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The eyes drifted closed and Kent panicked, but when the eyes fluttered open again, he let out a pent-up breath. “I saw your mother a bit ago. She’s still beautiful,” Oliver said.
Tears wet Kent’s cheeks.
“Hoping St.Peter will let me in the gates so she and I can talk.”
“I hope so, too,” Kent whispered.
His father studied his face. “You shedding tears for your old man?”
Kent nodded.
“I love you, too, son. More than I ever let on. Don’t make that same mistake with your own son. Let him know.”
“I will.”
“I knew you’d make it back for me to talk with you one last time.”
Kent was pleased that he had.
“Will you get Sylvie for me? I need to say good-bye.”
Kent stood.
“Good-bye, Kenton.”
“Good-bye, father.”
Dr.Oliver Randolph left the world a short while later. He wanted to be cremated, a relatively new movement touted by Queen Victoria’s surgeon, Sir Henry Thompson, so a grieving Sylvie, Kent, and Portia accompanied the casket by train to a crematorium in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, only the second such facility in the nation. At the end of the cremation process, Kent was presented with a small wooden box.
“What is this?” Kent asked.
“Your father’s remains. Some families like to spread the ashes in their loved one’s favorite place or disperse them into the wind.”
Kent didn’t know whether to be moved or repulsed. He passed the box to Sylvia. “You can decide.”
Kent was solemn for the rest of the way home. Sylvia returned to the territory with them, saying that with Oliver gone, she had no one to return to in Virginia City and would figure out what she wanted to do with her life once the sharpness of her grief softened. Kent wasn’t sure when or if his would ever soften. For a man whom he’d battled seemingly his entire life, Oliver’s death broke his heart.
Portia would remember the month of June1885 as a time of loss. Her heart ached for her grieving husband, her still unfound mother, and for Regan. Standing with Regan and the family at the train station as she prepared to travel to her new life in Wyoming, Portia didn’t want her to go.
“Please don’t cry,” Regan said, holding Portia tight as the tears ran freely down both their cheeks.
Eddy, crying, too, stood beside a stoic Rhine. They’d resigned themselves to the choice Regan had made but were still saddened by it. Portia was, too, but knew it was necessary to let her go.
As the train pulled into the station, Eddy hugged her niece one last time. “Make sure you wire us just as soon as you arrive.”
“I will.”
Rhine held her next. “I love you, little girl. Take care of yourself. If Kent and I need to ride up and shoot this man, let us know.”
“You have my word.”
When the time came to board, she turned her ungodly amount of luggage over to the conductor, threw the family a kiss, and disappeared inside.
Grieving for her sister, Portia took solace in watching her and Kent’s house rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the old Blanchard homestead. She visited every day and savored each day’s progress no matter how big or small.
A week after receiving the wire that Regan had indeed arrived in Wyoming, Portia was working in her office at the hotel when Eddy knocked on the opened door.
“Hey, Eddy. What can I do for you?”
