She’d first heard about the clean mountain air being medicine for the lungs from a physician who’d passed through her small Illinois farming town. After that, she’d done more investigating and learned the West was considered an Eden, that the open air was life-giving, and that it could cure those with the white death.
In recent days, Astrid seemed to have gained more energy along with color to her face, but her delicate body was still too thin and the cough still too frequent. Maybe the Colorado air wouldn’t be able to cure Astrid after all. Or maybe they just needed to give this mountain wilderness more time to work its miracle.
Whatever the case, they couldn’t think of leaving yet, not when they’d just arrived. Besides, even if she wanted to go home to Illinois, she had no money to pay for the return stagecoach trip. She’d have to stay in Fairplay and earn the fare. By the time she saved up enough, she and Astrid would likely be snowed in the high country until spring—at least she’d heard some mountain trails became impassable from November’s first snowfall until the spring thaw.
With a shake of her head, she tried to forget her worries. But as her footsteps slapped against the plank sidewalk, they only echoed the steady dreadful thud of her heartbeat.
“Miss Nilsson?” came a voice from the side of the blacksmith shop.
Startled that anyone other than Mr. Steele would know her name, Greta halted and searched the shadows. A man leaned against the building, his arms folded and his legs crossed at his ankles. She couldn’t see him clearly, but it was enough to tell he was broad shouldered, well built, and muscular.
Seeing he had her attention, he pushed away from the wall and straightened, adding several inches to his height, making him too imposing for a woman unchaperoned on the street.
Gathering her skirt and the starched petticoat underneath, she hurried on her way, ducking her head and pretending not to notice him.
“Miss Nilsson, hold on.”
She picked up her pace.
“I need to talk to you.” He sounded almost desperate.
Still, she kept her head down and continued toward the general store, now only a dozen paces away.
“Heard you’re in a bad way, and I’ve got a proposal for you.”
Proposal? Her footsteps faltered. What kind of proposal?
“Phineas Hallock was a good friend of mine.”
She slowed and then stopped. If this man had been friends with Phineas, then surely he was someone she could trust. Hesitantly, she turned.
The stranger had halted and now held himself motionless, as though he was facing a doe about to bolt. “Name’s Wyatt McQuaid.”
Underneath the brim of a battered felt hat, eyes the color of richly brewed coffee peered at her intently. The eyes were framed by dark, thick lashes and brows. The scruffy layer of hair covering his chiseled jaw and chin was the same inky shade as the hair that curled up around the edge of his collar and neckerchief.
His loose-fitting shirt and vest were dusty, as were his woolen trousers. But he wasn’t as sloppy or ill-kempt as some of the men she’d met. In fact, under other circumstances, she might have been impressed by the rugged handsomeness of his features.
But not tonight. Not now. Her situation had become too woeful for her to care that such a good-looking man was stopping her in the middle of the street. “You knew Phineas?”
“Yep. And as his friend, I know he’d want me to do the right thing. . . .”
Something in the way the man assessed her—as though measuring her worth—made her stand up a little straighter. Was it possible this Mr. McQuaid was approaching to offer her a job? Maybe for Phineas’s sake?
When she’d dressed that morning, she wanted to look her best for Mr. Hallock and donned one of her Sunday outfits. After the day of traveling, she should have known she looked wilted.
She brushed a hand over her calico skirt of blue with sprigs of red flowers and wished it wasn’t so dusty. The matching bodice with velvet-covered buttons was equally dusty, and she guessed the once-white collar pinned neatly in place was now a dull gray. She wasn’t making a good impression.
“I’ve got a ranch—a homestead—southeast of Fairplay—”
“If you’re in need of a cook, I won’t disappoint you or your ranch hands. I promise.”
“Right now, it’s just me and my friend Judd.”
The hope that had begun to rise stumbled back a step. He wouldn’t need a cook for just the two of them. But maybe he was searching for another ranch hand. “I can help with the cattle. I’ve lived my whole life on a farm, and my pappa raised a few cows, mostly for dairy. But I’m a quick learner, and I’m sure it won’t take me long to learn everything I need to know about ranching.”
Mr. McQuaid tugged at his neckerchief as if the thing was strangling him. He cleared his throat and then seemed to force himself to speak again. “Thank you kindly for the offer, but I had a different proposal in mind.”
Her hope fell away, and wariness rushed in to replace it. After spending the past hour fending off advances and offensive suggestions, she had the feeling she knew exactly what kind of proposal he was about to offer. And she didn’t want to hear it.
She spun on her heels and strode toward the store. “I’m not interested in a different kind of proposal, Mr. McQuaid.”
“Hold on. Hear me out.”
She reached the door and tossed a final comment over her shoulder. “I’m looking for honest work or none at all.” She flung open the door, eager to get Astrid and escape.
“I’m not aiming to make you an employee.” He trailed after her. “I’m aiming to make you my wife.”
Wife? She stopped so abruptly Mr. McQuaid bumped into her from behind. He caught himself and pulled up short. As she spun, he took a rapid step back, almost as if he expected her to haul off and slap his face.
His dark brows furrowed above his expressive eyes—eyes that now radiated worry.
She couldn’t keep from studying his face again, this time more carefully, noting the perfect nose, the shadowed hollow lines that defined his cheeks, and the well-rounded chin. His eyes were deep and serious and altogether too beautiful for a man.
She dropped her gaze to his chest, noting again how powerfully built he was all the way down to his solid waist, where he wore a holster and a gun, along with what looked like a small whip of braided rawhide. His legs were long and sturdy with his trousers tucked into a pair of Texas-style leather boots with a pointed toe.
Reaching the end of her inspection, she met his gaze. One of his brows had cocked just slightly, as if questioning whether he had her approval. If she went by appearance alone, this man would have won first prize.
Why, then, was he proposing marriage to her? Obviously, there weren’t many women in these parts to choose from, which was why Phineas had placed an ad for a bride. But Phineas had been—well, he’d more than made up in kindness what he lacked in appearance.
This man, on the other hand, could have his pick of women.
“If you’re looking for that little girl of yours,” the store owner said, “she took off.”
“What?” All thoughts of Mr. McQuaid fled as Greta scanned the store’s interior. Everything was the same as when she’d entered after she arrived on the stagecoach. The shelves were overflowing with all manner of food items: flour, sugar, oats, lard, baking soda, and canned goods. The scent of onion hung heavy in the air along with the mustiness of potatoes.