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Dorothy slept at Emily’s side, lulled by the steady motion of Hank Miller’s motorcar, her head lolling and nodding until it found a resting place against Emily’s arm.

She looked so peaceful that Emily hardly dared move as she looked at the child’s face: curls at her temples, a rosy flush in pale cheeks that had never felt the heat of a prairie summer.

Emily’s mind raced—Dorothy would need a hat to keep the sun off her face, plenty of loose cotton dresses, a decent pair of boots for the winter. There was so much to organize. Too much to think about. Her chest tightened as a sense of panic rose within her.

The miles passed beneath bone-dry earth, the tires kicking up great clouds of dry dirt as Emily scanned the landscape, noting the familiar landmarks guiding her home—the broken fence, the abandoned claim, the lightning tree—until Gale Farm emerged through the dust.

Emily’s heart stirred at the sight of it. Such a forlorn little place, but so brave and resilient. For all that it was, and all that it wasn’t, it was home. It was like seeing an old friend across a crowded room full of strangers.

Gently, she woke the child. “We’re nearly there, Dorothy.”

Dorothy stirred, rubbed her eyes, and knelt up on the seat, her head turning this way and that as she took in the vast expanse of land all around.

Emily leaned forward. “There it is. Do you see?”

The white picket fence beckoned in the distance, a beacon amid the vast landscape of plowed dusty acres that would soon bear the first green shoots of that season’s crops.

Dorothy peered into the distance. “That one? Right over there?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“But it looks so sad, and alone.”

Emily had always thought of their home as a sanctuary, a respite from the clatter and chaos of the city she’d left behind.

The distance from their farm to their friends in Liberal had seemed to shrink over the years so that she rarely felt alone, apart from in the depths of winter when the snow drifted as high as the roof and cut them off from everyone for weeks.

But as she looked at the house through Dorothy’s eyes now, Emily felt its isolation.

What she saw wasn’t sanctuary but solitude, a great distance from anyone who might help them, should they need it.

“Oh, but it isn’t alone at all,” she said, forcing herself to be cheerful. “Our neighbors are antelope and jackrabbits, the sun and the moon, hawks and meadowlarks and wild mustang thundering across the prairie grass.”

Dorothy pressed her nose to the glass and peered out further. “I can’t see any wild horses. Why is it all so gray?” she asked. “Where are all the trees, and the pretty wildflowers?”

Emily felt like a fraud as she heard the disappointment in the child’s voice.

She wished she could have given her a different welcome, like the once she remembered so vividly, as if she’d walked into the pages of the pamphlet her mother had carried with her from Ireland.

Golden stalks of wheat…rivers of grain…a land of sunshine and rain…

a shimmering mirage of emerald and gold…

She could still feel Henry’s hand in hers, the prickle of excitement at the back of her neck, the burst of color that had welcomed her.

Now the wheels of Hank’s Model T turned apologetically over the scarred parched land.

“We haven’t had rain in a while,” she said. “But when it comes, and when the wheat grows and sways like great waves on a green ocean, oh my, what a feast for the eyes. It will bloom again, in time.”

Time was what they all needed now. Time for the crops and wildflowers to grow, time for their fortunes to turn and the rains to return, time to adjust to a new rhythm of life amid the unpredictable whims of this ancient land, time to accept the awful truth that Annie was dead, and the daughter she’d loved with all her heart was left to seek out any scraps of color or hope in this strange new place.

Emily’s heart heaved with the lurch of the motorcar as it lumbered on over the rutted uneven tracks until, at last, Hank pulled into the front yard and came to a stop. He took the few items of luggage from the trunk and wished Emily good luck as he pressed his hands to hers.

“I’ll leave you to it. Let little Dorothy get settled. You know where we are, if you need anything.”

Part of Emily wished she could drive back to Liberal with Hank.

Part of her wished she could go all the way back to Kansas City, take her seat on the Golden State train and head west, to California, to Nell.

