“I told you I ain’t worried about the supplies.” His boots thudded against the planks. As he reached Hotel Windsor, she tried to retrieve the basket and stop him before he entered, but he was too fast. He lifted it out of her reach and opened the front door.

With one of his disarming smiles, he stood back and waved her ahead of him. “After you.”

At the cease of conversation within the dining area, Greta forced a smile and made herself walk inside with grace and poise, even though she wanted to run out and hide.

“There they are,” Mr. Steele said, sitting at one of the center tables, a cigar in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “The newlyweds.”

Greta was tempted to glance around and discover who the newlyweds were but then realized Mr. Steele was referring to her and Wyatt. They’d been married all of five days. She supposed he was right. They were still newlyweds.

Several of the men standing around offered Wyatt rowdy congratulations and backslaps. She took a measure of satisfaction at the sight of Wyatt flustered and tugging at his neckerchief. She wasn’t alone in her discomfort.

“How are you holding up, Mrs. McQuaid?” Mr. Steele rose from his chair and politely bowed at her. “I hope your husband is treating you well.”

“He’s been as sweet as can be.”

“McQuaid? Sweet?” One of the other men elbowed Wyatt. “Sure would like to see that.”

“He has a soft spot for Astrid,” she said in a rush, not wanting to cause Wyatt any further embarrassment. “He’s kind to her.”

Astrid was still weak and tired and coughing but soaking in the attention of both Judd and Wyatt. Upon arriving home from the berry-picking expedition, she’d found Astrid resting outside, stitching combed-out horsehair through the strands of a burlap bag and making her very own saddle blanket. Judd had promised to teach Astrid to ride a horse just as soon as she finished the blanket. And while Greta wasn’t sure that riding was suitable for a sick child like Astrid, she’d been relieved to see some life back in Astrid’s face.

Mr. Steele took a puff on his cigar and then released a cloud laden with a tangy tobacco scent. “I was just telling these fellows they ought to write back East for their own mail-order brides.”

“If I could have me one as pretty as this gal, I’d give it a try,” said a middle-aged man wearing an apron over his bulging midsection. He eyed Greta with too much interest, and she scooted closer to Wyatt.

The men teased the middle-aged man for a minute before they turned their attention back on Wyatt and Greta. Should she bring up the hand pies now? Maybe Mr. Steele would be willing to try one.