by Jody Hedlund
Greta dumped the chokecherries out of her apron into a chipped white basin she’d pulled down from the lone shelf above the stove. Then she collapsed onto a bench and laid her head onto the table.
Other travelers had warned her about mountain sickness, but she hadn’t expected it and hadn’t wanted to admit to Wyatt that she was dizzy and fatigued. But she’d started feeling poorly last night after she climbed into bed with Astrid, and she’d felt worse upon awakening.
Of course, it hadn’t helped that she’d tossed and turned more than usual. She wanted to blame the unfamiliar night noises—the scratching, rummaging, and squeaking of critters—but the truth was, her thoughts hadn’t been able to settle themselves. Her mind had been too full of all that had happened during the few short hours of the evening.
She’d lifted up a prayer of thankfulness that at least she had a roof over her head. But one thought clamored above all the others—whether she’d done the right thing by marrying Wyatt McQuaid.
Now, even at the early morning hour, the cabin was hot and stuffy and the flies were incessant. She’d discovered earlier that the greasy pan on the stove was blackened, not from burned food remains, but from flies that had gotten stuck in the lard.
At a clearing throat in the doorway, she shot up. Her skirt and petticoat tangled in the bench, but somehow she managed to find her footing.
“My apologies,” came a deep voice. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
She spun to find Wyatt’s wizened cowhand standing on the threshold. Thin but muscular, he was shorter than her five-feet-five inches. He wore dark woolen trousers like Wyatt’s tucked into his plain black leather boots with small spurs at the back. His neckerchief was a dull red that hung low to his loose-fitting vest he’d left unbuttoned to reveal a worn flannel shirt. He held a battered hat in his hands.
“Good morning, Judd.” Although he’d been at the wedding at Mr. Steele’s house, he’d left almost immediately after the ceremony, giving her no opportunity to speak with him.
He nodded. “Morning, ma’am.”
“Call me Greta.”
He opened his mouth as if he might protest, but before he could, Astrid stumbled into the room, wearing her long nightdress and yawning noisily. Her hair was mussed and her eyes still heavy with sleep, but her cheeks had a little color.
“Hi there, Mister.” Astrid crossed toward Judd. “You look a lot like Saint Nicholas, what with your long white beard and white hair and all.”
“Astrid,” Greta said firmly. “Be polite.”
“W-e-l-l, he sure does.” Astrid stared up at the man, her head cocked to one side. “Except for the mustache. It looks like cow horns.”
Exasperated, Greta pressed a hand against her head. “Astrid, please. Why don’t you go back in the bedroom and get dressed?”
Judd’s mustache curled up with the beginning of a smile.
Astrid swatted at a fly hovering in the air. “Sure are a lot of flies here, aren’t there?”
“Yep.” Judd flicked a finger at the same fly. It fell to the floor lifeless.
“How’d you do that?” Astrid bent to take a closer look at the unmoving insect. “Think you can teach me?”
“Sure.”
“It would come in handy. Maybe I could go around clearing them all out of the cabin.”
“You bother to kill one fly, several dozen more gonna come to its funeral.”
Astrid paused and stared at Judd as though trying to make sense of what he was saying. Greta couldn’t contain a smile.
“Came to get some grub started.” He nodded at the stove.
“You needn’t worry about doing the cooking anymore. I was just about to make the coffee.” Greta moved toward the stove but swayed and had to grab the table to steady herself.
Judd took a quick step but stopped and twisted his hat. “Wyatt said you’re aimin’ to do the cooking. But I figured you’d be unpacking.”
She pressed a hand to her forehead again.
Judd’s fluffy white brows furrowed. “Seeing as how you’re so busy, I reckoned I could lend a hand.”
She wasn’t busy. And she suspected they both knew it. But with the way she was feeling, she didn’t know how she could turn down his gracious offer.
“I reckon I could lend a hand too.” Astrid’s sweet voice imitated Judd’s southern drawl, and when she moved beside him, Judd’s mustache curled up again.
