The Heart Breaker (24 page)

In the breathless aftermath, Sloan collapsed, sinking his head on her breast in panting surrender. He could still feel the ripples caressing him.

God, he wanted her still. It would only be a minute before her warmth could make him hard and ready again, but he didn’t want it to be here, like this.

He would take a bath first and wash away the grime of the trail. Then he would take her to bed and do it all over again, slower this time, using his mouth on her breasts, between her legs, till she was hot and wild and sweet and burning up with wanting him.

He raised his head. She looked lush and wanton and well-loved.

“Now that,” he said, a grin playing at one corner
of his hard mouth, “was one hell of a welcome. No drawers. Seems like you’re learning to be a proper wife after all.”

She flushed a delicate rose.

Sloan chuckled at the ladylike display. The duchess still hadn’t shed her modesty—but he would work on it.

He kissed her again, refamiliarizing himself with the dark recesses of her mouth. Then, easing away from her, he smoothed down her skirts and helped her to stand. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me and join me in a bath?”

“You want me to bathe with you?” Heather repeated rather weakly.

“It’ll be a tight fit, but the tub’s big enough for two.” He turned and sauntered to the door. Pausing to cast a glance over his shoulder, Sloan smiled, a slow sexual smile that burned right through her. “If we’re lucky, we have another hour till Janna wakes. And that new plumbing cost a fortune. We need to make good use of it if I’m to get my money’s worth.”

Once roundup was over, Sloan had more time to devote to his campaign, and they often discussed the subject over supper. Heather cherished those private moments with him, for it usually meant that he let down his guard.

To her surprise and gratification, though, Sloan earnestly sought her opinions.

“I want your advice,” he said two nights after he’d returned from Denver. “Cat and Jake have offered to host a meeting between cattle ranchers and sheep men to let me present my views on the issues. It might be wise. I’ve made some enemies over the years,” he admitted, “and it would give me a chance to mend some fences.”

“I think it’s a marvelous opportunity,” Heather replied. “Perhaps you could pay a call on all your neighbors beforehand to issue an invitation to the meeting. You could talk to them personally … find out their concerns and tell them your aspirations.”

“Will you come with me?”

Her eyes widened. “If you like.”

Sloan nodded. “I think it would help my cause. The ranchers here never could resist a beautiful woman. They’ll be more willing to attend the meeting if the invitation comes from you.”

It was some consolation that Sloan thought her beautiful, even if he saw her primarily as a political advantage. But she didn’t intend to quibble. “That makes sense, but as long as we’re talking about persuasion … you shouldn’t neglect the ranchers’ wives. Even if only men can vote in Colorado, women can influence the outcome of an election.”

His eyebrows rose thoughtfully, as if he recognized the truth to her observation. In addition to offering advice, though, Heather encouraged him to talk about his plans and tried to help him frame his ideas.

“People respect passion and conviction, Sloan. They need to understand why the election is so important to you, that you want to protect the land and help salvage people’s ranches. You know what it’s like to live with hardship. If you simply tell them the truth, if you speak from the heart, they’ll listen.”

For a rare moment, his smile reached those bright, unreadable eyes. A thatch of wheat-colored hair fell over his forehead, making him look boyish and incredibly masculine at the same time. She felt her heart melt.

Heather swallowed, trying to ignore the sensation. When he brushed it back out of his eyes, she
suggested thoughtfully, “If you mean to start making public speeches, you might consider getting a haircut.”

He gave her a long, vaguely amused look. “My hair isn’t fancy enough for your tastes?”

“For a cowpuncher it is perfectly adequate, but a shorter style would look better if you don a suit. I doubt a shaggy bear is the image you want to portray with voters.”

“You’re the fashion expert, duchess.”

She trimmed his hair in the kitchen the next morning, and greatly enjoyed the task. At just that moment, Sloan looked carefree and relaxed. There was no sign of the dark, brooding stranger she had wed. Indeed, as she drew a comb through his longish hair, he even began flirting with her, showing the reckless, charming side that had won the hearts of all the local belles.

“I hope you’ve had more practice with those things than you have with a shotgun,” Sloan murmured, eyeing the shears. “You don’t mean to scalp me, do you?”

“I only hope to give you an air of refinement—no small task for a rugged cowboy, I must admit.”

Sloan shifted in the chair like a small boy.

“Would you please hold still?”

“What if I don’t?” The corners of his mouth kicked up in amusement. “You gonna rap my knuckles and send me off to the woodshed like one of your wayward pupils?”

“I might at that.”

He crossed his arms over his chest but obediently stopped moving. “Very well, your highness, I’ll be good.”

“Your grace.”

“What?”

“I believe the proper form of address for a duchess
is ‘your grace.’ Not that you give a fig about proper social deportment, but if you’re elected senator, you’ll likely find yourself in situations which will require you to exercise polite manners.”

Sloan chuckled. “I can be polite if I have to. Even if you think I’m an… uncivil, ill-tempered ogre. Isn’t that what you once called me?”

“I suppose you have managed to improve on further acquaintance.”

“So have you. You’re not so full of starch and vinegar.” He reached around her and palmed the bustle of her skirt. “You wearing drawers today?”

Heather jerked the scissors back. “Yes!”

“Too bad.” Sloan regarded the table where he’d taken her with such sizzling passion. “A bare bottom might make this ordeal more fun.”

