Healing Montana Sky by Debra Holland

town, which of course he’d left at the house. At this moment, he had a hard time gathering his thoughts about what was written on the paper. Maybe if he looked around the store he’d remember.
    Mrs. Norton touched his elbow. “When you’re ready to go home, Reverend Norton and I will go with you. I’ll help Mrs. Valleau prepare your wife’s body. I imagine you’ll want to bury her on your land, rather than the cemetery in town. Reverend Norton will be able to perform the service for you.”
    The images caused by her words made him nauseated. “I need to go buy a coffin.” Even as he made the statement, his mind screamed nooooo . The word echoed around his brain.

    After nursing her son and leaving the boys with Mrs. Cameron, Antonia led the mule, laden with pelts, toward the mercantile, while Erik drove his wagon to the cabinetmaker. As she walked, she replayed Jean-Claude’s stories of how he’d bargained with the shopkeepers. She might not know her letters, but her husband had taught her numbers and how to figure prices and money. She was determined to do as well as he had.
    The spring sunshine shone warm on her face, and Antonia was able to muster up some gratitude that they didn’t have to deal with rain, or even snow. I don’t need miserable weather to match my miserable circumstances.
    Keeping her gaze on the redbrick building across the street and close to the train station, Antonia tried to take determined steps to counteract her growing nervousness, which made the little amount of food she’d eaten weigh in her stomach as heavy as iron.
    Based on Jean-Claude’s past fur sales, Antonia had calculated the amount she thought this batch would bring and had figured out what goods they needed to start a new life. Now she could cross off many of the items on her mental list. At least by going to live on a farm, she wouldn’t have to stock up as if they were starting from scratch.
    Although she wanted to study the building—bigger than any she’d ever seen—that was under construction between the store and the train station, Antonia kept her gaze straight ahead. She didn’t want to see any leers from the workers. Maybe later, when she was properly dressed, she could look.
    Antonia tied up the mule in front of the redbrick building with black letters printed across the big window in the front. She reached up to take the top layers off the mule—the mink, beaver, ermine, otter, and a beautiful silver fox. She left the heavier elk, deer, and bear furs, including the uncured one from the monster who’d killed Jean-Claude, on the mule to unload on her second trip.
    Usually, her husband would travel to Sweetwater Springs in the spring or early summer to trade the furs taken from the previous autumn and winter. But last spring he hadn’t wanted to leave her alone with a tiny baby. Now that Jacques was older, Jean-Claude had planned for them to take a trip to town in a few weeks. How painfully ironic that she was now the one doing the trading.
    Her arms full, Antonia had to fumble with the door handle. By the time she entered the store, she was flushed and hot. The sight of so much merchandise—the colors, the smells—overwhelmed her senses. She paused to get her bearings, glancing over at a crock of what smelled like pickles. When did I last eat a pickle?
    A tall man straightened from behind the counter. A narrow fringe of hair circled his bald head, and he had a squashed red nose. The shopkeeper eyed her clothing, and a sour expression crossed his face.
    Perhaps he’s eaten too many of his own pickles , Antonia thought, disliking the shopkeeper on sight. Once again she wanted to flee but felt trapped because there was nowhere to go. Her family needed this trade.
    Antonia walked forward, as stately as she could, given the bundle in her arms. She set the pile on the counter and spread them out, so they lay in a neat display. “I be Mrs. Valleau. I be tradin’ these. I be havin’ more on the mule