The Heart Breaker (27 page)

“Heather,” he whispered, “stay still. Don’t move a muscle.”

“Yes…”

“I’m going to try and shoot it. I need a clear shot. I’ll hit you if you move.”

“Don’t … worry about me … Just … kill it... before it hurts Janna.”

In a lightning-fast motion, Sloan dropped the pie tins and reached for his six-shooter. Bringing the barrel up, he fanned the hammer rapidly, firing off five shots in quick succession. The snake jumped in rhythm with the explosions.

Awakened by the uproar, Janna let out a piercing wail of terror. Even so, the silence afterward seemed deafening. For a moment, Heather stood paralyzed as she stared at the bloody mess that had been the rattlesnake. A sense of unreality kept her immobile; a thin haze of gunsmoke swirled around her, while the stench of powder stung her nostrils.

The baby was crying, she realized dazedly.

With a sudden sob of relief, she scooped Janna up and held her tightly in an almost crushing embrace, feeling a possessiveness so savage, so strong,
it made her weak. She was shaking so hard, her knees nearly buckled beneath her.

She was grateful for the support when Sloan came and put his arms around her as she held Janna.

“God … I thought…” His jagged murmur said everything she was feeling.

She nodded, shuddering, unable to answer.

And instant later they heard footsteps pound up the back steps, before a half-dozen Bar M ranch hands burst through the door in response to the gunshots, many of them in stockinged feet.

Rusty was in front, rifle drawn. He stopped abruptly when he saw Sloan embracing Heather and his wailing daughter.

“What happened, boss?” Rusty demanded breathlessly.

Sloan glanced over his shoulder. “Everything’s okay. Heather surprised a rattler, but I shot it before it struck anyone.”

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t need anything…”

“We’re okay, thanks.”

The boys backed out, shutting the door politely. When they were gone, Heather said hoarsely, “I was so afraid. I thought you might not come in time. It could have … killed her.”

Sloan rested his forehead on her hair. “But it didn’t. We were lucky.” His reassurances, however, didn’t disguise the tremor that shook his own voice.

“Sloan, I’m sorry… I should have been more careful.”

He shook his head. “You couldn’t know… You did right to keep still, duchess. Tomorrow we’ll turn this place upside down and make sure there
aren’t any more critters lurking in any dark corners.”

Heather nodded weakly, trembling to realize how close they had come to tragedy. Life was so very precious—but it could be taken away in an instant.

She stood quietly in Sloan’s embrace, while Janna’s cries died down to whimpers. She understood now, Heather thought, the fierce devotion that had led Sloan to wed a perfect stranger in order to provide a mother for his child. She felt the same overwhelming emotion for Janna herself. She’d grown to love the young girl as if she were her own daughter. She thought she understood, too, the fear Sloan must have felt when his wife was murdered, the helplessness, the rage....

Heather almost cried out when Sloan withdrew the support of his arms and stepped back to gaze down at his sniffling daughter. With infinite tenderness, he bent to press a gentle kiss on the small forehead.

But then he glanced up at Heather. His expression, filled with poignant emotion, was one of gratitude, of appreciation, of love.

Heather felt her heart contract with hope. For while she knew his love was reserved for his daughter, it was possible—just possible—that some of the tenderness she saw brimming in Sloan’s bright-blue eyes might just be for her as well.

T
he terrifying moment when Janna’s life was threatened would forever be branded in Heather’s memory, as would Sloan’s poignant gratitude afterward. She had never felt so close to him as in that moment, or yearned so deeply to have her love returned.

She wanted to feel that closeness again. In the week that followed, her pride prevented Heather from divulging her growing feelings for Sloan, but she soaked up any hint of tenderness he showed her, hoarding it away in her heart. She told herself she must be content with searing passion, satisfied with any crumbs of affection he tossed her way, yet she wouldn’t abandon hope that someday his gratitude could evolve into something more substantial. Behind Sloan’s cold mask lived a tender, vital, sensual man. Someday, perhaps, he could put aside the mask and the bitter past and accept the love she longed to lavish on him.

While their relationship seemed at an impasse, at least the political tide seemed to be swinging in Sloan’s favor. Shortly after the July Fourth celebration, he received an invitation from the governor of Colorado—the same governor who a year earlier
had pardoned Jake McCord for the crime of killing Caitlin’s brother. A political dinner was to be held three weeks hence at the governor’s home, in honor of the state’s legislators, and several candidates were invited.

Although summer was a relatively slow time on a cattle ranch, Sloan didn’t want to spare the time or expense for an overnight sojourn in Denver, but Heather urged him to go.

“It will benefit you to meet the men you’ll have to deal with if you’re elected,” she advised.

They left Janna behind, in Caitlin’s tender care, and made the journey in the afternoon, arriving in time to book a room at a modest hotel and then bathe and dress for the dinner.

For the occasion, Heather had unearthed a gown of dark-blue and rose silk from her wardrobe. The square-cut décolletage was filled with a frilled collar, high in back, while the overskirt was drawn up at the sides and draped behind to emphasize her narrow waist and curving hips. To complete the picture, she wore a slender choker of pearls around her throat and pearl-studded earrings in her ears—the few pieces of jewelry belonging to her late mother which she hadn’t sold to pay her father’s gambling debts.

The effect was one of quiet elegance, but from the narrowed look Sloan gave her when she came out from behind the dressing screen, Heather wondered if she had struck an unsuitable note with her attire.

“Is something wrong?” she asked uncertainly.

He shook his head, yet his expression remained cool, remote. “No. I just wondered where that fancy dress came from.”

“I had it made up a few years ago, before my father … became mired in financial difficulties. I
suppose it’s a bit out of fashion by now. I thought this an appropriate occasion to wear it, but if you don’t like it…”

“It’s fine,” Sloan said rather abruptly, without really reassuring her. His brusqueness reminded her uncomfortably that money was still a troubling issue between them.

