The Heart Breaker (29 page)

Almost without warning, then, he thrust upward, pressing deeper, impaling her to the hilt.

“Oh, God, yes … Sloan…” Her back arched in writhing response.

“I like to hear you moan for me… Do it again. Let me hear how good it feels to you.”

His cupped hands moving under her bottom, he lifted her up, withdrawing almost completely. She started to protest, but when his hot mouth fastened greedily on her breast and sucked hard, Heather gave a soft cry. Her cry turned to a keening moan as he lowered her once more onto his thick, swollen instrument of pleasure. Whimpering, she clung to him, her arms and legs gripping, trying to hold him inside her.

He tortured her with exquisitely slow thrusts, driving deep, only to withdraw as he raised her up. With each surge he sucked more strongly at her, his wet mouth searing her as he slid her up and down on his shaft.

Heather writhed against him, clenching him tightly within the depth of her body. “Sloan…” Her hands gripped his shoulders, she began to move helplessly, shamelessly, frantically.

“That’s it… ride me, baby … harder … faster.”

His hands gripped her buttocks, working her up and down in rough, powerful strokes, in cadence with his thrusts.

In only moments, her breath was coming in sobbing gasps. Blood surging, heart pounding, she strained wildly against him. She thought she might die from the brutal flames that licked and seared her senses, but Sloan’s hands kept urging her on, moving her in a merciless, maddening rhythm that wouldn’t stop.

Her body burned and shook for him; her flesh took on a life of its own, trembling and shaking and dissolving. A scream of pleasure pulsed deep in her throat as the long, endless orgasm quaked through her.

The wrenching, tearing release was violent enough to shatter her. Sloan held her convulsing body still for his thrusts, catching her sobs in his mouth, but he couldn’t hold back much longer. His rough excitement matching her own frenzy, he gritted his teeth, but the sweetness of her hot, tight body destroyed his shaky control. He surged upward. His passion suddenly exploding, he rammed into her, pumping hotly, groaning his savage release against her mouth as wave after wave of grinding pleasure ravaged him.

It was a wild, delirious coming, so powerful it left him grasping for breath.

Even in the shuddering aftermath, when the fierce rapture subsided, he could feel the delicious clasping and gripping of her body around him. Passion slaked, Sloan sprawled weakly in the chair,
with a limp Heather still clinging to him.

After a long moment, he managed to stir himself. With her legs wrapped around him, their bodies still joined, Sloan slowly stood and carried her to the bed, where he lowered her beneath him.

Still sheathed in her hot, moist center, he let his weight settle over her. His lips nuzzled her flushed face with a tenderness as devastating as the wild loving had been.

“You okay?”

She barely had the strength to nod. She could forgive his savagery. She had felt the same fierce urgency, the same reckless need.

“A man likes it,” he murmured hoarsely, “when his woman goes wild.”

She went completely still. Her question, when it came out, was little more than a whisper. “Am I your woman, Sloan?”

He closed his eyes in exhaustion. “You’re my wife. That makes you my woman.”

When she remained silent, he eased off her and drew her into the curve of his body, drawing her head to rest on his shoulder. In the hushed moments afterward, she could hear his heart beating steadily beneath her ear.

His woman.
It was what she had longed to hear. Instead of pleasure, however, Heather felt a deep ache twist inside her. Sloan’s desire for her thrilled her, yet despite his fierce loving, she knew his heart was untouched. His roughly muttered words of lust and need held little meaning.

The primal force between them was purely carnal. He needed her on some elemental, primitive, physical level, only that.

Yet she wanted more than just raw, heated passion from him. She wanted his love. She wanted the same deep abiding love he still harbored for his first wife.

A
lthough the visit to Denver proved a welcome respite from routine for Heather, the return home plunged her once more into an endless round of mundane chores. One warm afternoon in early August found her out back of the house, hanging wash on the line while Janna played with her doll in the grass.

