The Heart Breaker (11 page)

T
he Denver train depot was a bustle of activity despite the winter season, Heather noted with surprise. While she waited for Sloan to collect his buckboard from the livery and load her trunks, she watched curiously as passengers scurried along the platform.

The station seemed less genteel than the one in St. Louis, with fewer ladies and frock-coated gentlemen and more cowboys sporting low-brimmed Stetsons and spurs with six-guns riding their lean hips. The stockyards in the distance marked the terminal as a main cattle-shipping center, while the buildings boasted painted clapboard instead of brick.

It was perhaps colder here, as well, she thought. Snow covered the ground in patches, glittering in the bright afternoon sunshine.

Heather was grateful for the added warmth of the sun. With her emotions so raw, she’d slept little last night and was weary after twenty-six hours on the train, with the prospect of a thirty-mile trip to the McCord ranch in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains still to come. Sloan had warned her they would arrive well after dark.

Otherwise he’d spoken little to her since the consummation of their wedding vows. Shortly after breakfast this morning, he’d returned to the car and lain down on the bed to sleep. A porter woke him when the train was a half hour outside of Denver, and he’d shaved and changed clothes with scarcely a glance at Heather. It was all she could do to concentrate on her book. She felt bare, exposed, far too vulnerable in his presence, especially with him performing such intimate tasks, the way a real husband might in front of his wife.

That defenseless feeling rose again unbidden as she saw Sloan pushing through the crowd, his tall, lean body moving with athletic grace. When she stepped down from the train, carrying her carpetbag, their gazes locked.

“You ready, duchess?”

His expression was cautious, wary, distant. Heather was the first to look away. It hurt to see that remote, impersonal look in his eyes, as if their explosive joining had never happened. As if she’d never lain beneath his body and cried out with the wonder of it. She was still desperately fighting the emotions he’d unleashed in her last night.

She had been a stranger to herself. No one had ever told her about the madness, the fever, the blindness of desire. She never expected to feel sensations so sweet, so powerful, that she would shatter in a million pieces. She never expected, either, to feel such conflicting sentiments for this hard man, one part of her wanting to burrow into his arms and reclaim the tenderness he’d given so unwillingly last night; another wanting to rail at him for shutting her out so coldly; another yearning to understand the deep sorrow she sensed in him, the complex forces that had made him the uncompromising stranger he was.

Taking her bag, Sloan led her to the buckboard and handed her up. When he considerately tucked a blanket over her skirts, she thought of those hands touching her last night.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her face flushing from the vivid recollection.

“It’ll be cold,” he replied matter-of-factly. Climbing up beside her, he gave her a single glance before the brim of his hat shaded his face. “Jake and Cat will be expecting us. I sent them a telegram.”

She nodded, trying to forget the memory of his hard fingers and soft mouth, of his heated lips on her skin.

Sloan slapped the reins and the team moved forward. Leaving the crowded depot behind, they traveled along streets lined with ornate false-fronted buildings and bustling stores and less refined saloons.

As they left the city, they maintained a mutual silence, Sloan concentrating on driving over roads patched with ice and mud, while Heather studied the scenery. The land surrounding Denver was flat prairie dotted with shrub, yet the snow-covered mountains seemed quite close, shining in the distance.

Eventually the level grassland gave way to rugged hills flecked with cattle and the occasional ranch. The cold air had a cleaner, sweeter smell here, it seemed, while the view from the ridgetops was utterly spectacular. Beyond the foothills the main range of the Rockies rose up in jagged splendor, their snowy peaks glistening in the sunlight, their slopes covered with frosted ponderosa pine and tall spruce and bare, white-trunked aspen.

Heather found herself staring in awe. It was an unbelievably beautiful country, splendorous and wild, with a sheer vastness that was breathtaking.

Once toward sunset, Sloan drew the team to a halt and sat for a moment in silence, regarding the panorama. Heather could understand his reverence for the untamed grandeur. The mountains had turned purple and gold as the sun slid down their massive shoulders.

When he glanced at her to gauge her reaction, she offered him a quiet smile. “It’s beautiful.”

“God’s country,” he said simply.

