The Heart Breaker

by Nicole Jordan

  At the soft affection in his tone, Heather swallowed the ache in her throat. She wondered if Sloan’s heart could ever be freed from the chains of love he bore his late wife. Should she even try? Until now, she’d been content with winning small victories in her attempt to become indispensable to him—aiding Sloan with running his household and raising Janna and promoting his campaign. But she wanted to mean more to him than a helpmate. More than a lover. Much, much more.

  The realization haunted her thoughts and made her unusually quiet during the drive into town, so much so that Sloan commented on her silence.

  “You all right?” he asked, giving her a penetrating glance.

  Heather forced a bright smile. “Perfectly,” she lied. “I’m simply enjoying the beautiful day.”

  And it was beautiful. The foothills were magnificent in summer, the rocky slopes bright with sunshine and richly green with towering pines and firs, aspens and spruce, while the meadows brimmed with wildflowers—delicate blue columbine and lavender phlox and flaming Indian paintbrush.

  The Fourth of July was a major holiday in Colorado, Heather had learned, and the day would be filled with picnicking and baseball games and fireworks, to be followed that evening by a dance and late supper. This year’s celebration would also include speeches by the two senatorial candidates.

  The entire community seemed to be present, Heather decided when they arrived at the meadow on the edge of town—ranchers, cowboys, sheep farmers, miners, and all their families. She deposited her pies on a long table already groaning with food, then remained at Sloan’s side, holding Janna, as he mingled with the crowd. She was pleased to recognize so many faces, and more pleased by the number of people who greeted her warmly.

  After several athletic events ended, including sack races and ballgames, the picnickers gorged themselves on lemonade and fried chicken and apple pie. For the meal, Heather and Sloan shared a blanket with Jake and Caitlin, while Harvey and Sarah Baxter sat beside them, along with the schoolteacher, Vernon Whitfield. There was much laughter and friendly banter among the families. Afterward the older children took themselves off for more games, while the babies napped and the adults lazed on blankets during the worst heat of the day.

  An hour or so later Sloan excused himself to talk to some of the other ranchers, and Vernon moved over to join Heather.

  “A few weeks ago you asked me about possibilities for employment,” Vernon began, “and I’ve thought of an idea that would benefit us both. You know that since school let out, I’ve been reporting on the political races for the Rocky News?”

  “I know. I’ve read your articles,” Heather said warmly. “They’re quite lively and informative.”

  “Well, there’s more work than one person can handle. I hoped you might consider helping me part-time—editing my articles, primarily, but upon occasion, writing up my notes into articles of your own. The salary wouldn’t be lucrative, but the hours are flexible and you wouldn’t have to leave your ranch. And you might find the intellectual challenge stimulating as well as rewarding.”

  “I would enjoy it immensely,” Heather replied. “As long as it wouldn’t interfere with my caring for Janna, it could prove the perfect job.”

  “Well, then, what do you say I call on you tomorrow and we can go over your duties?”

  She smiled at Vernon with warmth and gratitude. She would indeed enjoy the challenge of editing and writing. Certainly she possessed the necessary skills, having been exposed to her father’s journalistic world practically since birth. Moreover, Heather reflected silently, with a salary, no matter how meager, she would no longer be so totally dependent on Sloan, and she could even begin repaying some of the debt she owed him.

  Despite the congeniality of the day, however, Heather found herself growing nervous as the afternoon waned and the picnic wound down, since the time for speech-giving was fast approaching. She had seen Quinn Lovell across the meadow shaking hands with countless people, and knew he was making the most of the opportunity to ingratiate himself with voters.

  Her nervousness increased tenfold, though, when she saw the mining baron make his way toward Sloan. When the two men met, Heather picked up a dozing Janna from the blanket and moved closer, so she could hear what Lovell was saying.

  “…surprises me you can afford the expense when your ranch is mortgaged so heavily.”

  “Seems to me,” Sloan returned with a chilling smile, “your interest in my ranch is misplaced. I have this quaint notion that my finances are my own business.”

