Her estimation of him rose another notch. If Mr. Steele had suggested that Mr. McQuaid approach her about marriage, did she need to give the idea more consideration? Certainly a man of such high caliber wouldn’t suggest a match unless it was a good one.

Would Mr. McQuaid ask her again? She waited, letting Astrid’s prattle fill the silence. This was the perfect opportunity for him to leverage the situation to his advantage. With all he’d just done for her, she’d have a hard time turning him down.

When Mr. McQuaid didn’t say anything more, she tugged on one of her loose strands of wet hair and let her self-doubts come calling. What if he’d changed his mind? Especially after seeing how difficult her life was with Astrid? And what if he’d taken a closer look at her and decided she wasn’t pretty enough?

Had she thrown away her chance with him? Did she even want a chance?

“Mr. McQuaid,” Astrid said when she’d had her fill of drinking rainwater, “have you found any gold out of the river?”

“Nothing that amounts to much.” He shifted his legs and made room for the little girl to sprawl out next to him. “I learned that getting rich fast only happens to a lucky few. Most of the rest of us have to set store by hard work, the way the good Lord intended.”

“I don’t like working hard,” Astrid said with her usual honesty.

“Astrid,” Greta reprimanded.

“It’s the truth.”

Mr. McQuaid took off his hat, combed through his damp hair, and then leaned his head back as though he was taking time to think before he gave an answer. Greta preferred that much better than someone who liked to hear himself talk.

“My pa always told me and my brothers that even if we don’t like doing hard things, it’s those hard things that make us strongest.”

“You’re sure strong,” Astrid replied. “That must mean you’ve done a lot of hard things.”

“Yep. Reckon I have.” His answer was decidedly sadder. What kind of hardships had he experienced to make him so sad?

“Do your pa and brothers live here in Fairplay too?”

“No, Pa—well, he died a while back. And my brothers are living in Pennsylvania.”

“Are they younger than you?”

“That’s enough now, Astrid,” Greta cut in. “You know it’s not proper manners to pry into someone’s private life.”

“It’s alright. Yep, my brothers are younger.”

“What are their names?”

Greta sighed with exasperation, but Mr. McQuaid was already answering before she could rebuke Astrid again. “Flynn is closest to me at twenty-one. Then there’s Brody. He’s nigh to eighteen. And Dylan—I think he’s about fifteen.”

“So you had four boys in your family?”