called LaRue, except that she had loved and lost.
Magda Claas is my name, and I know how to work. I want a man, the man I choose for a husband, not to see me as a cow in the field or a servant, but as a woman with a heart and pride. I wish to be treated gently, as I have seen men honor their wives. At the end of the day, I crochet lace with needle and thread, and dream of the man I will accept into my heart.
What a strange mix we were, some of us with children clinging to our skirts, or nursing at our breasts. All ten of us without men and not caring much for those that came calling with crude ways.
We wanted to choose our lives, and so it was that day with rawhide men and drovers and rapscallions circling us, that we decided to act. By the end of summer, we knew what we had to do to live as we wished, as we dreamed, and so we made our laws for men who came wife-hunting.
We were not helpless women to be preyed upon by these rough men. Each of us knew how to protect ourselves, and together we were strong as a family.
So it was that we decided to come together, farmers and mothers and women with pasts. We became a community of women who helped each other, governed by the Women’s Council. For we would be free women, to set the rules of how we should be treated as wives. For be it known, that to take a dear wife from our circle, the husband-candidate will have to follow our rules and customs, abide with those rules in the marriage, passing our inspection. Else there would be no marriages or wife-taking in Freedom. We stand together in this, women deciding to marry as we wish, protected by our sisterhood.
Magda Claas, Midwife and Healer and Butter Maker
Town of Freedom, Freedom Valley
Montana Territory, July 1882
One
They were sweet back then, an eight-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl. Tanner had placed his baseball bat aside to fix her wagon’s bent wheel. While Gwyneth clearly adored him, he acted all gruff with his friends riding their bicycles up the road. He made yucking noises when she kissed him on the cheek, but he’ll grow up to be a fine man, just as loving and good as his dad. One day, he’ll know his love and he’ll come courting according to the rules of Freedom Valley.
—From the journal of Anna Bennett, descendant of Magda Claas and the mother of Tanner Bennett.
Tanner Bennett expertly knelt on his mother’s roof and tore away the damaged shingles. Familiar to his hand, his father’s hammer was worn, a contrast to the new shingles he’d just patched into the old.
He inhaled Montana’s midmorning April air, and knew that his ex-wife would soon come calling to warn him off. He’d known Gwyneth all her life, and he sensed from the dark look she burned at him in the café that she wanted to set down her rules.
Too bad. He had rules of his own now, and he wasn’t feeling friendly.
From the top of the two-story home, he scanned the small rural town he’d left eighteen years ago. Nestled in Freedom Valley, a lush valley blanketed with fields and cattle and cradled by soaring, snowcapped mountains, Freedom—the town—was quiet. Down the country road that led to town, babies were napping, housewives were cleaning, store clerks were waiting on customers, and the café crowd was gossiping over morning coffee. Freedom Valley hadn’t changed. Birthed by single women united for their protection in the 1880s, their traditions remained in their descendants. Lives and families blended through the years, the descendants’ colorful names proudly stamped with immigrant heritage, biblical reference and popular contemporary ones. The town’s square was lined by two-story buildings, little changed since Montana’s cattle-drive days.
In the distance, just past pickup trucks lined around the feed store, and up the street from the florist, his mother rested in a tiny, well-tended cemetery. An auto accident had taken her life too soon—on a fog-draped country highway, Anna never saw the semitruck at the highway intersection. Beside her grave lay Paul Bennett’s, her husband, victim of a heart attack when Tanner was only twelve.
At thirty-six now, Tanner felt old memories rustle to life, the slight breeze stirring the leaves of an oak tree nearby, while sunlight danced upon Anna Bennett’s beloved home. Not far from town, the twenty-acre farm was neat from the chicken house to the pasture to the vegetable garden. In Anna’s sunporch, the impatiens and tomato plants she’d started from seed waited to be put into her gardens. Tiny feed-store sacks of lettuce, green beans and cucumber seed lay in a neat row as if she couldn’t wait to plant them.
Tanner scrubbed his hand across the aching tightness within his bare chest. In the six weeks since her death, he’d cleared away his business commitments on the Northwest Pacific coast—building handcrafted, custom-order, wooden fishing boats had suited him. In his absence, a good friend would handle his business there.
Tanner scanned the small farm and wondered how his widowed mother had managed her young brood, to see them safely into their lives. He’d come back to visit his mother through the years, but what held her here, in this tiny place? Anna Bennett never complained through her hardships. What was the source of her strength? What gave her such peace?
Peace. Would he ever find peace?
The church’s white spire shot into the clear blue Montana sky. Twelve years ago, he’d been married there, a young man with his blushing, sweet bride tucked against his side, heading off into a bright new future away from Freedom.
But that first night, Gwyneth Smith Bennett had been terrified, running from him, and despite his determination and patience, the marriage ended—without consummation.
A white panel van soared into Anna’s driveway. Scrawled along the side, a purple and pink Gwen’s Pots announced his ex-wife—information mischievously tossed at him by Willa, owner of Willa’s Wagon Wheel Café, and incumbent mayor of Freedom. According to Leonard at the gas station, Gwen’s van got good mileage, needed a tuneup and so did she.
One week in Freedom’s close-knit community provided more information than he’d wanted about his ex-wife—not that he’d asked. In a small town, lives weren’t that private.
His hand stilled over his heart, the one she’d torn to shreds years ago. He’d rebuilt his life without her, and he regretted the momentary sharp clench of pain that just looking at her could bring.
When a man’s pride was badly stomped by a woman, he wasn’t likely to forget.
Tanner inhaled sharply as she stepped briskly out of the van, her short blond hair gleaming in the sun. She looked like a boy, not a thirty-two-year-old woman, until he took in that compact, curved body. Gwyneth Smith Bennett, dressed in a T-shirt and cutoff bib overalls that showed off the tanned length of her legs above her practical work boots, wasn’t happy. Her scowl shot around Anna’s untended herbal and vegetable gardens, the sheds and the chicken house to the small field bordering the Smith ranch. She swung open the gate of the white picket fence and glanced at a large branch, broken free by the storm, on the freshly cut lawn. Then she marched up the stone walkway, usually bordered by summer flowers, past the new green starts of the yellow and red Dutch tulip bed, past the concrete birdbath filled with leaves and up onto the front porch, out of Tanner’s sight. The old brass door knocker sounded briskly and then Gwyneth appeared, marching around the side of the two-story house.
“Oh, Gwynnie…” he called lightly from the rooftop, unable to resist the tease of long ago.
She stopped in midstep and her face jerked upward. Stark in the bright
