“Thank you, Wyatt. I promise you won’t regret it. Astrid and I’ll come out later this morning and pick all the chokecherries we can find.”

He didn’t rightly know if many men would have a hankering for the sour berry any more than he did. Maybe she’d work some kind of magic and make them tasty. Regardless, he didn’t want her to be disappointed if she went to all the hard work and people turned up their noses at her goods. “Could you use huckleberries instead?”

“Huckleberries?”

“They’re like blueberries. But smaller. And they grow on the forest floors.”

“They’re sweeter?”

“Yep. When they’re ripe, which is about right now.”

“Okay. I’ll try huckleberries too, but you’ll have to tell me where to find them.”

“I’ll take you.” The words were out before he thought about what he was saying. He didn’t have time to gallivant through the foothills searching for huckleberries. He had his new cattle to brand, more fences to mend, the irrigation ditch to repair, and game to catch and smoke for the coming winter. One of the horses was barefoot, and the barn roof had a leak.

To top it all, his few acres of alfalfa would be ready for haying soon. He hadn’t plowed much last spring since the ground had been harder than a stale biscuit. But he figured it wouldn’t hurt to have the winter feed just in case the snow cover made grazing difficult for his livestock.

As if sensing his hesitation, Greta shook her head. “I’ll be fine. You don’t need to come along—”

“I’ll aim to take you later in the week.” While she and Astrid picked huckleberries, he’d do a little hunting. “And when you have your goods ready to sell, you let me know, and I’ll help you take them to town.”

Her lips curved into a smile, one that moved into her eyes. “I like you, Wyatt.”

Somehow her words were a balm he hadn’t known he needed. They settled deep inside and soothed him, giving him a strange sense of hope that maybe he hadn’t made a mistake in marrying her after all, that maybe, for once, things might work out.

Greta dumped the chokecherries out of her apron into a chipped white basin she’d pulled down from the lone shelf above the stove. Then she collapsed onto a bench and laid her head onto the table.

Other travelers had warned her about mountain sickness, but she hadn’t expected it and hadn’t wanted to admit to Wyatt that she was dizzy and fatigued. But she’d started feeling poorly last night after she climbed into bed with Astrid, and she’d felt worse upon awakening.