The checkerboard on a barrel near the counter was deserted, the pieces in place on their respective ends. The two stools on either side were empty. Several other men loitered near the counter reading week-old editions of the Rocky Mountain News that had been brought up on the stage from Denver, full of reports of the war back East. They eyed her with interest. But there was no sign of Astrid anywhere.
“Where did she go?”
The store owner shrugged. “Said she was gonna find her sister. Told her she oughta wait for her ma—for you. But she said she don’t have a mamma no more.”
Greta was used to people thinking she was Astrid’s mother and having to explain her real relationship to the little girl. But at this moment, in a strange new town with the evening beginning to fade, she didn’t have time to set this man aright.
“How long ago did she leave?”
“Don’t quite remember.” The store owner busied himself with folding the newspaper pages his patrons weren’t reading.
“Did you see which direction she went?”
“Can’t rightly say.”
Greta’s body tensed with frustration. She’d simply have to go door-to-door down Main Street until she found Astrid. Hopefully, the little girl hadn’t gone far.
“Come on now, Captain Jim.” Mr. McQuaid stepped into the store next to her. “You know the business of every fly living on a horse’s hind end this side of the Continental Divide.”
The other men guffawed, and the store owner cracked a smile.
Apparently Mr. McQuaid had his fair share of charm as well as good looks.
“If you didn’t see where that little girl was headed,” Mr. McQuaid continued, “then I reckon this town better invest in a telegraph to take your place.”
Once more the men laughed, and Mr. McQuaid’s grin came out briefly. He was definitely a charmer.
Captain Jim leaned back against the wall plastered with old newspapers. “Well, I suppose I did hear one of the fellas walking past say he saw a little child heading out by way of the river path off Front Street.”
“The river path?” Greta shivered at the prospect of Astrid getting anywhere near a river. “Where’s that?”
“I’ll take you there.” Mr. McQuaid nodded his thanks to the store owner.
As Greta followed Mr. McQuaid outside and down the street, she rushed to keep up with his long stride. She didn’t want to be dependent on this stranger to find Astrid, but since the child had a knack for getting into trouble, Greta needed to locate her before anything happened.
He led her onto a side road, past a number of log cabins that most likely belonged to the miners. The structures were tiny, at best one room, and flimsy enough to blow over with the first fierce storm. The canvas tents near the cabins were also small and crowded together.
Men milled about, some hunched over campfires in front of pots and pans. Others washed their faces from basins or hung clothing on lines suspended between cabins and tents. At the sight of her, the men stopped what they were doing to stare.
At a few whistles and calls, she hastened her steps so she was directly behind Mr. McQuaid. The road narrowed into a path, winding through tall grass, and turning into a path that descended and grew rockier. As they reached the edge of a ledge, Mr. McQuaid halted, pushed up the brim of his hat, and scanned the area below.
Greta stopped next to him, her breathing shallow from the exertion of the hike. In the distance, thick clouds were moving in and obscuring the setting sun, and the sky had turned a mixture of deep purple and orange.
Darkness was settling fast, and she was running out of time.
She followed Mr. McQuaid’s gaze downward to a river winding through a rocky embankment littered with all manner of mining equipment.
During the stagecoach ride up into the mountains, she’d come across other mining camps and had begun to learn the names of the tools, like sluice and rocker boxes. But at the moment, she wasn’t interested in the mining process.
The only thing she cared about was finding Astrid.
She squinted downriver. “Do you think she came out this far?”
“It’s possible.”
A familiar weight of failure settled over Greta. Somehow she was always doing things wrong with Astrid. “She runs off now and then but has never gone this far before.”
“Maybe she heard the men in the store talking about finding gold.”
After the robbery that morning and Greta’s scolding, Astrid had finally realized they had no money. And after learning Phineas had died and that they had no place to go, her sister had been unusually quiet.
If she’d heard the fellas in the store telling tales about gold, had she thought she could walk down to the river and find nuggets so they would have money again?
Greta sighed. “She’s probably hoping to get rich quick in order to make up for losing our money during the stagecoach robbery.”
“Steele mentioned you all were robbed.”
She swallowed a rising lump in her throat. “I’m told I should be grateful our lives were spared, and I am. But I may have no other option but to take up gold digging right alongside Astrid.”
Mr. McQuaid pursed his lips even as he continued to scrutinize the riverbank below.
“Do you know Mr. Steele?” She tried to turn the conversation away from the pain of her loss.
“Yep. He’s the one who told me I should help you.”
“By help, you mean marry?”
“Yep.” Mr. McQuaid’s expression was as hard as granite. He hadn’t seemed too thrilled about the possibility of getting married before. And he still didn’t. So why had he asked?
She wanted to question him more, but what was the point? She wasn’t planning to seriously consider his offer, was she? He was a stranger. Then again, Phineas had been a stranger too. Though they’d corresponded, no one could ever truly get to know a person without meeting face-to-face.
If Phineas had lived and she’d met him tonight, she might have decided she couldn’t marry him after all. Of course, she couldn’t afford to be too picky about a spouse. He had to be God-fearing, clean, and kind. And as long as he agreed to accept Astrid along with her, what more could she want?
“There.” Mr. McQuaid pointed to a section of the river farther down. “I think she’s across from the sandbar.”
Greta strained to see the spot Mr. McQuaid had identified. “I don’t see anyone.”
With another hard look in the direction of the sandbar, he started down the path that cut through gravel and rock, giving Greta no choice but to follow him and pray he was right. As she descended, she slipped and slid on the loose stones. How did the miners make it down to the river every day without falling?
By the time she reached the riverbank, the rushing water and the cold breeze made her wish she’d brought their shawls. Hurrying after Mr. McQuaid, she picked her way through abandoned metal pans, broken boards, and piles of pebbles and rocks pulled from the river in the quest to find the gold buried in its depths.
He cast frequent glances toward the west and the dark clouds that seemed to be rolling toward them with the speed of a galloping team of horses. During the stagecoach ride up from Denver, they’d gotten caught in a thunderstorm. One moment the sky had been sunny and blue. The next, it had been black and flashing with lightning. Another passenger had informed her that in the mountains, storms came from out of nowhere.