Greta forced herself not to smile at the child’s antics. Instead, she pressed a hand on her hip and nodded to the bedroom. “I reckon you can go get dressed just like I asked you to and leave Judd alone.”
“I don’t mind none.” Judd limped farther into the cabin, making his way to the stove. “Can always use a pardner.”
“W-e-l-l then.” Astrid’s smile widened. “I guess I’ll be your pardner.”
“That’d be real nice.” Judd’s gaze met Greta’s and was filled with a kindness that brought a lump to her throat.
Astrid had been shunned too often since getting sick. Though Greta had tried her best to shield the little girl from the comments and the glares slanted her way, no doubt Astrid had felt the rejection, which made her long for attention and love all the more.
But since coming to Colorado, where the sunshine seemed to perpetually shine, perhaps it was shining down on Astrid in more ways than one. Greta could only pray her sister would finally get her share of happiness.
But a place deep inside her warned that sunshine never lasted forever.
Chapter 9
A deep, hacking cough shook Astrid’s thin frame.
Greta watched helplessly until Astrid caught her breath, and then she finished rubbing salve onto the child’s chest, the strong scent of elderberry and beeswax filling the bedroom.
Astrid sucked in several deep breaths.
“Time for some tea.” Greta placed a hand gently underneath the girl and tried to lift her.
“I don’t like it.” Astrid resisted, her pale face blending into the bedcovers.
“You have to drink something.”
“I’ll have some of Judd’s black water.”
“Only tea. No coffee today.” If Judd’s weak brew could be considered coffee. Although the rest of his cooking was passable, Greta had to agree with Wyatt’s nickname for Judd’s watery coffee.
Greta wiped the sweat off her sister’s forehead with the cool rag before she dipped the cloth back into the basin.
Astrid had woken halfway through the night with a fever, accompanied by intermittent sweating and chills. Though Greta had done her best to control the fever, by morning Astrid’s cough had worsened. It was no longer the dry hacking that came and went. This was the dreaded coughing accompanied by the spewing of phlegm. So far the discharge was white without any taint of blood, but nevertheless, Greta was more disappointed than she wanted to admit.
Just last night when kissing Astrid good night, Greta had marveled at the changes just a few days at the ranch had brought about. And she realized how long Astrid had gone without the fever. Weeks. At least since the stagecoach ride across Nebraska.
Astrid hadn’t caught the mountain sickness, not even a little bit. Thankfully, Greta’s dizziness had passed quickly, and she’d been back to herself in no time.
“I’ll add a little more sugar.” Greta rose from the edge of the bed. She wrung the cloth out again, positioned it on Astrid’s forehead, and then crossed to the door. As she stepped into the main room, she stopped short at the sight of Wyatt standing near the table.
He held his hat in his hands and twisted the brim. “Astrid sick this morning?”
Greta gave a weary nod. “She’s having a flare-up. I guess we won’t be able to pick huckleberries today after all.” Last night after dinner, he’d offered again to take her, said he had a few hours free in the morning if she still wanted to go. But she couldn’t leave Astrid today.
“It’s alright. We’ll go some other time.” He shifted his hat first to one hand and then the other. “Should I
go after the doc?”
“I wish a doctor could help. But unfortunately, there’s nothing he could do that hasn’t already been tried.”
Wyatt’s brown eyes were almost ebony and overflowed with a compassion that made her chest ache. “Anything I can do?”
“No, there’s nothing to be done except make sure she rests.”
He shifted his hat again.
“I’ve got breakfast ready for you and Judd.” She hurried to the stove, where she’d fried potatoes with several slabs of bacon. The potatoes had come from Judd’s garden, which she’d discovered was enormous and well-tended. He’d told her to help herself to whatever she needed.
She hadn’t asked him what he planned to do with all the vegetables once they were harvested, but she’d started a mental list of all the things she needed to do, including digging a cellar near the house for storing the produce.