A while later they heard the staccato sound of hoofbeats behind them. With one hand Sloan reached for the rifle stowed in the scabbard beside the wagon seat. He kept the weapon slung across his knees until the three riders, all older cowboys, passed with a greeting and a tip of their hats.

“Are you expecting trouble?” Heather asked in a low voice when they were alone.

“No, but the range war hasn’t been over long enough to go around unarmed. I want you to always carry a gun with you when you travel.”

Hearing his grim tone, Heather recalled soberly what Caitlin had told her—that Sloan’s Indian wife had been killed by gunmen while simply driving home.

The road became rougher as it grew dark, with boulders and ruts and broken snow choking the trail. Sloan made frequent use of the brake on the steep inclines and had to dismount several times to lead the horses through particularly treacherous patches. Shortly, though, a full moon rose to bathe the countryside in pale luminescence, lighting the way. As they edged alongside dangerous precipices, Heather clung to the rocking buckboard, yet somehow she felt safe in Sloan’s care.

The bitter cold was another question. She buried her face in the wool blanket as she found herself shivering.

“Not much farther,” Sloan said sympathetically. “We’ll turn off before we reach Greenbriar.”

Heather nodded. Caitlin had told her about the town that was the local watering hole for ranchers and miners.

“Is Greenbriar part of the district you would represent if you run for the state senate?” she asked.

Sloan gave her an odd look, as if surprised she would concern herself with such details. “Yes. The district’s large—stretches from a few miles back to twenty miles into the mountains, and nearly a hundred miles north to south. Part of the problem has always been balancing ranching and mining interests.”

Some ten minutes later they left the main road and traveled along a rocky trail that wound through the foothills. The McCord ranch was nestled in a moonlit valley, at the base of a dark, pine-clad slope. Welcoming lights shone in the distance as they drove through a gate marked Bar M.

In the moon’s silver glow, Heather could see a handsome split-timber house, two stories tall, flanked by corrals and outbuildings. A lantern illuminated the front porch of the ranch house, while wood smoke curled from several chimneys.

Sloan had scarcely pulled the team to a stop in the yard when a raven-haired woman came hurrying out of the house, her slender form now bulky with pregnancy.

Heather felt a surge of joy at seeing Caitlin, yet a bit alarmed when she negotiated the slippery porch steps in order to greet them.

Without waiting for Sloan to help her, Heather climbed down from the wagon seat and found herself drawn into her friend’s warm embrace.

“At last,” Caitlin exclaimed. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”

“I, too. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“We wanted to welcome you to your new home. Sloan, you should be roped and tied for making her endure such a hard journey,” Caitlin scolded. “I’ll do it myself if you don’t bring her inside
at once.”

Sloan’s mouth curved in a reluctant grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

Heather’s brows rose in surprise at their easy rapport. She suspected few people had the nerve to order Sloan McCord around, much less threaten him.

“You must be frozen,” Caitlin remarked. “Come warm yourself by the fire. Supper’s heating in the oven.”

When Heather had collected her carpetbag from the back of the buckboard, the two women went up the steps arm-in-arm and encountered a man dressed in a chambray shirt and denims.

“Heather, this is my husband Jake—Ryan’s father.”

In the lantern light, Heather regarded the former outlaw curiously. Like Sloan, he was tall and rugged, with the same lean-muscled build and roughly chiseled good looks. His hair, too, was the color of dusty wheat, but his eyes were a vivid green, lacking the frost that glittered in his brother’s ice-blue ones.

Just now those striking eyes were inquisitive yet cautious, as if Jake McCord intended to withhold judgment of her. His work-hardened hand, however, felt warm and strong as he offered it to her to shake.

Heather smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you at last. Caitlin has told me a great deal about you, Judge McCord.”

“Call me Jake. Cat told me about you, too, but she didn’t warn me I’d be getting such a handsome
woman for a sister.” His easy grin was as unconsciously seductive as it was dangerous, with the potent masculinity his brother possessed in full measure. “Welcome to the family.”

“Where’s Janna?” Sloan asked from behind them.

“In your study,” Caitlin replied. “She wanted to stay up to see her papa and meet her new mamma.”

