The Heart Breaker (17 page)

She understood men like that. And after knowing Evan Randolf, Heather was all too well-acquainted with their methods of acquisition. Whether driven by greed, a hunger for power, or simply the glory of challenge, there would always be men who had to conquer the world by whatever means, fair or foul.

“Lovell’s worse even than the conglomerates,” Sloan observed grimly. “He’s bought out more homesteads than the other Easterners combined—and he’s got his sights on the Bar M.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’d like nothing more than to drive me under. I’m all that’s standing in the way of him owning the entire north range.” Sloan looked away. “I’ll be damned if I want to sell, but with a bust market, I’ll be lucky to hold out through the spring.”

“But… you just said you would never give up any of your land.”

“Not willingly. But I may not have a choice. I’m vulnerable. I took out a bank mortgage on the ranch last month when I married you.”

He didn’t have to be more explicit. To pay her debts, was what he meant.

“Sloan … I’m sorry.”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It couldn’t be helped. But I’m likely to be cash-poor for a long while.”

He bent his head to pore over the accounts again, while Heather stared at him with dismay and regret.
If he hadn’t wed her, he would not have been obliged to shoulder her debts and put his ranch at risk....

She hadn’t known the plight of the ranchers was so dire, or that Sloan might be facing financial ruin. She wished she knew how to help. She wished he would allow her close enough to try. She wished....

What exactly? That she could control the conflicting turmoil Sloan roused in her?

She was finding it more and more difficult to sort out her feelings for him, Heather reflected. He was as hard and untamable as the land he loved, frequently impossible to deal with, even hostile at times, and yet....

Yet she couldn’t explain the yearning Sloan stirred in her. Couldn’t understand the strange, gnawing restlessness that plagued her since becoming his wife. It struck her hardest when she was weary and lonely, yet the need was always there, shimmering beneath the surface of their relationship.

What she felt for him was far more than sympathy or compassion. A big part was attraction. An awareness of Sloan as a man. A keen
sexual
awareness.

That made sense, perhaps. As her husband, Sloan had initiated her to carnal relations, had awakened her to passion. After such stunning intimacy of the flesh, it was natural that she experience a physical affinity toward him. Especially with his potent masculinity. She understood why her pulse quickened to a drumbeat whenever he was near, why her breath shallowed and her skin flushed. She was responding primally to him, as a woman.

But she was also his wife. And she yearned for something deeper, something softer between them.
She longed for the elemental emotions that were missing entirely from their marriage: closeness, tenderness, laughter. Affection.

Yet tragedy had destroyed the laughter in him. Sloan cared for no one but his daughter and the hallowed memory of his late wife.

Heather couldn’t repress a wistful sigh. He intended to keep her shut out of his life.

Still, he had shared something of himself tonight. He had opened up to her in some small measure, more than he ever had in the past.

It gave her reason for hope.

It was the following day when they first quarreled over Janna. Heather’s afternoon began pleasantly enough, for the local schoolmaster came to call. Vernon Whitfield was a handsome bachelor with curling, dark-brown hair and a gentle manner that contrasted sharply with the rough and rugged cowboys of her recent acquaintance. He was also a good friend of Caitlin’s.

Heather liked him from the first. Originally hailing from Chicago, Vernon was obviously well-read. Over tea, they discussed their favorite authors and the peculiar differences between Easterners and Westerners, before Heather broached a subject of prime concern for her: Janna’s education.

Vernon was driving away in his buggy when Sloan returned home early.

“What did Whitfield want?” he asked as he entered the kitchen where Heather was making biscuits for dinner. There was little inflection in his voice, but she had the distinct impression he disapproved.

“He wished to welcome me to the community.” She wouldn’t admit to Sloan how much she had enjoyed Vernon’s visit. Not only had it provided
her respite from the aching loneliness, but she had found a kindred spirit. “I was glad to meet him. Particularly since I wanted to discuss Janna’s schooling with him.”

“Schooling?” Sloan asked sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I would take Janna to visit the schoolhouse this week and let her meet the other children. Ryan will be there and he can help introduce her. If she is to attend school in a few years—”

“Just a minute. I married you so you could teach her.”

