An Honest Woman: Montana Brides #2: Montana Brides, #2

By Leslea Tash

Jessica is the quintessential 1920s wealthy bad girl from Montana with a penchant for running away from home if things don't go her way. As her brother's wedding to the sugary sweet Chastity nears, Jessica grows stir-crazy yet again. This time, however, fleeing south to Wyoming turns out to be much more dangerous than she ever could have predicted. When her brother hires skilled tracker Sleeping Fox to find her and bring her home, her life is forever changed.

Sleeping Fox is a man between worlds--half Blackfoot, with a white mother. Orphaned to the Indian School as a child, he grows up with a chip on his shoulder as wide as the Montana sky. A quiet man, the one thing he is known for in the small town of Wedlock is his skill as a tracker. When the wealthy rancher hires him to find his missing sister, Sleeping Fox bargains for a share of his tribe's ancestral homeland--but ends up with much more in the end.

This is the long-awaited second book in the Montana Brides series, but can be read as a stand-alone adventure romance. Through the Rocky Mountains, the rodeo circuit, brushes with Prohibition era gangsters, Russian fur traders, and wild wolves, follow the adventure of a lifetime for two star-crossed lovers from the same town, but different worlds.

 

"The characters were well-developed and it made me want to care about them and the outcome of each adventure or situation. The complexities of each hurdle developed the characters as in real life. I could related to the practical realities as their love evolved.These get me interested in the other book. If you are a fan of Where the Lost Wander, try this one too," ~Reviewer Annacroft

 

~"The story was interesting and the main characters were intriguing. This wasn't just your typical romance novel. Elements thrown into the book were diverse and not your average romance story. The author took time to build the scenes and the plot. Overall, a great book!"~ Reviewer Skyler N.

Readers of Montana Brides say:

"The Rancher Takes a Wife by Leslea Tash gives me hope that there are good people still out there in this world." ~Amazon reviewer Mom of 4

"Never a bored moment, great storyline, great dialogues and great characters--even the nasty ones." ~Reviewer Angeline M.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawthorne Gallup Publishing
• Release date: Aug 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393015390

Book preview

Chapter One

Sleeping Fox

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Half-breed! they called me. Neither the whites nor the redskins accepted me. The same had been true in my village on the outskirts of the reservation where I’d lived with my white mother and Blackfoot father.

Legend told that my uncle was born the size of a bear cub and twice as strong. Unlike me, he was a full Indian, and so big, he seemed to cast two shadows. I knew from the first time I set eyes on him that such things never happened to someone like Walking Bear.

Despite what you may have read, Indian School isn’t really school. It’s more like prison. Sure, they may teach you to read and write, but the real lesson is that you’re inferior to the white man. They taught it with fists and whips, as much as with words.

There were runaways, brawls, and rescue attempts while they incarcerated me at Fort Shaw, but I was the only child who ever strolled out of the gates and left without a fight. I was lucky. I had a Walking Bear by my side.

Unlike some of the other Indian parents, my uncle didn’t write tear-stained letters to the superintendent or beg outside the gates for me to be let go. He was not the type, and it would not have swayed the heartless, even if he had.

He didn’t show up in ceremonial dress. He didn’t beat a drum, dance, or chant. He didn’t paint a sign or throw a maul, or any of the tactics that others had tried in the past hoping to retrieve their own. He simply asked for me and walked me out the gates.

All eyes were on us as we passed tired children as grey as the mountains of laundry they were compelled to wash to earn dinners of stale bread. Room after room, the murderous eyes of angry adults took me in, their mouths hanging open in dumb silence as they in turn saw Walking Bear. Past the basketball teams, past the regiments of children exercising to military precision, jaws dropped and voices were struck mute.

Fort Shaw wasn’t what the rich white children of the day knew as boarding school. Nobody left until the government said it was time.

Nobody but me.

Finally, we were alone on the streets outside Great Falls. I didn’t know north from south, but I’ll never forget how sweet the air smelled outside the gates of Fort Shaw—how brilliantly the sun was shining. I reached for Walking Bear’s paw, even though I was too old to need to hold anyone’s hand. Too old and too strong, perhaps, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Where are you taking me, Uncle?

To see the future, he said.

I didn’t know what he meant. It was enough he had come for me, this stranger who called himself my father’s brother. I’d never met him before this day, but what did it matter when Fort Shaw grew smaller over our shoulders by the minute?

I didn’t yet know that he’d already decided to raise me. All I knew was that if a man like Walking Bear could have his way without struggle from the whole of Fort Shaw, then he had plenty to teach a runt like me. I was weary of the black eyes and the bruised legs. I wasn’t sure what the future would bring, but it couldn’t be worse than the past.

