Thorne's Girls
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 5
Ten Years Later, Spring 1888
The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, turning the dust motes to gold. I stood at the counter, pouring coffee, watching my wife move through our home with the same grace she’d had ten years ago when I first brought her here as a nervous bride.
Sarah was humming—a Blackfeet song I’d heard a thousand times but never tired of—as she kneaded bread dough. At thirty, she was even more beautiful than the day we married. Silver threaded through her dark hair now, laugh lines creased the corners of her eyes, but when she looked at me, I still felt like a young man falling in love for the first time.
“You’re staring again,” she said without looking up, a smile playing at her lips.
“Can’t help it. You’re worth staring at.”
She laughed, that bright sound that had filled our home for a decade. “Flatterer. Go get the girls up. Breakfast is almost ready.”
I crossed to her first, slipped my arms around her waist from behind, kissed the side of her neck. She leaned back against me with a contented sigh.
“Still like two teenagers,” came Gracie’s amused voice from the doorway. “It’s almost embarrassing.”
I turned to see our oldest daughter standing there, already dressed for the day, her long dark hair braided neatly. At seventeen, Gracie had grown into a beautiful young woman—delicate-featured like Sarah, with a quiet grace that drew people to her.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Sarah said, wiping flour from her hands. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, Mama.” Gracie moved to the stove, checking the porridge. “Is Caleb coming by this afternoon?”
Sarah and I exchanged a glance. Caleb McIntyre had been courting Gracie for six months now, and it was clear where things were heading.
“He said he might,” I replied carefully. “Why?”
Gracie blushed—actually blushed—and ducked her head. “No reason. I just ... I made extra bread yesterday. In case.”
Sarah smiled knowingly but said nothing.
The sound of boots thundering down the hallway announced Emma’s arrival before she burst into the kitchen, her hair still loose and wild, her shirt already dusty despite the early hour.
“Papa, Copper’s favoring his left front leg. I checked it—no stone, no heat, but he’s definitely tender. I think we should rest him today.”
At fourteen, Emma was all business when it came to horses. She’d been working alongside me since she was old enough to hold a lead rope, and she had an instinct for horses that I’d never seen in anyone else. Where Gracie was gentle and domestic, Emma was fierce and driven.
“Good eye,” I said. “We’ll keep him in the barn today. Check him again this afternoon.”
Emma nodded, satisfied, and grabbed a biscuit from the plate Sarah had set out. “Where’s Mary?”
“Checking her snares,” Sarah said. “She left before dawn.”
“Of course she did,” Emma said with a grin. “That girl would live in the woods if we let her.”
As if summoned by her name, the back door opened and Mary stomped in, a string of three rabbits slung over her shoulder, her Winchester rifle in her other hand. At ten years old, she was all sharp edges and fierce independence—my little huntress, more comfortable in the forest than the parlor.
“Got three,” she announced proudly, setting the rabbits on the counter. “And I saw a twelve-point buck down by the creek. I’m going back this afternoon with my bow.”
“You’ll do your lessons first,” Sarah said firmly. “Then you can hunt.”
Mary scowled but didn’t argue. She knew better.
“Where’s Becky?” I asked, noticing the absence of our youngest.
“Still sleeping,” Gracie said. “I checked on her. She’s curled up with that rag doll, thumb in her mouth.”
At four years old, Becky was the baby of the family in every way—quiet where Mary was loud, clingy where Emma was independent. She followed Sarah everywhere, a small shadow in a calico dress, always ready with a smile or a request for hugs.
“Let her sleep a little longer,” Sarah said. “She was up late last night with a bad dream.”
We settled around the table—the five of us who were awake—and I looked around at my family. Ten years. Ten years since I’d stood in Judge Tattan’s office and promised to protect these girls. Ten years since Sarah had agreed to be my wife, to be their mother, to build this impossible family with me.
And God, what we’d built.
The ranch was thriving—200 acres of prime land, the best horses in three counties, a reputation for quality that brought buyers from as far as Helena. But more than the business success, we’d built something that mattered. A family that was strong, loving, united despite every reason it shouldn’t have worked.
“Papa,” Gracie said softly, pulling me from my thoughts. “Caleb asked if he could speak with you today. Privately.”