Heather took a deep breath. “I intend to, of course, at least at first. But Vernon and I agreed it would be beneficial if—”

“Did you, now?” Sloan’s tone hardened dangerously. “Let me set one thing straight. No one is going to tell me what’s best for my daughter, least of all a bookish city fellow who can’t tell a rifle from a revolver.”

Summoning patience, Heather tried to ignore Sloan’s anger. “Before you reject his advice out of hand, you might consider this for a moment. If Janna is to be accepted in the white world, she needs to grow up in that world. It’s essential that she learn how to deal with other children—and they with her. I know she is just a baby, but it isn’t too early to start her acclimation. If I take her to school now and then, it will give the children a chance to grow accustomed to one other.”

Just then Janna looked up from where she was playing on her blanket and stretched out her arm toward Heather. “Ma-ma … Ma-ma… Eat…”

“You can eat in a few minutes, darling, just as soon as I finish the biscuits.”

Sloan went rigid as his gaze shot to Heather. “You aren’t her ma.” His tone was icy.

“No, of course not. I’ve never encouraged her to think so. I suppose she picked up the word because she’s heard Ryan call Caitlin mama.”

“I don’t want her calling you that!”

For Janna’s sake, Heather fought down an angry reply. “Would you please lower your voice in Janna’s presence?” she said calmly. “You’re frightening her.”

Sloan spun around to find his daughter watching him anxiously, her brow wrinkled with alarm. In two strides he reached her and scooped Janna up into his arms.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart,” he said soothingly. He planted gentle kisses over her cheeks until the toddler gave a gurgle of laughter and patted his face.

Holding Janna protectively, he returned his attention to Heather. “I don’t want her calling you mama. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.” Heather sent him the sweetest of smiles, yet a hint of steel edged her voice. “But allow
me
to make something understood. You might be my husband, Sloan McCord, but you will not bully or browbeat me. Is
that
clear?”

He stared at her, as if gauging her defiance. When he replied, it was not directly. “You’ll be the one to teach her, not Whitfield?”

“Yes, certainly. And I shall begin with polite manners. Janna obviously will not learn them from her uncivil, ill-tempered ogre of a father, who cannot seem to master even the basic social graces.”

His expression froze for an instant, before his eyes turned a cool blue that reflected nothing.

“I assure you,” Heather added tightly, her own temper roused, “I am not attempting to shirk my duties. Janna’s well-being is my only concern. I intend to do my utmost to give her every possible
advantage. But it isn’t necessary to come to a decision just now. We have ample time to discuss her future and decide what’s best for her.”

Sloan gritted his teeth, an apology lodging in his throat like a chicken bone. “Maybe … I tend to be a bit protective where Janna’s concerned.”

“You do indeed—and it’s perfectly understandable. But I am
not
your enemy, Sloan. Nor is Vernon Whitfield. He can be a valuable ally in educating her.”

“Maybe,” he replied grudgingly.

“Furthermore, you can’t shield Janna from every unpleasantry in life. Certainly you can’t do it by wrapping her in a cocoon and never letting her out of the house.”

“I realize that.” She watched Sloan’s blue eyes grow dark and shadowy. “Still … I don’t want her to forget her ma, or her heritage.”

“Well…” Heather shrugged, wishing she hadn’t seen the raw pain in his eyes when he spoke of his late wife. “I don’t know how to teach Janna about her Indian heritage. I’ll have to leave that to you.”

Stiffly Heather turned away to resume her baking.

“Heather?” Sloan said after a moment, as if forcing the words out.

“Yes?” she replied woodenly, punching the biscuit dough.

“I… I’m glad you’re here for Janna. You have the right of it. I don’t know how to raise a baby girl. She needs you to help her.” Tenderly he kissed the top of his daughter’s ebony head. “I don’t know how.”

Heather felt her anger drain away, felt herself weaken helplessly. Sloan’s admission was an apology of sorts, and it touched her in the most tender
corner of her heart. She couldn’t fight him when he was being humble and reasonable, or when he was showing such unconditional love for his daughter.

She nodded, accepting his apology, resuming their unspoken truce. For now, at least.

