Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection by Debra Holland

and such. See if ye find a man you fancy.”
    “I don’t need a husband, Da.” Sally looked around the room and smiled. “I have everyone I love right here.”
    ~ ~ ~
    The next day, riding the mule, Sally reached the town of Sweetwater Springs. With one hand, she held the reins, and the other was placed protectively over the scarves wrapped in a clean pillowcase and tied to the pommel of the saddle. The brisk wind stung her nose, and her hands and feet ached from the cold. Even her mittens and two pairs of woolen socks weren’t enough to protect her from the December chill.
    In spite of the frosty temperature, the sun sparkled off the snow. As she anticipated the shopping she’d be able to do, her heart filled with warmth. For weeks, she’d daydreamed about the children’s reactions to Christmas morning. Now she was one step closer to making those dreams come true.
    She drew near to the town, relishing the sight of color after so many hours of white snow—the rusty brick of the mercantile, the brown train station, with the unexpected yellow trim, the faded green of a saloon. Even the white clapboard church and the schoolhouse stood out because both buildings sported black doors and window trim.
    Sally pulled up to the mercantile, slid off the mule, and tied the reins to the hitching pole. The reins of a Pinto, with a shaggy winter coat, wrapped around the rail on the left side of the door. She wondered who owned the animal. Even though she had few acquaintances in town, she would enjoy seeing some other people. Maybe even someone she knew—Mrs. Norton, the minister’s wife, perhaps. Or Doctor Cameron’s wife. Just the idea of exchanging pleasantries with another woman excited her. Maybe Da’s right about us needing to get to town more often.
    Once off the mule, Sally took a few tottering steps, feeling the ache in her legs. It had been a long time since she’d ridden the mule past the boundaries of their one hundred sixty-acre homestead.
    Stiffly, she mounted the stairs to the store and pushed open the door. Welcome warmth from the stove near the counter enveloped her. She sniffed the air, redolent with odors of vinegary pickles and spicy cinnamon.
    “Close the door, girl,” Mrs. Cobb scolded. The shopkeeper sat behind the counter at the back of the store. “You’re letting in the cold air.”
    Feeling guilty, Sally rushed inside, closing the door with a snap. Although tempted to look around at the colorful bolts of fabrics that beckoned, she stuck to her errand. Time enough to explore the wealth of merchandise after she’d bargained with Mrs. Cobb.
    She hurried to the counter.
    “You’re the O’Donnell gal.” Mrs. Cobb leaned forward to study her. The shopkeeper was dressed in a forest-green wool gown. Her close-set brown eyes assessed Sally’s apparel and dismissed her.
    “Yes, ma’am. I’m Sally.” For the first time, Sally was conscious of wearing her da’s old coat, and of the shabby woolen dress underneath. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was a lady, and her ma’s family in Virginia were well-to-do landowners. Why, her ma still had three silk dresses given her by her parents. On special occasions, Ma wore the gold chain with a cross that had been a present from her grandmother.
    “Your parents have that homestead southwest of the town. South of the river. The Knapps live to the west of you.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”  
    “What do you have in the sack, Sally O’Donnell?”
    “I’ve knitted scarves, and I wondered if I could trade them for some goods for Christmas.”
    With the lifting of her brows, Mrs. Cobb’s judgmental expression changed to one of curiosity. “Maybe. Louisa Cannon keeps me well supplied. But if the workmanship is good…”
    “I hope you think so,” Sally said, confident the woman would approve.
    “Good. We always have a call for scarves in the winter, and those cowboys from the Carters’ ranch came through this morning and bought