The Heart Breaker (30 page)

Sloan seemed genuinely pleased by his brother-in-law’s good fortune, but he ribbed Wolf about his newfound wealth. “It’s about time you came down out of your mountains and quit leading the life of a hermit, though it’s hard to think of you as a mining baron.”

It wasn’t long before Heather realized the two men, though vastly different, enjoyed a deep camaraderie. But then, they shared a common bond—a woman they had both loved.

When they reached the ranch, Heather took Janna to the kitchen to fix supper while the two men retired to Sloan’s study to resume their discussion. An hour later, she had to call them twice before they joined her at the table.

Supper proved to be an extremely enjoyable meal for Heather, with Wolf keeping her entertained with tales of life in a mountain camp. Afterward Heather put Janna to bed, while Sloan and Wolf once more settled in the study, this time sharing reminiscences over a bottle of whiskey.

“I meant it,” Wolf said finally, “when I told you I made a huge strike. I’m filthy rich.” He hesitated, eyeing Sloan. “I know the cattle business isn’t what it used to be. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I want you to have a share of my stake. It would have been Doe’s, had she lived.”

Sloan shook his head solemnly. “You know I can’t take your money.”

“Not even for Janna’s sake? I am her uncle after all.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “I’ll provide for my daughter.”

Wolf grinned, his teeth showing white in his bronzed face. “I know—McCords take care of their own. You told me that in no uncertain terms when you married my sister. All right, I’ll mind my own business. But you damned sure better let me know if you ever need anything.”

He sipped his whiskey, his expression turning thoughtful. “You know, when you first sent word about your marriage, I was ready to string you up by your thumbs, but now that I’ve met Heather … I think you did right. She’s good for Janna. She’ll give her advantages Doe never could, help her get accepted by the white world.”

Sloan kept his face shuttered, not wishing to be reminded of the duchess’s superior talents. He was in no mood to make comparisons when Doe came out the loser. In fact his mood was blacker than it had been in months. Having his brother-in-law as a guest in this house had reminded him painfully of Doe—but it was seeing Heather at the gravesite this afternoon that had brought all his former grief surging back. It had been like prodding a festering wound.

He was almost relieved when Wolf finished off his whiskey and said, “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll turn in. I plan to make an early start for Denver tomorrow.”

Sloan downed the rest of his liquor, relishing the burn in his throat, but when he started to rise, Wolf stopped him.

“You don’t need to show me to my room. I know the way. I’ll just fetch my gear from the barn.”

Sloan hesitated, remembering that Heather used
that bedchamber now. Wolf was like a brother to him. They shared a history that bonded them more strongly than any blood: they’d tracked down Doe’s murderers together. Yet Sloan preferred not to reveal the intimate details of his marriage. He didn’t want to have to explain why he and his wife didn’t sleep in his bedchamber.

“Sure,” he said evenly.

When Wolf left for the barn, Sloan put out the lamps in his study and went upstairs. A light shone beneath the door to Heather’s room. When he knocked and eased it open, he found her sitting up in bed reading, looking lovely and virginal in a high-necked nightgown. The long-sleeved garment, he suspected, was a concession to modesty; despite the warmth of the summer night, there was a strange man in the house.

Unable to restrain his dark mood, he said brusquely, “I gave Wolf this room for the night. It’s where he always sleeps. I’ll help you move your things across the hall if you like.”

He understood her look of surprise. There were two other rooms upstairs—one used primarily for sewing, the other for storage. Both had beds for any overflow of guests, although at the moment the bedsteads were stacked against the walls to allow more living space.

“It’s too much trouble set a bed up just for one night,” Sloan added more gruffly than he’d intended. “Besides, there’s no reason for Wolf to know our business. He’s leaving early in the morning. You can move back here tomorrow.”

Her gazed searched his, but without comment, Heather rose and put on a wrapper and slippers. As she gathered her toiletries and clothing, Sloan smoothed the bedcovers, then helped her carry
some of her gowns across the hall to his bedchamber.