Are we going to the hunting grounds?

Hmm?

A long time ago, my father told me you left the res for hunting grounds on a mountain far away.

Walking Bear smiled. What else did your father tell you?

The past is the past, leave it there.

He laughed then, that sad, pitying sort of laughter that finds no joy. I should have come for you sooner, was all he said.

My uncle wasn’t the type to invite questions. It wasn’t that he was unkind, just imposing. It was a long walk to Old Round Top, but at least the forced marching at Indian School had prepared me. I might have been a runt, but I had stamina.

We’d followed the river for a few miles before he told me that my father had died. We’d just reached the river when said, Your father is gone, in the past now. You can bring him or leave him. Up to you.

I was confused. My father was dead? Was he asking me to return to the reservation for a burial? I wasn’t sure I wanted or needed to say goodbye. The thought of going back to a place so sad weighed me down like someone had put a stone upon my chest. Aren’t we going to your home?

He nodded. Your father was good to you?

I didn’t want to lie, but I wasn’t sure if I could tell the truth. I was still thinking about it when Walking Bear continued. He seemed to know the answer, anyway.

Listen, boy. Your father—my brother—would have been a great warrior. But the time of the warrior is gone, and that was not his fault. Never met a man win a war against the bottle. Remember that. Used to be, Indian dies from old age or battle. Now instead of battle, it’s the bottle. Too many bottles on the reservation. Not your father’s fault, but his truth, just the same.

It was the first time since leaving the reservation that I had walked the wild. The chill turned my ears to ice beneath my short hair, but I was warm in my government-issued jacket. The wind whipped tears from my eyes, but I wasn’t crying. I wanted to feel sadness—something, anything, except what I felt: relief. Finally, someone understood me. Accepted me. This was no small thing. I also felt something I didn’t have words for at the time: respect, kinship. I’d never felt these things before. Not since my mother had died, anyway.

Walking Bear seemed as unaffected by the weather as he did by the loss of his brother. It was as though he really did have a bear’s hide under his clothing.

He pointed out tracks as we went.

Bear. Herd of Bighorn. Wolf—many wolves. Each time we passed a track, he paused to let me examine the prints. He pointed out the signs of the animals’ movement, the results of their hunting, their droppings. Good hunting on this trail, always, he said.

My father hadn’t been a hunter, unless you counted hunting for booze. When my mother worked herself to death, that was about the time the government sent me to the Indian School and he was glad to see me go, I think. It was difficult to imagine him teaching me anything other than a fair price for whisky. I learned more from Walking Bear on the walk to Old Round Top than I had in all those years of imprisonment they called school.

Look, a fox den, he said near the end of the first day. The light was fading, but I could make out a large hole in a dirt embankment. As far as I could tell, we were miles from man-made shelter.

I bet it’s warm in there, I said.

He laughed. You might be small enough to fit your leg in there, but not this old bear. You want to sleep with the foxes? Good instinct. He stuck his head in. Smell is gone. Long empty. Want to see?

Not far from the den was a rocky outcrop, about the size of a travel trunk. We may not fit inside a fox den, but this will do. He produced a hide and set up decent sized tent, within the moment. Walking Bear built a fire, and before long, we were snug in our own sort of den. Although the space was cramped, I was comforted by the nearness of my uncle. I slept better that night, sitting up against him, than all the nights on the lumpy, urine-stained mattress I’d been assigned at Fort Shaw.

Thank you for coming for me, Uncle.

You do not mind the den?

I hesitated. A room at an Inn would have been nice.

He laughed, the kind of deep, rumbling surprised laughter that told me not only had I answered him well, but that we were going to get along just fine. Dream well, Sleeping Fox.

I may have smiled as I drifted to sleep. I’d never had an Indian name, not that I could remember. My mother had named me Ezekiel, and my father called me Zeke for short, but I never cared for it. Zeke, always sounded like the noise an animal makes in pain, and I had had enough of that. I had no hard feelings toward my mother, but with a new life awaiting me, the new name held promise. From that day on, I would be Sleeping Fox. No more, no less.

It was two days’ walk to Old Round Top, and by the time we reached the place I would now call home, I had worked up the courage to ask my uncle what he’d meant when he took me from Fort Shaw. We were steps away from the front door of his cabin when I spit it out.

Uncle? You said you were going to show me the future. What did you mean?

He smiled, and though it was cold enough to see our breaths, the kind look on his face felt like the sun warming my skin. He put one large, strong hand on my shoulder, and turned me to face the way we had come. With his other hand, he pointed far into the horizon to the north, the east, and the south.

Sleeping Fox, I have watched the white man come and the bison go from this spot. If you stand here long enough, you, too, will come to see the future. A man who sees the future without forgetting his past is a man who can take care of himself and his family.

