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 the 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.”