A frown drew down Heather’s mouth as she attached a clothespin to a shirt of Sloan’s. She couldn’t explain the discontent she felt. She should be exquisitely happy. She truly didn’t mind the hard work of ranch life. Nor was her restlessness due to Sloan’s lack of attention. His lovemaking was everything a woman could wish. A memory of his heated passion last night echoed through her. Her nipples were still tender and swollen from his kisses. He had left a faint mark on the curve of her right breast that was sore to the touch—a lover’s brand.

Turning her head, Heather lifted her gaze to the horizon, where the peaks of the towering Rockies rose in the distance, their rugged slopes shaded dark with summer forests. Her woman’s time had
come and gone. Perhaps that was what depressed her.

Her hand stole to her flat belly, her thoughts wistful. If she couldn’t have Sloan’s love, she wanted his child.

Shaking off her morose mood, she bent to choose another wet garment from the wash basket—and then suddenly went still as a faint prickling coursed up her spine. Peering beyond the wash line, she could see no one, yet she felt the unpleasant sensation of being watched.

Her heart quickening, Heather glanced at the post where she’d leaned the rifle. After the incident with the rattlesnake, she always kept a weapon close at hand.

Inching her way nearer, she grabbed for the rifle and whirled, swinging the barrel up. A man stood scarcely three yards from Janna, unmoving.

He was unarmed, Heather noted in the first moment of panic, yet he still seemed dangerous. He was watching her silently, his unwavering black eyes holding the intensity of a wild predator.

Her breath trapped in her throat, Heather stood transfixed by those dark, piercing eyes.

His tall, muscular figure sported working clothes, denims and chambray shirt and leather vest, but he was clearly an Indian. He looked a bit savage, with his bronzed skin and untamed raven hair gleaming in the August sun. His hard, striking features possessed the masculine beauty of a granite sculpture, yet there was something familiar about the high carved cheekbones and sharp nose and luminous jet eyes.

He didn’t seem particularly disturbed by the rifle she had aimed at his chest.

“You gonna shoot me, ma’am?” His chiseled mouth curled with more mockery than amusement.

Letting out her breath in relief, Heather lowered the barrel. “No, of course not. But I would advise you not to sneak up on a person unannounced.”

“I knocked at the front door. No one answered.”

“I’m here, as you can see.”

“You’re Sloan’s new wife.”

“I’m Heather McCord, yes.”

“The name’s Logan.”

“Wolf Logan. I suspected as much. You’re Doe’s brother.”

“Half-brother, actually.”

Heather nodded. She had heard a great deal about the Cheyenne half-breed. Mr. Logan lived up in the mountains, working his mining claim. Years ago he’d saved Jake’s life, nursing him back from near-fatal wounds. It was there at the mountain camp that Sloan had first met Sleeping Doe. Indeed, Wolf Logan was no stranger; he was family.

With a polite smile, Heather moved forward, offering her hand for him to shake.

Wolf took it willingly, although one black eyebrow shot up. “You don’t seem afraid of me.”

“Should I be?”

“Some white women run screaming when they see a strange Injun.”

“You resemble Janna—or rather, she resembles you.” Heather looked around, seeking the child out. “I expect you came to see your niece.”

“That, and to meet you. I heard Sloan had married again—a real beauty. I see rumor didn’t lie.”

Heather flushed a little at his compliment, but Wolf turned away easily, crossing over to his niece. Janna grinned and babbled a greeting as he swung her up in his arms.

“Would you care to come inside?” Heather asked when they’d become reacquainted. “I could make
tea … or coffee.” She faltered awkwardly, wondering if a Cheyenne preferred an Indian drink of some kind.

Wolf seemed amused by her hesitation. “I drink tea occasionally. I’m not entirely uncivilized. I was raised white.”

“Well, then, may I offer you tea?”

“I hoped you might put me up for the night. Sloan usually invites me to stay here when I pass through.”

“Of course, you’re welcome to stay the night. Sloan is out somewhere on the range, but he should be back in a few hours.”

“Then I’ll have time.”

“Time?”

