Thorne's Girls
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 3
I needed fabric—both girls were outgrowing Becky’s old dresses, and Sarah would need proper clothing if ... when ... I found a solution to our legal problem. The trading post at Fort Benton was the only place within reasonable distance to get supplies.
Gracie had insisted she was well enough to watch Emma. The wound had healed clean, pink scar tissue forming over the entry and exit points. She was still thin, still recovering her strength, but the fierce determination in her eyes told me she was ready for the responsibility.
“You stay in the house,” I’d instructed firmly. “Door locked. You don’t open it for anyone but me. Understand?”
“Yes, Papa,” Gracie had said in her careful English. She’d been practicing constantly, picking up words with the same stubborn intensity she’d used to track me across Montana Territory.
The trading post was busy, full of trappers and Blackfeet families conducting business. I stood in the doorway, feeling conspicuous and foolish. I’d come here with a half-formed plan and no idea how to execute it.
“You looking for someone specific?” The clerk, a grizzled man named Peterson, eyed me curiously.
“I need to speak with a Blackfeet woman,” I said. “Someone who might ... someone who needs...” I struggled for the words. How did you ask for this?
Peterson’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a peculiar request, Thorne.”
“I have two Blackfeet girls,” I said bluntly. “Orphans. I’ve taken them in, but I need legal protection for them. If I had a Blackfeet wife, she could claim them as hers. The authorities couldn’t touch them.”
Peterson studied me for a long moment. Then he jerked his head toward the back of the store. “Sarah might be interested. She’s been helping my wife with inventory. Widow, pregnant, alone. Her husband was killed by raiders a few months back.”
My heart kicked up. “Can I speak with her?”
“I’ll ask.”
A few minutes later, a woman emerged from the back room. She was small, delicate-featured, very pretty, he thought, with dark hair braided down her back and a swollen belly prominent beneath her dress. She looked impossibly young—twenty at most—but her eyes were older, wary and assessing.
“Mr. Thorne?” Her English was accented but clear. “Mr. Peterson says you wish to speak with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I pulled off my hat. “My name’s Silas Thorne. I have a ranch about ten miles east of here. I ... this is going to sound strange.”
“I have heard strange things before,” she said calmly. “Speak.”
“If you like, I can buy us a meal and talk afterward.”
“Thank you very much,” she replied. “That would be nice.”
After she’d eaten most of her meal, I set down my coffee cup and said, “Your English is excellent.”
“Thank you. My husband traded often at the fort. I learned.” Her expression flickered with pain at the mention of her husband.
“If you speak English so well, why are you selling jewelry at the trading post? Surely there’s better work available.”
She looked down at her hands. “My husband was killed two months ago. Shot by white men while hunting alone. I am six months pregnant. I live now with his parents, but...” She paused. “It is hard. They are old. There is not enough food for everyone. I sell what I can make to help, but it is not enough.”
The quiet desperation in her voice decided me.
“Mrs. Mi’nima, I need to tell you about my situation. I have two Blackfeet daughters—not by birth, but by choice. Emma is four, Gracie is seven. Their family was massacred by raiders. I found Emma first, took her home. Gracie tracked me for six weeks, wounded and alone, to find her sister. They’re mine now. I love them like they were born to me.”
Sarah listened intently, her dark eyes focused on my face.
“But legally, I have no protection for them,” I continued. “If the authorities discover I have two Blackfeet girls, they could take them away. Separate them. Send them to a reservation or an Indian school. The only way to protect them legally is if they have a Blackfeet mother who can claim them as hers.”
Understanding dawned in her expression.
“Those girls need a mother,” I said. “You need a home and support for yourself and your baby. I have a successful horse ranch—200 acres with year-round spring water. I can provide security, food, shelter. A good life for you and your child.”
I leaned forward, my voice earnest. “I’m proposing marriage, Mrs. Mi’nima. A real marriage—not just an arrangement on paper. I promise you a true, caring, loving marriage. I’ll treat you with respect and honor. Your child will be mine—I’ll adopt the baby, give them my name, raise them as my own. You’ll never have to worry about survival again. You’ll have a home, a family, security.”
Sarah’s eyes had widened, her hand instinctively moving to her belly.
“In return,” I continued, “you would claim Emma and Gracie as your daughters. Legally protect them. Be their mother.” I paused. “I know this is sudden. I know we’re strangers. But sometimes circumstances force us to make bold choices. This could be good for both of us—for all of us.”
She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers trembling slightly around her teacup. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You would truly treat my child as your own? Not as ... as a burden from another man?”
“I would love your child as I love Emma and Gracie,” I said firmly. “As my daughter or son. Completely. Without reservation.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I have been so frightened. About the baby, about what will happen when it comes. About how I will survive.” She looked up at me. “You are offering me hope. Safety. A future.”
“I am,” I said. “If you’ll accept it.”
She took a shaky breath, then nodded. “Yes. I accept.”
Relief flooded through me. “Thank you.”
“But,” she said quickly, “I must gather my things from my in-laws’ camp. And ... you should meet them. My father-in-law will want to know who is taking his son’s widow and grandchild.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Sarah’s in-laws lived in a small camp about three miles from Fort Benton—a handful of lodges, mostly older Blackfeet trying to maintain traditional life despite the encroaching white settlement.