  Lovell gave him a measuring stare, but then he caught sight of Heather and tipped his hat to her. “I’ve had the privilege of meeting your lovely wife, McCord. You are quite fortunate.”

  Sloan gave her a brief glance. “Yes, I am,” he said coolly.

  “Well, then, I shall wish you luck. May the best man win.”

  Lovell turned away then, toward the platform which had been erected for the speechmakers and the fiddlers.

  “What did he want?” Heather asked Sloan curiously.

  “To deliver a threat, I expect.”

  “A threat?”

  Sloan’s jaw clenched, but then he smiled at his sleepy daughter. “You’d best go back to your nap, darlin’,” he murmured, deliberately avoiding Heather’s question. “There’s no need for you to listen to long, boring speeches.”

  As the crowd resumed their places before the platform, Lovell was introduced to the crowd by Harvey Baxter, who ran through a long list of the baron’s accomplishments, including his stock holdings in railroad companies and mining ventures.

  Waiting for the applause to die down, Lovell raised his hand benevolently. “Most of you know me by now,” he began with a friendly smile. “And you also know that I want to bring renewed prosperity to this part of Colorado…”

  What followed was a long speech—as boring and uninspiring as Sloan had predicted, Heather thought, making no allowances for her decided partiality. The speech garnered a smattering of polite applause, before Lovell stepped down for Sloan to take his place.

  Although unsure if her imagination was playing tricks, Heather could feel the sudden rise in tension as the two men passed. Sloan stepped up on the platform then, and faced the crowd, making deliberate eye contact, one by one.

  A charge of energy filled the air; the atmosphere was so quiet, it sounded almost like a crack of gunfire when Sloan cleared his throat and raised his voice so as to be heard in back.

  “I’d say most of you know me, too. We grew up together. Some of us were enemies in a range war we didn’t start. We’ve shed blood together. We’ve fought to protect our homes and our families. We’ve shared some good times as well as bad. But a new fight is just beginning.

  “It’s no secret that my opponent is wealthy enough to buy half the state of Colorado. Well, fine. But I don’t intend to make this a competition to buy your vote. I can’t afford it. Like many of you, I’m having trouble making ends meet. And it looks as if the hard times are going to get worse before they get better.

  “I’m not about to give up, though. Not in this lifetime. I’ll be damned if I’ll let all the sweat and blood and tears go for naught. But the fight is bigger than any one man. I can’t win it alone. I need your help. I can’t promise you a rosy future. I can only promise to try to protect our way of life, to keep this community a good place to raise our families. I can only say that we have to stick together. This is my land—mine and yours. And I’m asking you to help me keep it that way.”

  Heather felt her heart swell with pride as Sloan interrupted the stunned silence to step down from the platform. He hadn’t stuck precisely to the script they’d worked out during long hours in his study, but he’d spoken simply and eloquently, from the heart.

  And the sparse speech clearly had a powerful impact. He had touched his audience if the reaction of the crowd was any measure. Somebody—a cowboy from one of the neighboring ranches, perhaps—let out a piercing whistle, before the rest of the crowd broke in
to applause that seemed deafening in contrast to the reception Quinn Lovell had received.

  When a chant of “Sloan, Sloan, Sloan…” broke out, Harvey Baxter stood up, raising his hands to ask for quiet. “Well now, we thank you two gentlemen for the fine words. But now I think we need to start the dancin’. What do ya say, folks!”

  The chants turned to whoops as rowdy cowpunchers tossed their hats in the air and scurried to find a female partner. A half-dozen couples had taken to the grassy floor by the time the fiddles launched into a lively reel, and more followed suit directly.

  Throughout the evening, quite a number of people came up to congratulate Sloan for his insightful remarks and promised to support him. Lovell appeared to take his temporary setback with composure, although once Heather caught him studying Sloan with a dark look that disturbed her.

  Fortunately, the dance was uneventful, as was the supper afterward. Heather found herself in great demand as a partner, and she had the pleasure of dancing twice with her husband, who proved to be a surprisingly accomplished dancer.