My heart kicked up. I knew what that meant. Sarah’s hand found mine under the table, squeezed gently.
“Did he now?” I kept my voice neutral. “Any idea what about?”
Gracie’s blush deepened. “I think ... I think you know, Papa.”
Emma made a gagging sound. “He’s going to ask to marry you. Could you be more obvious?”
“Emma!” Gracie threw a biscuit at her sister.
Emma caught it, grinning. “What? It’s true. He moons over you like a lovesick calf. It’s disgusting.”
“You’re just jealous because no boy will ever moon over you,” Gracie shot back. “You smell like horses and you’re meaner than a rattlesnake.”
“I don’t want boys mooning over me,” Emma declared. “I want to run this ranch. Boys are a distraction.”
“Girls,” Sarah said, her voice carrying that particular tone that meant stop now. Both fell silent, though Emma was still grinning.
“Caleb’s a good man,” I said to Gracie. “If he wants to talk to me, I’ll listen.”
Relief flooded Gracie’s face. “Thank you, Papa.”
After breakfast, I headed out to the barn with Emma to check on Copper. The big gelding nickered when he saw us, pushing his nose into my chest.
“He’s such a baby,” Emma said affectionately, running her hands down his leg. “There—see? No heat, no swelling. Probably just stepped wrong. A day of rest and he’ll be fine.”
“You’re good at this,” I told her. “Really good.”
She looked up, her face serious. “I want to take over the ranch someday, Papa. I mean it. I want to breed horses, train them, build this operation into something even bigger. Gracie can have her husband and her kitchen. I want this.” She gestured around the barn.
“I know you do,” I said. “And you’ll be damn good at it.”
Her face lit up. “You mean it?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
She threw her arms around me, something she rarely did anymore at fourteen. “Thank you, Papa. Thank you for believing in me.”
I held her tight, this fierce daughter of mine who’d tracked me across Montana Territory as a seven-year-old child, shot and starving but refusing to give up. That determination had never left her. It had just found a new focus.
Caleb McIntyre arrived that afternoon, riding up on his bay gelding, his hat in his hands before he even dismounted. He was a good-looking young man—twenty years old, with dirty blond hair and an honest face. More importantly, he was respectful, hardworking, and clearly head-over-heels for my daughter.
“Mr. Thorne,” he said, his voice only slightly nervous. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Walk with me,” I said, gesturing toward the fence line.
We walked in silence for a few minutes, Caleb gathering his courage, me letting him sweat a little. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“Sir, I ... I want to ask for Gracie’s hand in marriage.”
I’d known it was coming, but hearing it still made my chest tight. My little girl. The one who’d arrived shot and half-dead, who’d survived the impossible to find her sister. The one who loved to bake bread and do beadwork with her mother, who was gentle and kind and deserved every happiness.
“You love her?” I asked.
“More than anything, sir. I’d do anything for her. I’d work my fingers to the bone to give her a good life. I’d treat her with respect and kindness always. I’d honor her, protect her, cherish her.” He paused. “I know she’s Blackfeet. I know some folks might have a problem with that. I don’t care. I love Gracie for who she is—all of who she is.”
I stopped walking and turned to face him. “My daughter isn’t ‘Blackfeet.’ She’s my daughter. Period. And she deserves a man who sees her that way.”
“I do, sir. I swear I do.”
I studied him for a long moment. Saw the sincerity in his eyes, the steadiness in his stance, the calluses on his hands that spoke of hard work. Saw the way he looked at my daughter—like she hung the moon.
“Does she want to marry you?” I asked.
“I ... I hope so, sir. I haven’t asked her yet. I wanted your blessing first.”
“Good man,” I said. I extended my hand. “You have my blessing, Caleb. Welcome to the family.”
His face transformed with relief and joy. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. I won’t let you down. I won’t let her down.”
“See that you don’t,” I said, but I was smiling. “Now go ask my daughter before she wears a hole in the kitchen floor from pacing.”
The proposal happened that evening, on the porch, with the sunset painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. I watched from the window as Caleb dropped to one knee, as Gracie’s hands flew to her mouth, as she nodded and cried and threw herself into his arms.
