Mr. Steele, in the process of picking up another shoe, paused.

“We’ve written to each other.”

He straightened and gave her his full attention. “You wouldn’t happen to be Phineas Hallock’s mail-order bride, would you?”

Something in his tone made the skin at the back of her neck prickle with unease. “Yes, Mr. Hallock is my fiancé. Do you know him?”

The gentleman shook his head, his features creasing. “I knew him well. He was a good man.”

Her heart began to patter fast and hard. “Knew?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Nilsson. Phineas Hallock is dead.”

“The mine owner Phineas Hallock, originally from Connecticut?”

“Yes, he left for California last October. Said he was traveling there to purchase supplies for his new bride and that he planned to be back by late spring. When the thawing came and he didn’t return, we all thought he was delayed. Until a body was discovered on Hoosier Pass.”

“His body?”

“As far as we can tell, after so many months of being exposed to the elements . . .”

She stared at Mr. Steele, but somehow he faded from her vision. All she could see was the black-and-white photograph of Phineas.

In his last letter, he’d mentioned his trip to California and his excitement over picking out additional furniture and items for their home. He expressed his desire to have the newly built house well-stocked and ready for her arrival. She hadn’t heard from him since and assumed he hadn’t had the opportunity to send further correspondence. Even if he had, mail delivery via the Pony Express and stagecoach wasn’t reliable. Letters were sometimes lost or stolen.

Besides, she’d been busy preparing for the trip, sewing clothes for Astrid and her, packing their belongings, and saying good-byes. She’d never in her wildest imagination believed Phineas Hallock hadn’t written again because he was dead.

He was dead.

She swayed, her vision growing fuzzy.

Mr. Steele’s grip on her elbow steadied her. “I’m truly sorry, Miss Nilsson.”

With a deep breath, she tried to bring the world back into focus. The sunlight streaming through the aspen branches above splashed across her face as though to wake her from a nightmare.

The man she’d come west to marry was dead. Every penny of her savings had just been stolen. What would she do now? How could she, a lone woman with a sick child, survive in the wilderness knowing no one and having nothing?

Chapter 2

The cold barrel of a revolver jammed into back of Wyatt McQuaid’s neck and stopped him short in the middle of Fairplay’s dusty Main Street.

“Quit stealing my business.” The voice—and the sour body odor—behind Wyatt belonged to only one man: Roper Brawley.

“I ain’t stealing your business—”

“Jansen’s steers were mine.” Brawley dug the steel into Wyatt’s flesh, bumping and loosening his hat so it tumbled to the street.