The Heart Breaker (14 page)

She spent long moments staring at the portrait, trying to fathom what had made the woman so special to Sloan. He clearly saw his first wife as a saint, and she, Heather, would never come close to such perfection.

The only time he truly let down his guard around her was when he played with his daughter. Only then did she glimpse the rare, brilliant smile he reserved strictly for Janna. Heather was always unprepared for the stab of envy that pierced her at that smile. She wished just once Sloan would look at her that way, as if she were the light of his life, the sun around which his entire life revolved.

Instead he remained wary and terrifyingly remote. Once he even frightened her. It was late afternoon toward the beginning of her second week in Colorado. She’d found a beaded buckskin coat in the corner of a closet, stained with what might have been blood. She was scrubbing the garment at the kitchen sink, using a recipe of Winnie’s, when Sloan came up silently behind her.

Heather nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard his savage bark. “What the
hell
do you think you’re doing?”

She whirled, startled to see the seething fury on
his face. “I was t-trying to clean away the stain.”

He ripped the coat from her grasp. “Don’t. Don’t dare touch this again, do I make myself clear?”

Too astonished to reply, she simply stared. Sloan spun on his heel and disappeared upstairs without even stopping to greet his daughter.

On rare occasions, however, there were moments when they seemed almost like a married couple. It was always late at night in his study, when she would sew or quietly read while he worked on the account books. He had never actually invited her into the masculine domain of his study, but neither did he refuse her entrance. Perhaps it was stubbornness, or merely a way to ward off the stark loneliness, but Heather made a habit of retiring there after putting Janna to bed, to await his coming. Unexpectedly she found a wide selection of leather-bound books on the shelves that lined one side of the room, some with the McCord brothers’ names inscribed inside, others which had belonged to their father Ben or their mother Elizabeth.

When at last the weather thawed a little, Heather met some of her neighbors. Several of the women came to call, bringing favorite dishes or small homemade gifts to welcome the new Mrs. McCord to the community. Heather found their open frankness surprising but a welcome respite from the stifling, shallow society in which she’d been raised.

She also met Caitlin’s friend Sarah Baxter when Rusty drove her into town to buy supplies at the general store. Greenbriar was much like Caitlin had described. Nestled in the rugged foothills, it boasted a saloon and jail, a barber and bathhouse, a blacksmith and livery, a church, and several clapboard storefronts. Main Street was unpaved and six inches deep in mud and melting snow, but wooden boardwalks lined both sides.

When Rusty had helped her down from the buckboard, Heather negotiated the slippery planks with Janna in her arms and hurried inside the store, grateful for the warmth of the woodstove in the far corner.

“Don’t tell me—you’re Heather,” the brown-haired woman behind the counter said affably.

Heather returned her smile. “How did you know?”

“You’re the talk of Greenbriar, that’s how. And I see rumor didn’t exaggerate in the slightest. You’re every bit as beautiful as I heard tell. But honestly, you’re no giant like one old cat claimed. ‘A tall, decidedly elegant figure’ is how I would put it.” Before Heather could become uncomfortable, the woman grinned. “I’m Sarah Baxter, by the way. My husband Harvey and I own the store. I hope you’ll forgive me for not paying you a visit first thing, but the weather was so bad, and the minute it let up, the store was swamped…”

“Of course,” Heather replied politely.

“I just know we’ll be friends. Caitlin has spoken so highly of you. Don’t be upset, though, if the other ladies of Greenbriar don’t welcome you with open arms. You’re sure to be a target of envy.”

“Envy?”

“For snaring Sloan.” Sarah’s brown eyes filled with wry laughter. “You must realize women find him attractive—a handsome widower with a cattle empire the size of the Bar M. And with that dangerous air about him … Well, he’s a mite hard to resist.”

Heather understood quite well what Sarah meant.
She’d
always been keenly aware how vulnerable she was to Sloan’s potent masculinity, and that aura of brooding sensuality of his only increased his appeal.

“His first wife wasn’t decently buried in her grave,” Sarah explained, “when the local gals started hounding him again. I fear it’s always been that way,” she added wistfully. “The McCord boys were a hell-raising pair when they were younger. Jake was the charmer, but Sloan … well, Sloan was the real heartbreaker. Half the women around here were in love with him, but he paid them no mind. Wanted nothing to do with them. And then he up and married Sleeping Doe. Shocked the entire community, I can tell you. And now he’s gone and done it again—disappointed all the belles by taking another stranger for a wife.”

