“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.
Swiftly Heather poured a mug of steaming coffee and wrapped a dishcloth around it, then forced it into his hands. His frozen fingers curled stiffly around the cup, seeking warmth.
“Let me get some blankets,” she murmured.
When she returned from upstairs, however, Sloan still hadn’t managed to pull off his chaps or boots but had collapsed in a chair beside the table. Evidently he would need help undressing.
She knelt beside his chair and worked to unfasten the hooks that ran down the outer seams of his chaps. When she had unbuckled the belt, the garment fell to the floor in a puddle. With effort she dragged off his boots, then his denim trousers, leaving only his woolen drawers and undershirt and socks.
Solicitously Heather wrapped two blankets around his shoulders and took his hand as she would a child’s. His flesh was so cold, it frightened her.
“Come to the study, Sloan. The fire will warm you.”
Surprisingly he allowed her to lead him. When he reached the hearth, he sank to his knees on the bearskin rug. For a long moment he stared into the flames. In the firelight she could see the stark lines of weariness etched into his face.
“We found two dozen dead steers today,” he said, his low tone dark with despair.
Heather didn’t know how to reply. Her heart ached for him.
“The hell of it is, I can’t do one goddamn thing to save them.” He laughed harshly. “If this keeps up, there won’t be anything left of the Bar M.”
Unbidden, a fierce protectiveness welled up inside her. Sloan didn’t deserve such hardship. He’d been hurt too much already.
The need to reach out to him was strong. Kneeling beside him, she hesitantly raised a hand to his face, her fingertips brushing the shadow of stubble on his lean cheek. “I wish I could help.”
Wincing, he turned to look at her, his eyes dark and distrustful. He was too proud to accept pity, too bitter to accept compassion. She longed to rid him of that bitterness. She longed to offer him comfort. Her palm softly cradled his jaw.
Every muscle in his body tensed in rejection, the sinews cording his neck so rigid they stood out visibly.
A stillness came into the room as their gazes locked, a sense of breathless waiting.
Heather watched him, her urge for self-protection vanishing. This was a man in need.
To his dismay, Sloan couldn’t break the connection with her golden eyes, so warm with concern. He wanted to move away from her, away from the dangerous seduction of her compassion. He was too vulnerable just now. He felt so raw, so tired from the war he was waging. He couldn’t bear to have her this near.
“You’d best go,” he whispered, his voice raw and cracked.
She didn’t stir.
Nor did he. He couldn’t manage it. In his chest he felt that strange swelling, twisting sensation again. He didn’t like it. It hurt to feel. It was easier, safer, to keep himself isolated, remote, his rampaging emotions under tight control.
Yet he had no defense against her. He couldn’t save himself.
He remained perfectly still, a terrible tension vibrating through him. He didn’t want to acknowledge the need tightening in his belly and churning in his soul. Her feminine scent taunted him. His hands actually hurt from wanting to touch her.
Sloan swore a silent oath. He couldn’t stop himself from wanting her.
Raising his hand, he touched her face. That was all he meant to do, and yet … He found himself following the sensual line of her mouth with his fingers. She had the face of an angel but lush lips made for sinning.
They were parted now in unconscious invitation, so damned tempting....
He wanted to accept. God, how he wanted to.
Telling himself he just needed a taste of her, he bent his head. When their breaths mingled, though, he knew he was lost.
Closing his eyes, Sloan inhaled sharply at the powerful desire streaking through him. He wanted to pull her beneath him and drive himself into her body until he was mindless. He wanted to take until the ache in his soul had been eased.
This was what he needed tonight. A willing woman. This woman. The solace of her body.
“Warm me, Heather,” he whispered hoarsely before his lips covered hers.
Chapter 7
The fire crackled as he pressed her down upon the bearskin rug. Heather wrapped her arms around Sloan, sharing her body heat, pleading silently with him to take the comfort she longed to offer.
He was shaking, this beautiful man with his hardened soul. She could feel the tension in his body, the tightly leashed power in his muscles as he raised himself up. She could see the raw emotion in his eyes. His face was hard, taut, like a man on the verge of agony.
His hand slid under her nightdress. Wordlessly, he pushed up the skirt, bunching the fabric at her waist, and encountered the barrier of lacy drawers she wore for warmth. Without pause he tugged down the layers of underwear, stripping them from her legs along with her slippers and stockings.
Stretching over her again, he covered her with his weight. His mouth took hers feverishly, in a kiss that plunged something sharp and searing into her soul. Her body responded at once, flaming with sudden heat.
Sloan heard her low moan, but he was blind to any need but his own as he sought solace in her body.
Just tonight, he promised himself. Just tonight he needed to ease himself in the soft magic of a woman’s flesh. With one hand he tore at the folds of his own drawers, setting his stiffened shaft free. Spreading her legs, he put himself between them.
Heather stirred uneasily as his powerful thighs pushed her own apart, her body tensing as she felt his probing shaft tease her entrance. When he pressed harder, pushing deep, she gasped at the shock of his naked flesh penetrating her.
“Am I hurting you?” he rasped.
“No,” she said, a lie. She bit her lip to hold back a moan as she tried to accustom herself to his sudden invasion, his unexpected size.
As if realizing his fierceness, Sloan halted. He held himself still inside her, until the line between pain and pleasure blurred, until desire suddenly rippled through her body, flaring and tightening every nerve ending.
&n
bsp; His eyes burned into hers as he began slowly to move. Heather’s breath shallowed as her flesh responded with quickening need, throbbing with heated sensation, her skin aflame. Closing her eyes, she fought to hold back a ragged sob. Her body was straining to open for him, while wanton sounds of urgency came from her throat.
Sloan gritted his teeth as he tried to keep a grip on his fierce need. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he feared that if he lost control, he would never get it back.
When the impassioned woman beneath him twisted helplessly, the fever escalated, gathering and surging relentlessly, enveloping him in tumult. He felt himself going under, losing himself. Burying his hands in her hair, he ground his mouth against hers, catching her soft, wild sounds, ruthlessly driving her on and on, until she clawed at his back, frantic for release. Until with a cry, she arched and convulsed around him, finding her own trembling ecstasy.
There was no way he could restrain himself now. He was beyond words, driven by savage need. He kept thrusting heavily into her, again and again, until with a hoarse groan of desperation, he exploded within her, embers bursting, white-hot with light. For an instant, all the darkness was banished from his soul.
Afterward it was she who held him. She felt the shudders ripple through him, felt the clenching and unclenching of his muscles, felt the pain-sharp breaths he dragged in.
When he tried to withdraw, Heather tightened her arms around him, despite his crushing weight, despite the ache between her thighs and in her heart.
She counted his heartbeats as they slowed to beat in rhythm with hers.
“Ah, damn…” His curse was quiet, raw.
For a long moment he was silent. When he shifted his weight, Heather winced.
“Are you all right?”
She couldn’t answer honestly; he wouldn’t want to hear the truth. She lay there, frightened and stunned by what she felt for this enigmatic man. She was not afraid of him. She was afraid of herself, her shameless response to him. She hadn’t expected that wild hunger in herself, that wanton need. With barely a touch, Sloan had ignited the same fierce passion that had blazed between them once before.
The Heart Breaker Page 11
