The Heart Breaker

by Nicole Jordan

  “I hear Quinn Lovell plans to bring mines into the area,” someone else said. “That’ll mean good jobs for some of us.”

  “Leaving aside the fact that mines will destroy the land, wouldn’t you rather hold on to your ranch than risk your life underground? Mining is a dangerous business. You know how many men make it to see forty without getting seriously hurt? And if so, they find their lungs eaten away by disease.”

  “But turning Lovell away won’t put food on the table, Sloan. I hear he’s paying good money for scrap acres, and he’ll pay double if he wins the election.”

  Frowning, Sarah Baxter leaned toward Heather and said in a furious undertone, “The gall of that sidewinder Lovell. He’s trying to buy votes!”

  Sloan’s mouth curled dryly. “I can’t match Lovell’s offer to buy your land. All I can do is promise to fight for all of us equally.”

  “That still don’t mean we should trust you,” another man muttered. “You turned your back on your own kind, taking a Injun squaw to wife.”

  A muscle in Sloan’s jaw hardened, but he answered evenly, if quietly. “You can’t always pick and choose who you love, Cirus. You of all people should know that. I loved Doe, just like you love Molly. I recall your pa raising Cain when you married an Irishwoman.”

  The pretty ebony-haired woman at Cirus’s side elbowed his ribs. “Aye, ye great galoot, ye’d best be remembering how smitten ye were wi’ me, or I’ll be reminding ye wi’ a skillet upside the head.”

  The crowd’s laughter was more strained this time.

  “I don’t like this,” Sarah muttered loudly, perhaps to distract Heather from the subject of Sloan’s late wife. “They’re listening, but they’re still not convinced Sloan would be a better candidate than Quinn Lovell.”

  “Maybe we need to take another approach,” Caitlin whispered.

  “What did you have in mind?” Heather murmured.

  “I think we should talk to the ladies.” Her blue eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. “If we can convince them how bad Lovell would be for us, then they can persuade their husbands to vote for Sloan.”

  Chapter 12

  Sloan shook his head in chagrin as the last of the ladies drove away dressed in their Sunday finery. A tea party. The duchess had turned a stuffy afternoon ritual into a political tactic, inviting all their female neighbors to tea to discuss the upcoming election. And damned if it wasn’t working. Heather and her cohort in crime, Caitlin, had persuaded over three dozen women to crusade for him. This was the third tea they’d held at the Bar M in the past week, and each time they’d barred him from the premises.

  With a wry snort of amusement, Sloan stamped his dusty boots on the back porch stoop before opening the kitchen door. Now that the gaggle of guests were finally gone, he was able to enter his own house.

  Cat was just leaving. She smiled at Sloan and kissed Heather’s cheek before picking up her new daughter. “I’ll call on you tomorrow morning at ten,” she said to Heather.

  Sloan accompanied Caitlin outside and handed her into her buggy. When he returned, Heather had just made a final trip to the parlor to retrieve the remaining teacups and dishes. Sloan cleared a place at the kitchen table for her to set down the tray.

  “The tea went well, I think,” she said brightly. “Better even than the first two.”

  “That was the last of them, I hope. Why is Cat coming back tomorrow?” he asked curiously.

  “Oh, I meant to tell you, I’ll be gone for a few hours tomorrow morning. Caitlin and I have an errand in town.”

  “Errand?”

  She hesitated an instant. “We have a strategy session with Sarah regarding your campaign.”

  A grin curled his mouth. “Don’t you think you’re taking this campaign thing a mite too far?”

  “No, I don’t. In my opinion, Caitlin’s plan is brilliant. Organizing the women of the community to campaign for you is the surest way to gain the support of their husbands—which you badly need if you’re to beat Lovell and win the election.”

  “Seems like a lot of trouble to me, dressing up for a tea party.”

  “Most women enjoy dressing up and being involved in a worthy cause. Believe me, they like to feel useful and appreciated. Besides, a tea party allows them to escape from a drab life for a short while.”

  Sloan gave her a penetrating look, wondering if she was looking to escape. “Is your life so drab then, duchess?”

