A Cowboy for Keeps Read online

  “Nothing that amounts to much.” He shifted his legs and made room for the little girl to sprawl out next to him. “I learned that getting rich fast only happens to a lucky few. Most of the rest of us have to set store by hard work, the way the good Lord intended.”

  “I don’t like working hard,” Astrid said with her usual honesty.

  “Astrid,” Greta reprimanded.

  “It’s the truth.”

  Mr. McQuaid took off his hat, combed through his damp hair, and then leaned his head back as though he was taking time to think before he gave an answer. Greta preferred that much better than someone who liked to hear himself talk.

  “My pa always told me and my brothers that even if we don’t like doing hard things, it’s those hard things that make us strongest.”

  “You’re sure strong,” Astrid replied. “That must mean you’ve done a lot of hard things.”

  “Yep. Reckon I have.” His answer was decidedly sadder. What kind of hardships had he experienced to make him so sad?

  “Do your pa and brothers live here in Fairplay too?”

  “No, Pa—well, he died a while back. And my brothers are living in Pennsylvania.”

  “Are they younger than you?”

  “That’s enough now, Astrid,” Greta cut in. “You know it’s not proper manners to pry into someone’s private life.”

  “It’s alright. Yep, my brothers are younger.”

  “What are their names?”

  Greta sighed with exasperation, but Mr. McQuaid was already answering before she could rebuke Astrid again. “Flynn is closest to me at twenty-one. Then there’s Brody. He’s nigh to eighteen. And Dylan—I think he’s about fifteen.”

  “So you had four boys in your family?”

  “Yep, and I’ve got a little sister. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen her, but last time I did, she was full of questions too.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Last time I checked, she was only knee-high to a grasshopper.”

  Astrid giggled. “No, really. What’s her name?”

  “I reckon she’s about eleven, and her name’s Ivy.”

  “Since I’m nine, maybe she can be my new friend.”

  “She’d probably like that.” Mr. McQuaid was quiet for a heartbeat, and the steady patter of the rain echoed in the cavern. “I’m hoping to move my family out here next summer.”

  Greta sensed a wistfulness in his tone, a missing of his family. Why had he moved away from them? Was that one of the hard things he’d had to do?

  It hadn’t been hard to move away from family. In fact, leaving had been more of a relief for her—and for them too. The trouble was thinking she might have to go back. She dreaded what her sisters-in-law would say if she and Astrid showed up on the farm needing a place to stay.

  It would be humiliating to burden them again.

  She straightened her spine. She had to find a way to make it on her own.

  “I don’t think me and Greta will still be here next summer,” Astrid said, as if reading Greta’s mind. “Unless I find more gold to see us through.”

  Greta smiled wryly. “I highly doubt what you found today was gold.”

  “It was shiny.”

  “I’m sure most of the gold lying on the surface has already been scooped up by the miners living in town. Isn’t that right, Mr. McQuaid?”

  He shifted his body, clearly uncomfortable in the tight, damp space. “All the valuable land around here is claimed. Some of the mines, like Mr. Steele’s, are producing more gold than others.”

  “Greta’s fiancé had a gold mine.”

  “Yep. He was part owner and doing well for himself.”

  “Too bad he had to die.” Astrid piled her new rock collection on Greta’s lap. “I liked him, even if he was old.”

  “Astrid.”

  “It’s true. He was a lot older than Thomas.”

  At the mention of her best friend, Greta’s throat closed up with emotion. More than a year after his death, she couldn’t think of him without missing him.

  “Who’s Thomas?” Mr. McQuaid asked.

  “Greta was set to marry him, but then he went off to war and got killed.” Astrid spoke the words matter-of-factly, but to Greta, Thomas’s death from pneumonia while at training camp had been anything but matter-of-fact. It had been devastating, even worse than learning of her pappa’s fatality at the Battle of Shiloh in April.