Family. At the time, I thought he was simply referring to the smattering of relatives I would soon meet on Old Round Top. I was too young to dream of what someday would be mine. Walking Bear would teach me many things from that vantage point on the mountain.

Not so long ago, I stood in that favorite spot as I watched Walking Bear, my aunt, and my little cousin Hope ride away to the neighboring rancher’s wedding. Nothing against the rancher, but I preferred my view to the white man’s hospitality. I seldom felt the need to leave Old Round Top, not even for the promise of wedding cake. Especially not for that, come to reckon.

My relatives hadn’t been gone long before I spied the rancher’s sister riding away from town in the opposite direction of the big wedding. I didn’t wonder why. It was curious, but of what concern was it to me?

A fleet fox dared dash across my boot as I watched her go. Looking down, I instinctively lurched to chase the furry thing, but as she dipped into the brush, I saw she carried a kit in her mouth. No sport in killing a mama fox.

Looking up, I tracked the rancher’s sister again, just as she dismounted and slapped her horse hard on the rump to send it running home. They were tiny things in the distance, just ants in size and of no real importance to me, but I’d had many years of practice watching from Old Round Top. I could tell when someone was sneaking out of town. Considering the size of the gathering near the distant waterfall, I couldn’t help but feel intrigued as to why the little Ward brat would be running away. She must hate Wedlock as much as I hated Fort Shaw.

I thought I knew what I was seeing, like a hunter studies tracks in the dirt. A bored, spoiled brat trying to get attention on her brother’s big day, nothing more. What more was there to see? She’d done it so many times before. What else could it be?

I didn’t know what Walking Bear had promised me was finally coming true. I didn’t know I was finally seeing the future.

Chapter Two

Jessica

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Life had always been unbearable at Brideshead, but it was even worse leading up to the wedding. Chastity was determined to make me into her new best friend, and it was all I could do to bite back smart comments to her simpering requests. By the day of the wedding, I had to escape!

My brother’s intended wanted to turn me into someone I was not—the frontier sweetheart, the cowboy poet’s muse, perhaps. I just wanted to turn her into a memory. She didn’t seem to notice, though. No matter what I did to drive her off, she refused to let me rile her.

Forgive and forget, seemed to be her motto. She sure preached it at the kids in town, and at those brat siblings of hers she and my brother had taken to raise. Forgive and forget, forgive and forget. I couldn’t help but sing-song it as I rode out of town.

Well, I might be a brat, but I didn’t ask Chastity to take me to raise. I liked who I was, and I didn’t crave forgiveness—hers, Carl’s, or anyone else’s. I sure as shootin’ didn’t want to forget all I had done. It might not have always been smart, but it was my journey, my life.

Ribbons and bows and wedding songs were for silly girls like her, and that was fine. I craved more, and I wasn’t sorry at all.

Somehow deep down I always knew my love story—should I ever find myself in one—wouldn’t be clean, wouldn’t be pure. Any romance I stepped into was likely to end with me roped up like a calf, not tied with a bow.

If I’d done things Carl’s way, maybe I’d have let a wealthy man romance me. Someone who would woo me into submission and put a ring on my finger like a good Christian woman’s romantic happily ever after. I’d probably end up with one of the Kohrs boys—the smart one was a bucktoothed pencil neck, and the one who was easy on the eyes was a walking wall of muscle who was about as smart as a bucket of Rocky Mountain Oysters. They were the only other ranchers within a day’s drive who had the assets to stand up to ours. How else would I know it was a love match, if I married someone who only stood to gain?

I hated to think about such things. I’d long ago done the math: there was no Mr. Right waiting out there for me. No one and nothing. That’s why I started running away after Daddy died. Everyone thought I didn’t have a lick of sense, but you tell me: if you had no future, would you stay?

Carl had always written me off as foolish, but he’s like most men: blinded by pride. My heart had never been an easy read, I guess, and really, did Carl have the time to ponder about me? He took over Brideshead and much of the running of Wedlock at a young age. He treated me like a problem to be solved, and I treated him like a contagious disease. It might not have been perfect, but it was our way.

Then Chastity came along. No, happily ever after stories are for girls like Chastity, not me. It was never more clear to me that if I stayed, my part in the family saga was always going to be the black sheep. And black sheep do not stand up next to the bride and the groom at the fairytale wedding, do they?

Funny thing was, I felt more like a fox than a sheep. Not that anyone had ever asked me.

Oh, but that didn’t stop Chastity from asking me to be her maid of honor. She could have been downright inspirational, I suppose, the way she never gave up on taming me into a sister. Instead, she inspired me to pack a bag and hit the road. "Forgive and