By late morning when she’d filled all the sacks they’d brought along, she rested on a large stone near where the horses were grazing along a small brook. She’d heard several shots and guessed Wyatt had some success with hunting. She hoped that meant he’d be back soon. After the time away from the ranch, she was anxious to see how Astrid was faring. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Judd. Rather, she didn’t trust Astrid. Even when the child was sick, she wasn’t easy to handle.

At the crackle of branches in the woods behind her, she breathed out her relief and slid off the rock. “Hope you got what you came for . . .”

As she spun, her words died. Instead of Wyatt, three men stood a short distance away, their horses behind them. The tall one in the middle wore an eye patch and aimed his pistol at her.

With a thin face and gangly limbs, he had the appearance of many of the men she’d encountered since starting her journey up into the mountains—ragged and undernourished. A look that testified to the scarcity of necessities and the difficulty of life in such a wild place.

He raked his gaze from the top of her head to her boots, making her feel like a prized heifer. “Got what I came for?” He arched a brow. “Reckon maybe I just did.”

Chapter 10

At the echo of men’s voices, Wyatt halted. With his rifle slung over one shoulder and two grouse he’d shot over the other, he bumped up the brim of his hat with his elbow to get a better look around.

The voices came again, this time followed by laughter and the angry shout of a woman.

His muscles tensed. Was that Greta? And was someone bothering her?

The Tarryall diggings were over the ridge along Tarryall Creek. Had some of the miners been out hunting this morning and happened upon her?

Urgency propelled him forward until he reached an outcropping above the huckleberry patch where he’d left her. She was still there, and sure enough, several men surrounded her.

As one of them grabbed her arm, anger flooded Wyatt. He dropped the grouse from his shoulder, grabbed his Colt, and fired a shot.

The bullet flew through the accoster’s hat, knocking it from his head. Cursing, the man stumbled and fell, more from surprise than anything.

Wyatt trained his revolver on the second fella and let another shot rip, this one landing in the dirt and leaves, forcing the culprit to jump back. He, too, cussed a blue streak that would have made the vilest tavern dweller sound angelic.

Wyatt was tempted to put a bullet in the man’s backside for using such foul language around Greta, but he’d already aimed his gun at the third fella and sent a shot flying, hitting his pistol and forcing him to release it.