“I’m not aiming to make you an employee.” He trailed after her. “I’m aiming to make you my wife.”

Wife? She stopped so abruptly Mr. McQuaid bumped into her from behind. He caught himself and pulled up short. As she spun, he took a rapid step back, almost as if he expected her to haul off and slap his face.

His dark brows furrowed above his expressive eyes—eyes that now radiated worry.

She couldn’t keep from studying his face again, this time more carefully, noting the perfect nose, the shadowed hollow lines that defined his cheeks, and the well-rounded chin. His eyes were deep and serious and altogether too beautiful for a man.

She dropped her gaze to his chest, noting again how powerfully built he was all the way down to his solid waist, where he wore a holster and a gun, along with what looked like a small whip of braided rawhide. His legs were long and sturdy with his trousers tucked into a pair of Texas-style leather boots with a pointed toe.

Reaching the end of her inspection, she met his gaze. One of his brows had cocked just slightly, as if questioning whether he had her approval. If she went by appearance alone, this man would have won first prize.

Why, then, was he proposing marriage to her? Obviously, there weren’t many women in these parts to choose from, which was why Phineas had placed an ad for a bride. But Phineas had been—well, he’d more than made up in kindness what he lacked in appearance.

This man, on the other hand, could have his pick of women.

“If you’re looking for that little girl of yours,” the store owner said, “she took off.”

“What?” All thoughts of Mr. McQuaid fled as Greta scanned the store’s interior. Everything was the same as when she’d entered after she arrived on the stagecoach. The shelves were overflowing with all manner of food items: flour, sugar, oats, lard, baking soda, and canned goods. The scent of onion hung heavy in the air along with the mustiness of potatoes.

The checkerboard on a barrel near the counter was deserted, the pieces in place on their respective ends. The two stools on either side were empty. Several other men loitered near the counter reading week-old editions of the Rocky Mountain News that had been brought up on the stage from Denver, full of reports of the war back East. They eyed her with interest. But there was no sign of Astrid anywhere.

“Where did she go?”

The store owner shrugged. “Said she was gonna find her sister. Told her she oughta wait for her ma—for you. But she said she don’t have a mamma no more.”