Greta had spent the majority of the past two days exploring and getting familiar with the ranch, along with cleaning and airing out the cabin. Doing laundry had been the first priority. Though the cabin had but a few scant household linens, her and Astrid’s garments had been in sore need of scrubbing after going weeks without a proper washing. She’d also gathered up Wyatt’s and Judd’s clothing and laundered it too.
When it came time for drying everything, she’d set to work shoveling two holes deep enough for the couple of posts she dragged over from behind the barn. Once she had both posts buried and sturdy, she rigged up a rope between the two and hung the bedsheets to dry and laid the clothing out in the grass and on brush.
All while she’d worked, she kept Astrid busy snapping beans and shelling peas and other small jobs. Astrid tired easily and had taken several naps during the day. Greta had supposed the girl was worn out from all the excitement of their traveling. But now she realized Astrid had been battling consumption again.
Greta lifted the lid off the pan, the waft of potatoes and bacon making her stomach rumble.
“Listen, Greta.” Wyatt reached alongside her and took the lid out of her hold. “You go on and take care of Astrid. Me and Judd, we can fend for ourselves.”
She shook her head and picked up the spatula she’d left inside the pan. Wyatt was directly behind her—much too close. He’d protested yesterday, telling her she didn’t have to do so much, especially after seeing the laundry line she’d made. He told her next time she ought to ask him for help. But from what she’d seen, he was busy enough without having to stop and do things for her.
“No, I’m not letting you fend for yourself.” She scooped a serving of the potato-bacon mixture onto a tin plate. “You married me to help you take care of the ranch, and that’s what I intend to do.”
He was still too close, so when he released a long sigh, she could feel the breath against the back of her neck. “Greta,” he said softly, “look at me.”
She let the spatula fall idle in the pan.
“Please?”
At the sweetness of his tone, she couldn’t resist. She pivoted, plate in hand.
Without his hat, she had full view of his eyes, his beautiful, expressive eyes. “You’re my wife. Not my slave.”
“But as your wife, I have responsibilities—”
“You’ll be running yourself ragged if you’re not careful.”
“I’m a strong woman. And it takes a lot to wear me out.”
He studied her face, making her suddenly self-conscious. She hadn’t taken care with her appearance this morning, hadn’t had the time between tending to Astrid and trying to get breakfast for the men.
“I’m sorry.” She smoothed back a flyaway strand. “I still need to plait it.”
He lifted her hand away. “You don’t need to. Your hair is pretty enough any way you wear it.”
Pretty? Her heart pattered an extra beat.
At Judd clearing his throat behind them, embarrassment washed across Wyatt’s face. He took several rapid steps away from her, bumping into the table and tipping one of the benches.
Judd reached out to catch the bench, righting it. He nodded at Greta, then leveled a look at Wyatt, one laced with humor.
Judd wasn’t much for talking, but he, like Wyatt, had a kindness about him that put her at ease. He worked hard alongside Wyatt but seemed fond of taking breaks, especially those that involved puttering around in his garden.
“Heard Astrid coughing.” Judd lowered himself to the bench and leaned his elbows on the table.
“It’s the consumption.” Greta handed a plate to Wyatt and then dished up Judd’s breakfast. “A little extra rest today, and she’ll be fine.” At least Greta hoped so.
After giving Judd his food, she poured the men each a cup of coffee and then returned to Astrid’s bedside with a spoonful of sugar. She sweetened the tea and made the little girl drink several sips. A few minutes later, when Astrid was dozing, Greta scurried back into the other room to the stove. Before the men could ask, she’d retrieved the pan and was dishing them up more breakfast.
“Reckon I can take you huckleberry picking next week.” Wyatt nodded his thanks and dug his spoon into the steaming mound.
“I’m sure Astrid will feel better then.”
“Go on today.” Judd swallowed a bite of potatoes. “And I’ll stay.”
“You’ll stay?” Wyatt’s brows rose.
“That’s right. I’ll stay with the child so you can go get the berries.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.” Greta returned to the stove and retrieved the coffeepot. “We can go another time.”
