The Heart Breaker (18 page)

Surprisingly content, Sloan sat at the table, holding his sleepy daughter and savoring his coffee while Heather washed up after supper. His relaxed mood was shattered, however, when she leaned around him to retrieve the empty peach dish.

When her arm brushed his shoulder, they both felt the shock of the contact like a jolt of lightning. Heather jumped back as if burned, giving him that nervous-filly look.

Sloan gritted his teeth. Her touch, however innocent, however unintentional, had reminded him just how soft and tempting a woman could be.

He steeled himself against that small weakening, yet he couldn’t tamp down the lingering sense of sexual awareness—not then, nor two nights later, when they sat in his study, Sloan at his desk and Heather on the settee, quietly reading.

He couldn’t seem to ignore her presence, even though the account books should have held his complete attention. The future of the Bar M looked grim, and he needed to focus all his efforts on bringing the operation to solvency.

At least his daughter’s prospects seemed to be improving. Heather had reported that Janna’s visit to the schoolroom this morning had gone well. Some of the younger children had actually been delighted to play with a baby, even one of Cheyenne heritage. And the older kids had refrained from showing any outright hostility. Sloan suspected that Heather’s presence had greatly influenced their behavior. She had that way with folks; you wound
up wanting to please her, to live up to her high expectations.

Hell, he should be glad to have Heather at his side. She was succeeding with Janna better than he could have hoped. And she would likely be able to help with his campaign this summer—another prime reason he’d married her. The election wouldn’t be held till the first week in September, but he needed all the help he could get if he stood a chance of beating Lovell. Once spring roundup was over, he could devote more time and energy to the race. Until then he would have to keep his distance from her....

Sloan forced his mind back to the books.

Several moments passed before Heather spoke quietly. “Perhaps I could help.”

Realizing he had sighed with frustration, he looked up to find her watching him. “Help?”

“With the accounts. I might be hopeless with a shotgun, but I’m rather skilled with figures. I managed the books for my school for years. If you would like, I can take over the bookkeeping for the ranch.”

He stared at her, wondering if she meant her offer. “I couldn’t put you to such trouble.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble. I wouldn’t mind, truly.”

Sloan hesitated. She did seem truly interested in the fate of the Bar M, and not just because the ranch was now her only livelihood. He knew her well enough now to recognize she was a woman of great pride. She wanted to be useful, to carry her own weight.

Relenting, he favored her with that same brilliant smile he hoarded like gold for his daughter. “I’d be much obliged. I hate ciphering almost as much as I hate turnips.”

Heather blinked, as if taken aback. Sloan realized his grin was what was affecting her. He didn’t often smile.

“You can start tonight, if you like,” he said, tempering his look. “Come here, and I’ll show you what entries I’ve made recently.”

She seemed to collect herself. Laying down her book, she rose and went to the desk. Sloan let her take his seat.

He watched her as she studied the credits and debits, but he found his thoughts wandering. The curve of her neck beckoned to him to lower his head and sample a taste of her....

Careful, cowboy,
Sloan warned himself, feeling the blood pool hot and thick at his groin.

Heather must have felt a similar awareness, for just then she glanced up. When she caught him staring, her lips parted.

Sloan was glad he was so skilled at hiding his expression behind a cold mask. The tension was back between them, so thick he could almost cut it.

Clearing his throat, he took a safe step away from her, trying to distance himself from the scent of her, the heat of her.

It was hard, living in such close proximity, never touching. Especially while sharing the intimacy of raising a child and running a ranch. The situation was explosive, like a powder keg with a short fuse.

The fuse caught fire several days later, in a manner neither of them could have predicted.

Heather was seated at Sloan’s desk, engaged in reviewing the past year’s accounts, when she heard the sounds of galloping hoofbeats accompanied by a shout coming from behind the house. Catching up a rifle as a precaution, she went out on the back porch.

At the same moment Rusty came running from the corral, also carrying a rifle; as usual Sloan had left the cowboy behind to provide protection for his daughter.