  The hour was late when the weary but happy revelers finally dispersed. Sloan drove the buggy home in the dark, while Heather sat silently beside him, holding a sleeping Janna. The night was warm, the sky black as velvet, while he rugged hills towered over them like benevolent giants.

  Heather might have been content to enjoy the peaceful interlude but for the disquiet she felt after the obscure threat Quinn Lovell had made earlier.

  “Lovell won’t like the idea of losing the race, will he?” she asked quietly as they neared the Bar M Ranch.

  “I doubt it,” Sloan responded.

  “What do you think he means to do?”

  “I don’t know. I figure I’ll have to be prepared for just about anything.” His jaw hardened. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to let him hurt you or Janna.”

  Heather shook her head. She hadn’t really needed such reassurance. She knew Sloan well enough to know he would do everything in his power to protect his own.

  When they reached the ranch house, Sloan helped her dismount before driving on to the barn to stable the horses. Heather heard the greeting he gave some of his hired hands, who had arrived home just ahead of them.

  Entering the dark kitchen, she laid the sleeping Janna on the blanket in her play corner in order to light a lantern. When she turned back to pick up the child, a harsh buzzing sound suddenly reached her ears.

  Heather froze in the act of reaching down for Janna. A rattlesnake lay curled beneath one edge of the blanket, within easy striking distance of them both. Poised to attack, the reptile stared at her, its beady eyes gleaming cold and vicious in the lamplight, its tail issuing a deadly warning.

  Fear screamed through Heather, but with an inhuman act of will, she forced herself to remain still. She prayed Janna would remain asleep and not attract the rattler’s notice before Sloan could get there.

  It seemed like forever before she heard Sloan mounting the back porch steps. She tried to call out to him, but her breath was trapped in her throat. As he pushed open the door, she made another desperate attempt.

  “Sloan…” The word came out a hoarse rasp. “Stop…”

  He was carrying the empty pie plates from the picnic, but he hesitated at her plea, taking in the scene. He suddenly went rigid as the harsh rattle sounded again. She sensed rather than heard his curse.

  “Heather,” he whispered, “stay still. Don’t move a muscle.”

  “Yes…”

  “I’m going to try and shoot it. I need a clear shot. I’ll hit you if you move.”

  “Don’t … worry about me … Just … kill it... before it hurts Janna.”

  In a lightning-fast motion, Sloan dropped the pie tins and reached for his six-shooter. Bringing the barrel up, he fanned the hammer rapidly, firing off five shots in quick succession. The snake jumped in rhythm with the explosions.

  Awakened by the uproar, Janna let out a piercing wail of terror. Even so, the silence afterward seemed deafening. For a moment, Heather stood paralyzed as she stared at the bloody mess that had been the rattlesnake. A sense of unreality kept her immobile; a thin haze of gunsmoke swirled around her, while the stench of powder stung her nostrils.

  The baby was crying, she realized dazedly.

  With a sudden sob of relief, she scooped Janna up and held her tightly in an almost crushing embrace, feeling a possessiveness so savage, so strong, it made her weak. She was shaking so hard, her knees nearly buckled beneath her.

  She was grateful for the support when Sloan came and put his arms around her as she held Janna.

  “God … I thought…” His jagged murmur said everything she was feeling.

  She nodded, shuddering, unable to answer.

  And instant later they heard footsteps pound up the back steps, before a half-dozen Bar M ranch hands burst through the door in response to the gunshots, many of them in stockinged feet.

  Rusty was in front, rifle drawn. He stopped abruptly when he saw Sloan embracing Heather and his wailing daughter.

  “What happened, boss?” Rusty demanded breathlessly.

  Sloan glanced over his shoulder. “Everything’s okay. Heather surprised a rattler, but I shot it before it struck anyone.”

  “Well, if you’re sure you don’t need anything…”

  “We’re okay, thanks.”