  In the months leading up to the conflict, the conversation around the dinner table invariably ended with talk of the Mason-Dixon line and the need to keep the shame of slavery from spreading into every new territory. Her pappa and stepbrothers spoke proudly of President Lincoln, who hailed from their fair state, and they denounced the Southern states for seceding.

  Once the president had called for troops, the men had rushed off to put the South in her place. Like everyone else, Greta had expected a quick victory for the North, had never believed it would drag on for a year and a half.

  Again, silence fell over the cavern. The lightning and thunder had ceased, and the rain had softened to a low patter. The chill in the air, however, hadn’t diminished. It had only seemed to increase, and Greta couldn’t hold back a shudder. She crossed her arms, hugging herself for warmth.

  “The rain won’t last much longer,” Mr. McQuaid said.

  “I don’t mind.” Astrid yawned, leaning her head against Greta’s leg. “Maybe me and Greta can live here in this little cave. It’s real nice.”

  Greta’s thoughts tumbled together as she fought against another shudder. Though plenty of time had passed since she’d lost Thomas, thoughts of him always made her melancholy. She’d first met him when his father, Reverend Lawson, had performed her mamma’s funeral.

  After the memorial service, Thomas offered her a peppermint, winning her affection. After that, he’d become a fast friend. He’d been a safe place, the only one who’d made her feel needed and important, at least until her half-siblings had come along, and she’d proven her worth by helping to take care of them.

  Thomas had been there for her when she’d been devastated by her little brother Liam’s death from consumption, and when her stepmother had died not many months later. He held her and comforted her and promised her that God was there still with her.

  And when she’d felt the pressure from her family to get married and take Astrid with her, Thomas had been the one to offer his hand, to tell her he loved her and always would.

  When Thomas died, her future had crumbled, and she’d been floundering ever since. Then when she’d learned Pappa was gone, she realized she didn’t have a single soul left who cared what became of her. While Pappa had always been working and never affectionate, at least he’d been solid and secure and looked after her.

  With the engagement to Phineas, she’d thought she’d reestablished her footing. But today, the solid ground had given way to raging rapids that seemed to be carrying her away.

  Greta closed her eyes, wanting to give in to the temptation to let the drowning waters take her wherever they would. But as Astrid started to cough, Greta pushed aside her own woes. She had too much responsibility to wallow in self-pity.

  She needed to keep fighting for Astrid’s sake.

  Patting her sister’s back and encouraging her to breathe through the coughing, Greta watched as the rain tapered away and the sky lightened, cringing at what Mr. McQuaid must think of Astrid’s coughing. The constant hacking sound could get annoying after a while—at least that’s what her sisters-in-law had said.

  Thankfully, Mr. McQuaid didn’t seem to mind and even asked if there was any way he might be of aid to Astrid. When the rain completely stopped, he ventured out. He came back a minute later to let them know the storm was over and they could walk back to town.

  He assisted both Astrid and her down to level ground. Though wet with puddles, the path along the river was manageable. Astrid, still coughing slightly, skipped ahead. She stopped now and then to pick up a rock, examine it,
and ask Mr. McQuaid if it was gold.

  By the time they climbed the ravine and were nearing the miners’ tents and cabins at the edge of town, Greta knew what she had to do.

  She slowed her footsteps. “Mr. McQuaid, does your proposal from earlier still stand?”

  He halted and looked at her intently.

  Her feet were soaked through her boots and the wet leather rubbed against one of her big toes, forming a blister. Her skirt was damp and tangling in her legs. And her hair was loose and matted from the rain. “You’re seeing me at my worst. And you’ve experienced Astrid with her coughing. At least you know honestly what you’re getting.”

  He hesitated. Behind him, the sky above the mountain range was laced with hues of lavender, rose, and lily of the valley, with a few remaining dark clouds to frame the work of art. The storm had moved to the southeast, the dark clouds still flashing lightning in the distance.

  “It’s okay if you changed your mind.” She started forward, picking up her pace through the grassy path. “I understand that I might not be what you were looking for.”

  “No, that ain’t it.” He easily caught up and matched his stride to hers. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Mr. Steele was right when he said you’re a very sweet woman.”