Skidding to a halt, the rider never dismounted from his winded horse, but tipped his hat to her hurriedly and identified himself as one of Jake McCord’s ranch hands. “I’m on my way to fetch Doc Farley in town, ma’am. Seems Miss Caitlin’s time is near. Jake asked if you would come. He’s a mite worried about the missus, since she’s early.”

“Of course,” Heather replied immediately, “I’ll come at once.”

Nodding, the rider whirled his mount and galloped away.

“I’ll hitch up the buggy,” Rusty said quickly. “But I’d best drive you to Jake’s place, Miz McCord. Looks like it means to storm.”

Heather scanned the horizon, torn between her duty to Janna and concern for her dearest friend. The sky over the foothills was ominously dark, portending a thunderstorm, while a chill wind blew from the west.

“Perhaps it would be better if I drove myself and you stayed here to look after Janna till Sloan returns from the range. I would rather not expose her to the inclement weather unnecessarily.”

The cowhand nodded. “Reckon that would be best.”

Heather was already turning back to the house. “I’ll get Janna’s supper ready if you’ll bring the buggy around.”

She went inside and quickly mashed some potatoes she’d boiled earlier and scrambled an egg. After donning her coat and bonnet, she paused long enough to write Sloan a note, saying she
meant to attend Caitlin’s lying-in and would be back as soon as she could.

Moments later, she was back and stowing the rifle in the buggy. As Rusty helped her into the driver’s seat, she gave him some last-minute instructions.

“Janna is upstairs napping and should remain asleep for another hour or so. When she wakes, she can have the supper I left on the table. If she’s … wet, you will have to change her napkin. There are clean ones in the bureau beside her cradle. They fit like … underdrawers. Try to fashion a replacement like the one she’s wearing.” Heather felt herself blushing a little at such plain speaking, but Rusty nodded solemnly, as if he’d been entrusted with the most sacred of tasks. “Sloan will take care of the rest when he gets home.”

Slapping the reins against the horse’s rump then, Heather drove down the drive. She shivered as a cold gust of wind buffeted her. It was nearly the end of April, and the magnificent land had only just begun to come alive with hints of green—shoots of grass pushing their way up through the brown earth, buds sprouting along barren tree limbs—but winter still seemed inclined to linger on.

She was glad she was driving in daylight, and gladder still that she remembered the way. She’d only been to Caitlin’s home once since her arrival in Colorado, and the rutted road that wound through the foothills was not well-marked.

She accomplished the journey without mishap, however, and surrendered the buggy to one of the hands in the yard.

The ranch house was nearly brand-new—a handsome timber-frame, one-story dwelling that boasted the modern conveniences of a central furnace and
hot running water. Jake had refused to live permanently in the house Caitlin’s father had built—the man who had unjustly branded him an outlaw and later murdered his sister-in-law, Sloan’s Indian wife.

No one greeted Heather when she entered the kitchen, so she followed the sounds, making her own way to the master bedchamber toward the rear of the house.

Caitlin’s time was indeed near, Heather realized, hearing a cry of pain. Her labor had begun, while her pale face was soaked in perspiration. It was no wonder. The room was like an oven, since the fire had been stoked to a roaring blaze. At the same time Jake was creating his own tempest as he frantically paced the floor.

Heather took one look at him and banished him from the bedchamber.

“I promise you, Caitlin will be fine,” Heather assured him. “I’ll look after her until the doctor arrives.”

“What if he doesn’t come in time?”

“Then we’ll see your new son or daughter into the world ourselves. I’ve a little experience at these things. I was present at the birth of your first child—didn’t Caitlin tell you?” Heather wasn’t at all as confident as she let on, but Jake desperately seemed to need reassurance.

When he was gone, she removed her coat and cracked a window, then drew a chair beside her friend’s bed.

Caitlin smiled wanly. “I’m glad you’re here,” she murmured weakly as Heather took her hand. “Jake was driving me to distraction. I told him I was warm enough, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Hush, dearest. Save your strength for the baby.”

