EMOTION KNOTTED LIKE a fist inside Sloan as he stared at the amber glass of whiskey before him on the table. He hadn’t bothered finding a poker game. Instead he’d ordered a bottle of rotgut and taken himself off to a corner to be alone—if being alone was even possible in a crowded saloon.

The barroom was hazy with smoke and lively with the raucous laughter of cowboys and miners, many of whom were his friends. At one end of the stage, a pretty painted dove banged on a piano and warbled a camptown song. Sloan paid them no mind.

He intended to get drunk. Falling-down, rip-roaring drunk. Maybe then he could forget the wounded look in Heather’s eyes. Maybe then he could numb the ache in his chest.

Mercilessly pushing away the emotions that threatened him, he gulped another burning swallow of whiskey. Her profession of love had been a blow, slicing through the layers of protection he’d wrapped around himself. It was too much. She wanted too much, damn her.

He had no love to give her. The dark hole where his heart once had been was void of feeling … except for the guilt. All he felt was guilt. He had gotten Doe killed. He couldn’t betray her memory by loving another woman.

Painful images swam before his eyes… Doe in her last moments … her blood on his hands. Sloan squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the blackness closing in around him.

Abandoning the whiskey glass, he raised the bottle to his lips and tilted his head back, welcoming the potent liquor’s numbing power.

Goddammit, he didn’t want Heather’s love. He sure as hell couldn’t love her in return. He couldn’t bear the pain again. He couldn’t face giving his heart to another woman, only to have her be taken from him again.

He didn’t want the sense of peace he’d found with Heather. Peace, a derisive voice sneered inside his head. What was that? A dream. A dream he didn’t deserve—

“How about it, cowboy? Want a ride tonight?”

Unwillingly Sloan raised his glazed eyes, trying to focus. He flinched to see a blonde woman standing over him. Heather. No, not Heather. This one’s hair was brassy burlap, not pale silk. She wore a low-cut blue dress that exposed most of her lush breasts, and she smelled of cheap perfume. Dangling from her fingertips was a full bottle of whiskey, while her red, sensual mouth smiled in invitation.

She was a whore, his dulled mind told him. He didn’t know her name—she was new since he’d last frequented the Pick & Stirrup Saloon—but she was available.

Sloan glanced at his own bottle, which somehow was almost empty. Maybe she was what he needed to make him forget, to numb the savage ache inside him. He desperately needed forgetfulness right now.