This beautiful valley, in the land the Indians call “Montana,” and the women who have become my sisters, have given me peace and comfort. In the heat of that hot, dry summer, ten women came together in this beautiful valley with towering mountains on one side, a lake filled with fish, and lush green grass for our stock.

      The land is wild and rough with men, who would take us as they would a cow or a horse, caring little for our pride. Who would protect us? we wondered by our campfire and wagons and stock, women without menfolk in a harsh land. We wanted husbands, of course, but we wanted the freedom to choose good men who would treat us well.

      Fleur Arnaud, Anastasia Duscha, Beatrice Avril, Jasmine Dupree, China Belle Ruppurt, and Fancy Benjamin had already been treated poorly by their men. They would not settle for less than their rightful due again. Margaret Gertraud, Cynthia Whitehall and myself had not suffered so, but we were determined to keep ourselves free of unjoyful and painful bondage, such as they had suffered. We know little of the woman known as LaRue, except that she is most helpful and inventive. She has loved, she said, and she has lost. Yet her quiet, secret smile tells more.

      So it was that women with strong minds decided to become a family, to protect one another, to weigh marriage offers as a father or brother would have done in the Old World, to see that men courted as was proper and that they kept their marriage promises. We decided that our family would protect the brides men would have, inspecting the men’s qualifications as future husbands. At first, we laughed, and then the idea grew into our dream.

      Jasmine Dupree had been berry picking when her baby decided to come, and an Indian man, Mr. Deerhorn, came to her rescue. He fashioned a travois, two long poles with a blanket between them, which dragged behind his horse, and brought her back to our camp. He was most shocked when Cynthia Whitehall of Boston society thanked him by kissing his cheek.

      I am a midwife, and when Jasmine’s baby came into my hands, we cried. That night, we decided to name our valley Freedom, and our town, too. With the fine big boy nursing at Jasmine’s breast, and joy in our hearts, we sat down to decide the Rules for Bride Courting. By next summer, we will have a town called Freedom.

      Mr. Deerhorn came the next morning with a reed basket of herbs from his mother. He explained the uses to us, but his warm gaze followed Cynthia. A bold woman, she has become suddenly quiet.

      Magda Claas, Midwife and Healer and

       Butter Maker

       Freedom Valley, Montana

      One

      My children are my joy. A widow with three young children, I feared I would fail them. Yet now Tanner, the oldest at twenty, is already off to college and has his heart set on Gwyneth Smith. At sixteen, Kylie is the youngest, and tosses herself into life. She is determined to bring down one Michael Cusack. My oldest daughter, Miranda, is just eighteen and furious with Gabriel Deerhorn. It has been months since he called or came to our house. Always controlled and keeping her secrets, Miranda will say nothing. I think she dreamed of marrying him, and now she is grimly determined to leave Freedom.

      —from the journal of Anna Bennett, descendant of Magda Claas

      The woman stood in the night, campfire smoke curling around her and Gabriel’s baby nestling in her rounded belly. Filled with promises and love, her hair swept back from her face by the mountain wind, her eyes were warm upon Gabriel. The joy that she gave him swirled through the tops of the pines, settled deeply within him. She had his heart and together they had made a child—

      Gabriel awoke suddenly, his heart racing, his mind trying to hold the dream close to him. Yet it swirled off into the mountain’s December snow, torn from him too soon. It was always the same, the woman who came to him in sleep, his child nestled within her. He sat up, his hands shaking as he stirred his campfire into life—not for the warmth, but to do something, anything. Gabriel lifted his face to the slashing mountain snow, then turned to study his evening campfire. The snowflakes blended with the smoke and disappeared, just as the woman always left him. Without her, he carried the cold ache of loneliness.

      His people believed in dreams, in the meanings they held. Gabriel breathed deeply, and glanced at his horse in the pine bough shelter. The Appaloosa’s mottled coat blended with the veil of snowflakes as the gelding returned Gabriel’s study. Once the woman had come to Gabriel when he was cold and alone, curling warmly against him, placing his hand on her full breast. Milk for the coming child had dampened his palm and gave him peace; he knew that his blood would live on, his heritage and pride. He had dreamed of her riding in front of him, wrapped snugly in his arms. Turning slightly, she would lean against him, her breath warm upon his throat, their baby pressing against his stomach.

      Gabriel shook his head and dusted the snowflakes from his face. Perhaps it was Michael Cusack and Kylie Bennett’s approaching church wedding that had stirred the dreams, like dying embers brought back to life. Perhaps it was Tanner and Gwyneth’s announcement of a coming baby. Gabriel hadn’t thought of his need to have a child for years. At thirty-seven, he had settled into his mountain ranch, tending his horses and cattle and occasionally serving as a guide for tourists.

      He shoved a stick into the fire, prodding it, and watched the coals spring into flame. He’d been too lonely at his cabin, and he’d known the woman would come to him where his Native American blood called to him and the dreams came