  Heather returned his intense gaze steadily. “I wasn’t speaking of my situation, but since you ask, I’ve attended enough tea parties to last me a lifetime.”

  He wasn’t certain he could believe her, but he let it pass and picked up a round, flat cake. “What’s this?”

  “A crumpet. Try one, why don’t you? Janna loves them with strawberry jam.”

  Sloan raised an eyebrow but bit into it experimentally. “Ummm, it’s good, even with such a highfalutin name. Tastes a lot like pancakes.”

  “I know.” Heather smiled wryly. “Simply because it has a fancy name is no reason to turn up your nose at it. Would you mind looking after Janna a moment while I go upstairs and change my gown?”

  At her smile, Sloan felt his heart kick against his ribs. Letting his gaze sweep over her figure, he felt the pulse lower down as well, in the vicinity of his groin. How could she look so sexy in a prim, long-sleeved, high-necked afternoon dress? The duchess was garbed rather plainly in dark-blue gaberdine, so as not to outshine the other women, he suspected.

  “You need any help getting undressed?” he murmured, a husky catch to his voice.

  Her skin took on a faint color. “Thank you, no. I have dozens of dishes to wash, and then I must fix Janna’s supper.”

  Sloan reached up to tuck a stray tendril behind her ear. “Too bad. I thought maybe we might have our own private tea party and I could see how strawberry jam tastes on you.”

  Her color deepened to an appealing flush, but she shook her head and left the kitchen.

  The scent of her lingered in the air when she was gone. Sloan munched on the crumpet thoughtfully, regretting his impulse. Heather’s hair had looked fine. It hadn’t needed smoothing back into place. He’d done it merely to have an excuse to touch her. And her smile … That lovely smile had damned near taken his breath away.

  Watch yourself, cowboy, he thought sternly. It was all well and good, her charming the men of the community with her beauty and wit and sensual appeal. They were the ones who could vote. But it was dangerous as hell, letting Heather charm him. It was safer to keep his distance. Better if the only bond between them was sex.

  Sloan shook his head. The trouble was, Heather was infecting his life. Mostly for the good, he had to admit. Her social skills had already come in handy in his campaign, as had her talent for saying just the right thing. She was helping him polish the speech he intended to give at the Fourth of July celebration next week.

  All right, so he had misjudged her at first. The duchess was far from the helpless, genteel widgeon he’d first thought her....

  Sloan frowned as he recalled her comment about the drab life of a rancher’s wife. Did she regret the choice she’d made?

  The duchess might have been burdened by debt, but she was accustomed to a life of ease, with teas and soirees and fancy parties to fill her social calendar. With her marriage to him, she’d exchanged her silk dresses for calico, savaged her pretty white hands with blisters and her ivory complexion with sunburn. Did she miss her former life?

  If she was unhappy, she was careful not to let it show. By all appearances, Heather had taken to ranch life like a steer to range grass. The endless hard work hadn’t seemed to put her off. She never complained about the rough conditions—the bitter cold and snow of winter, the bluster and muck of spring, the dust and heat and smells of summer.

  She’d put up with his foul moods as well. He hadn’t been able to drive her away. No matter how he tried to antagonize her or push her, Heather came back fighting. It was that grit that drew him, that he’d c
ome to admire....

  She did the damnedest things, things that caught him off guard. It had hurt when she’d named that doll after Doe—reminding him of his great loss—and yet he had to appreciate the gesture.

  No, it was his own self-control that was the problem.

  Sloan muttered an oath. When he was near her, he was no better than a randy buck—or a fractious stallion scenting a mare in heat. When he was away, her memory stayed with him. He couldn’t stop thinking of her, remembering the taste of her skin, the scent of her hair, the texture of her nipples. He couldn’t stop remembering his dream lover—the pagan goddess with the pale, voluptuous skin and lush body, the silvery hair that made a wild cloud of waves over his pillow.

