As Greta neared the top rung, a strange shout from the front of the cabin stopped her. It was a man’s voice that sounded nothing like Judd’s or Wyatt’s. Did they have visitors from town? Hopefully it wasn’t Roper Brawley. Wyatt had indicated that if their neighbor came anywhere near, she was to stay in the cabin and not come out.

During Wyatt’s last purchase of oxen a couple weeks ago, Brawley had threatened Wyatt as usual. Wyatt was getting tired of the harassing, especially because Brawley was already buying up livestock and leaving so few for him.

At another shout, Greta’s pulse spurted with fear for Astrid, who’d been napping in the cabin. She scrambled the rest of the way up the ladder into the dirt surrounding the opening. Without bothering to shake out her skirt or shut the cellar door, she bounded forward and rounded the cabin in time to see an Indian duck inside.

She stopped short, dread driving into her chest.

Although Wyatt had spoken of seeing Utes passing through his land from time to time, he’d never mentioned having any problems. He indicated the Utes had made the mountains of Colorado their home for hundreds of years, but with the flood of miners arriving, they’d been giving up land and moving farther west.

Standing in the middle of the ranch yard were three mustangs with long manes and tails as well as muscular bodies of rich chestnut, black, and white. Without saddles, they were majestic and untamed.

And so were the Indians. She’d only glimpsed one, and he’d been young and tall with long braids, a buckskin shirt, and leather leggings. Her mind immediately filled with all the stories she’d heard during the stagecoach ride to Colorado—the atrocities committed by Indians against settlers moving west, the killing, torturing, and taking of captives.

With her heart beating fast, she started toward the door. Even if Astrid remained asleep while the natives were in the cabin, Greta refused to take any chances. She had to go inside and protect her sister, no matter the cost.

As she reached for the door handle, her fingers shook. She took a deep breath, shot a prayer heavenward, then swung the door open and walked inside.

“W-e-l-l, it’s about time.” Astrid knelt on one of the benches, slathering jam onto a biscuit. “I could use some help getting dinner ready for my new friends.”

Two of the Indians were seated at the table on either side of her and the third, the tall one who’d just entered, was in front of the stove lifting a spoon from the pot of vegetable soup Greta had set to simmer.

They paused and stared at her, their dark eyes narrowing and seeming to assess every detail about her.