“I know. I just saw him at the saloon. He was surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers. It doesn’t appear as if he will miss you greatly.”

Heather winced at Evan’s unfeeling remark and wondered if he was trying to console her or make her feel worse.

He seemed all business as he adjusted his bowler on his head. “I’ll return for you, my dear, when I’ve settled my bill at the saloon and fetched the maid.”

She nodded, suddenly feeling too numb to answer politely.

Sloan narrowed his eyes and squinted through a haze of cigar smoke and whiskey fumes. He wasn’t drunk. He’d nursed a single glass for the past two hours of celebrating. He wasn’t seeing things either. That really was Evan Randolf crossing the barroom.

A wave of fury washed over Sloan, but he clamped it down. Despite his injured pride, Randolf had relieved a severe financial burden by canceling his debt.

“Excuse me, boys?” he said to his friends. Rising from the table, Sloan made his way through the boisterous crowd to the bar, where the railroad baron had stationed himself.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Sloan asked, making himself heard over the clinking piano and a dozen cowboys singing off-key.

Randolf raised an elegant eyebrow. “Why should you wish to?”

Sloan gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep his tone even. “Because I owe you thanks for bailing out my ranch.”

Evan smiled without humor. “I trust it hurt you to say that as much as it did me to return the funds.”

“Likely more.”

He inclined his head. “Very well, Mr. McCord, your gratitude is acknowledged. Forgive me, I should say Senator McCord.”

“Whiskey?”

“That will do.”

Sloan waved to the bartender and ordered two whiskies, then leaned against the bar. “What brings you to this neck of the mountains, Randolf?”

“Would it upset you if I said your wife?”

He went still, every nerve in his body on alert.

“Your wife asked me to escort her to Denver. Didn’t she tell you?”

“No.” The word was barely audible.

“We plan to leave within the hour.”

Silence.

Evan regarded him curiously. “You know, Mr. McCord, you don’t look witless. But you must be even more of a fool than I was. You actually had her love and let her go.”

Sloan turned slowly to stare at him.

“I dislike to be the bearer of bad tidings,” Randolf said solemnly, “but perhaps you should consider returning home. I believe your wife is waiting to say farewell.”

She was upstairs in her bedchamber, packing her bags while Janna napped, when Sloan came in. He stood for a moment in the doorway, watching her. His first rush of panic had dulled to numbness.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly, glancing over her shoulder. “You deserved to win.”