She flattened her hands to her sides and pushed herself to standing. “That wasn’t so difficult,” she said aloud, but it had winded her. “Each day will get easier,” she reassured herself. These were the thoughts she held as she reached forward to steady herself, the promise she made as she heard the small tinkling of bells in the distance, the sound growing louder, the distinct clop of a horse’s hooves on pavement. The sound panicked her. She didn’t want to be seen by anyone just then, weak and sunstricken, blinking painfully into the light, her hair matted and unwashed. She was vain, she knew, to be thinking such thoughts, but she wanted a fresh start, a new beginning, not this. She tried to move quickly but her muscles wouldn’t cooperate.

She pulled the blanket over her head and peered out from beneath it. She rubbed her eyes. She was dreaming, more addled than she had at first believed. She blinked hard, but the vision remained the same. She wasn’t dreaming.

Up over the hill she saw him coming toward her. Baptiste Yellow Knife was alive. He rode straight-backed and proud. He was wearing his finest silks. Silver bells trembled around the chest of his horse. Champagne’s beaded harness was glittering in sunlight. Louise let the blanket drop from her shoulders. She stepped from the porch and had to catch herself. She didn’t care if her hair was matted and dirty; her husband was beautiful. She wanted to run to him. She stepped forward.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS