Omaha was a dirty, stinking town, but it wasn't worse than Chicago where the man had been last. At least the cows here were alive, anyways, from what he could see. And the land! Chicago was full of buildings, all ramshackle and full of people, but Omaha had open space. Once you left the town, anyways, which wasn't hard to do. Everything was flat and the sky stretched out for a thousand miles. He half expected to be able to see Chicago from here.

He kicked a stone out of the road and hoisted his pack on his shoulder. There wasn't much in it, he'd spent almost every penny he'd found in Chicago to get here. Then there was a comb and his other shirt, but nothing else. There had been a photograph of his wife, but it was gone now too, lost somewhere along the way. He was more saddened by that than he thought he would be. It had been years since he'd seen her last.

He decided as he walked along that Omaha was nicer than he'd expected. Still stinking, still dusty, but in the summer sunshine it was nice enough. There was a saloon, anyways, and a few shops. He could stay here a while, maybe get an honest job. They wouldn't cheat him like they had in Chicago, with the 'new' house he'd rented a room of, or the bad milk. There were lots of farmers, and it was getting close to haying season, so perhaps he could earn a few pennies doing that. Maybe he could stay here.

He'd thought a lot on the trains. There hadn't been anyone to talk to, so he'd dreamed. He dreamed of his children that he hadn't seen in years. He had to picture them being young, because he couldn't picture them grown up. 

He wondered where they were. Their mother had taken them to America, last he knew. He could have walked by them a thousand times in New York, or Chicago, or even here, and he'd never have known.

He was sorry.

Since he'd decided to save pennies, and he'd stopped drinking, he'd been tormented by them, every time he slept. He felt remorse for what he'd done, for leaving them alone, for letting them go. He was sorry for hitting his wife, for screaming at his children, sorry he'd ever started drinking in the first place. He'd tried for a long time to justify it, you know, his father had been a heavy drinker too, after the Hunger was over and life didn't go back to normal, as they still starved and his own mother had died with a belly full of English corn.

The more he thought, though, the more the red-haired man realised he was in a new land, where people had never known hunger like that, and besides, they'd given England the boot a hundred years back, so there was one obstacle gone. Even here, while he was still a man with no real skills, he'd found work-- disgusting though it was, he was paid-- and he could move on.

Yes, he decided, this was a good place. Hopefully it will stay that way for people like me.

*****

Emma had gotten used to the corset by now. It had been made for her, after all, it had just been stiff, and now it was used to her and she to it.

"Is that too tight?" asked Hannah.

Emma turned and twisted in the mirror. "No, it's fine. Thank you."

Hannah helped her step into the crinoline silently. "I think I'd better go into a different line of work," she muttered as her fingers fumbled the ties.

"I'd do it myself if I could reach," laughed Emma, a little embarrassed. Until recently she'd never had anyone help her dress, except a sister to do buttons. Now she was standing in front of a coworker in lacy underwear, stepping into a literal cage.

"It's better than having Cook yell."

"Or cleaning wax off the candlesticks."

Hannah laughed too, putting the petticoat over Emma's head. She paused. "Do you actually like doing this?"

Emma thought for a moment. "It's very different from what I came from," she mused. "And I think if my sister found out about this she'd just about kill me-- she's one of those 'material wealth rots your soul' sorts of people. But it is fun." She shook her head and turned to Hannah. "The only problem is that I never feel like myself. I can't speak in my own voice, have my own name, or really even my own face. It's hard to be somebody else."

For a moment Hannah felt some pity, but then she felt the lace on the dress as she picked it up, and she remembered how much she hated Emma MacEilan-- more than she ever hated Emma Remigrant.

As she buttoned up the front, Emma realised she had spoken entirely in her flat American accent without knowing.

***** 

It was a Saturday and a beautiful late-summer night, and there was someone on the outside of the city who supposedly had a grand ranch with a view of the red mountains, and his gardens were supposed to be incredible, so Emma set out with Mrs. Remigrant on the long ride. The lady's dress was ten years outdated and deep red, but old ladies were always given a bit of slack on their dresses, and Emma's dress was fine. 