They would ride horses together through lush fields and talk about the old days beside the fire, just the two of them.

She’d turned down Nell’s offer of a safe home, choosing instead to ride out their struggles in Kansas, to follow a road that had led her to this moment.

She’d made her choice. Now she had to find the courage to see it through.

She had rarely felt more lost and unsure as she watched Hank drive away. She placed a hand to her head to secure her hat from a strengthening breeze, and the other to her heart to steady her rising sense of apprehension.

Dorothy looked at the little clapboard house in front of her. “It’s very small.”

Emily searched for the words to respond. Should she berate the child for being rude? Correct her, punish her, or reassure her?

“It’s plenty big enough,” she said defiantly, suddenly protective of this place that had kept them safe through winter storms and scorching summers. When everything else was lost, this humble little home had become their castle.

The screen door opened with a familiar creak as Henry appeared, a wide smile on his face, the wind ever-present in his rusted cheeks.

“Well, if it isn’t the one and only Dorothy Gale, blown all the way to Kansas from Chicago!”

Dorothy looked at Emily for reassurance.

She placed a hand on the child’s shoulder and smiled. “That’s your uncle Henry, dear.”

Emily looked at Henry as if seeing him properly for the first time in years.

She was shocked by his appearance—his long beard, the dark hollows around his eyes where time and worry had drawn cracks and fissures like a dry creek bed, the limp from his old ankle injury more pronounced than she recalled.

He looked old and tired, bent by the worry he’d lugged around in the years since the tornado, and the financial ruin that had followed the stock market crash, and the collapse of the National Bank that had taken the last of their savings with it.

He strode forward and held out a hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Dorothy!”

Dorothy took Henry’s hand with a shy smile.

“But wait a minute! What’s this?” He reached behind Dorothy’s ear and produced a silver nickel, and then another, with a great flourish.

Emily had watched him perform the trick dozens of times at the county fair. He was never less than a hundred percent committed to the act, and the children all loved him.

Dorothy gasped as he placed the silver coins in her hand.

“Can I keep them?” she asked.

“Of course! Seems they were yours anyway! Now, why don’t you come on inside and then I’ll show you around the farm. I made corn cakes. Do you like corn cakes?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had corn cake. Is it like chocolate cake?”

Henry laughed. Emily hadn’t heard him laugh for such a long time that the sound came as a surprise.

“It isn’t a bit like chocolate cake, I’m afraid,” he said. “And now I’m hankering for a slice. Is chocolate cake your favorite?”

“Yes.”

He placed his hands on his hips in mock surprise. “You don’t say! It’s mine too!”

Emily’s heart surged with love for him. He was a good man.

She’d been so wrapped up in her own grief and worry that she hadn’t much considered Henry’s part in all this.

Dorothy’s arrival would be as much of a disruption to his life as to hers, and yet here he was, acting like the child had always lived there.

Emily walked to him and pressed her cheek to his, savoring the familiar earthy scent of him. “Thank you.”

“What for? Making corn cakes? You haven’t tasted them yet.” He smiled as he placed an arm around her waist. “Everything okay?” he asked, his voice low as he tipped his head in Dorothy’s direction.

There was so much Emily wanted to say, but it was impossible to talk with the child listening to every word. Something else they would have to get used to.

“We’ll talk later,” she said.

“She’s a sweet little thing,” Henry remarked as Dorothy walked up the porch steps ahead of them. “I see plenty of Annie in her. Nothing of John, fortunately for her! She’s definitely got your Irish Kelly genes. Not so much of the Midwest Gales.”

Emily’s stomach tumbled. “Does that bother you?”

“Not really. Though I guess it would have been neat to see something of our side of the family in her.”

Emily could almost hear the unspoken words in Henry’s head. Especially since I don’t have a child of my own.

The old weather vane creaked on the barn roof as it swung around to the west.

The wind had already changed.