He had overreacted, Sloan knew. He’d had no cause to jump down Heather’s throat when she was simply trying to help his daughter. She was right. She wasn’t his enemy.

A whole host of uncomfortable emotions crawled like ants inside Sloan’s skin when he considered the way he’d treated Heather since her arrival in Colorado. She was his wife, but he’d shown her less regard than an unpaid servant, shunning her like a rabid animal.

To her credit, Heather had stood up to him better than most men did. That sure as hell had surprised him. The duchess wasn’t the helpless widgeon he’d feared. Truth was, she was adapting to the lonely, hard life of a rancher’s wife better than he could have hoped for. She was well on her way to winning the hearts of his daughter, his ranch hands, his neighbors … hell, anyone who got to know her. And with each victory his defenses grew harder to sustain.

While he might resent her for fitting in so well, he found himself admiring her grit. She was strong in her own way—tough and fragile at the same time. A combination that touched him in a way he didn’t want to admit. He didn’t like having to deal with her. Yet each time he lashed out at her, he only wound up feeling more vulnerable.

But he wasn’t going to drive her out of his life, Sloan conceded. It was time he accepted that.

He had married her, and he had to live with her.

She still unnerved him, though. Like the morning
he heard gunshots coming from the north side of the house as he repaired tack in the barn while waiting for a sick cow to calve.

His heart thudding with alarm, Sloan broke into a run, drawing his Colts along the way. He slowed as he reached the corner of the house and edged his way around cautiously, every nerve alert for danger.

He took in the scene in an instant: The empty fruit tins standing upright on the ground. Heather picking herself up off the ground, muttering to herself. The shotgun lying where she had dropped it.

Relief flooded Sloan with such overwhelming force that he had to lean weakly against the timber siding. Evidently she’d only been practicing shooting and had been knocked on her elegant backside. The only thing in any danger was the split-rail fence some twenty yards beyond her target cans.

It might have been relief making him lightheaded, but the sight of the duchess cussing so inadequately as she dusted off her skirts was somehow humorous.

“You dratted, ornery, son-of-a… of a
bluebell
…”

Sloan holstered his guns. “Remind me to teach you some real swear words sometime,” he said, chuckling.

Heather spun around, to find him leaning lazily against the house, hands on hips, dry amusement kicking up one corner of his mouth.

“You aiming for a target in the next county, duchess?”

She flushed but retorted with dignity, “I was simply practicing as you suggested. You expressed disdain for Mr. Whitfield because he didn’t know a ‘rifle from a revolver,’ so I thought it best if I tried to become proficient.”

“I told you to hold the butt tight against your shoulder.”

“I did. It still kicked like a bullheaded mule.”

Sloan laughed, a sound that was rusty from disuse, and moved to her side. “You’re mixing your critters.” Bending, he picked up the shotgun. “Here, let me show you again before you blow the fence to bits.”

Heather froze as Sloan turned her around and slid his arms around her waist. It was a strangely intimate thing, his teasing. Almost as intimate as his nearness. Immediately she began to experience a shortness of breath.

“Now concentrate,” Sloan ordered. Fitting the shotgun to her shoulder, he placed his finger over hers and squeezed the trigger smoothly and efficiently. The gun blasted in Heather’s ears, but amazingly the recoil only smarted a little. Three tin cans jumped it the air and came down with a clatter.

“I think maybe,” Sloan said, his tone suspiciously unsteady, “you better have me or one of the boys around to help you. When you learn to hit the side of a barn, you can practice on your own.”

Heather glanced back up at him to find his bright eyes dancing. He was obviously still laughing at her. Her shoulder would likely be black and blue tomorrow, but her pride had suffered more.

“Sloan,” she said sweetly, “did I mention we are having turnips for supper tonight?”

His laughter faded as he observed her warily. “You know I hate turnips. I told you that the last time you served them.”

“So you did,” she replied, taking the gun from him and turning back toward the house with a swish of her skirts.

* * *

She didn’t make good her threat to feed him turnips that night, but instead served a delicious chicken pie that made his mouth water, with stewed sweet peaches for desert.