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 come 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.