  This time she stopped abruptly. “Mr. Steele thought I was sweet?”

  Mr. McQuaid nodded, his expression earnest. “And he figured you and Astrid would be safe with me.”

  Mr. McQuaid had proven himself to be a hero. If she had to marry a stranger, she’d likely find no better man than this handsome rancher.

  “The thing is . . .” His forehead furrowed. “I know why you want—need—the marriage partnership—so you and Astrid can stay here in Colorado so Astrid can get well. But you might be wondering why I’m needing it . . .”

  For a few seconds, she waited for him to continue. When the silence lengthened, her face flamed. What was he insinuating? That he wanted a wife because he had manly needs?

  “What I’m trying to say,” he continued awkwardly, “is that Steele is wanting to make Fairplay a stable town with more families and children.”

  So Mr. McQuaid wanted a family of his own? Again, Greta’s face grew hot. While she hadn’t thought much about the marriage bed, she’d assumed it would be one of her wifely duties with Phineas. And if she went through with marrying Mr. McQuaid, she assumed it would be with him too. So why was he bringing it up? Did they really need to talk about it?

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw and chin. “I’m making a mess of this, ain’t I?”

  She couldn’t look him in the eyes. Instead, she focused on Astrid, who’d stopped and was now staring and waving at the miners in their camps.

  Mr. McQuaid took a deep breath. “Steele’s offering me a deal ’cause he thinks he can convince his wife and son to come west if Fairplay has more families—”

  “I understand, Mr. McQuaid.” She had to assure him before he said something even more embarrassing. “All I need to know is that you’re willing to help me for Phineas’s sake. That’s a good enough reason for me.”

  He lifted his hat, smoothed his hair, then situated it again. “Alright, then.”

  She let out a breath, and the tension eased from her shoulders. As with Phineas, she was taking a big risk in agreeing to marry a stranger. But she had to keep doing whatever she could for Astrid, no matter the personal sacrifice.

  They started walking again.

  After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I’m guessing you’ll want to change into something dry before the wedding?”

  “You want to get married tonight?” She didn’t know why his question surprised her. After all, she’d expected to marry Phineas right away. Why not Mr. McQuaid instead?

  “I guess we can wait if you want to—”

  “No, tonight is just fine.” There was no reason to put it off. She might as well get it over with so she could move on with her life and provide a home for Astrid.

  “You sure?” His voice wavered. Who was he asking: himself or her?

  “Mr. McQuaid, I haven’t been sure about anything for a long time. But that hasn’t stopped me yet.”

  He was quiet for several steps, so that their squeaking boots sounded too loud against the wet grass and gravel. “I’ll go get the preacher.”

  Chapter 6

  Steele’s front parlor was hotter than the scorching sun on a Kansas prairie. Wyatt tugged at his neckerchief and collar. Even with every window wide open in the sparsely furnished room, allowing in the cool night air, he was perspiring worse than a pack mule at midday.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Steele said again, as he had a dozen times since Wyatt had found him at Hotel Windsor reclining in a chair, smoking a cigar, and waiting for him.

  The Methodist minister, Reverend Zieber, stood with Judd across the room and had been carrying on a mostly one-sided conversation since he’d arrived. Although Wyatt considered both of the older and wiser men to be friends, their personalities were about as different as a columbine and a cactus.

  Reverend Zieber was ruggedly built, sturdy, and had only a smattering of gray in his hair. He’d moved to Colorado from Wisconsin the previous year and had been traveling from one mining camp to another preaching, tending the sick, and burying the dead. He always had news to share as well as plenty of godly advice. While he had a cabin in Buckskin Joe, he spent a heap of time in Fairplay now that Steele had built a church.

  Judd, on the other hand, was short and wiry with hair as white as a fresh winter snowfall. Judd had come up from Texas to mine for gold and had saved Wyatt from getting killed in a gunfight over a claim the first week he’d been in the Rockies. Ever since then, they’d been friends. Judd had given up on finding gold about the same time as Wyatt and had taken his offer to stay and help him build the ranch. Judd rarely spoke unless he had something important to say, but Wyatt had come to rely upon his friend for just about everything.

