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Chapter One

The Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory 1852

The bull tra­in, con­sis­ting of fo­ur eig­ht-yo­ke te­ah the wind-blown tall buf­fa­lo grass, fol­lo­wing the Yel­low­s­to­ne Ri­ver that ran sna­ke-li­ke thro­ugh the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory

It was August, a per­fect ti­ To the west ro­se the dark Roc­ki­es, the­ir sharp pe­aks stan­ding out sharply aga­inst the pa­le blue sky Nor­t­h­e­re the three but­tes of the Swe­et­g­rass Hills Eas­t­ward dimly lo­omed the Be­ar Paws; So­uth, ac­ross the Yel­low­s­to­ne Ri­ver, the pi­ne-clad Hig­h­wo­od Mo­un­ta­ins we­re in pla­in sight

On all si­des buf­fa­lo and an­te­lo­pe gra­zed qu­i­etly on the he­althy, spring-fed grass Sit­ting in the le­ad wa­gon, in the sha­de of the can­vas that had be­en stret­c­hed over the se­at to pro­tect the new mot­her and child from the hot rays of the sun, we­re Bryce Ed­monds and his wi­fe Char­lot­te

Charlotte ga­zed lo­vingly down at her te­ek-old son, ado­ring hi that he had not be­en born in s, with a re­al doc­tor to lo­ok af­ter her, a re­al bed on which to be com­for­tab­le, and with fo­od re­adily ava­ilab­le As it was, the ex­pe­di­ti­on's fo­od supply had dwin­d­led, and ever­y­t­hing was now be­ing ra­ti­oned un­til they re­ac­hed the Mis­so­uri Ri­ver, whe­re they co­uld bo­ard a ste­am­bo­at and re­turn to the com­forts of the­ir pa­la­ti­al ho­me in Sa­int Lo­u­is

When Char­lot­te had of­fe­red to jo­in the­se le­pi­dop­te­rists, led by her hus­band, s

he had not even tho­ught of be­co­ jo­ur­ney

It had just hap­pe­ned

"Are you too di­sap­po­in­ted, de­ar?" Char­lot­te as­ked, ga­zing lo­vingly at Bryce, her hus­band of six ye­ars, who­se blond ha­ir had ble­ac­hed al­most whi­te be­ne­ath the hot Mon­ta­na sun

But the sun had not chan­ged his han­d­so­ed se­at of the wa­gon, she wan­ted to re­ach out and to­uch his fa­ce or run her fin­gers thro­ugh his thick ha­ir She lo­ved hih each was the­ir first kiss, the­ir first ca­ress

When a fly star­ted buz­zing aro­und the fa­ce of her son, her tho­ughts we­re aver­ted to things ot­her than ro­ her be­lo­ved hus­band She sho­o­ed the fly away fro at her bre­ast

Her Kirk

Her ado­rab­le Kirk

She had fo­ught off mos­qu­ito­es, ticks, and fli­es un­til she e­ary from it all

Bryce cast Char­lot­te an easy smi­le

''A not fo­und the eup­ha­ed­ra?" he sa­id, re­fer­ring to the ra­re Ve­ne­zu­elan but­terfly they had be­en hun­ting "Naw, can't say that I am"

His ga­ze shif­ted, enj­oying the sight of his son nur­sing froht that wo­uld lin­ger in his me­mory un­til the day he di­ed It was so won­der­ful to fi­nal­ly ha­ve a child