“It’s short for her Cheyenne name—Aiyanna. Means eternal blossom, or some such thing. Miz Doe’s name was a lot harder to say… E-naaotse mehe-vaotseva. Sounds like Natsy Me Vava.” He grinned. “My tongue always got twisted around it. We all just called her Miz Doe.”

Sloan himself was not nearly so forthcoming as his ranch hands at informing Heather about his past. True to his word, though, he found time to give her a shooting lesson. Heather thought she acquitted herself adequately firing a rifle. She was less proficient with a revolver; her slender hands had difficulty controlling the kick of the weapon. And she was hopeless with a shotgun, which nearly knocked the breath out of her. At Sloan’s insistence, however, she learned how to load and use each type of firearm, and she paid careful attention when he showed her the half-dozen loaded rifles and shotguns he kept hidden about the house. The savage decades-old feud between cattlemen and sheep men had been over scarcely six months, and Sloan was deadly serious about her learning to protect herself and his daughter.

She also learned new skills vital to ranch life. Cookie taught her how to milk a cow, so there would be fresh milk for Janna and for making butter. In St. Louis she had always ordered milk and butter from the delivery wagon that came twice a week, but Bar M Ranch couldn’t afford such luxuries. Her first attempt at churning butter blistered her hands, yet Heather was proud of her effort.

And no matter how weary she became, despite the frustrations that often rubbed her temper raw, she tackled her chores with fierce determination. She wanted to prove to Sloan she was more than a useless society ornament. And though he seemed reluctant to show any gratitude toward her, she suspected she at least was starting to earn his grudging respect.

Even so, Heather often sensed herself being compared to his late wife and coming up short. Sometimes she would find Sloan’s ice-blue eyes on her, narrowed and intent, as if he were measuring her against the past.

She was nothing like Sleeping Doe, Heather suspected. In Sloan’s bedroom, she’d seen a daguerreotype of him with the raven-haired Cheyenne woman. Her dark-skinned Indian features were more striking than beautiful, but there was a serenity to her that seemed almost tangible. In the scene, Sloan looked happy and at peace, with a glint in his arresting eyes that spoke of devilish mischief. He must not always have been the hard, bitter man he was now, Heather realized.

She spent long moments staring at the portrait, trying to fathom what had made the woman so special to Sloan. He clearly saw his first wife as a saint, and she, Heather, would never come close to such perfection.