  He had wanted Heather to shed her ladylike primness in bed, and he’d succeeded far beyond his expectations. Making love, she was a wildcat, turning all sweet and hot in his arms, naked and vibrant and alive with need for him. But when he was locked deep inside her, mindless with sensation, he was as much at the mercy of his body as she was to hers.

  He’d never been so hungry for a woman before. He couldn’t get enough of her. The depth of his need astonished him. With Doe sex had been uninhibited, but not wild and urgent and violent. With Heather he was ravenous.

  It was crazy to feel as hungry and obsessed as he did. He knew all about obsession. For months after Doe’s murder, he’d been driven by the need for revenge. But this hot, fierce wanting that ate at his reason—there was no excuse for it. She had only to enter a room and lust began tightening his body. She had only to touch him and she brought him to instant uncomfortable arousal.

  It was damned embarrassing sometimes. When he was on the range with the boys, the smallest things made him think of Heather—of falling into bed and easing into her or tossing her on the kitchen table and riding her hard and fast. He’d get so hard, he had to find some way of disguising it.

  The hell of it was, Heather was getting under his skin. When he was away, he spent much of his waking hours fighting with himself. When he was near, he found it harder and harder to keep his distance.

  And even if he got his craving under control, he wouldn’t be any less vulnerable to her. The truth was, he needed her. For his daughter. For his campaign.

  For himself.

  Heather had never before been inside a saloon, so her gloved palms felt damp with nervousness as she followed Caitlin through the alleyway to the back door of the Stirrup & Pick Saloon. It was midmorning, and they’d left Janna and baby Elizabeth in Sarah’s tender care at the general store.

  The saloon was quiet. They made their way down a hallway to a barroom, which fortunately was nearly deserted, but which smelled of whiskey and cigars.

  Staying close behind Caitlin, Heather found her attention riveted by the gaudy furnishings. A long gilt-edged mirror adorned the wall behind the liquor-stained mahogany bar, while on the opposite wall, beneath the stairway, hung a huge oil painting of a voluptuous, pink-fleshed female in a state of near-undress. There were also dozens of scarred poker tables and wooden chairs and a shallow stage that boasted red velvet curtains and an upright piano.

  Heather felt herself torn by curiosity and an instinctive sense of dismay. She’d been raised to think of saloons as dens of iniquity, where men gambled and caroused and drank to excess, where the women sold their bodies for money.

  An uncomfortable thought prodded her as she shifted her gaze to the woman standing behind the bar. Wasn’t that what she herself had done in marrying Sloan? Sell herself for money? Fifteen hundred dollars to be precise....

  The woman at the bar had upswept raven hair and large brown eyes, with a painted face that was pretty in a tawdry sort of way. She wore a garish red gown, whose black-fringed bodice was cut scandalously low, exposing much of her full breasts.

  She broke into a smile at Caitlin’s appearance, showing a chipped front tooth. “Well, I’ll be…” Then her eyebrows shot up as she spied Heather.

  Heather eyed her curiously in return. There were various unflattering names for females employed at saloons—fancy piece, soiled dove, woman of illrepute, prostitute … all of which seemed to fit this woman. The cheap scent of her perfume clouded the air.

  Heather wondered if this was the woman who was reportedly such good friends with Sloan’s brother Jake. Keeping quiet, however, she followed Caitlin to the bar and allowed her to take the lead in the introductions.

  “Heather, I’d like you to meet Della Perkins. Della, this is Heather McCord, Sloan’s new wife.”

  Della nodded almost warily. “I know who you are, Miz McCord. I’ve seen you around town.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Heather murmured with a quiet smile meant to reassure.

  “I don’t know that I can say the same. Isn’t every day we get such fine ladies to visit. Fact is, last time I can recall, it was a grievance committee set on running us girls out of town.” She glanced soberly at Caitlin. “You mind telling me what brings you here?”

  “We’ve come to ask you a favor. You know Sloan’s campaigning for senator? Well, we want you to help get him elected.”

  “Me?”