Heather repressed a pained smile. It struck her as ironic to be envied by her female neighbors for capturing the elusive Sloan McCord. Doubtless they would be surprised to learn she and Sloan had a marriage in name only.

“I don’t know that
I
envy you,” Sarah added thoughtfully. “Sloan McCord is a hardheaded maverick if there ever was one. Being his wife can’t be easy. You have a real job on your hands, I’m certain.”

Heather’s silence was eloquent.

As their eyes met, Sarah nodded in accord. “I imagine he’s grateful to you at least for keeping the females away. And for looking after Janna. A lot of women want to be the one to help Sloan recover from his grief, or simply become mistress of all that land, but there aren’t too many anxious to mother a half-breed daughter.”

Reflexively Heather’s arms tightened around Janna. “I don’t much care for that term,” she replied coolly, “and I’ll thank you not to use it in her hearing.”

Sarah’s grin only broadened. “Good, you’ve got steel in your backbone, just as Caitlin said. I’m
afraid you’ll need every ounce of it, with what you’ll have to face. But I want you to know, if you ever need my help, you have only to ask.”

Heather cherished little hope of improving her relationship with her husband, and the long years of loneliness stretched out before her like a frozen river. Yet despite Sloan’s cold reserve toward her, she knew he must have a softer side. She’d seen for herself his extreme gentleness with his daughter, his passion for the wild land, his devotion to his ranch hands… the love he still harbored for his first wife.

She’d seen the vulnerability in those bleak, world-weary eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching. She was learning to look beyond his man’s hard face, into the raw places in his heart.

She wanted to reach out to him, to offer him a touch, some comfort, even though she knew instinctively he wouldn’t want it. The knowledge made her heart ache, and she vowed to do everything in her power to aid Sloan in his struggle to keep his ranch solvent.

The devastating winter hung on with a vengeance, bitter with cold and enough snow to bury a steer chest deep. Sloan drove himself till he was dizzy with pain and fatigue. He was a man who wouldn’t admit defeat; he didn’t know what it was, Heather realized. But even she, who knew nothing about cattle, could see the kingdom he had built was crumbling. His very way of life was threatened.

It was during her third week that she sensed a small crack in Sloan’s granite exterior—the night she was awakened by Janna’s mewling cries. Leaping out of bed without even taking the time to put on a wrapper or slippers, Heather hurried down
the hall to Sloan’s room, to find him cradling his daughter against his bare chest, pacing the floor by the light of a lantern, wearing only red long johns.

He gazed at her with a helpless expression. “She won’t stop crying.”

“She’s probably teething,” Heather said soothingly. “I thought I saw a tooth breaking through when I fed her this evening. There’s nothing to worry about. It happens all the time.” She reached out her arms. “Let me have her.”

“Can you help her?” he asked as he reluctantly entrusted the baby to Heather.

“I think so. Why don’t you go back to sleep? I’m sure you have a hard day ahead of you tomorrow. I’ll care for Janna, I promise.”

“I know you will. But I can’t sleep, knowing she’s hurting.”

Heather felt another chunk of her heart crumble at Sloan’s concern for his daughter. He refused to rest, even though he must be exhausted after the grueling day he’d put in. But he wouldn’t be easy until Janna was sleeping soundly.

“Do you have any oil of cloves? It would help to rub it on her sore gums.”

“I don’t know.”

“If you can’t find any, then fetch some snow. Cold serves to dull the pain.”

While he went to find the remedies she’d recommended, Heather wrapped the fretful child in a blanket and picked up the towel by the washbasin. Slipping a corner of the cloth in Janna’s mouth for her to chew on, she settled in the rocking chair before the stove and began to rock to and fro, humming softly.

When Sloan returned, he came to a complete standstill, staring at the scene they made: the dark child and the golden woman, softly lit by lamplight.
Heather in her virginal nightdress, her pale hair twisted in a thick braid, her milk-white skin a contrast to the bronzed hue of the tiny girl’s.