Trying to steel herself against the insidious warmth curling around her heart, Heather glanced at his young daughter, who was playing quietly in her corner.
“Will
you behave, Sloan McCord?”

“Yes, ma’am, if you insist.” He grinned and the effect was dazzling. “But I get a reward afterward.”

Heather turned away in dismay. His lighthearted mood was more dangerous than his savage temper. When he was like this, it was too easy to love him, to need him, to want his arms around her.

And yet finding those small chinks in Sloan’s defensive armor heartened her. She desperately wanted to counter his reserve and chip away at his coldness, to draw out his softer side and win his trust.

At least he no longer saw her as his enemy. He actually seemed grateful for her efforts with Janna. And surprisingly, he didn’t fly into a rage when he was reminded poignantly of his beloved late wife.

That afternoon, they were leaving to pay calls at all the neighboring ranches when Janna insisted on
carrying the raven-haired doll Heather had brought her from St. Louis.

“Want Va-va,” Janna babbled when Sloan picked her up, reaching down toward her basket of toys.

“What’s she saying?” he asked. “She wants water?”

“No,” Heather replied. “Her doll. We named it after her mother, but she can’t pronounce the words fully.”

When Sloan went rigid, Heather regarded him warily.

“Mehe-vaotseva … that was Doe’s Cheyenne name, was it not?”

His gaze hardened. “Who told you that?”

“Rusty.”

Sloan stared at her, and she could see pain in his eyes at some long-ago memory.

“You said,” she added softly, “that you didn’t want Janna to forget her heritage.”

“No.” His whisper had a raw edge. Bending to retrieve the doll for his daughter, he tightened his hold on Janna and kissed the top of her raven head. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes shut.

Heather swallowed the ache in her throat as Sloan stole another piece of her heart. He was trying, she realized. He was endeavoring to put the past behind him and move on with his life.

She had to hold on to that—and hope that his future included her.

The personal visits to neighboring ranches paid off for Sloan’s campaign. Nearly everyone they called on agreed to attend the political meeting to be held Sunday afternoon at Jake’s place. Heeding Heather’s advice, Sloan invited the ranchers’ wives as well.

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear. Sloan
drove his family over early, so that he and Heather could help set up.

The carriage ride through the rugged foothills was breathtaking, with a warm blue sky that heralded the onset of summer. A golden eagle soared high overhead, the slopes covered with Douglas fir and lodgepole pine, while blue columbine had begun to blossom in the emerald-green meadows.

Holding a bright-eyed Janna on her lap, Heather realized she was glad she was here rather than St. Louis. She didn’t miss the stifling existence of her past life in the least. The wildness of this land had conquered her heart, and so had the man sitting beside her.

Caitlin and Jake were waiting proudly with their tiny but healthy new daughter, whom they’d named Elizabeth after Jake’s mother. Janna was fascinated with the baby, and a boisterous Ryan happily entertained both young ones. He took his cousin to the back porch to play while the grownups discussed the arrangements for the meeting, which was to be held picnic-style in the yard.

Heather had brought several pies and she busied herself arranging tables for the food, as did Sarah Baxter and her husband Harvey, who were among the first arrivals. They all helped Sloan greet the ranchers, who came in droves. The men mostly wore Sunday trousers and good boots, the women dresses and fancy bonnets, and the gathering took on the festive air of a holiday.

Heather, passing out lemonade along with Caitlin and Sarah, watched as Sloan moved easily through the growing crowd, shaking the men’s hands and working his rugged charm on the ladies.

“It’s a shame women don’t have the vote,” Caitlin suggested.

Sarah laughed and nodded. “If they did, Sloan could get elected president.”

Heather had to agree. He exuded raw male attraction, and she couldn’t suppress a thrill of pride that he was her husband.

When the crowd finally settled on blankets in the yard, Jake, still holding his baby daughter, called the meeting to order. He said a few words to introduce his brother, before Caitlin stepped forward to address the sheep men in the crowd.

“I know we’ve had our differences in the past,” she observed earnestly, “but that’s all over now, thanks in large part to Sloan McCord. As you all know, he had a big hand in ending the feud. Now he’s running for state senator and he needs your vote. This is your opportunity to learn about his views. All we ask is that you give him a fair hearing.”

The first question was thrown out by a stalwart, red-bearded man in almost a hostile tone. “Why in tarnation should we vote for you, McCord? For twenty years your pa tried to run our sheep out of the territory. How do we know you ain’t got the same notion up your sleeve?”

Sloan smiled and replied easily, “I’ve got nothing up my sleeve, John. You’ve known that for over twenty years, ever since we first went skinny-dipping together in Bear Creek when we were eight.”

Several men in the crowd guffawed, while the women tittered.

Sloan’s expression grew serious. “We’d be fools to turn our backs on sheep. The hard truth is, the cattle industry is going bust, and sheep are still profitable enough to support our county.”

“You aren’t suggestin’ we all become woollyboys,
are you?” a cattleman called out incredulously.

“No. But we have to face reality. Our way of life is changing, and we have to change with it if we hope to survive. It’s hard even for the big outfits like mine to make ends meet. The small ones don’t have a chance unless we all stick together. And that requires going against the mining barons who’ve taken over the Colorado legislature. We need laws that will give us a square deal. We need someone in the government who’ll look out for our interests.”

“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.”