  “You and your friends here,” Caitlin explained. “We suspect most of the cowboys will vote for Sloan, if they vote, but they’ll likely need encouragement to show up at the booths on election day. And the miners could use some persuasion in general if they’re to go against Quinn Lovell. We figured, who better to sway their opinions than you and the ladies who see them regularly?”

  “Let me get this straight, you want me and the girls to sweet-talk the fellas who visit here and plant the notion in their thick heads that they go vote for Sloan?”

  Heather gathered her courage to enter the conversation then. It was rather awkward to ask for help under these circumstances, but Caitlin had persisted. Who better to influence the men of the town than the women who slept with them?

  “It might make the difference in the election,” she observed. “Sloan could truly use your help.”

  Della stared. Then she grinned, flashing her broken tooth. “Honey, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s persuadin’ a man.”

  “Do you think it wise for us to speak to your friends as well?”

  “Mercy, no. They’ll have a conniption if they see such a fancy lady in a whorehouse. You better let me do it.”

  Heather forcibly swallowed her embarrassment. “Thank you. I would greatly appreciate any effort you could make.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Della regarded her almost admiringly. “You’ve got some kind of gumption comin’ here, I’ll say that for you. But if you’re a friend of Caitlin’s, I reckon I can understand.” Her look turned sly. “I must say, I haven’t seen much of Sloan since he came back married.”

  Caitlin smiled. “And you won’t, either, if Heather has any say in the matter.”

  Della laughed. “Too bad.”

  Heather felt herself wince inwardly. Sloan had no doubt patronized the saloon before their marriage. She wondered if he’d ever come here with the intent of bedding one of the soiled doves—or if he’d ever slept with this woman. It was not a comfortable thought.

  Caitlin, however, seemed to take it in stride. “Just you concentrate on getting Sloan elected, if you don’t mind,” she told Della.

  “I’ll do my best. And so will the girls. They always did have a soft spot for Sloan McCord.”

  Those words echoed in Heather’s mind the following week as she campaigned earnestly for her husband—and again the morning of July Fourth as she dressed for the picnic and supper-dance to be held on the outskirts of town.

  She was standing in her lacy underdrawers, trying to don her corset, when Sloan walked into her bedchamber carrying Janna. When his glance raked over her, a warmth rose inside Heather that had little to do with the heat of the day.

  “We’re ready,” he announced, settling in the armchair by the window with his daughter to wait. “Doesn’t Janna look pretty?”

  Heather gave the
child a warm smile. “Beautiful.”

  The toddler was garbed in a pale-blue calico dress with a froth of cream ruffles adorning the neck, a dress Heather had lovingly fashioned to complement the one she planned to wear to the celebration.

  But it was Sloan who took Heather’s breath away. Sunlight was reaching through the window now, turning the dusty blond of his hair to gold, a rich, burnished shade that reminded her of wheat fields in summer. He looked ruggedly masculine and impossibly handsome, dressed in the same dark-gray suit he’d worn at their wedding, a crisp white shirt and string tie setting off his lean features. His mere presence roused in her a sensual memory of the previous night: his tender, relentless hands caressing her, his dark voice murmuring words of praise and pleasure, his hard, driving body taking her to the heights of passion....

  Yet this morning he was a different man from the incredible lover of last night. Despite the sixguns strapped to his thighs, he seemed carefree and relaxed. Holding his daughter on his lap, he straightened the blue bow Janna wore in her raven hair, but then glanced at Heather with an easy smile curving his lips.

  She loved him most, Heather reflected, at moments like this, when his tenderness for his daughter spilled over to her, when he softened toward her and let down his guard.

  Heather froze in the act of tying the corset strings.

  She was in love with Sloan, she realized with dismay. Despite her efforts to protect her heart from danger, she had fallen in love with her husband.

  He apparently misconstrued her hesitation. “You need help putting on that contraption?”

  Taking a deep breath, she shook her head silently.

  “Just as well. I don’t know the first thing about corsets, except how to take them off.” His amused blue eyes grew distant with fond memory. “Neither did Doe, for that matter. She tried to put one on once, and wound up with it upside down. Broke a string, too. I laughed so hard, I thought I would split my sides.”