Smoothing Caitlin’s raven hair back from her
forehead, Heather bathed her face with cool water—a process that was repeated countless times during the following hours. Night had fallen before the doctor finally arrived, and several more hours of painful labor passed before a squalling baby girl was delivered into the world. The child seemed in perfect health, although a bit premature.

Watching the miracle of birth, Heather found herself blinking back tears of joy. She nearly cried again when she had the honor of placing the newborn in her papa’s arms for the first time.

Jake’s expression was one of stunned wonder as he gazed down at the tiny, squirming scrap of humanity.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, staring with awe at the red puckered flesh and thatch of raven hair.

Heather couldn’t help but smile. “She is, indeed. Perhaps you should tell your wife so.”

Cautiously, as if his new daughter might break, Jake knelt beside the bed and gazed into Caitlin’s eyes. His look was nakedly intimate, declaring more explicitly than words the love he bore for her and their new child.

Heather had to turn away from the disturbingly private moment. Hoping her envy wouldn’t show, she wondered wistfully if she would ever know the joy of bearing a child … Sloan’s child. It didn’t seem likely, since he continued to keep his distance.

Both mother and child were sleeping soundly when Heather finally took her leave at half past midnight. Jake, keeping watch over them, was too preoccupied to offer her an escort home, and Heather didn’t think of it till she was a half mile down the road. The night seemed ominously dark as well as damp and frigid, but she needed to get back to Janna and thus decided against turning
around—a decision she regretted when it began to sleet.

Visibility grew worse the longer she drove, and so did the wind. Blinding gusts drove icy needles into her face. Then just as suddenly as the storm hit, the world quieted, and the sleet turned to snow, dusting the road with eerie white. In only moments the landmarks Heather had committed to memory disappeared.

Shivering with cold, she closed her frozen fingers stiffly around the reins and drew the horse to a halt, fearing that she was lost. After long moments of indecision, she clambered down from the buggy and took the horse by the bridle, meaning to lead it home. At least by walking she could see the outline of the road.

Determinedly she hunched her shoulders and trudged forward through the dark night, fighting the bitter cold as well as alarm. Her face was numb, and she could no longer feel her fingers within her gloves or her feet inside her half-boots. Occasionally a gust of wind blew stinging, biting flakes right through her.

Once, the horse whinnied and began to resist her, pulling back as if he might bolt. Heather managed to regain control and urged him to the left, where the road seemed to fork.

Sometime later, however, she realized she must have made the wrong choice. She halted in her tracks, fighting the panic that gripped her throat. Every landmark looked unfamiliar, while walls of rock rose on either side of the narrowing trail. She had led them into a canyon.

Swallowing fear, she struggled to back the horse and turn the buggy around—and then gasped as an apparition appeared out of the black night.

The horseman came riding toward her, shrouded
in white. When she recognized Sloan, her relief was so profound, Heather nearly sank to her knees.

He gave her no word of greeting as he dismounted, but treated her to total silence. Trembling, she stood to one side as he unharnessed her horse from the buggy and slapped its rump. It took off at a gallop.

In the dark, she couldn’t make out Sloan’s expression, but his grip on her arm was painful as he led her to his mount. She realized then why he hadn’t said a word. He was furious with her.

Sloan tossed her up on his horse and swung up behind her. Heather was grateful when his arms came around her shivering form.

“How did you m-manage to find me?” she asked weakly, her teeth chattering.

She wasn’t certain he would answer. “Pure luck,” he gritted out. “Your tracks had nearly disappeared. A few minutes more and I wouldn’t have been able to see them.”

“I l-lost my way.”

“You should have given the horse his head. He would have found the way home.”

“I didn’t t-think of t-that.”

“No, that’s the trouble, duchess. You didn’t think at all.” His tone was savage.

“I d-didn’t know it would sn-snow in late April!”

“Hell, it snows in the Rockies in
June.”

Sloan bit back any further comment, not trusting himself to speak as he urged the bay through the deepening snow. Brutally he clamped down on the emotion he refused to recognize as protectiveness. He didn’t want to examine any of his emotions too closely. What he wanted was to punish Heather for scaring him so. His relief at finding her unhurt was no compensation for the stark terror she had put him through.