“I just don’t like strangers visiting there,” he said by way of explanation.

Her gaze lowered, as if to mask the hurt he’d given her. “I don’t believe I am precisely a stranger. I am your wife, Sloan.”

He couldn’t make himself respond, so he abruptly changed the subject. “You can have the bed.”

She gave him a questioning look. “Where will you sleep?”

He would take the floor. Better yet, he wouldn’t sleep here at all. “I mean to ride into town,” Sloan said brusquely.

She stared at him. “This late?”

“The saloon stays open all night. I thought I would catch a poker game.”

“When will you be back?”

He shrugged as her hazel eyes searched his. “Before morning, most likely.”

“Is that wise?”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission, duchess.”

Her lips tightened at his derisive tone. “You don’t, of course. I was simply thinking of your campaign. It might not be prudent to be frequenting a saloon until the election is over.”

“Maybe not back East, but this is the West. There’s not a man in the territory who would change his vote because he found me playing poker.”

“What about the women—the ones who are working so hard to get you elected?”

“Western women aren’t like you, duchess. They don’t have your prudish notions. They’ll understand.”

She winced at his taunting remark, yet her anger was roused. Sloan was deliberately goading her—without any real justification. Perhaps she had once been prudish, but she’d shed her ladylike inhibitions rather quickly upon her marriage. That, however, was not the issue, she knew very well.

“This is not about a poker game,” Heather said stiffly, “or my dislike of gambling, is it? You simply don’t want me to share this bed with you. Why don’t you admit it?”

“Okay, I admit it. That satisfy you?”

The hush of the room was thick and strained. Knowing he’d delivered a low blow but in no mood to apologize, Sloan started to turn away again.

Heather’s fists clenched at her sides as resentment and frustration flared inside her. For months she had been patient, waiting for Sloan to accept her as his wife. For months she had tried to find a way to break through the barriers of grief and sorrow he’d erected around his heart. For months she’d hoped he would come to see her in a different light, apart from the darkness of his memories of his first marriage. It was time to stop hoping.

“Perhaps you don’t want me here,” she said tightly, “but I am your wife, Sloan. This is where I belong. Here, in this room. In this bed. By your side.”

He froze with one hand on the doorknob. When he glanced over his shoulder at her, she could see denial in his hard gaze.