Last time Greta had peeked through the open windows, her sister had been sprawled out asleep, and now Greta prayed the precocious child would stay that way.

The middle robber inched toward them, his revolver swinging in a wide arc. His leathery hands and dirt-encrusted fingernails contrasted with the ivory handle of his revolver. “Nobody move.”

Morning sunlight filtered through the aspens, their white bark and green-gold leaves making the trail feel more open and airy than other parts of the mountainous road. A cool, dry breeze rattled the leaves, swishing like ladies’ skirts brushing against grass.

Just minutes ago, Greta had been marveling at how different the dry and cooler climate was from northern Illinois, where oppressive humidity plagued the summers and made every chore feel like a burden. What she wouldn’t give at this moment to be back there shucking corn or snapping beans, even if she was dripping with perspiration.

“Anyone left inside?” one of the other robbers asked.

“No,” Greta said quickly. “Everyone’s out.”

Just then the stagecoach door inched open.

The lanky robber with the uneven eye slits swung his revolver toward the door and clicked the hammer.

“No!” Greta threw herself between the robber and the stagecoach, shoving against Astrid’s strong push.

A short distance away beyond the trees, the mountainside overlooked the sprawling grasslands of South Park, nestled between the Front Range in the east and the Mosquito Range in the west. Their destination was within eyesight. If only it was also within shouting distance so they could call for help.

The bandit shifted the barrel’s aim to Greta, his arm stiff, his fingers taut. “Woman, unless you want to find yourself eating a bullet, you’d best step aside and let that person out.”

Inside, Astrid cried out in protest and once again attempted to open the door. But Greta flattened the full length of her body against it.

“Move on outta the way, woman,” the robber said, louder and more irritably.

“It’s her little sister.” One of the other passengers moved to stand beside Greta, a middle-aged man who’d introduced himself as Landry Steele yesterday morning when they boarded the stagecoach in Denver. He’d spent the majority of the journey conversing with the other gentlemen. However, during the few brief interactions she’d had with him, he’d always been considerate.

“The girl is ill and is of no concern to you.” Beneath the brim of Mr. Steele’s bowler, he shot Greta an apologetic look, as though realizing she’d wanted to keep Astrid hidden away and out of the conflict.

“That so?” The gunman’s revolver didn’t waver. “If she’s of no concern, then let her on out.”

Greta pressed against the door harder. She hadn’t brought Astrid all this distance to have her die at the hand of a robber. “She’s only eight years old—”

“I’m nine,” came Astrid’s indignant voice.