Damn Cat for tricking him.

Sloan tugged off his hat and ran his hand roughly through his hair as he fought the urge to turn and run. What the devil was he doing here? What did he need with a blue blood on his ranch? He was going to kill Cat when he saw her.

Heather was experiencing similar sentiments regarding her friend as she floundered in a sea of agonized embarrassment. This had never happened to her before, this debilitating loss of composure.

Yet as Sloan McCord’s silence deepened, somehow she found the courage to let her eyes graze his. He was giving her a thorough scrutiny, his look almost offensive in its bold assessment of her femininity.

She was supposed to marry this man?

Caitlin had plainly mislead her. As had Winnie. She had expected a gentleman. Mr. McCord was evidently no gentleman. His unruly hair, a rich tawny gold heavily streaked by the sun, was too long to be fashionable. His lean, bronzed features looked as if he’d never seen the inside of a genteel parlor. Yet it was his hardness, his intensity, that unsettled her. He seemed as uncompromising as the Rocky Mountains he called home.

A lifetime of reserve hadn’t prepared her for Sloan McCord. Those light, breathtaking eyes were slightly narrowed, as if permanently squinting against the sun, but there was a coldness, a distrust lurking behind their emotionless gaze. And his hard, chiseled face was set like granite.

“Would you care… for tea?” Heather asked, striving to conceal her distraction.

His sensual mouth curled, whether in amusement or disdain she couldn’t tell. It had been the wrong thing to say, she concluded.

“I think maybe this situation calls for something stronger than tea,” he said, his tone lightly mocking.

“I… believe Winifred keeps some whiskey in the kitchen.”

“Don’t bother. Ma’am,” he added almost as an afterthought. He made no move to sit down, although at least he had removed his hat. “You didn’t seem to be expecting me. Maybe you didn’t get my telegram?”

“Yes… I received it yesterday.”

McCord’s frost-filled gaze swept slowly over her again. “You don’t look ready.”

“My belongings are packed. And I have closed my school.”

“What about Randolf? That looked like unfinished business to me.”

Heather took a shaky breath. “Evan labors under a mistaken assumption. He thinks that because I’m indebted to him, he owns me.” Her chin rose the slightest degree. “I happen to disagree.”

McCord hesitated, as if debating what to say. Then he blew out a long breath and fixed her with those intense, ice-blue eyes. “Well, I’ve been thinking … I might have been rushing you. In fact… maybe this whole thing is a mistake.”

“Mistake?”

When he remained silent, Heather said awkwardly, “Forgive me, I am not usually so dull-witted. What is a mistake?”

“Our getting married.”