“Have you been to Denver City before?” he asked.
“No.” I gazed at the passing landscape.
“But you have a friend there.”
“My friend travels about the west helping people who have fallen ill. She is a healer.”
“A woman, then?”
“Yes, Miz Wilma is a woman.” I hoped the name would quiet him. He seemed suspicious that I had no friend and was going for some other purpose.
“An unmarried woman traveling alone.”
“She is a widow.”
“She is much older than you?”
“I should say. Perhaps as old as my grandmother.” The thought stopped me. Miz Wilma and my grandmother were near the same age, about sixty, but Miz Wilma was strong whereas my grandmother spent her days in a dark room, grieving for her past with no outlook for the future.
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