Her father-in-law, Standing Bear, was a weathered man with gray streaking his braids. He listened as Sarah explained in Blackfeet, his eyes never leaving my face. When she finished, he spoke in careful English.
“You want to marry my son’s widow. Take her and his unborn child.”
“Yes, sir,” I said respectfully. “I want to give her a good home. Security. I’ll treat her well, I give you my word.”
“You have other children?”
“Two daughters. Blackfeet girls, orphans I’ve taken in. They need a mother. Sarah needs a home. It’s a good match for everyone.”
Standing Bear studied me for a long moment. Then he looked at Sarah. “You approve of this man?”
Sarah nodded. “I do, Father. He is kind. He speaks with honesty. I believe him.”
Standing Bear turned back to me. “In our way, when a man takes a woman in marriage, he brings horses. It shows respect. Shows he can provide.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’m a horse rancher. I can bring horses.”
“Five horses,” Standing Bear said. “Good horses. That is the proper price for a woman of value.”
“I’ll bring six,” I said firmly. “Five for you and the family, and one as a gift to Sarah—a good mare she can ride home on. Plus a twenty-dollar gold double eagle to help the family through winter.”
Standing Bear’s eyes widened slightly. Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth.
“That is ... very generous,” Standing Bear said slowly.
“Sarah is worth it,” I replied. “And I want her family to know I’ll care for her properly.”
Standing Bear was quiet for a moment, then nodded once. “You have my blessing. Bring the horses in two days. Then you may take her.”
I turned to Sarah. “I’ll be back in two days. Is that enough time for you to prepare?”
She nodded, then surprised me by asking, “When will we marry? Legally, I mean.”
“We’ll leave from here and go directly to my ranch so you can meet Emma and Gracie,” I said. “Then we’ll all go back to Fort Benton together to make everything legal—the marriage, the guardianship papers, all of it.”
Sarah considered this for several minutes, her hand resting on her belly, her expression thoughtful. I could see her weighing the decision, thinking about her future, her child’s future.
Finally, she looked up at me and smiled—a small, tentative smile that transformed her face.
“I agree to this,” she said softly.
Then she blushed slightly and added, almost shyly, “You are very handsome, Mr. Thorne. And kind. I await your return with happiness.”
I felt my own face warm. “I’ll be back in two days, Mrs. Mi’nima. With six horses and a future for both of us.”
As I rode away from the camp, I felt something I hadn’t expected: not just relief at solving the legal problem, but genuine anticipation. Sarah was intelligent, brave, and kind. This marriage might have started as a practical arrangement, but maybe—just maybe—it could become something real.
Something good.
After leaving Standing Bear’s camp with Sarah’s acceptance secured, I rode back toward Fort Benton instead of heading straight home. There was something I needed to do first.
Peterson looked up when I entered the trading post again. “Back already, Thorne?”
“Need to buy some things,” I said. “Dresses for a seven-year-old girl. Boots, socks, whatever she’ll need. She’s been wearing a buckskin dress that’s...” I paused. “It’s ruined. Bloodstained. She needs proper clothes.”
Peterson’s eyebrows rose but he didn’t ask questions. “We’ve got ready-made dresses in back. Let me show you what we have.”
I ended up buying three calico dresses—one blue, one green, one brown—along with two pairs of boots, several pairs of socks, stockings, underclothes, and a warm shawl for the coming winter. I added a bolt of fabric that looked like it would work for maternity clothes for Sarah.
“That’s quite a haul,” Peterson commented as he wrapped everything. “Got yourself a whole family now?”
“Getting there,” I said.
As I loaded the packages onto my horse, I thought about Gracie’s face when she saw these. Real clothes, new clothes, clothes that weren’t torn and bloodstained. Clothes that said she belonged, that she mattered, that someone cared enough to provide for her.
It was a small thing, maybe. But small things added up to a life.
Two days later, I rode toward Standing Bear’s camp with Emma and Gracie beside me. Emma rode in front of me on Copper’s saddle, while Gracie—stronger now, confident—rode the gentle bay mare I’d trained for ranch work.
Gracie wore her new blue calico dress, the boots I’d bought her, her hair braided neatly. Emma wore one of Becky’s dresses, the small shoes fitting her perfectly. Both girls were scrubbed clean, nervous and excited in equal measure.
“Tell me again about Mama Sarah,” Emma said for the third time.
“She’s Blackfeet, like you,” I said patiently. “Her husband died, and she has a baby coming. She needs a family, and we need a mama for you girls. She’s kind and brave, and I think you’ll like her very much.”
“Will she like us?” Gracie asked quietly, her English improving daily.
“She’ll love you,” I promised. “How could she not?”
When we rode into the camp, Sarah was waiting. She stood beside Standing Bear, her hand resting on her swollen belly, watching our approach with a mixture of hope and nervousness that probably matched what the girls were feeling.
I dismounted and helped Emma down, then turned to help Gracie. The girls stood close to me, suddenly shy.
Sarah stepped forward slowly, her eyes moving from Emma to Gracie with wonder.
“These are my daughters,” I said in English, then tried in Blackfeet. “Emma and Gracie.”
Sarah knelt—awkwardly, because of her pregnancy—bringing herself to the girls’ eye level. She spoke in Blackfeet, her voice gentle.
Gracie’s eyes widened. She responded hesitantly in Blackfeet, and Sarah smiled.
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