Calico Christmas at Dry Creek

Jake made his words even clearer. “You’ll be able to get it annulled in the spring if you want.”

He’d do whatever she wanted in that regard.

Elizabeth stood there looking sad. “I just buried my husband. I don’t need another one.”

“I can make you a marker for that grave if you agree to help me. We can get a good-sized piece of granite sent down from Fort Benton. It’ll last forever.”

Elizabeth was looking at him now.

“I could carve your daughter’s name on it for you.”

Elizabeth just stood there, blinking. “Don’t cry,” Jake said.

“I never cry,” Elizabeth whispered and then took a deep breath. “You have yourself a deal.”

Now it was Jake’s turn to be surprised into silence. Being married, even temporarily, to a woman with eyes like that couldn’t be all bad. He’d just have to think of ways to keep her happy until she decided to leave.

grew up on a small farm in central Montana. One of her favorite things to do was to visit her grandfather’s bookshelves, where he had a large collection of Zane Grey novels. She’s always loved a good story. Today Janet lives in Pasadena, California, where she is a full-time writer.

In the beginning of time, it was said that

“…God created man in his own image,

in the image of God created he him…”

This was written in the Holy Bible,

the book of Genesis, the second chapter, and the twenty-seventh verse.

And then, many generations later,

it was also said that

“God made me an Indian.”

This was spoken by

Chief Sitting Bull Lakota Medicine Man 1831–1890

This book is dedicated with love to my grandfather,

Harold Norris, who loved nothing better than a good western novel. I wish he were alive to read this book.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Fort Keogh, Montana Territory, 1879

Elizabeth O’Brian heard voices outside her tent and thought it must be Mr. Miller coming to see if she was dead yet. It was a cold November day and she’d been sitting in her tent for eleven days now in this desolate land. It had only taken her husband, Matthew, and their baby, a few days to die from the fever so Elizabeth couldn’t fault the blacksmith for being impatient.

“Mrs. O’Brian,” a man’s voice called in the distance.

Elizabeth ignored the voice. Mr. Miller knew she was still waiting for the fever to come upon her. He would just have to be patient a little longer. It wasn’t as easy to die as it looked.

She supposed he was nervous because she was so close to the fort. No one had thought her tent would be here for this long. She had used the canvas from her wagon to make a tent in this slight ravine that stood a good fifty feet east of the mud-chinked logs that made up most of the buildings at Fort Keogh.

The canvas stretched from the back of her wagon to the only tree here, a squat cottonwood that had looked tired even before she’d tied her rope to it. She had made sure the tree put her far enough away from the fort to prevent the influenza from striking anyone there while at the same time still being close enough that Mr. Miller wouldn’t have to walk far when he came to bury her.

The fort was a noisy, smelly place and Elizabeth wanted to die the way she had lived, quietly and alone.

“Mrs. O’Brian,” the same man’s voice called out. He was closer now.

She frowned. It didn’t sound like Mr. Miller calling her.

She’d given the blacksmith her team of oxen in exchange for his promise to dig a proper burying hole for her next to the one that held Matthew and their baby, Rose. Once Mr. Miller had pledged himself, she believed he would do what was necessary when the time came. Still, she wanted her tent to be in sight of the man when it was time for him to do his job. She didn’t want to give him any excuse to forget about the deal when she was no longer able to remind him of it. Men, she’d realized in her twenty-eight years on this earth, weren’t always reliable.

Elizabeth got to her knees and crawled to the opening in the tent. She hadn’t been out of the tent since dawn when she had gotten water from the barrel that was attached to the side of her wagon. She had added another piece of wood to the smoldering fire just outside her tent and boiled water for tea. Someone had left her a plate of hardtack biscuits yesterday. A morning frost had already covered the biscuits before she saw them, making them so brittle she had to dip each one in her tea before it was soft enough to chew. She’d had no appetite, but she’d forced herself to eat two of them for breakfast anyway.

After she ate, she had checked to see that the handkerchief was still securely tied around the back of the wagon seat. When she had refused to stay inside the fort, the doctor had insisted she have a signal for when the fever came upon her. She was to exchange the white handkerchief for a small piece of blue fabric at the first sign of heat. She’d ripped the cloth from the back of one of Matthew’s shirts and had it, folded and ready for use, lying beside the old blankets on which she slept.