The stagecoach lurched to a halt outside the dusty town of Copper Creek, sending a cloud of red dirt swirling through the Arizona heat. Clara Mae Thompson clutched her worn leather satchel closer to her chest and peered through the small window at what would be her new home. The buildings looked weathered and tired, their wooden facades bleached by countless desert suns, but there was something honest about the place that appealed to her practical nature.
"End of the line, miss," called the driver from his perch above. "Copper Creek, just like you asked for."