“I thought I would visit Doe first.”

Heather looked a bit startled.

“Her grave. She’s buried up in the hills.”

“Oh … I didn’t realize.”

“I’d like to take Janna with me. It’s time she got to know her ma a bit.”

Heather hesitated, uncomfortable turning the child over to a stranger, even if he was her uncle. “Perhaps I should come with you.”

His handsome mouth curled. “I’m not going to kidnap her, if that’s what worries you.”

“No, but I’m responsible for her. Janna is my daughter now, and I don’t like letting her out of my sight.”

His eyebrow raising again, Wolf regarded Heather intently with those penetrating jet eyes, yet she sensed approval.

“I think,” he said slowly, “Doe would have been glad to have you looking out for Janna.”

He kept Janna entertained while Heather finished hanging the wash. When she suggested hitching up the buckboard, however, he said she would
need a horse to get up into the foothills. They left word with Rusty where they were headed and rode out, Wolf with Janna propped in front of him, and Heather riding sidesaddle.

The gravesite was a natural shrine, Heather reflected when they finally came to a halt. It was protected by rugged hills, secreted in a glade of aspens. The surrounding meadow shimmered lavender blue with delicate columbine, while above the simple granite headstone towering aspens stood sentinel, their bright green leaves whispering gently in the warm summer breeze.

She watched wordlessly as Wolf dropped from his horse and carried Janna over to the grave. He bowed his head, his long raven hair falling over his carved cheekbones, his thoughts private.

After a respectful interval, Heather dismounted slowly and moved to stand beside him. An ache caught in her throat as she read the inscription:
Here lies Doe Who Sleeps, Beloved wife of S. McCord.

“She didn’t deserve to die so young,” Wolf said tonelessly, yet Heather could feel his edge of anger. When she glanced at him, his bronzed jaw had hardened.

“What was she like?” Heather murmured.

He shrugged. “She was quiet mostly, but she had a lively spirit. She made you laugh … and just plain damn feel good.”

“I understand she kept house for you?”

Wolf nodded. “Doe was five years younger. We had the same ma but different pas. Mine was white, and he raised me to be a miner. That’s how I escaped Doe’s fate when the army rounded up all the Cheyenne and herded them to Indian Territory.” Wolf’s mouth curled savagely. “They lived like prisoners on a reservation. Our ma died there. When I learned about it, I went to fetch
Doe and bring her back to the mountains, where I’d staked a claim. Doe kept house while I panned for gold.”

He hunkered down, setting Janna on her feet. His voice was low and tender when he spoke to his niece. “Your ma is buried here, Janna.”

“I’m not sure she understands,” Heather said gently.

“Maybe not yet, but she’ll learn. She should know about her mother.”

Heather nodded, knowing Sloan felt as he did. Quietly she bent to pluck the fragile stem of a columbine and placed it on the grave. Picking another one, she put it in Janna’s little hand, urging her to do the same.

A meadowlark trilled just then, and Wolf’s head came up, like a wild animal sensing danger. Heather hadn’t heard a sound, but when she looked around, she saw a horseman riding toward them.

Sloan. Her heart lurched painfully. She hadn’t meant for him to find her here. She felt a little like Blackbeard’s wife, prying into secrets of his past.

He came to a halt a few feet away, the brim of his hat shading his eyes. He was angry, she could sense it, even if his bright, arresting eyes remained remote and cool as he swung down from his horse.

After a brief glance at her, he ignored her and addressed his brother-in-law. “Rusty said I’d find you here.”

“I brought Janna to pay her respects to her ma,” Wolf explained easily.

Sloan nodded and tugged off his hat. He took a private moment before turning his attention to his daughter. He didn’t speak to Heather at all, which
made her wonder if perhaps he believed she had desecrated the gravesite.

They rode back together, Janna with her papa. Heather remained silent while Sloan and Wolf caught up with each other’s lives. It seemed that Wolf had made a rich strike and was headed for Denver to enjoy the spoils of his find.