“Actually,” Richard said in a low voice, “Evan asked me to keep an eye out for you. It’s not my place to say, I know, but I believe he suffered a genuine disappointment at your loss. He wanted me to discover how you’re faring in your marriage, and whether you regretted your choice of husbands yet.”

Sloan thought the cheerfulness of her tone dimmed a degree. “You may report that I am faring quite well, and that I have no regrets whatever.”

It was then that Heather looked around and spied him. His jaw hardening reflexively, Sloan went to join her, and she slipped her arm through his loyally.

“Richard, allow me introduce my husband, Sloan McCord.”

“Richard Weld,” the man said, shaking Sloan’s hand. “Reporter and part-time editor for the Post. I worked with Heather’s father years ago. In fact, Charles Ashford taught me much of what I know about newspapering.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sloan replied, forcing a note of sincerity into his tone.

“I’ve heard of you, McCord. Shaking things up down your way, are you? Word is, you have Quinn Lovell on the run.”

“Not yet, but I’m doing my level best.”

Weld chuckled. “I’d like to write an article about you two for my paper—cattle baron versus mining king. Human interest and all that.”

“Why, that would be marvelous, Richard,” Heather answered for him.

At her apparent delight, Sloan felt another spike of jealousy shoot through him, but then she turned to glance up at him with a smile softer than silk. That lovely smile trapped his breath deep in his chest and had an inappropriate effect in another part of his body as well: he felt a hardening in his loins which he found difficult to ignore.

“I’ll ride down your way…” Weld was saying. “Let me think… Would week after next do? That would best fit my schedule.”

“That will do fine,” he replied too tersely.

Weld turned back to Heather, and she began to question him about his career since they’d last met. Eventually Sloan left them to converse while he did his duty and mingled with the company, but he would have preferred to remain with them. In fact, what he wanted was to be alone with Heather. He hadn’t cared for the reminder of the men in her past, most particularly Evan Randolf.

The evening, while politically worthwhile, seemed interminable. He found himself counting the minutes until they could politely take their leave—through a half-dozen courses and then coffee afterward.

At last, though, the guests began to disperse, and Sloan escaped the stifling atmosphere with his wife in tow. As they stepped out into the moon-drenched night, he loosened his string tie and exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Was it so very bad?” Heather asked sympathetically.

“I’d rather ride herd in a cattle stampede than attend another one of those,” Sloan admitted.