In recent days, Astrid seemed to have gained more energy along with color to her face, but her delicate body was still too thin and the cough still too frequent. Maybe the Colorado air wouldn’t be able to cure Astrid after all. Or maybe they just needed to give this mountain wilderness more time to work its miracle.

Whatever the case, they couldn’t think of leaving yet, not when they’d just arrived. Besides, even if she wanted to go home to Illinois, she had no money to pay for the return stagecoach trip. She’d have to stay in Fairplay and earn the fare. By the time she saved up enough, she and Astrid would likely be snowed in the high country until spring—at least she’d heard some mountain trails became impassable from November’s first snowfall until the spring thaw.

With a shake of her head, she tried to forget her worries. But as her footsteps slapped against the plank sidewalk, they only echoed the steady dreadful thud of her heartbeat.

“Miss Nilsson?” came a voice from the side of the blacksmith shop.

Startled that anyone other than Mr. Steele would know her name, Greta halted and searched the shadows. A man leaned against the building, his arms folded and his legs crossed at his ankles. She couldn’t see him clearly, but it was enough to tell he was broad shouldered, well built, and muscular.

Seeing he had her attention, he pushed away from the wall and straightened, adding several inches to his height, making him too imposing for a woman unchaperoned on the street.

Gathering her skirt and the starched petticoat underneath, she hurried on her way, ducking her head and pretending not to notice him.

“Miss Nilsson, hold on.”

She picked up her pace.

“I need to talk to you.” He sounded almost desperate.

Still, she kept her head down and continued toward the general store, now only a dozen paces away.

“Heard you’re in a bad way, and I’ve got a proposal for you.”

Proposal? Her footsteps faltered. What kind of proposal?

“Phineas Hallock was a good friend of mine.”

She slowed and then stopped. If this man had been friends with Phineas, then surely he was someone she could trust. Hesitantly, she turned.

The stranger had halted and now held himself motionless, as though he was facing a doe about to bolt. “Name’s Wyatt McQuaid.”

Underneath the brim of a battered felt hat, eyes the color of richly brewed coffee peered at her intently. The eyes were framed by dark, thick lashes and brows. The scruffy layer of hair covering his chiseled jaw and chin was the same inky shade as the hair that curled up around the edge of his collar and neckerchief.