Sarah appeared beside me, slipping her hand into mine. “Our first daughter getting married,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
“She’s happy,” I said. “That’s what matters.”
“You did well with him. He’s a good man.”
“He’d better be,” I said. “Or I’ll shoot him.”
Sarah laughed and leaned her head against my shoulder. “You’re getting soft in your old age.”
“I’m forty-eight, not ancient.”
“Mmm. Ancient.” She turned in my arms, looking up at me with those dark eyes that still made my heart skip. “I love you, Silas Thorne. I loved you ten years ago when I barely knew you. I love you even more now.”
“I love you too,” I said, and kissed her the way I’d been wanting to all day—deep and thorough and full of the passion that hadn’t dimmed one bit in a decade of marriage.
“Ugh, they’re at it again,” Emma’s voice came from behind us. “Get a room.”
“This is our house,” I said without turning around. “We can kiss wherever we want.”
“Still gross,” Emma declared, but she was laughing.
SUMMER
The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of wedding preparations. Gracie threw herself into planning with the same dedication she brought to everything—embroidering her dress, planning the menu, making lists of guests.
Sarah helped her make a wedding dress that blended both cultures—white cotton with intricate Blackfeet beadwork around the collar and cuffs, a design of morning glories and meadowlarks that took weeks to complete. It was breathtaking.
Emma complained about all the fuss but secretly helped by making sure all the horses were groomed and ready for the ceremony. Mary hunted extra game to make sure we had enough food for the celebration. Even little Becky helped, picking wildflowers with Sarah to decorate the ranch.
Standing Bear and Otter Woman arrived two weeks before the wedding, bringing gifts and blessings. Standing Bear pulled me aside one evening, his weathered face serious.
“You have done well, son,” he said in his careful English. “These girls—they are happy, strong, educated. They have choices. That is a great gift you and Sarah have given them.”
“They gave us more than we gave them,” I said honestly. “They saved us. Sarah and I were both broken when we found each other. The girls gave us a reason to be whole again.”
He nodded slowly. “That is what family does. We heal each other.” He paused. “Gracie is marrying a white man. This is her choice?”
“Completely. She won’t marry a man from the reservation—she and Emma both made that clear. They want the freedom to choose their own paths. Caleb is a good man who loves her. That’s what matters.”
“It is,” Standing Bear agreed. “In the old days, there would have been bride price, ceremonies, traditions. Now ... things are different. But love is still love. Family is still family.”
“Yes,” I said simply. “It is.”
The McIntyre family welcomed Gracie with surprising warmth. Caleb’s mother, Margaret, was a practical woman who cared more about character than heritage. She came to visit several times, bringing fabric samples and recipes, treating Gracie like the daughter-in-law she was about to become.
“My son has excellent taste,” she told Sarah one afternoon over tea. “Your daughter is lovely—inside and out. We’re lucky to have her joining our family.”
Sarah’s eyes had filled with grateful tears. After so many years of wondering if her daughters would be accepted, this simple kindness meant everything.
Not everyone was so welcoming, of course. There were whispers at church, sidelong glances at the trading post, a few people who made their disapproval clear. But for every person who disapproved, there were two who didn’t care or who actively supported us.
“Let them talk,” I told Sarah when she worried. “We know who we are. Our daughters know who they are. That’s what matters.”
Emma continued to work with the horses, her skills growing more refined every day. She had a gift—there was no other word for it. Horses that were skittish with me would calm under her hands. Young colts learned faster under her training than anyone else’s.
“You’re better at this than I am,” I told her one day as she worked with a particularly stubborn two-year-old.
“I learned from the best,” she said without looking away from the horse. “But yeah, I’m pretty good.”
Her confidence wasn’t arrogance—it was earned. At fourteen, she could outride, outtrain, and out-trade most men twice her age.
“When I retire,” I said, “this ranch is yours. If you want it.”
She looked at me then, her eyes wide. “You mean it?”
“Every word. You’ve earned it. You’ve got the skill, the drive, the vision. This operation will be in good hands.”
She was quiet for a long moment, then said softly, “Thank you, Papa. For believing I could do this. For not caring that I’m a girl. For letting me be who I am.”
“Why would I care that you’re a girl?” I asked. “You’re the best horseman in Montana Territory. That’s all that matters.”