At the remark, Sloan went still for an instant. But then he moved past them and entered the house.

At the urging of her friend, Heather followed. She caught a glimpse on her left of a darkened parlor, with brocade furniture and flocked wallpaper that looked surprisingly modern. On the right, however, was where Sloan disappeared.

Her first impression of the study was one of warmth and comfort and enduring solidness. Rustic beams stretched across the ceiling of the large room, while colorful woven rugs covered the floor and bookshelves lined one wall. The furniture was masculine, overstuffed tanned leather of black or rust hues—far less formal than that in the parlor and a good deal more inviting.

A cheerful fire blazed in the fireplace. The young ebony-haired boy playing on the bearskin rug before the hearth jumped to his feet and ran to greet them.

“Aunt Heather, you’ve come!” he exclaimed as he threw his small arms around her skirts.

With a laugh, she returned Ryan’s hug. “My, how you’ve grown.”

“Yes,” he boasted in delight, gazing up at her with his father’s green eyes. “I’m quite big now.”

“You are indeed.”

“I have a pony now, Aunt Heather. His name is
Snoops, because he always puts his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Heather ruffled his dark hair. “He sounds much like another mischievous fellow I know.”

While Ryan chattered on about his most cherished possession, her gaze lifted to find Sloan. He had bent to scoop up a young child from the blanket in front of the fire. The toddler had straight, coal-black hair, with skin several shades darker than Sloan’s and features that were decidedly Indian.

She was grinning happily and mouthing disjointed phrases like “Papa home” as she patted her father’s hard face.

When she gave his cheek a faint kiss and said, “Love Papa,” Sloan flashed the most incredibly disarming smile Heather had ever seen on a man.

She felt her heart twist, recognizing the tenderness he had shown her so briefly last night. There was no question that he adored his daughter.

Distracted, Heather allowed Caitlin to collect her coat and bonnet and gloves, but she kept her carpetbag and returned her attention to her godson. “I’ve brought something for you, Ryan.” Digging inside, she gave the boy a wrapped parcel, which he promptly ripped open.

“Ohhhh,” he exclaimed in awe at the painted toy soldiers. “Pa, look what Aunt Heather gave me!”

When Ryan scurried off to show Jake his new prize, Heather moved forward to meet her new stepdaughter.

The black eyes, bright and luminous, turned solemn when she spied her; like most children, the tiny girl was apparently shy in the presence of a stranger.

Sloan held her protectively while Heather stretched out her fingers, palm up. “You must be
Janna,” she said softly. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Safe in her father’s arms, the child gazed back at her curiously. After a moment’s hesitation, the small fingers curled around Heather’s slender ones.

“My name is Heather,” she said, knowing it would be too much to ask to be called “Mama.” “Can you say that?”

Janna shook her head and buried her face in Sloan’s shoulder.

Not giving up, Heather sank to her knees and fished in her carpetbag for another parcel. “I’ve brought you something, too.”

Sloan set the toddler on the floor but stood over her, watchful and wary. When Heather unwrapped a raven-haired doll with a porcelain face and blue calico skirts, Janna’s dark eyes widened with delight.

“She’s not as pretty as you are, I think, but she needs a friend. Would you like to be her friend?”

Nodding vigorously, Janna took the doll carefully and stroked her rosy-cheeked face. Then, turning, she reached up to touch Heather’s pale hair, which was pinned back in a sleek chignon.

“Pretty,” Janna echoed.

Heather smiled warmly. “Why, thank you, sweetheart.”

Beside her, she could actually feel Sloan’s tension ease; his relief was palpable. Yet she too was grateful that she would be accepted by his young daughter.

Just then Janna gave a huge yawn and rubbed her eyes.

“Come on, darlin’,” Sloan said gently as he swung the child up in his arms. “It’s way past your bedtime. Say good night to your aunt and uncle.”

“I can put her to bed,” Caitlin offered.

“Thanks, but I want to.”

With another yawn, Janna mumbled “‘Nite,” and, clutching her doll, allowed herself to be carried upstairs.

“I’ll see to the horses and get the boys to bring in Heather’s trunks,” Jake told his wife, retrieving his coat from the stand beside the front door.