  When Wyatt had returned to town after the storm and told Judd about his decision to marry Miss Nilsson in exchange for Steele’s investment in a herd of Shorthorns, Judd had shaken his head. Wyatt hadn’t been able to interpret whether Judd thought his decision was good or bad, and he hadn’t had the time to ask.

  And now it was too late. Sure as a gun, he was getting hitched to Miss Nilsson.

  If only she’d hurry it up and get on down to the parlor.

  He tugged his neckerchief again. He’d taken Steele up on the offer to borrow a clean, dry shirt. Even if his trousers were still damp and dirty, at least he was halfway decent for his wedding day.

  Wedding day. The very thought made his head itch. Marrying had been the last thing on his mind when he’d ridden into town today. In fact, marrying had been the last thing on his mind since the day his ma had married Rusty. Their neighbor had always been mean and hardfisted, but Wyatt had been barkin’ at a knot trying to convince his ma of that. After she’d married the lowlife, Wyatt hadn’t been surprised when the marriage had gone sour.

  That didn’t mean he’d never planned on getting married. A part of him wanted a family and a place to belong. But he’d moved around too much to make any real connections with the women who’d paid him attention. The handful who lived in the high country were already married and worked alongside their husbands. The rest lived in the dance halls and taverns catering to the lusts of the miners. They were the kind of women Wyatt had decided long ago to steer away from, no matter how tempting they might be.

  Instead, he’d stayed busy and focused.

  Until today . . . Until he’d met Miss Nilsson.

  How in the name of all that was holy had he gotten roped into marrying a woman he hardly knew?

  He glanced through the parlor door into the hallway. Did he have time to make an escape?

  At just that moment, Miss Nilsson stepped into the entrance, and he froze at her image of perfection. Somehow over the past hour, she’d transformed herself from pretty to stunningly beautiful, and he could only
stare stupidly at her like the other men were doing.

  She’d changed out of her wet blue gown into a dark green one that contrasted with her light skin and made her eyes more blue than gray. The bell-shaped skirt hugged her hips and emphasized her tiny waist, and a matching bodice was formfitting over her curves. A simple but elegant pendant on a chain graced her neck. And she’d transformed her rain-soaked tangles of hair into a stylish knot.

  She searched the room until she found him. As her gaze connected with his, he couldn’t look away. She was so wide eyed and innocent. And yet her gaze was also intense, fanning a strange new heat to life low in his gut.

  Something in her expression asked him whether he really wanted to go through with this wedding. A moment ago, he’d been about to bolt from the house. But now he wasn’t sure he could move his feet even if the place began to burn down around him.

  Wyatt sucked in a lungful of air, and his breathing felt shallow and quick, like it had when he’d first moved to the area and had to get used to the high altitude.

  “The flowers I picked earlier today all wilted,” came Astrid’s childish voice as she sidled past her sister into the parlor. “But I managed to find these for the wedding. Aren’t they pretty?”

  The girl was attired in fresh garments, too, and her hair neatly brushed and plaited. Miss Nilsson had spent as much time cleaning up Astrid as she had herself. And if the girl’s shenanigans were any indication of how things usually went, then Miss Nilsson was nigh on to becoming a saint for her patience.

  “What do you think, Mr. McQuaid?” Astrid crossed toward him, holding out the handful of weeds with a few flowering cow parsnip in the bunch.

  He gave her plait a gentle tug. “I think it’s mighty sweet of you to be giving your sister flowers, that’s what.”

  The compliment earned him one of her impish smiles, one he suspected she’d used to get herself out of trouble plenty of times.

  As Miss Nilsson drew farther into the room, Wyatt was suddenly in tune to her every movement in a way he hadn’t been with a woman in a mighty long time, if ever. Each soft step, the quick intake of her breath, a tilt of her head, the way she fingered the pendant against her neck.