Thorne's Girls
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 4
The ride home from Fort Benton took most of the afternoon. Sarah rode her paint mare, Star, with the quiet confidence of someone who’d grown up on horseback. Emma sat in front of me on Copper, chattering excitedly about “Mama Sarah” and “baby sister,” while Gracie rode the bay mare alongside us, unusually quiet.
I glanced over at her. “You all right, Gracie?”
She nodded, but her eyes were distant. After a moment, she said in careful English, “I am thinking about my first mama. And papa. And my brothers and sisters who died.”
My chest tightened. “That’s natural, sweetheart. Having a new mama doesn’t mean you forget your first one.”
Sarah had heard. She guided Star closer to Gracie’s mare, reached out and touched the girl’s arm. “Your first mama and papa will always be in your heart,” she said gently in Blackfeet, which I was slowly starting to understand. “I do not replace them. I walk beside their memory. We honor them by living well, by being family, by loving each other. Yes?”
Gracie’s eyes filled with tears, but she nodded. “Yes, Mama Sarah.”
“Good girl.” Sarah squeezed her arm, then let her hand fall back to her reins.
We rode in silence for a while, the afternoon sun warm on our backs, the prairie stretching endlessly around us. When the ranch finally came into view—the cabin, the barn, the corrals—I felt something settle in my chest.
Home. We were bringing our family home.
That evening, it suddenly dawned on me that Sarah and I had not spoken about the sleeping arrangements. I told her, “You can sleep in the bedroom. I’ll sleep in the barn. I will never take from you what you do not freely offer.”
Sarah smiled as she put her hand on my arm. “Silas, we are not young and innocent. Our daughters will question our unity if we sleep apart. They know parents sleep under the same furs.
“I believe that we will let love grow. Until then, we can cuddle and hold each other as life mates.”
Silas gave Sarah a gentle kiss. Both girls clapped, and Emma said, “Kiss Mama again!”
They all laughed, so Silas gave her a good kiss. Sarah blushed a deep copper.
That night, Silas spooned up against Sarah’s back and laid his arm around her, placing his hand on her belly. They both giggled when he felt the child within move.
The first week was an adjustment for everyone. Sarah moved through the house with quiet efficiency, learning where things were kept, how I liked things done. But she wasn’t timid about making changes. By the third day, she’d rearranged the kitchen to suit her workflow, hung bundles of herbs from the rafters to dry, and started a small garden plot near the spring.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said when she caught me watching her work in the garden. “I need to grow things. It makes me feel ... settled.”
“I don’t mind at all,” I said. “This is your home now. Make it however you want.”
She smiled—that small, shy smile that made my heart do strange things—and went back to her planting.
The girls followed her everywhere, fascinated by everything she did. She taught them Blackfeet words while cooking, told them stories about the Old Ones while braiding their hair, showed them how to do simple beadwork in the evenings by the fire.
Emma absorbed it all like a sponge, chattering in a mix of English and Blackfeet that made Sarah laugh. Gracie was more reserved, but I could see her relaxing day by day, the wariness in her eyes slowly fading.
On the fourth morning, as I was gathering my tools to go check the fence line, Sarah was at the stove making breakfast. The girls sat at the table, watching us with unusual intensity.
“I’ll be back before noon,” I said to Sarah.
She nodded, stirring the porridge. “Be careful.”
I started to turn toward the door, but Emma’s voice stopped me.
“Papa! You forgot!”
I turned back. “Forgot what, sweetheart?”
Emma pointed at Sarah, her expression very serious. “You forgot to kiss Mama goodbye.”
I froze, caught off guard. Sarah’s eyes widened slightly, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks.
“In our village,” Gracie added solemnly, “fathers always kiss mothers before leaving. It is proper.”
Emma nodded vigorously. “Mama likes it when Papa gives kisses.”
Sarah’s blush deepened, but she was smiling, her eyes dancing with amusement. “The girls have spoken, husband. You cannot argue with tradition.”
I crossed back to her, my heart beating faster than it should have. We’d been married for less than a week, had slept curled together every night, but we hadn’t yet kissed—not really. A peck on the forehead at our wedding, nothing more, except for that one kiss that first day at Emma’s urging.
Sarah set down her spoon and turned to face me, tilting her face up. Her dark eyes were soft and inviting.
I leaned down and kissed her. Intended it to be quick, simple, appropriate for the audience. But the moment our lips met, something shifted. Her mouth was warm and soft, and she kissed me back with a sweetness that made my chest ache.
When we pulled apart, both slightly breathless, Emma and Gracie were grinning like they’d just accomplished something monumentally important.
“See?” Emma said proudly. “Mama likes it.”
Sarah laughed, her hand coming up to touch her lips. “Yes,” she said softly, her eyes on mine. “Mama likes it very much.”
I cleared my throat, suddenly flustered. “Right. Well. I should ... fence line.”
“Fence line,” Sarah agreed, still smiling.
As I headed out the door, I heard Gracie say to Emma in Blackfeet, “I think Papa likes it too.”
Emma giggled. “Papa’s face is red.”
They weren’t wrong.
After that first prompted kiss, it became routine. Every morning when I headed out to work, the girls would watch expectantly until I kissed Sarah goodbye. And every evening when I came back in, they’d wait for the greeting kiss.
