Her first memory was Yellowstone. Was that odd? She didn't think so. She remembered wanting to see the geysers, the wondrous jets of water that seemed to defy gravity, and the only thing that anyone had been talking about on the flight over. That was her only goal that day, to see the geysers, so that she would be able to discuss them with the same glee that the others did. And she remembered the frustration that came when they finally arrived at one of the viewing areas, only for her to be stuck behind the far-taller Liz and Ellie, unable to see a thing.

She had jumped, squirmed, stood on her tip-toes, anything to try and see over or around them, but it was all to no avail. She was on the verge of tears, when she felt a pair of strong hand grabbing her from behind, lifting her up, until she was seated firmly on her father's shoulders, and had the best view of any of them.

But she wasn't looking at the geysers. In fact, she didn't remember seeing them at all, that day. Instead she was looking down, her gaze focused solely on her father's face. It was amazing, the way he was staring, taking in an event that he had doubtlessly observed innumerable times, with a look of pure awe and fascination, a look possessing a caliber of intensity that she hadn't seen before or since.

And, on the way back, when everyone was eagerly discussing the sights they had seen, he gave her a wink, and she knew that she was the only one of all of them to have seen the real show that day.

Memories after that were scattered, just bits and pieces every now and then, until she was about six or seven. It was summer, she recalled, and they were all down at the ranch, them and a large group of her parents' friends. Liz and Ellie were off playing with Mal McGarry while the grown-ups talked, and she was left to sit there, bored out of her mind, until her dad broke from the group, holding a finger to his lips as he snuck over to where she was seated.

"God, those people are dull." He had said, rolling his eyes. "All they do is drink wine and talk about government, like we're some kind of boring politicians, or something."

And she had giggled, pointing out that he was, in fact, a politician, and he took a long pause, thinking it over, before declaring that he was a fun politician, and therefore didn't count. She had been unable to argue, and so they reached an agreement, each holding the other's stare until they both burst into laughter.

And then she was ten, and he was running for governor of the state he loved so much, and she was sitting anxiously with her mom and sisters in the audience, hanging on every word as he and the other candidates debated in the town hall.

She had never been one for politics, herself, and barely understood anything that was said, but she still left the building with the impression that her father had blown all of those other men out of the water, and her crush on Bobby McAlister flew right out the window as she ran up and gave him the biggest and tightest hug she could manage.

She was fourteen when the presidential campaign announced, fifteen when he won, sixteen when he was inaugurated, and seventeen when he was shot. Those had probably been the scariest few days of her life, not because they had been aiming at her, but because they had hit her dad, because she was old enough to know that people wanted to kill the president, and smart enough to see that the Secret Service couldn't always protect him. And the prospect of having to go through life without him was just too terrifying to consider.

So she didn't.

After all, at least in her memories, he was safe, and that was all that mattered.

Because she loved him.

Because her first memory was Yellowstone.