Montana Promise
Copyright© 2026 by Komiko Yakamura
Chapter 8
Thursday morning, they loaded the first wagon with wheat. It took three trips to get it all to the grain buyer in Bozeman—the wagon groaning under the weight, the horses straining on the hills. Elias drove while Ellie Mae rode beside him, the ledger on her lap, ready to verify every measurement, every calculation.
The grain buyer was a thin man named Kowalski who ran his operation out of a large warehouse on the edge of town. He came out when he heard the wagon, his eyes assessing the load before he even said hello.
“McKinney,” he said. “Heard you had a crop in.”
“Forty acres of spring wheat. High quality.” Elias set the brake. “Want to take a look?”
Kowalski pulled a few heads from the pile, rubbed the kernels between his fingers, bit one to test the hardness. His expression gave nothing away.
“It’s decent,” he finally said.
“It’s better than decent,” Ellie Mae said calmly. “It’s the best wheat in Gallatin County this year. Or so I’m told.”
Kowalski’s eyes flickered to her, then back to Elias. “That so?”
“That’s so,” Elias confirmed. “Dutch Hansen was working our harvest. He said it’s the best he’s seen.”
“Dutch knows wheat,” Kowalski admitted. He pulled out a few more heads, examined them carefully. “All right. It’s good wheat. Real good. I’ll give you a dollar ten per bushel.”
Ellie Mae didn’t even blink. “A dollar thirty.”
“That’s highway robbery—”
“That’s the market rate in Helena for premium wheat. You’ll turn around and sell it for a dollar fifty, minimum. A dollar thirty leaves you plenty of profit and gives us fair value for quality grain.”
Kowalski stared at her. “You know a lot about grain prices for a—” He stopped himself.
“For a woman?” Ellie Mae’s voice was pleasant, but her eyes were steel. “Or were you going to say something else?”
The warehouse was very quiet. Elias felt his fists clench, but Ellie Mae put a hand on his arm. Steady. Let her handle this.
“For a woman,” Kowalski finished carefully. “I was going to say for a woman.”
“My father was in shipping. I grew up learning commodity prices.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “So. A dollar thirty per bushel, or we take our premium wheat elsewhere.”
“There is nowhere else in Bozeman—”
“Then we’ll haul it to Helena. It’ll cost us in transport, but we’ll still come out ahead.” She picked up the reins like she was about to leave. “Your choice, Mr. Kowalski.”
“Wait.” Kowalski held up a hand. “A dollar twenty-five. That’s my final offer.”
“A dollar thirty. That’s mine.”
They stared at each other. Finally, Kowalski laughed—short and sharp. “You’re something else, Mrs. McKinney. All right. A dollar thirty. But only because it really is damn good wheat.”
“Pleasure doing business with you.” Ellie Mae opened her ledger. “Now, let’s weigh it.”
The weighing took over an hour. Kowalski’s men unloaded the wheat, measured it, recorded the weight. Ellie Mae watched every step, double-checking the scales, verifying the calculations. When they were done, she compared her figures to Kowalski’s.
“We agree,” she said. “Forty-two bushels this load.”
“Agreed.” Kowalski made the notation. “Bring in the rest and we’ll settle up at the end.”
They made two more trips that day, then three more over the next two days. By Saturday afternoon, all the wheat was delivered, weighed, and recorded.
The final tally: four hundred and eighty-seven bushels at a dollar thirty per bushel.
Six hundred and thirty-three dollars and ten cents.
Ellie Mae stared at the number in her ledger. They’d never had that much money. Not all at once. Not from their own labor.
Kowalski counted out the money in twenties and tens, then silver dollars for the remainder. He pushed the stack across his desk.
“That’s quite a haul,” he said. “You planning to plant again next year?”
“We are,” Elias said.
“Then I’ll be looking forward to it.” Kowalski nodded to Ellie Mae. “You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. McKinney.”
“I drive a fair bargain,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Outside, they climbed onto the wagon in silence. Elias didn’t start the horses right away. Just sat there, the money heavy in his pocket, the weight of what they’d accomplished settling over him.
“Six hundred thirty-three dollars,” he said.
“Six hundred thirty-three dollars and ten cents,” Ellie Mae corrected. She was smiling—really smiling, the kind of smile that lit up her whole face. “We did it, Elias. We really did it.”
He pulled her close and kissed her, right there on Main Street in Bozeman, not caring who saw. She laughed against his lips, and the sound was pure joy.
“Come on,” she said when they finally broke apart. “We have business to conduct.”
First stop was the bank. Warren Thornton looked up when they entered, and something flickered across his face—anger, resentment, fear. But he composed himself quickly.
“McKinney. Mrs. McKinney.” He stood. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re here to make a payment.” Elias pulled out the money. “Three months’ worth.”
Thornton’s eyes widened. “Three months?”
“At the corrected interest rate.” Ellie Mae set her ledger on his desk. “I have the calculations here if you’d like to verify.”
Thornton counted the money slowly, like he was hoping it might disappear. When he was done, he made the notation in his ledger with obvious reluctance.
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