"I wonder who will be there," she said out loud.

Emma tilted her head. "I thought you'd know, ma'am."

Mrs. Remigrant laughed. "Oh, no, dear. Look at the mountains, aren't they lovely? They'll be especially nice at sunset. All very red."

"Very lovely."

*****

The garden was lovely. Red rocks had been hauled in from the mountains they could see in the distance and were surrounded by greenery and flowers. Trees burgeoned over the paths.

"How do you keep it so green, Mrs. Winter?" tittered Mrs. Remigrant to the hostess.

"Oh, it's dreadfully expensive," moaned the lady, fanning herself with a white-gloved hand. "We had to go through all this legal trouble to get the water rights, and then paying the gardeners to water them twice a day..."

Emma let her eyes wander. Beneath one of the trees was a table of drinks-- lemonade and champagne, it looked like-- and she was absolutely dying of heat. "Would you pardon me a moment?" 

Mrs. Remigrant and Mrs. Winter both waved their hands dismissively. "Lovely to meet you, dear. I hope you have a lovely time."

"Thank you. The garden really is lovely." With a small curtsey and a smile she set off.

"Lovely girl," she heard the hostess say, "very poised."

"Yes, she spent some time at finishing school in London..."

I spent some time at finishing school in London, Emma noted. There was a running list in her head of all the things Emma Remigrant had done.

The lemonade felt cool on her lips, and she thought for a moment about trying the champagne, but shook it off. She'd never touched alcohol-- besides Mass as a child-- and didn't intend to start now. Imagine if she had too much, and forgot her accent...!

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure?" 

Emma turned to see a man of about thirty standing beside her. "No, I don't think we have," she smiled. "Miss Remigrant."

He took her outstretched hand. "Duncan McDonald," he said. "Terribly Scottish, I know."

She laughed as his lips brushed her glove. "I've a cousin who married a Scotsman," she said. "I've nothing against them."

He smiled back, his deep-set eyes a soft sort of brown that matched his wavy hair. "Would you care to dance, Miss Remigrant?"

Emma handed her glass to the serving boy at the table with a small nod. "I would, thank you."

Mr. McDonald was taller than she was, but only by half a head. He danced with his feet hardly touching the floor, it seemed, so light on them that he seemed to fly.

"You come from New York, I hear?"

She raised her hand with his as the music flowed. "I do. Where do you come from?"

"My father was from Virginia, but my mother came from Inverness as a girl. I was raised in Denver, but went to university at Cambridge."

"I've heard Cambridge is lovely."

"Not as lovely as Ireland." He spun her. "Have you ever been to Europe, Miss Remigrant?"

"I spent a while at a finishing school in London. I wish I could have seen the Continent, though. It sounds enchanting."

Mr. McDonald chuckled. "There are a lot of finishing schools in London," he said. "London isn't even the best place in Britain, but nobody ever seems to leave."

"You mentioned Ireland?"

He sighed with a smile as they spun, his hand on her waist. "The land of the gods. I spent a week there before returning. My ship was leaving from Queenstown, but I went through Dublin south through Carlow. It's all so beautiful, so green, like nothing in Colorado ever can be. And the sea..."

Emma listened to him go on, and she too pictured Ireland.

Oh, boy oh boy, was this a long hiatus. I'm really, truly sorry. But I'm back now!

I had very conveniently NOT outlined this story when I began it, so when I hit a block, I REALLY hit a block. Fortunately, I was able to read it again and go through everything I'd ever written about the MacEilan family (most of which will never see the light of day, ever) and I found my place!! Hurrah!!!!!

So I will be continuing to write and update this story-- I don't know how much longer it will be, but I've plotted out everything and know where to go with it. So far.

Give me predictions/ideas/comments! I would absolutely love to hear them!