She followed him upstairs to the hallway and the first room on the right. It was a small bedchamber, with a brass bedstead and a white counterpane embroidered with blue columbines. A water pitcher and washbasin sat on the bureau, while a pile of woolen blankets were stacked neatly in a wooden rocking chair. A small cast-iron stove stood in one corner, giving off a welcome warmth.

“The house has no central furnace,” Sloan said, “but this stove works well enough. And you can heat a brick for your feet if you need it. The bathroom’s down the hall. I improved the plumbing a few years ago, so there’s hot running water.”

“I’m sure I will be fine.”

“Well then … good night.” He set the lamp on the bureau and started to turn away.

Heather’s question, low and uncertain, stopped him. “Where … will you sleep?”

His blue eyes remained narrowed and cool, his stance guarded. She recognized the all-too-familiar aura of impenetrability about him.

“My room is across the hall. Janna sleeps there by the big stove so she’ll keep warm, and so I can hear her if she wakes up.”

He meant for them to have separate bedrooms, Heather realized. She fought back the wave of disappointment that threatened to crush her and summoned her faltering pride.

“You have a problem with that, duchess?” her husband asked evenly when she hesitated.

Heather raised her chin with a touch of defiance. “Not at all. These arrangements will suit me perfectly.”

Chapter 6

SHE WAS UP before dawn, even before Sloan stirred. Determined to prove her worth, Heather dressed quickly and made her way downstairs to prepare breakfast. She was standing at the range when Sloan entered the kitchen carrying his daughter.

Heather flashed Janna a gentle smile and surveyed her husband. He wore a faded chambray work shirt and denims, and his tawny, sunstreaked hair was still slightly tousled from sleep. She felt her heart twist.

“Breakfast is almost ready, if you would care to sit down,” she forced herself to say easily.

He stared at her a moment, then slung his gun belt over a chair back and settled at the table with his daughter on his lap.

Janna clung to her new doll and watched Heather curiously. So did Sloan, for that matter, as he sipped the cup of coffee she poured for him.

He seemed surprised by the meal of flapjacks and sausage she set before him.

“What is the matter?” Heather asked hesitantly. “Don’t you like flapjacks?”

The corner of his mouth curved upward reluctantly. “Yeah, a lot. I just don’t eat them as often as I’d like. Doe never could get the hang of fixing them.”

Heather bit back the response that came to her tongue. Doubtless she would have to become accustomed to being compared to his late wife. But Sloan would have to learn another fact as well. She was not Sleeping Doe.