Jake’s gloved hands stilled on the harness. “You may not want my advice, big brother,” he said slowly, “but I think Doe would be the first to tell you to let go of the past. She’d want you to forget about her and get on with your life.”

Sloan’s head came up sharply. “Forget?” His jaw clenched. “Can you imagine forgetting your wife?” he demanded. “Can you imagine loving any woman but Caitlin?”

Jake shook his head. “No. Hell, no. But then, Cat’s not buried under six feet of dirt and rock.”

Sloan winced at the brutal observation. Pulling off his hat, he shoved his hand roughly through his hair, his jaw set like granite.

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on her?” his brother pressed. “You brought her all this way. She deserves a fair shake. Give her a chance.”

Sloan let out his breath in a weary sigh. Jake was right, he knew. He had no right to take his anger and bitterness out on Heather. She was his wife now and deserved to be welcomed into his home.

But he wanted no repeat of their wedding night, when his passion had gotten out of hand. He couldn’t share his bed with her.

Or even his bedchamber.

That room was his sanctuary, the one place where he could find some measure of peace. Where he could remember Doe and the love they had shared.

The duchess could have no claim to that part of him.

She would just have to accept that.

They said good night to Caitlin and Jake and a sleepy Ryan, and watched from the back porch as the wagon rumbled away into the darkness. In the moonlit silence, Heather could hear the muted sounds of male laughter coming from the bunkhouse, could see her breath in the frigid air.

When she shivered, Sloan gave her a swift glance. “You’d best go inside before you freeze.”

To her surprise, he followed her into the warmth of the kitchen. “You must be tired,” Sloan said evenly, bolting the door behind them.

“A little.”

“You should go to bed. You can see the rest of the house in the morning.”

“I would like that, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll show you to your room, then.”

When he picked up an oil lamp, she searched his face, a rough-hewn sculpture of masculinity. Recalling his dark past, Heather fought the urge to lay her palm against his lean cheek. Something in her wanted to offer comfort, but she fought it down. She doubted Sloan would accept any such tender sentiments from her.