“They’re ripe now.” Judd dangled his spoon above his plate. “Gotta get ’em now, or the critters’ll chaw up every last one.”
“It’s kind of you to offer, but I couldn’t impose.”
“Best thing for her is the sun and the air,” Judd said quietly but firmly. “Soon as she wakes, I’ll carry her on outside.”
Greta hesitated.
“Planning to dry the peas today,” Judd added. “Wouldn’t hurt her none to lend me a hand.”
Wyatt took a sip of coffee and seemed to be gauging Greta’s reaction. She didn’t want to worry him needlessly. Surely Astrid would be fine with Judd there this morning and would sleep most of the time anyway.
“Very well. If you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Not a bit.” Judd scraped up a large spoonful of potatoes and shoveled it in his mouth as if the subject was closed with nothing more left to say. She turned back to the stove and squelched the need to give the older man a list of instructions. Astrid was plenty vocal and would tell Judd if she needed anything.
A short while later, Greta was astride one of Wyatt’s horses, riding after him as he led the way across the grassland toward the foothills in the east. The early morning sunshine was directly in her face, making her wish that instead of her bonnet, she had a hat like Wyatt’s with a wide brim to shield her eyes.
Along with the thud of horse hooves, the quiet of the morning was broken by an unfamiliar, distant bird call. As far as she could see, she and Wyatt were the only two out in this wilderness for miles around, and the realization was daunting. If something happened to them, or if they encountered another wild creature like that mountain lion, or if they got lost . . .
She focused on Wyatt’s back and the power emanating from him as he rode. With his revolver in his belt and a rifle secured to his saddle, she surely had nothing to fear. Even so, the high rugged Colorado country was nothing like she’d imagined. Truly, if she was honest with herself, nothing about her journey to the West had turned out the way she’d expected. Maybe by the end of autumn, she’d be more than ready to take up Wyatt’s offer to return to Illinois. Maybe he’d been wise to suggest not rushing into the marriage bed.
Although she’d felt strange taking over his house and bedroom, he hadn’t seemed to mind, had almost seemed relieved she’d cooperated so easily. In fact, he’d stayed well out of her way the past couple of days, only coming into the cabin for mealtimes. And they hadn’
t run into each other at the river either, though she’d waited until later to go down so she wouldn’t chance seeing him half unclothed again.
Ahead, amid clumps of long grass and mounds of dirt, a prairie dog popped its head out of a burrow, stood high with its face pointed in their direction, and barked a scolding for disturbing it. As she and Wyatt passed, several more of the creatures took up sentinel posts, yelped warnings, shook their tails, and dove back into their holes.
Wyatt didn’t seem to notice the prairie dogs but made sure to steer well away from the mounds and burrows and the honeycomb of holes that could cause injury to the horses. He pointed at something in the distance. “Look over yonder.”
She lifted her hand to shield her eyes and saw what appeared to be a herd of some sort of deer. Several dozen were grazing in the open grassland. Against the rise of the foothills, the grandeur of the scenery washed over her, drowning the doubts and anxiety of earlier.
“It’s awe-inspiring. Are they deer?”
“Pronghorns.” He slowed, allowing his mount to fall into step with hers. “Like antelope but faster.”
The slender, graceful creatures were brown, with portions of their bellies, legs, and rumps a snowy white. Most had horns, some longer and bulkier than others. “They’re beautiful.”
“And they’re pesky, sneaking in and mowing my hay to stubs.”
As they rode, Wyatt talked more about the pronghorns and the benefit of a bountiful supply of pronghorn meat, which he described as having a tender texture and mild flavor compared to other game.
He answered her questions about how much land he’d plowed and planted, along with the irrigation ditch he’d built from the river to the field. Since the rainfall in Illinois was usually sufficient during the growing season, Pappa had never needed to irrigate his crops. But Wyatt explained how the climate in the central mountain valleys was too arid to grow much of anything without the ditches.
