Greta was used to people thinking she was Astrid’s mother and having to explain her real relationship to the little girl. But at this moment, in a strange new town with the evening beginning to fade, she didn’t have time to set this man aright.

“How long ago did she leave?”

“Don’t quite remember.” The store owner busied himself with folding the newspaper pages his patrons weren’t reading.

“Did you see which direction she went?”

“Can’t rightly say.”

Greta’s body tensed with frustration. She’d simply have to go door-to-door down Main Street until she found Astrid. Hopefully, the little girl hadn’t gone far.

“Come on now, Captain Jim.” Mr. McQuaid stepped into the store next to her. “You know the business of every fly living on a horse’s hind end this side of the Continental Divide.”

The other men guffawed, and the store owner cracked a smile.

Apparently Mr. McQuaid had his fair share of charm as well as good looks.

“If you didn’t see where that little girl was headed,” Mr. McQuaid continued, “then I reckon this town better invest in a telegraph to take your place.”

Once more the men laughed, and Mr. McQuaid’s grin came out briefly. He was definitely a charmer.

Captain Jim leaned back against the wall plastered with old newspapers. “Well, I suppose I did hear one of the fellas walking past say he saw a little child heading out by way of the river path off Front Street.”

“The river path?” Greta shivered at the prospect of Astrid getting anywhere near a river. “Where’s that?”

“I’ll take you there.” Mr. McQuaid nodded his thanks to the store owner.

As Greta followed Mr. McQuaid outside and down the street, she rushed to keep up with his long stride. She didn’t want to be dependent on this stranger to find Astrid, but since the child had a knack for getting into trouble, Greta needed to locate her before anything happened.

He led her onto a side road, past a number of log cabins that most likely belonged to the miners. The structures were tiny, at best one room, and flimsy enough to blow over with the first fierce storm. The canvas tents near the cabins were also small and crowded together.

Men milled about, some hunched over campfires in front of pots and pans. Others washed their faces from basins or hung clothing on lines suspended between cabins and tents. At the sight of her, the men stopped what they were doing to stare.

At a few whistles and calls, she hastened her steps so she was directly behind Mr. McQuaid. The road narrowed into a path, winding through tall grass, and turning into a path that descended and grew rockier. As they reached the edge of a ledge, Mr. McQuaid halted, pushed up the brim of his hat, and scanned the area below.