1888, Three years later

She was crazy—absolutely crazy—for taking this job! Lilly Hawthorne glanced at the man seated next to her driving the well-appointed buggy. He was friendly enough and had been rather amusing, in a shy, boyish sort of way when he’d interviewed her.
“We’re almost there,” he said, grinning. Then he clucked at the horses and turned through an elaborate iron-barred gate onto a densely tree-cloaked lane.
His name was Alex Drayton. His hair w...