9
JACK
I didn’t dare show my face in Bozeman again, even though it was the closest place for us to get the train. There was no way in hell I was going to allow Lily to ride a horse all the way to Butte in her condition. A baby! Holy f**k, I was going to be a father. Up until six weeks ago, the idea of a child of my own made me sweat, thinking the idea a nightmare come to life.
I was nine years old when my father died, a prisoner of war at the hellish Andersonville. He’d been dead and buried in an unmarked grave in Georgia before the news of his demise was brought to my mother. Somehow, the uniformed men walking over the rolling hill from town was a clear and distinct memory, even now. That entire week was. Growing up in western Maryland, our farm had been in the epicenter of the fightin