  The boys backed out, shutting the door politely. When they were gone, Heather said hoarsely, “I was so afraid. I thought you might not come in time. It could have … killed her.”

  Sloan rested his forehead on her hair. “But it didn’t. We were lucky.” His reassurances, however, didn’t disguise the tremor that shook his own voice.

  “Sloan, I’m sorry… I should have been more careful.”

  He shook his head. “You couldn’t know… You did right to keep still, duchess. Tomorrow we’ll turn this place upside down and make sure there aren’t any more critters lurking in any dark corners.”

  Heather nodded weakly, trembling to realize how close they had come to tragedy. Life was so very precious—but it could be taken away in an instant.

  She stood quietly in Sloan’s embrace, while Janna’s cries died down to whimpers. She understood now, Heather thought, the fierce devotion that had led Sloan to wed a perfect stranger in order to provide a mother for his child. She felt the same overwhelming emotion for Janna herself. She’d grown to love the young girl as if she were her own daughter. She thought she understood, too, the fear Sloan must have felt when his wife was murdered, the helplessness, the rage....

  Heather almost cried out when Sloan withdrew the support of his arms and stepped back to gaze down at his sniffling daughter. With infinite tenderness, he bent to press a gentle kiss on the small forehead.

  But then he glanced up at Heather. His expression, filled with poignant emotion, was one of gratitude, of appreciation, of love.

  Heather felt her heart contract with hope. For while she knew his love was reserved for his daughter, it was possible—just possible—that some of the tenderness she saw brimming in Sloan’s bright-blue eyes might just be for her as well.

  Chapter 13

  The terrifying moment when Janna’s life was threatened would forever be branded in Heather’s memory, as would Sloan’s poignant gratitude afterward. She had never felt so close to him as in that moment, or yearned so deeply to have her love returned.

  She wanted to feel that closeness again. In the week that followed, her pride prevented Heather from divulging her growing feelings for Sloan, but she soaked up any hint of tenderness he showed her, hoarding it away in her heart. She told herself she must be content with searing passion, satisfied with any crumbs of affection he tossed her way, yet she wouldn’t abandon hope that someday his gratitude could evolve into something more substantial. Behind Sloan’s cold mask lived a tender, vital, sensual man. Someday, perhaps, he could put aside the mask and the bitter past and accept the love she longed to lavish on him.

  While their relat
ionship seemed at an impasse, at least the political tide seemed to be swinging in Sloan’s favor. Shortly after the July Fourth celebration, he received an invitation from the governor of Colorado—the same governor who a year earlier had pardoned Jake McCord for the crime of killing Caitlin’s brother. A political dinner was to be held three weeks hence at the governor’s home, in honor of the state’s legislators, and several candidates were invited.

  Although summer was a relatively slow time on a cattle ranch, Sloan didn’t want to spare the time or expense for an overnight sojourn in Denver, but Heather urged him to go.

  “It will benefit you to meet the men you’ll have to deal with if you’re elected,” she advised.

  They left Janna behind, in Caitlin’s tender care, and made the journey in the afternoon, arriving in time to book a room at a modest hotel and then bathe and dress for the dinner.

  For the occasion, Heather had unearthed a gown of dark-blue and rose silk from her wardrobe. The square-cut décolletage was filled with a frilled collar, high in back, while the overskirt was drawn up at the sides and draped behind to emphasize her narrow waist and curving hips. To complete the picture, she wore a slender choker of pearls around her throat and pearl-studded earrings in her ears—the few pieces of jewelry belonging to her late mother which she hadn’t sold to pay her father’s gambling debts.

  The effect was one of quiet elegance, but from the narrowed look Sloan gave her when she came out from behind the dressing screen, Heather wondered if she had struck an unsuitable note with her attire.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked uncertainly.

  He shook his head, yet his expression remained cool, remote. “No. I just wondered where that fancy dress came from.”

  “I had it made up a few years ago, before my father … became mired in financial difficulties. I suppose it’s a bit out of fashion by now. I thought this an appropriate occasion to wear it, but if you don’t like it…”