She went completely still. Her question, when it came out, was little more than a whisper. “Am I your woman, Sloan?”

He closed his eyes in exhaustion. “You’re my wife. That makes you my woman.”

When she remained silent, he eased off her and drew her into the curve of his body, drawing her head to rest on his shoulder. In the hushed moments afterward, she could hear his heart beating steadily beneath her ear.

His woman. It was what she had longed to hear. Instead of pleasure, however, Heather felt a deep ache twist inside her. Sloan’s desire for her thrilled her, yet despite his fierce loving, she knew his heart was untouched. His roughly muttered words of lust and need held little meaning.

The primal force between them was purely carnal. He needed her on some elemental, primitive, physical level, only that.

Yet she wanted more than just raw, heated passion from him. She wanted his love. She wanted the same deep abiding love he still harbored for his first wife.

Chapter 14

ALTHOUGH THE VISIT to Denver proved a welcome respite from routine for Heather, the return home plunged her once more into an endless round of mundane chores. One warm afternoon in early August found her out back of the house, hanging wash on the line while Janna played with her doll in the grass.

A frown drew down Heather’s mouth as she attached a clothespin to a shirt of Sloan’s. She couldn’t explain the discontent she felt. She should be exquisitely happy. She truly didn’t mind the hard work of ranch life. Nor was her restlessness due to Sloan’s lack of attention. His lovemaking was everything a woman could wish. A memory of his heated passion last night echoed through her. Her nipples were still tender and swollen from his kisses. He had left a faint mark on the curve of her right breast that was sore to the touch—a lover’s brand.

Turning her head, Heather lifted her gaze to the horizon, where the peaks of the towering Rockies rose in the distance, their rugged slopes shaded dark with summer forests. Her woman’s time had come and gone. Perhaps that was what depressed her.

Her hand stole to her flat belly, her thoughts wistful. If she couldn’t have Sloan’s love, she wanted his child.

Shaking off her morose mood, she bent to choose another wet garment from the wash basket—and then suddenly went still as a faint prickling coursed up her spine. Peering beyond the wash line, she could see no one, yet she felt the unpleasant sensation of being watched.

Her heart quickening, Heather glanced at the post where she’d leaned the rifle. After the incident with the rattlesnake, she always kept a weapon close at hand.

Inching her way nearer, she grabbed for the rifle and whirled, swinging the barrel up. A man stood scarcely three yards from Janna, unmoving.