She watched nervously as Sloan McCord let his coat close back over his gun. He resembled no gentleman of her acquaintance. His features were all sinewed planes and angles, while beneath high, hard cheekbones, his jaw was shadowed by a hint of stubble. And those eyes… Those remarkable eyes were the color of blue ice, and yet at just this moment, they held concern, an incongruous softness that startled her.

She tensed as he took a step closer.

His gaze dropping to her mouth, he reached up to grasp her chin between a callused thumb and forefinger. His grip was light yet made her skin burn. Protective, infinitely tender, his gaze held a gentleness that reached inside her to touch her soul.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice so low and husky it made her want to tremble.

She could only nod in answer, wetting her lips in instinctive response.

Almost absently his thumb brushed her bruised mouth with a delicate pressure. Heather flinched involuntarily at the spark he ignited with simply a touch.

At her reaction, he went absolutely still. It was as if a mask descended over his face. His concern suddenly vanished, to be replaced by cool wariness.

His hand falling away, he stepped back to put a less intimate distance between them. The silence once again became tense, awkward, at least on her part.

Sloan McCord stood staring at her from beneath the low-riding brim of his dusty black Stetson, assessing her blatantly with those remarkable eyes—eyes that were a shade lighter than the faded chambray shirt showing beneath the open collar of his coat. Once again they were strangers.

“You are Miss Ashford, I take it?”

Heather could scarcely find her voice. “Yes … I am.”

“You seem to make a habit of getting into scrapes, don’t you?”

Any hope that he hadn’t recognized her from their earlier encounter on the street, when she’d worn her bonnet and coat, died a swift death.

Heather felt shame wash through her. Merciful saints, why did her first meeting with Sloan McCord have to be so … humiliating? Not only had he rescued her from being run down by a carriage, he’d saved her from a railroad magnate’s possessive lust.

Mortification stung her cheeks. She was grateful for this man’s intervention, yet ashamed to be so helpless.

His gaze, narrowed and measuring, swept her black gown, her disheveled bodice. She fought the urge to smooth her skirts or rearrange her hair, certain there would be a dozen wisps slipping their pins.

She should have offered her hand for him to shake, yet Heather stood uncertainly, clasping her fingers together.

“How … d-did you get in?” She stumbled over the inane question.

His hard, sensual mouth curled sardonically. “Your maid showed me in.”

“Oh, of course.”