I had spent decades moving freight through rough country.
But I approached this journey more cautiously than any cattle drive I could remember.
Josephine noticed.
On the second morning, she leaned toward me.
"Hiram?"
I looked back.
"What?"
"Are you always this serious when driving?"
I frowned.
"Usually."
She smiled.
"Because you've been staring at that road like it owes you money."
I laughed.
"Roads have cost me plenty over the years."
She nodded solemnly.
"Then I understand your grudge."
I shook my head.
She laughed again.
And the sound carried across the valley.
At our second overnight stop, we met a family traveling north with a wagonload of supplies.
The father introduced himself as Mr. Bellamy.
His wife was kind.
Their two children were curious.
One little girl stared openly at Josephine's size.
Her mother looked embarrassed and began apologizing.
Josephine smiled.
"It's all right."
Then she asked the child whether she'd ever seen a woman wearing a dress that required so much fabric.
The little girl giggled.
"No, ma'am."
Josephine laughed.
"Neither had the seamstress who made it."
The adults smiled.
The child relaxed.
Soon Josephine was showing her how to make a simple decorative knot from a piece of ribbon.
I stood nearby watching.
And I realized something.
Josephine had spent years learning to make space for herself in a world that often refused to offer it.
She didn't need me to defend her from every curious look.
She needed me to stand beside her when cruelty appeared, respect the choices she made, and remember that affection didn't require pretending the practical challenges of her life were imaginary.
I thought about that for a long time.
The freight settlement of Silver Bend was larger than I remembered.
There were new wooden storefronts, a boardinghouse, a busy stable, and several wagons waiting near the general store. Miners moved through the muddy streets carrying tools, while merchants shouted over one another as they unloaded supplies.
Josephine watched with fascination.
She'd spent months in the mountains.
The noise seemed almost overwhelming.
I guided the wagon toward the boardinghouse we'd contacted through a freight driver.
The proprietor, Mrs. Edith Bell, was a practical widow in her sixties who had prepared an accessible ground-floor room after receiving our arrangements.
The doorway was wider than most.
The bed platform had been reinforced.
And there was enough space for Josephine to move without navigating dangerous steps.