Rose

April 1870, Paradise Valley, Montana Territory

Her last morning began like any other. Rose woke before dawn but remained in bed, eyes closed, listening to the familiar, comfortable sounds. She heard baby Harry's rhythmic breathing from his crib, the dog's soft, wet snore from his nest of blankets on the floor, the cheerful chirrup of spring peepers by the creek. A cool breeze, smelling of damp earth, stirred the curtains made of fabric she intended for a dress but repurposed when she realized the color no longer suited her complexion. Yellow used to flatter her, but no more. Her skin was darker and her auburn hair several shades lighter than it had been back in Missouri. She smiled to wonder, as she had many times before, if the home folks would know her if she passed them today on the streets of St. Louis.

She rolled onto her side, her face to the window, and wished the peaceful interval could last. Rose was tired all the time; she woke up tired. This was understandable, she told herself, given her condition, but her fatigue seemed different, more crushing and unlike the last time. She cherished these few minutes of quiet she had all to herself before the day's work bore down on her.

But now it was over. Rose threw back the gray wool army blanket she and Daniel still used, with U.S. stamped in black, blocky letters in the center, even though her husband's time as an army surgeon was years behind them. The spring morning was cold, and she wrapped her wool shawl around her shoulders as she tiptoed to the kitchen to light a fire in the new, cast iron cook stove squatting malevolently in the corner. Rose hated the thing. Two weeks before, she and Daniel had had one of their rare arguments when he and Billy Sun carted the stove home from Bozeman in the spring wagon. Dan had wanted to surprise her, and he did.

"It has a separate 'auxiliary air chamber' just for baking bread," he said, proudly pointing to said feature. "It's the newest model. Nick Stono says all the women back East have one. You'll be the first in Montana Territory."

"Nick Stono says that, does he?" Rose said, folding her arms across her chest. The fast-talking merchant was famous for convincing people to buy items they didn't want or need, and her husband, she suspected, had fallen victim. "Really, Dan, I wish you'd asked me first. I don't want this. I'm happy with my old Reliance." It had taken Rose a long time to make friends with the quirky little cooker she had used since she first went to housekeeping four years before at Fort Phil Kearny. It had involved much trial and error, many cakes and biscuits had been reduced to blackened lumps of charcoal, but now she and it understood each other. Rose was not keen to start all over.

"Return it and get our money back," she said. "I want you to."

Daniel's face fell so dramatically Rose almost laughed. "Now, Rose, honey," he said, "don't be like that. It took Billy and me the whole day to get it here." He and the Indian boy exchanged a look that spoke of shared misery. "You can't imagine how heavy that thing is. Just give it a try, will you, love? Just try it?"

In the end Rose relented, for she could never deny Daniel anything he asked of her, but she was annoyed. Learning a new stove added a good deal of work at a time when she already had plenty. It also galled her to think of how much Dan must have paid when there were so many other things she would have rather had, what with the new baby coming. They could have added a new room on to their two-room cabin. The space would be desperately needed, with two young children in the house. And they desperately needed furniture. Dan didn't know it, but she longed for a proper dresser with a marble top and a mirror large enough to show more than only her head and shoulders when she dressed for the day.

With a sigh, she opened the oven door and tossed wood from the box onto the glowing embers. At least the thing threw good heat. Bob was waiting at the door to go out and Rose obliged him, then ladled water from the barrel into a kettle and put it on the stovetop to boil. She did not put a match to the coal oil lamp, preferring instead the ambient light from the window. The sun was rising behind the snow-covered Absarokas, coloring the sky in glowing bands of pink and gold. It was a sight she never tired of, and the setting of the sun behind the Gallatin Range was equally glorious. How lucky she and Daniel had been to find a home in this beautiful valley, a place the Indians named Valley of the Flowers. Yes, they'd been fortunate in this as in so many things, and so far this spring, they'd been lucky in the weather, too. Not as much rain as usual and warmer days as well. Rose hoped the warmth would continue today for she had piles of clothes, whites and darks, in need of washing.

Bob was scratching at the door. After letting him in, she poured steaming water into a pan over the roasted coffee beans she'd ground the night before, stirred the mixture with a fork, and let it steep for three minutes — no more, no less. When the grounds were fully settled she poured the aromatic brew through a fine mesh strainer and into her blue tin mug. Daniel liked his with cream and sugar, but Rose took her coffee strong and black.

As she walked to the table, she felt a tightening sensation across her abdomen. She'd been having mild contractions for weeks, but this one, though not painful, was stronger than the others. She sat and sipped her coffee, fighting down faint stirrings of fear. She'd had similar sensations during her pregnancy with Harry, but not this soon. The new baby's time was at least seven or eight weeks distant. She had not mentioned the contractions to Daniel, but he seemed a bit worried when they parted the day before.

"Are you sure it's all right for me to go?" He placed his hand, palm down, on her rounded stomach. "Those horses will probably still be there next month when Mrs. MacGill comes. Burgess knows I want them; he wouldn't let anyone else have the pair. Or I could send Billy — he never turns down a chance to go to town."

Billy Sun was their hired man, the lanky, green-eyed son of a Crow woman and a French fur trader. The Frenchman had been killed by a grizzly one week after his son's birth, fourteen years before. The woman's brothers tracked the bear and killed it, making a necklace of the giant animal's claws. Billy wore it every day.

"No," Rose said, shaking her head, "you should go. It's not only the horses, there will be patients waiting for you in Bozeman, people who've come a long way. Don't worry about Harry and me, we'll be fine. Besides, it's only...