At eighty-one, Adelaide received letter from Missouri.
A distant cousin found old agency papers.
The matchmaking agent who paired Adelaide and Gideon had described her falsely.
Healthy, sturdy, medium build.
Adelaide laughed until coughing.
Medium.
The agent had indeed lied.
But not in way Gideon thought.
Adelaide wondered if she should be angry.
Too late.
She burned paper.
At eighty-three, a newspaper writer visited.
Wanted story.
“Large mail-order bride proves rancher wrong.”
Adelaide disliked title.
She told him.
“Why?”
“Because I did not exist to prove him wrong.”
“But you did.”
“No.”
“I existed.”
“He eventually corrected himself.”
The writer frowned.
Less exciting.
Adelaide continued:
“And do not write that saving him made me worthy.”
“I was worthy at station.”
“He simply did not know.”
The article improved.
Not perfect.
But better.
Adelaide became briefly famous in region.
She hated.
Strangers visited.
One large young woman arrived from Denver and cried on porch.
“I read about you.”
Adelaide invited inside.
The woman said:
“My mother says no man will marry me unless I lose half myself.”
Adelaide’s face hardened.
“What do you want?”
“I don't know.”
“Then begin there.”
“Not with man.”
“Not with size.”
“What do you want?”
Young woman stayed two days.
Later became seamstress.
Wrote Adelaide annually.
Never married.
Happy.
At eighty-five, Adelaide’s heart weakened.
Her breathing shortened.
She knew.
No fear like Gideon’s.
Some.
But mostly readiness.
She asked Abigail and Samuel to bring her once more to Dry Creek station.
They did.
Wheelchair now.
The platform accessible? In 1920s maybe ramps simple. They carried chair where needed.
Adelaide sat at exact place as best remembered.
Trains louder now.
Town larger.
Automobiles.
Electric lights.
World changed.
She held faded green ribbon.
Yes, she had kept it.
All those years.
Abigail asked:
“Why?”
Adelaide looked.
“I don't know.”
“Proof?”
“Of what?”
“That you came.”
“I didn't need ribbon for that.”
She smiled.
“Maybe because it was last thing I held before my life changed.”
Samuel looked at tracks.
“Would you do again?”
Adelaide thought for long time.
“No.”
Children surprised.
She continued.
“I would not choose humiliation.”
“I would not choose Abigail’s death.”
“I would not choose Gideon’s guilt.”
“I would not choose storm.”
“But if you ask whether I would choose your father after he became who he became…”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
“Every time.”
They returned ranch.
Adelaide gave instructions.
No statue.
No biography commission.
No naming every building after her.
“People need places, not monuments.”
She created trust ensuring winter shelter remained funded.