Madame Sue Soderburg stopped, her face drawn, a cigarette burning in between her fingers despite the early hour. “They’re framing me for Roberta’s murder.”

On the mantle, a photograph in a tarnished frame showed a stern man, two children, and a woman with a hauntingly blank stare.

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.

Pioneers spoke of wandering lights—will-o’-the-wisps—that danced across the plains.

Her mind wandered to the meaning of the larkspur, a flower embodying joy and an open heart...

A rifle shot cracked through the quiet, the bullet slicing past Jed’s ear with a hiss like an angry rattler. He kicked Comet into a hard gallop...

March 1852 Portland , Oregon Eliza Whitmore stood at the edge of the cabin porch, her shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, staring...

A splash of color caught her eye near the garden fence; delicate purple and yellow blooms pushing up through the thawing soil. Pansies.

Jed Smith takes his job riding for The Pony Express seriously as he traverses the plains and mountains to deliver the mail.

She had finally unpacked her gown meant for her wedding. Cream and lavender with lace collar and cuffs, she knew she looked pretty.

Eleanor and Henry finally arrive in Thistle Creek, Colorado, to start their new life.

Isobel MacLaren is regretting her choice to leave Scotland until she sees a reminder of home.

Aboard the Transcontinental Railway, Omaha, Nebraska Dec. 1876   The next morning went smoothly. The tracks had been cleared ahead, and...

Henry and Eleanor continue their journey on the train to Omaha. Will Lord Rutledge catch up or will they eacape?

Eleanor and Henry race off the boat to head off to the train station.

Eleanor and Henry start their adventure together in this week's installment.

"I can't stop thinking about you." The words, penned in a strong yet elegant hand, sent a shiver down her spine.

The fascination with floriography was not just limited to England. Victorian women in the American West continued the tradition.

Eight-year-old Eliza Mae Whitaker was a pioneer girl—and a tired one. Her feet ached. Her hands were dirty, and her stomach rumbled...