For the better part of a year, Emma had resided in Brush with resignation and at times with grim determination, her humdrum existence tempered by the conviviality of her friendship with Anna and the comfort of knowing her cousin and his family were just a train stop away in Fort Morgan. On census night, that had changed. Before census night, Emma could walk the streets with her head held high as an American, pushing from her the anti-German feeling in the town. No longer. In the weeks that followed, thanks to Anna’s inadvertent betrayal, eyes followed her, blank expressions became scowls, and neighbours crossed the street rather than walk past her. Word of her true nationality had quickly spread, and she suspected Mr Short was behind it. She had no proof, as if there would ever be proof, b