The governor’s residence was within walking distance of the hotel, merely two blocks away. The sumptuous decor might have been imposing to many Westerners, with its gilt-and-crystal embellishments and lush carpets and rich brocade furnishings, but the display of wealth was a familiar world to Heather, one her mother’s upper-crust family had enjoyed. The social setting was familiar as well, a milieu she had been thoroughly trained for. Attending formal dinners with high-powered politicians and wealthy magnates, offering charming, gracious conversation while remaining self-effacing, had been her mother’s forte. It was a role
she
might have played had she wed Evan Randolf....

That unwelcome thought crossed Heather’s mind as she went through the reception line on her husband’s arm. Yet she didn’t miss this stifling life in the least, she reflected. Nor would she exchange the riches of this mansion for her present circumstances, despite her uncertain status as Mrs. Sloan McCord.

She could feel Sloan’s eyes on her as she met the portly Governor Payne and his attractive wife, Ruth, and again when they joined a small group of gentlemen who were discussing the fate of a legislative bill in the last congressional session. When Sloan had introduced those he knew, Heather accepted a tall-stemmed glass of champagne from a
passing waiter and slipped into her new role as a political wife.

She was eminently successful. Sloan watched Heather enchant the company, torn between admiration for her social graces and a vague sense of guilt. The duchess was in her element here, radiating elegance and charm and aristocratic breeding. Yet by marrying her, he’d taken her away from her rightful world—the lavish social sphere of teas and balls and soirees. She deserved to be gowned in silk and diamonds, rather than the calico and crystal beads he could afford.

He was obliged to her for relinquishing that life so willingly, yet he didn’t like the obligation. Nor did he like the comparisons his mind insisted on making. In this setting at least, Heather outshone his late wife by miles. He couldn’t imagine Doe campaigning for him or holding court in a gathering of wealthy white gentlemen—or aiding the local schoolteacher’s journalistic efforts, for that matter.

Twice since the July Fourth celebration, Sloan had come home to find Heather and Vernon with their heads together, involved in a spirited discussion regarding the principles of democracy or the ramifications of a particular turn of phrase. Though intimate, there was nothing in the least sexual about their encounters. Yet on a primal level he didn’t want to explore, Sloan felt himself prodded by male possessiveness. It riled him to realize the schoolteacher was providing the duchess the intellectual stimulation she seemed to crave.

Sloan was almost grateful when one of the other guests interrupted his reflections and claimed his attention. Yet his senses remained keenly attuned to Heather behind him, so that he was aware when a tall, raven-haired man came up to greet her.

“Why, if it isn’t Miss Heather Ashford!”

“Richard!” Extending her hand, she acknowledged the newcomer warmly, and with the intimate familiarity of old friends, allowed him to draw her aside from the other guests. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Covering the campaign. I’m with the
Denver Post
now. I could ask the same of you.”

“I’m here with my husband. I’m no longer Miss Ashford.”

“Of course… I’d heard you married a Westerner,” Richard said with a doleful smile. “Evan Randolf told me the unhappy news when I was in St. Louis a few months ago. It was a great disappointment to a number of people, me included. I had hoped you would wait for me.”

She laughed. “You did no such thing. You were far too busy breaking scores of female hearts to notice me.”

Her laughter brushed across Sloan’s ears like sweet music, and sent a shaft of jealousy arrowing through him—a response which only intensified as he strained to hear the man’s next words.

“Actually,” Richard said in a low voice, “Evan asked me to keep an eye out for you. It’s not my place to say, I know, but I believe he suffered a genuine disappointment at your loss. He wanted me to discover how you’re faring in your marriage, and whether you regretted your choice of husbands yet.”

Sloan thought the cheerfulness of her tone dimmed a degree. “You may report that I am faring quite well, and that I have no regrets whatever.”

It was then that Heather looked around and spied him. His jaw hardening reflexively, Sloan went to join her, and she slipped her arm through his loyally.

“Richard, allow me introduce my husband, Sloan McCord.”

“Richard Weld,” the man said, shaking Sloan’s hand. “Reporter and part-time editor for the
Post.
I worked with Heather’s father years ago. In fact, Charles Ashford taught me much of what I know about newspapering.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sloan replied, forcing a note of sincerity into his tone.

“I’ve heard of you, McCord. Shaking things up down your way, are you? Word is, you have Quinn Lovell on the run.”

“Not yet, but I’m doing my level best.”

Weld chuckled. “I’d like to write an article about you two for my paper—cattle baron versus mining king. Human interest and all that.”

“Why, that would be marvelous, Richard,” Heather answered for him.

At her apparent delight, Sloan felt another spike of jealousy shoot through him, but then she turned to glance up at him with a smile softer than silk. That lovely smile trapped his breath deep in his chest and had an inappropriate effect in another part of his body as well: he felt a hardening in his loins which he found difficult to ignore.

“I’ll ride down your way…” Weld was saying. “Let me think… Would week after next do? That would best fit my schedule.”

“That will do fine,” he replied too tersely.

Weld turned back to Heather, and she began to question him about his career since they’d last met. Eventually Sloan left them to converse while he did his duty and mingled with the company, but he would have preferred to remain with them. In fact, what he wanted was to be alone with Heather. He hadn’t cared for the reminder of the men in her past, most particularly Evan Randolf.

The evening, while politically worthwhile, seemed interminable. He found himself counting the minutes until they could politely take their leave—through a half-dozen courses and then coffee afterward.

At last, though, the guests began to disperse, and Sloan escaped the stifling atmosphere with his wife in tow. As they stepped out into the moon-drenched night, he loosened his string tie and exhaled a sigh of relief.