It is with reverence and a hush of winter stillness that I present to you this series of letters from Mrs. Marian Tate—a young widow dwelling alone in the Kansas Territory during that first long, uncertain season of 1855.

They welcomed me kindly—Mr. James Calloway with his firm handshake and steady eyes, and Miss Sarah Whitmore (soon to be Mrs. Calloway) with a smile warm enough to outshine the fading sun. We spoke in their modest sitting room where a kettle simmered and the shadows grew long across the floorboards.

A Field Note from Miss Sybil Whitlow, Spring 1858 Edition Dearest Friends— It is no small thing to begin again. And yet, here we...

Though you hold this missive (or perhaps scroll it) in modern hands, I invite you to imagine, if only for a moment, that you are seated beside a low fire in a dim drawing room. A pot of tea steams on the sideboard. The scent of pressed violets lingers on the air. Outside, the wind murmurs something forgotten.

Sagebrush Ridge Territory of Kansas September to April 1855   The wind whispered secrets through the tallgrass of the Kansas prairie,...

“You are a listener too, child. The tree chose you for that.”   Elspeth blinked. “Chose me?”   “You hear what others forget. You believe in what breathes beneath the bark and behind the veil.”