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 s
orry, 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.
Chapter 15
Emotion 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.
She was a whore, his dulled mind told him. He didn’t know her name—she was new since he’d last frequented the Pick & Stirrup Saloon—but she was available.
Sloan glanced at his own bottle, which somehow was almost empty. Maybe she was what he needed to make him forget, to numb the savage ache inside him. He desperately needed forgetfulness right now.
“Hell … why not?” he mumbled, the words slurred. He took the bottle she offered and tried to stand, but he had trouble getting his wobbly legs to support him. The blonde caught him when he staggered and wrapped a slender arm around him, pressing her beasts against his face. Laughing, she tried to turn him toward the back stairs.
Someone else blocked their way.
His head down, Sloan blinked at the female legs covered in black net wavering in his unsteady vision. He recognized those attractive legs.
Swaying, he raised his gaze to find Della Perkins standing in his path, a slight frown on her face.
“Lilly,” she said to the blonde, “why don’t you go see to Horace there? He wants some company, I’ll bet. I’ll take care of Sloan.”
Lilly shot Della a narrowed glance, but allowed her to take Sloan’s weight. Too far gone to stand on his own, he draped an arm heavily over Della’s shoulder and let her lead him.
“Where we goin’, Dell?” he murmured.
“Up to my room, so you can drown your sorrows in private.”
“You gonna take care of me?”
“Sure, honey. It’ll be like old times.”
“I got a bad ache.”
“I know, sugar.”
She led him upstairs to her bedchamber. The room was familiar to him; he’d known it well in his wilder days. It was plain but serviceable … a brass bed, a washstand, an oak rocking chair. The sheets on the bed were rumpled from recent use and probably smelled of stale sex.
Della helped him across the room to the bed and gently pushed him down. Yeah, stale sex. With a sound that was half groan, half sigh, Sloan lay back, cradling the bottle protectively in one arm.
He felt Della pull off his boots, but instead of taking off his pants and shirt, she drew a blanket up to cover him.
He opened one eye. “Why’d you stop?”
“I’m just gonna put you to bed.”
“I doan wanna go to bed. I wanna fuck.”
“You’re in no condition to fuck, me or anybody else, sugar. Besides, you don’t really want me. You got a real purty wife waitin’ for you at home.”
He reached up to snag an arm around her neck and drew her mouth down to his. “Make me forget her, Dell,” he murmured hoarsely against her lips.
She pulled back. “Forget who? You mean your wife?”
“Yeah … her.”
He tried to pull Della down with him, but she resisted. “You don’t want me, Sloan, honey,” she repeated, “now tell the truth.”
No, he didn’t want her… Didn’t want any woman but Heather. That was the hell of it. He wanted Heather too much.
Della seemed to understand his problem. As if she could read his mind, she sat beside him and patted his chest. “Why don’t you tell me about it? I reckon I’m a good listener.”
Shaking his head dizzily, he struggled to uncork the fresh whiskey bottle. Della was a good listener, but he didn’t need a confessor. He didn’t want to end up telling his troubles to Della....
“I doan wan’ her love.” He heard the slurred protest from a distance. “I loved Doe. A man only … fines love like that onessh in his life.”
“Who says, Sloan?” When he frowned obtusely, Della smoothed back a lock of hair which had fallen over his forehead. “Seems to me, a man can love two women in a lifetime.”
“No.” He put the bottle to his lips and drank.
When he coughed, choking a little at the fiery effect, Della gently took the bottle from him. “I think I know what your trouble is. I think maybe you’re in love with that purty wife of yours and you just don’t want to admit it.”
Fury surged through him, slicing through the numbing effect of the liquor. “No, goddammi’… I cannnn love ‘er. I love Doe.”
“Doe’s gone, sugar—may she rest in peace.”
“Not gone … sheesh still here…” He pounded his chest weakly. The pressure in his heart was sharp and heavy.
“Maybe so, but you’re here with the living. You gotta get on with your life.”
Sloan squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could die like Doe had. He loved her … and yet her cherished memory was fading. He couldn’t help it, sweet Christ....
Panic gripped him. The grief,
the sorrow that had once swamped him, was gone. The love he’d once felt had faded. He couldn’t feel it....
He breathed a savage curse. No matter how hard he tried, he no longer could see Doe’s face clearly in his mind. All he could see was Heather’s beautiful image, her eyes defiant and sad as she declared her love for him. As she insisted Doe was dead … that he had to forget her.
With a groan, Sloan rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, fighting the emotions that were strangling him.
He barely heard Della as she rose from the bed. “I’m going to send for your brother, sugar. He can take you home to your wife.”
“No, doan wanna go home… it hurts to much.”
His wife was the last thing he wanted. He’d fled here to escape her, to remove himself from the temptation of her body and the obsession he could no longer control.
For weeks he’d refused to put a name to the hunger he felt for Heather, yet it had taken hold of him in a way that was beyond lust, beyond carnal craving. All he had to do was look at her and his pulse started beating faster. He just thought of her and a fire smoldered low in his belly, swelling his groin. And when they made love… He’d never before been so lost in a woman’s body. What he felt went deeper than physical desire … damn damn damn her.
As the blackness swirled around him, Sloan mumbled another oath, despising his weakness for her. Even as he tried to shut out Heather’s memory, he was assailed by an image of her heart-stopping face, her beautiful, soft golden eyes filled with pain and love.
He groaned at the terrible, unexpected yearning that swept over him. Shutting his eyes, he cursed his burning hunger for her. He didn’t want her love. He wouldn’t let her mold and touch his heart the way she had his body.
He couldn’t love again. He couldn’t bear the vulnerability. He couldn’t bear it....
The moon glowed down on the rugged foothills, casting a spell of silver shadows, yet Heather scarcely saw the enchantment. Her heart was aching.
The Heart Breaker Page 23