Janna was sound asleep in her cradle, Heather noted as he lit a lamp. She found places for her things while Sloan hung her gowns in the clothespress.

When they finished, the moment suddenly turned awkward. Heather saw Sloan glance at the bed, then back at her. In the palpable silence, she could feel the tension rising off him.

He did not want her here, she knew. Any more than he had wanted her at Doe’s grave.

He started to turn away, but Heather’s voice, low and troubled, stopped him in his tracks.

“Sloan … I am sorry about this afternoon. I didn’t mean to intrude on your past. It’s just that … Wolf thought Janna should see where her mother was buried, and I didn’t want her to go alone. I realize you were angry.”

Aware that his brother-in-law might return any moment, Sloan quietly shut the bedchamber door. He
had
been angry to find her at Doe’s grave; he was still angry. Maybe it was irrational, but he needed to keep that part of himself private, to keep his past life separate from his present. The glade was his own special place, the private sanctuary he had shared with Doe. He didn’t want anyone intruding on his cherished memories, most certainly not the woman who was becoming an obsession with him. It seemed somehow a betrayal of Doe.

Emotion a hard knot inside him, Sloan clenched his jaw. “I’d rather you didn’t go there again.”

“All right.”

“I just don’t like strangers visiting there,” he said by way of explanation.

Her gaze lowered, as if to mask the hurt he’d
given her. “I don’t believe I am precisely a stranger. I am your wife, Sloan.”

He couldn’t make himself respond, so he abruptly changed the subject. “You can have the bed.”

She gave him a questioning look. “Where will you sleep?”

He would take the floor. Better yet, he wouldn’t sleep here at all. “I mean to ride into town,” Sloan said brusquely.

She stared at him. “This late?”

“The saloon stays open all night. I thought I would catch a poker game.”

“When will you be back?”

He shrugged as her hazel eyes searched his. “Before morning, most likely.”

“Is that wise?”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission, duchess.”

Her lips tightened at his derisive tone. “You don’t, of course. I was simply thinking of your campaign. It might not be prudent to be frequenting a saloon until the election is over.”

“Maybe not back East, but this is the West. There’s not a man in the territory who would change his vote because he found me playing poker.”

“What about the women—the ones who are working so hard to get you elected?”

“Western women aren’t like you, duchess. They don’t have your prudish notions. They’ll understand.”

She winced at his taunting remark, yet her anger was roused. Sloan was deliberately goading her—without any real justification. Perhaps she
had
once been prudish, but she’d shed her ladylike inhibitions rather quickly upon her marriage.
That, however, was not the issue, she knew very well.

“This is not about a poker game,” Heather said stiffly, “or my dislike of gambling, is it? You simply don’t want me to share this bed with you. Why don’t you admit it?”

“Okay, I admit it. That satisfy you?”

The hush of the room was thick and strained. Knowing he’d delivered a low blow but in no mood to apologize, Sloan started to turn away again.

Heather’s fists clenched at her sides as resentment and frustration flared inside her. For months she had been patient, waiting for Sloan to accept her as his wife. For months she had tried to find a way to break through the barriers of grief and sorrow he’d erected around his heart. For months she’d hoped he would come to see her in a different light, apart from the darkness of his memories of his first marriage. It was time to stop hoping.

“Perhaps you don’t want me here,” she said tightly, “but I
am
your wife, Sloan. This is where I belong. Here, in this room. In this bed. By your side.”

He froze with one hand on the doorknob. When he glanced over his shoulder at her, she could see denial in his hard gaze.

She went on, spurred by anger and fear. “I am your wife, Sloan. Not a stranger. Not simply your housekeeper or your daughter’s nurse or your political advisor. Your
wife.
The woman whose body you take so intimately at night. The woman who loves you.”

Sloan recoiled, almost as if she had struck him. The silence between them seemed suddenly deafening.