Janna had quieted and was mouthing the cloth while Heather crooned a lullaby. Sloan’s heart twisted with remembered pain. Doe had sung to their daughter like that, though in a different language. This golden image of mother and child seemed wrong … and yet at the same time, somehow
right.

These past three weeks, he had thrown himself into his work, not only to save the Bar M, the heritage he would fight to the death to preserve, but in a stubborn attempt to forget the woman who now shared his home, who was now nurturing his daughter.

It was a futile effort. Heather was the kind of woman who got under a man’s skin in a heartbeat.

He hadn’t found the oblivion he’d sought in physical exertion. And no matter where he was in the house, he was always aware of her. She made her presence known in subtle ways: the lavender scent of the feminine soap she used, the quiet rustle of her skirts, her gentle laughter when she played with his daughter… Consciously or not, she’d found the surest way to slip under his guard. His daughter.

He shouldn’t complain, Sloan tried to remind himself. He’d married Heather so Janna could have a mother. The duchess was only fulfilling her part of the bargain. But though wild horses couldn’t get him to admit it to her, when she was near, the sense of stark loneliness dulled a bit.

Hell, the truth was, he was grateful for her presence. She was surprisingly tough, tougher than he’d hoped for. This land had broken weak men. The ones who survived had to be strong. And he
was beginning to suspect that elegant lady or no, the duchess had the kind of grit a Western woman needed to have, the kind of inner strength his ma had possessed, or Caitlin, or Sleeping Doe, or any of the countless ranchers’ wives and daughters who’d fought beside their men, carving out homesteads from the rugged, unforgiving foothills of the Rockies.

Reluctant to shatter the scene, Sloan moved forward. “I found the oil of cloves,” he murmured.

Heather glanced up at him with a faint smile. “I think she might go to sleep without it. I’m hesitant to disturb her now.”

He nodded, suddenly aware of his state of undress, of
her
state of undress. Of their location—his bedchamber.

Sloan felt his heart kick painfully against his ribs, felt his lower body quicken with need.

With a silent oath, he turned away. The duchess didn’t belong in this room. She had invaded his own private sanctuary, where his memories of Doe remained inviolate.

Still, she
was
caring for his daughter....

Grimly, he fetched another blanket from the bed and draped it around Heather’s shoulders.

At the solicitous gesture, she looked up, lips parted in surprise.

“You don’t need to catch cold,” he explained gruffly.

Yet it wasn’t the cold he was afraid of. It was the images in his mind. The trouble was, he knew what lay beneath that virginal nightdress. He knew how Heather could look, that radiant hair tangled by the wildness of their passion, her mouth red and swollen from his kisses.

All too easily he could remember her beneath him, writhing in the throes of desire he’d awakened
in her, that cool refinement melted into primitive heat.

All too easily he could forget Doe.

His jaw clenched. No, by God. He had no intention of giving in to his urges this time. He would keep his hands off the duchess and maintain his distance. For his own survival.

He couldn’t bear the sense of vulnerability that came with letting her too close. He couldn’t bear the guilt.

Two nights later his resolve was tested severely.

The hour was late, during a harsh new snowstorm. Having long since put Janna to bed and changed her gown for a nightdress and woolen wrapper, Heather sat in the kitchen mending clothing and watching worriedly for Sloan to ride in from the range.

Her unease grew when sleet began spitting against the glass windows. She knew she shouldn’t fret. Sloan had lived here his entire life. He knew this land and its savage challenges. He would survive the danger.

She was unprepared, however, when at last the door burst open and Sloan stumbled inside, ushered in by a shrieking, biting gust of wind.

With a start, Heather rose abruptly to her feet. When he forced the door shut and sagged heavily against it, Heather realized he was half frozen and shaking with fatigue. Ice encrusted his heavy shearling coat and wool chaps, while snow crystals frosted his lashes.

He had driven himself to the limit of his endurance.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” she urged, going to him.

“Yeah,” he agreed simply, too tired to argue.

He made no protest when she took his hat and gloves and hung them on wall pegs to dry. With difficulty she unfastened the buttons of his coat and dragged the heavy garment free of his arms. The chambray work shirt beneath was damp at the collar and shoulders, and he shuddered with terrible, numbing cold.