I didn’t mind. Not at all.
Sarah’s cooking was exceptional—she made things I’d never tasted before, Blackfeet dishes with buffalo meat I traded for at Fort Benton, with wild plants she gathered from the prairie, with spices and techniques that were entirely new to me. The house always smelled wonderful.
But more than the food, I loved watching her move through the space. She hummed while she worked—Blackfeet songs, soft and melodic. She talked to the girls constantly, teaching them, listening to them, mothering them with a natural grace that made my throat tight with gratitude.
One afternoon about two weeks in, I came in from the barn to find Sarah kneading bread dough, her sleeves rolled up, a smudge of flour on her cheek. She looked up when I entered, smiling.
“There’s coffee on the stove if you want some.”
“Thanks.” I poured a cup and stood watching her work, admiring the efficient grace of her movements despite her growing belly.
Emma appeared in the doorway, took one look at us, and put her hands on her hips in a perfect imitation of Sarah’s motherly stance.
“Papa.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you standing way over there?”
“I’m ... drinking coffee?”
Emma shook her head, exasperated. “Mama is right there. You should go give her a kiss.”
Sarah laughed, her hands still in the dough. “Emma, Papa just came in. He doesn’t have to—”
“Go ahead, Papa,” Emma insisted, her little voice firm. “Give Mama a kiss. Mama likes it!”
Gracie appeared behind Emma, nodding sagely. “It is true. Mama likes kisses.”
Sarah looked at me, flour on her cheek, laughing, her eyes bright with affection and amusement. “Apparently, I like kisses.”
“Apparently,” I agreed, setting down my coffee cup.
I crossed to her, gently wiped the flour from her cheek with my thumb, then leaned down and kissed her. She kissed me back warmly, her floury hands carefully held away from my clothes.
When we pulled apart, both girls were beaming like they’d just won a great victory.
“See?” Emma said triumphantly. “Mama likes it.”
“We know, Emma,” Sarah said, still smiling at me. “We know.”
By the third week, we fell into rhythms that felt like they’d always existed. I rose before dawn, careful not to wake Sarah though she usually stirred anyway, her hand reaching for me sleepily. I’d kiss her forehead, whisper that I’d be back, and slip out to tend the horses.
The girls would wake shortly after, padding into the kitchen in their nightgowns. Sarah would braid their hair while they ate breakfast, the three of them speaking in Blackfeet, their voices a gentle music that made the cabin feel alive.
After breakfast, the girls had chores—Emma fed the chickens we’d acquired from a neighbor, Gracie helped Sarah with lighter household tasks. Then Sarah would give them lessons, teaching them more English, showing them sums and letters, preparing them for a world that wouldn’t always be kind to Blackfeet girls but would be easier to navigate if they could read and write.
I came in for the midday meal, kissed Sarah hello (the girls insisted), ate whatever wonderful thing she’d prepared, and went back out. Evenings were for family—sitting by the fire, Sarah working on beadwork or mending, the girls playing, me doing whatever repairs needed doing. And every night, we’d tuck the girls into bed together, then retreat to our own room.
Every night, we lay spooning, my arm around her growing belly, feeling the baby move beneath my hand. And every night, I fell a little more in love with her.
Four weeks after our marriage, we needed to go to Fort Benton for supplies. I’d been putting it off, knowing what we’d face, but we were running low on flour and sugar, and Sarah needed fabric for baby clothes.
“We’ll all go,” I decided. “Show them we’re a family. That we’re not hiding.”
Sarah nodded, lifting her chin. “Yes. We have nothing to be ashamed of.”
The girls were excited—a trip to town was an adventure. We dressed them in their best dresses, made sure they were clean and neat. Sarah wore a dress I’d bought her, her long hair braided and pinned up, her pregnant belly prominent but dignified.
We made quite a sight, I’m sure. A white rancher, his very pregnant Blackfeet wife, and two Blackfeet daughters, riding into Fort Benton like we had every right to be there.
Which we did.
People stared. Of course they stared. Some looks were curious, some disapproving, a few openly hostile. I kept my jaw set, my hand on Sarah’s elbow as we walked into the trading post.
Peterson greeted us with a nod. “Thorne. Mrs. Thorne.” He smiled at the girls. “Miss Emma, Miss Gracie.”
The girls beamed at being addressed so formally.
“Need to stock up,” I said, handing him my list. “And fabric for baby clothes. Whatever Mrs. Thorne thinks is suitable.”
“Congratulations on the coming baby,” Peterson said to Sarah. “When are you due?”
“Two months, maybe less,” Sarah said calmly. “It is my first. I am ... nervous.”
“My wife had five,” Peterson said kindly. “She’d be happy to talk with you if you’d like. Share some wisdom.”
“I would like that very much. Thank you.”
While Peterson gathered our supplies, I noticed a man at the counter staring at us—a burly trapper with a sneer on his face.
“That your squaw, Thorne?” he said loudly.
The trading post went quiet.
I turned slowly, stepping slightly in front of Sarah and the girls. “That’s my wife. And you’ll address her respectfully, or you’ll answer to me.”
The trapper spat on the floor. “Respectable white man don’t take an Indian wife. Don’t raise Indian brats like they’re—”
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