Prologue
Helena, Montana
Margaret was distinctly aware that her updo had lost a considerable amount of tension.
The roots of her hair no longer tugged at her scalp as firmly as they had that morning, and she could feel a thick strand trying to splay itself across her forehead.
With a delicate brush of her gloved finger, she tucked the blonde tuft behind her ear, and felt the slight dampness from sweat that had begun to form beneath the summer sun hanging directly overhead.
“Apologies, Father,” she began softly. “I had thought to bring a parasol but left it back at your office.”
As expected, the headstone had nothing to say in reply.
Margaret subtly shifted the hem of her skirt, catching a whirl of dry air that did very little to cool her body. Dark eyes scrutinized the mess of wrinkles she’d consequently made, and she did her best to smooth them over.
“What a state I find myself in. Not exactly becoming of your legacy, mm?”
Again, the headstone said nothing.
Margaret sighed lightly, glancing at the graveyard without any particular purpose in mind.
The priest, the other mourners, they had all long since left her behind, going about their business as if it were any other day.
And, in truth, Margaret knew she should follow suit.
Eventually. But something about their absence kept her in place, taken in now not by the well wishes of her father’s companions and cohorts, but her own thoughts on the matter.
Her own feelings, which even now felt heavy against the silence of the graveyard.
“I suppose that’s for the best,” Margaret said aloud. “Suppose I found myself in an anguish of tears, amidst all the work we still need to get done?” She paused, her expression stiffening slightly. “Ah. It’s…work I still need to get done, now.”
It felt real, once she said it aloud. Margaret found her shoulders trembling from the realization.
“I’m not afraid,” she assured the headstone. “Nothing has truly changed, after all. The transfer of power is sudden, but…” Again, Margaret paused. “But your work remains unchanged, Father. I’ll see to it personally that the Hawthorne legacy shall endure.”
As expected, the headstone remained as silent as before.
With a curt nod, Margaret turned away from her father’s final resting place and made her way back toward the entrance.
The wrought-iron gate creaked horribly as she pressed her palm against it, opening it fully toward the rest of Helena proper.
A handful of men stood patiently at its entrance, their dress nowhere near as put-together as the well-to-do who’d cordially attended the funeral.
But clear effort had been given to their appearance, their well-worn shirts tucked into dust-beaten slacks and wiry facial hair slicked down with the visible shine of animal grease.
Each eyed her with an unspoken anxiety, some going as far as to remove their hats out of respect.
‘Seems not everyone returned to their lives,’ Margaret noted, offering another nod their way. “Can I help you gentlemen with something?”
The oldest of the group stepped forward, his salt-and-pepper beard curling beneath a nervous grimace. He held a wilting bouquet of wildflowers in his hands–likely picked and bound together during their trip into Helena–and the pious look in his eyes stirred something sour in Margaret’s stomach.
“Miss Hawthorne, we–my family an’ I, we’re awful sorry ‘bout yer Pa’s passin’,” the older man began. “He was’sa good man, an’--an’ it’s awful sad seein’ him gone.”
Margaret scrutinized him, fixating in particular on a faded scar along the side of his temple. She forced her expression to soften enough to register as approachable, though she kept her hands tightly grasped at her side.
“You’re Mr. Wilder, aren’t you?”
A brief flicker of surprise took over the scarred man’s face.
“My father spoke of you in great length before his passing,” Margaret explained. “He allowed me to help oversee the surveying of your family’s land. Or, that which you had hoped to claim and add onto, if memory serves.”
Hushed whispers rippled throughout Mr. Wilder’s entourage. “I–we didn’t come today to talk business, Miss Hawthorne.”
Margaret shook her head lightly, gesturing a hand farther down the road. “Nonsense. I would be concerned otherwise, given how lengthy this process has been for you and your family. And the date of approval is approaching quickly–you have every right to have come today in search of doing business.”
The flowers in Mr. Wilder’s hands began to fall apart. “We only came to pay our respects. Couldn’t make it in time for the funeral, but we thought–if’fin you’d allow it–we could place these an’ say our piece?”
“You may. But I insist on taking you and your men to the office afterwards so we may sign off on the remaining paperwork.”
Margaret watched a wave of guilt wash over the Wilder family’s faces. “That ain’t right, though, miss,” Mr. Wilder insisted.
“Right or not, it simply is, Mr. Wilder,” Margaret insisted. “My father’s passing does not put a pause on legality, and if we miss the deadline, I’m afraid one of the many railroad companies shall take it for themselves, as they have been wont to do lately.”
Her assurance didn’t seem to fully convince the Wilders, although the truth of the matter seemed to shake them greatly. Margaret forcefully dulled the sharp edges of her voice, trying her best to mimic the warmth she’d seen her father exude when working with clients.
“My father knew very well the terms that came with being Montana’s federal land commissioner, Mr. Wilder. And, as his daughter, those terms are just as familiar to me. While many may find the chance to grieve in the quiet darkness of their room appropriate, that is simply not the case for me.”
She offered a hand outward, hoping her words rang with a sense of truth to the Wilder family. “It would do me much better to see your family’s hard work bear fruit, instead of withering away. Allow me to finish the final task my father had started on this earth, Mr. Wilder.”
A beat passed between them, and slowly Mr. Wilder replaced his hat atop his head, gingerly taking Margaret’s hand to shake.
“‘Course, Miss Hawthorne. Last thing we’d want is yer Pa comin’ back to scold us. He worked awful hard for our sake; ‘least we can do is finish it right.”
Margaret nodded, relief flooding her veins.
She stepped aside, allowing the family to pass into the graveyard to visit her father, their wildflowers still in hand, and took the time to re-temper her expression.
Kindness was a luxury, after all, and even more so to openly show it to the rest of the world.
Orphaned.
Alone.
Destined to live as a sponsor.
She heard the words whispered between passersby, most noticeably from gossiping groups of younger women to ‘proper’ families who thought their voices were just quiet enough not to be overheard.
Margaret watched them walk past with little regard.
She was indeed, by all accounts, an orphan now, alone in the world thanks to her father’s recent passing.
And with only a few years left until her thirties, they weren’t incorrect in calling her a ‘spinster’.
None of it mattered in the end, though; her father’s work would continue, competently done by Margaret’s own hand.
All he had built up for the good people within the Montana territory would not be torn apart by the hands of eager businessmen.
All would remain as is, and that was the best Margaret could hope for.
In truth, however, she wouldn’t be against a moment alone to tighten her updo once more.