If Phineas had lived and she’d met him tonight, she might have decided she couldn’t marry him after all. Of course, she couldn’t afford to be too picky about a spouse. He had to be God-fearing, clean, and kind. And as long as he agreed to accept Astrid along with her, what more could she want?

“There.” Mr. McQuaid pointed to a section of the river farther down. “I think she’s across from the sandbar.”

Greta strained to see the spot Mr. McQuaid had identified. “I don’t see anyone.”

With another hard look in the direction of the sandbar, he started down the path that cut through gravel and rock, giving Greta no choice but to follow him and pray he was right. As she descended, she slipped and slid on the loose stones. How did the miners make it down to the river every day without falling?

By the time she reached the riverbank, the rushing water and the cold breeze made her wish she’d brought their shawls. Hurrying after Mr. McQuaid, she picked her way through abandoned metal pans, broken boards, and piles of pebbles and rocks pulled from the river in the quest to find the gold buried in its depths.

He cast frequent glances toward the west and the dark clouds that seemed to be rolling toward them with the speed of a galloping team of horses. During the stagecoach ride up from Denver, they’d gotten caught in a thunderstorm. One moment the sky had been sunny and blue. The next, it had been black and flashing with lightning. Another passenger had informed her that in the mountains, storms came from out of nowhere.

With a new sense of urgency, Greta shouted Astrid’s name, hoping the little girl would hear her and come running. But the rushing of the river drowned out her voice.

As they rounded a particularly large boulder, Mr. McQuaid halted and motioned her to stop with one hand while with his other, he removed his revolver and aimed it at something along the bank.

“What—?”

He pressed a finger against his lips, urging her to silence.

Finally, she saw what he did, and the air squeezed from her lungs. Crouched on a rock overlooking the river was a mountain lion—its yellow eyes fixed with unswerving intensity upon a little girl panning for gold in the river.

Chapter 5

Greta tried to pray, but she couldn’t push the words past the fear clogging her throat.

With ears flat against its head, the lion swished its tail back and forth. It was on the opposite side of Astrid, a dozen paces away. If only the girl would turn around, see the danger, and run toward them. Instead, she’d waded into the river up to her knees and was bent over pouring a handful of muck into a rusted mining pan.

Mr. McQuaid cocked the hammer on his gun.