“What… did you say?”

Her chin rose defiantly as she met his gaze without flinching. “I said, I love you.”

“Dammit…” His curse was low and raw as he stared at her.

It had been an unwise thing to say, Heather thought as she saw the torment on his face. Sloan wasn’t ready to hear admissions of love. His mouth was drawn in a grim line, his eyes bleak.

As if unable to look at her any longer, he shut his eyes. “I warned you.” His voice was tight, knife-edged, but she heard the pain there. “I told you when we married, I wasn’t looking for love.”

Every bleak word dug into her heart. “I know.” He couldn’t let himself be loved. Couldn’t let his emotions be touched. He’d set strict limits on how close he would let her come, and she had crossed that boundary. And yet she couldn’t, wouldn’t back down. Her future,
their
future, was at stake.

She continued unrelentingly, her quiet voice hoarse. “I am sorry, Sloan … for so many things. I’m sorry that Doe died. I’m sorry that you grieve for her. I’m sorry I can’t offer you comfort. But she
is
dead. She isn’t coming back. I am your wife now. It’s time you accept it.”

His jaw clenched. The silence drew out, so brittle it had an edge to it. When his eyes opened, Heather knew she had lost. The ice in his look matched the granite set of his features.

“Maybe you are my wife,” he replied grimly, “but you can’t take Doe’s place.”

Without looking at her again, Sloan opened the door, yet her soft sound of distress made him pause. For a moment he stood there, his head bowed, his shoulders rigid.

“I don’t have anything inside left to give you,” he said, his voice raw.

She shivered, feeling the bitter chill of despair.

“Do you hear me? You can keep your love, duchess. I don’t want it.”

He walked out then, leaving her alone with his slumbering daughter.

In the quiet of his bedchamber, Heather brought a trembling hand to her mouth, her lacerated heart aching with the echo of the closing door.

E
motion knotted like a fist inside Sloan as he stared at the amber glass of whiskey before him on the table. He hadn’t bothered finding a poker game. Instead he’d ordered a bottle of rotgut and taken himself off to a corner to be alone—if being alone was even possible in a crowded saloon.

The barroom was hazy with smoke and lively with the raucous laughter of cowboys and miners, many of whom were his friends. At one end of the stage, a pretty painted dove banged on a piano and warbled a camptown song. Sloan paid them no mind.

He intended to get drunk. Falling-down, rip-roaring drunk. Maybe then he could forget the wounded look in Heather’s eyes. Maybe then he could numb the ache in his chest.

Mercilessly pushing away the emotions that threatened him, he gulped another burning swallow of whiskey. Her profession of love had been a blow, slicing through the layers of protection he’d wrapped around himself. It was too much. She wanted too much, damn her.

He had no love to give her. The dark hole where his heart once had been was void of feeling … except
for the guilt. All he felt was guilt. He had gotten Doe killed. He couldn’t betray her memory by loving another woman.

Painful images swam before his eyes… Doe in her last moments … her blood on his hands. Sloan squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the blackness closing in around him.

Abandoning the whiskey glass, he raised the bottle to his lips and tilted his head back, welcoming the potent liquor’s numbing power.

Goddammit, he didn’t want Heather’s love. He sure as hell couldn’t love her in return. He couldn’t bear the pain again. He couldn’t face giving his heart to another woman, only to have her be taken from him again.

He didn’t want the sense of peace he’d found with Heather.
Peace,
a derisive voice sneered inside his head. What was that? A dream. A dream he didn’t deserve—

“How about it, cowboy? Want a ride tonight?”

Unwillingly Sloan raised his glazed eyes, trying to focus. He flinched to see a blonde woman standing over him.
Heather.
No, not Heather. This one’s hair was brassy burlap, not pale silk. She wore a low-cut blue dress that exposed most of her lush breasts, and she smelled of cheap perfume. Dangling from her fingertips was a full bottle of whiskey, while her red, sensual mouth smiled in invitation.