sibling.

The girl noticed me and pointed in my direction. Father turned and said, "Katie girl, this...Ivy."

Forcing a smile, I crouched and held my hand out. Little Katie scowled at me, her brown eyes—so like Simon's—filled with suspicion. The young woman from the store pushed past me, nearly knocking me off balance, and swept Katie out of Father's arms. She continued on her way into the house.

Why was she here? Did the woman Father married have children of her own? Did I have step-siblings?

The idea both excited me and made me nervous as I straightened up. My friends at school had always referred to their siblings with affection and exasperation. I'd been too young to have that kind of relationship with Simon, and I'd been looking forward to forming such with him. A sister, who I could share ideas about clothes would be fun, but we hadn't gotten off on the right foot.

I followed Father into the house and immediately breathed in the heavenly scent of baking bread. The morning errands I'd do in Springfield had taken me past bakeries but they had nothing on the scent in that house. My mouth watered in anticipation.

A woman, who looked enough like the young woman from the store to tell me they were related, came from the back of the house. She frowned at me, trying to calm the toddler on her hip.

"Peter, what...this Anna has told me about...daughter?"

So I not only had a stepsister named Anna, I had two half siblings and a third on the way, judging by the rounded belly of the woman. What had Father's letter said her name was? Cordelia?

With Father facing away from me, I wasn't able to see what he said. Instead I smiled at the toddler, who was staring at me with open interest. I wiggled my fingers at the child—the shapeless white gown gave no indication as to gender—and earned a smile in response.

When I refocused on Cordelia, her expression was one of outrage. "How? We barely...room for our own...," she said, shifting her toddler to her other hip. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Why hadn't Father told his new bride he had a daughter? Or had he told her but not mentioned the fact that I was deaf?

No doubt he hadn't expected me to ever come to the Montana territory.

My father stepped to her and leaned close to her ear. I noticed Anna stood in the doorway, interested in the conversation. When Father stepped back, Cordelia did not appear appeased but more resigned.

"How do I even communicate?"

That seemed as good a time as any to step forward. "Hello. I'm Ivy," I said, spelling my name out and then showing my sign name. I'd given it to myself soon after I went to school. Holding my pinkie up, I made a zigzag pattern in the air, like how an ivy plant grows. "I am pleased to meet you."

Some of my classmates had their names given to them, and the rest, like me, made their own. One of the ways we'd spent our evenings had been in devising interesting and unique ways to sign names. A person's personality had a lot to do with it.

Cordelia frowned at me. "What is she doing?"

Father glanced back at me as I tried not to feel hurt. I'd hoped my family would at least learn a few signs to communicate with me, as Aunt Ruth and the reverend's wife back home had done. Life was going to be complicated if they didn't.

"Ivy uses her hands to speak," Father said, making sure he kept his face towards me even though he was talking to his wife. He remembered! In my letters, I had mentioned how difficult it could be to carry on conversations when people looked away. "She reads lips."

That bit of information didn't seem to appease my stepmother at all. She spun around and vanished back where I assumed the kitchen was located.

As far as first meetings went, it could have gone better but it also could have been much worse.