Of course, it hadn’t helped that she’d tossed and turned more than usual. She wanted to blame the unfamiliar night noises—the scratching, rummaging, and squeaking of critters—but the truth was, her thoughts hadn’t been able to settle themselves. Her mind had been too full of all that had happened during the few short hours of the evening.

She’d lifted up a prayer of thankfulness that at least she had a roof over her head. But one thought clamored above all the others—whether she’d done the right thing by marrying Wyatt McQuaid.

Now, even at the early morning hour, the cabin was hot and stuffy and the flies were incessant. She’d discovered earlier that the greasy pan on the stove was blackened, not from burned food remains, but from flies that had gotten stuck in the lard.

At a clearing throat in the doorway, she shot up. Her skirt and petticoat tangled in the bench, but somehow she managed to find her footing.

“My apologies,” came a deep voice. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

She spun to find Wyatt’s wizened cowhand standing on the threshold. Thin but muscular, he was shorter than her five-feet-five inches. He wore dark woolen trousers like Wyatt’s tucked into his plain black leather boots with small spurs at the back. His neckerchief was a dull red that hung low to his loose-fitting vest he’d left unbuttoned to reveal a worn flannel shirt. He held a battered hat in his hands.

“Good morning, Judd.” Although he’d been at the wedding at Mr. Steele’s house, he’d left almost immediately after the ceremony, giving her no opportunity to speak with him.

He nodded. “Morning, ma’am.”

“Call me Greta.”

He opened his mouth as if he might protest, but before he could, Astrid stumbled into the room, wearing her long nightdress and yawning noisily. Her hair was mussed and her eyes still heavy with sleep, but her cheeks had a little color.

“Hi there, Mister.” Astrid crossed toward Judd. “You look a lot like Saint Nicholas, what with your long white beard and white hair and all.”

“Astrid,” Greta said firmly. “Be polite.”

“W-e-l-l, he sure does.” Astrid stared up at the man, her head cocked to one side. “Except for the mustache. It looks like cow horns.”

Exasperated, Greta pressed a hand against her head. “Astrid, please. Why don’t you go back in the bedroom and get dressed?”

Judd’s mustache curled up with the beginning of a smile.

Astrid swatted at a fly hovering in the air. “Sure are a lot of flies here, aren’t there?”

“Yep.” Judd flicked a finger at the same fly. It fell to the floor lifeless.

“How’d you do that?” Astrid bent to take a closer look at the unmoving insect. “Think you can teach me?”

“Sure.”