“She’s probably teething,” Heather said soothingly. “I thought I saw a tooth breaking through when I fed her this evening. There’s nothing to worry about. It happens all the time.” She reached out her arms. “Let me have her.”

“Can you help her?” he asked as he reluctantly entrusted the baby to Heather.

“I think so. Why don’t you go back to sleep? I’m sure you have a hard day ahead of you tomorrow. I’ll care for Janna, I promise.”

“I know you will. But I can’t sleep, knowing she’s hurting.”

Heather felt another chunk of her heart crumble at Sloan’s concern for his daughter. He refused to rest, even though he must be exhausted after the grueling day he’d put in. But he wouldn’t be easy until Janna was sleeping soundly.

“Do you have any oil of cloves? It would help to rub it on her sore gums.”

“I don’t know.”

“If you can’t find any, then fetch some snow. Cold serves to dull the pain.”

While he went to find the remedies she’d recommended, Heather wrapped the fretful child in a blanket and picked up the towel by the washbasin. Slipping a corner of the cloth in Janna’s mouth for her to chew on, she settled in the rocking chair before the stove and began to rock to and fro, humming softly.

When Sloan returned, he came to a complete standstill, staring at the scene they made: the dark child and the golden woman, softly lit by lamplight. Heather in her virginal nightdress, her pale hair twisted in a thick braid, her milk-white skin a contrast to the bronzed hue of the tiny girl’s.

Janna had quieted and was mouthing the cloth while Heather crooned a lullaby. Sloan’s heart twisted with remembered pain. Doe had sung to their daughter like that, though in a different language. This golden image of mother and child seemed wrong … and yet at the same time, somehow right.

These past three weeks, he had thrown himself into his work, not only to save the Bar M, the heritage he would fight to the death to preserve, but in a stubborn attempt to forget the woman who now shared his home, who was now nurturing his daughter.

It was a futile effort. Heather was the kind of woman who got under a man’s skin in a heartbeat.

He hadn’t found the oblivion he’d sought in physical exertion. And no matter where he was in the house, he was always aware of her. She made her presence known in subtle ways: the lavender scent of the feminine soap she used, the quiet rustle of her skirts, her gentle laughter when she played with his daughter… Consciously or not, she’d found the surest way to slip under his guard. His daughter.