He shouldn’t complain, Sloan tried to remind himself. He’d married Heather so Janna could have a mother. The duchess was only fulfilling her part of the bargain. But though wild horses couldn’t get him to admit it to her, when she was near, the sense of stark loneliness dulled a bit.

Hell, the truth was, he was grateful for her presence. She was surprisingly tough, tougher than he’d hoped for. This land had broken weak men. The ones who survived had to be strong. And he was beginning to suspect that elegant lady or no, the duchess had the kind of grit a Western woman needed to have, the kind of inner strength his ma had possessed, or Caitlin, or Sleeping Doe, or any of the countless ranchers’ wives and daughters who’d fought beside their men, carving out homesteads from the rugged, unforgiving foothills of the Rockies.

Reluctant to shatter the scene, Sloan moved forward. “I found the oil of cloves,” he murmured.

Heather glanced up at him with a faint smile. “I think she might go to sleep without it. I’m hesitant to disturb her now.”

He nodded, suddenly aware of his state of undress, of her state of undress. Of their location—his bedchamber.

Sloan felt his heart kick painfully against his ribs, felt his lower body quicken with need.

With a silent oath, he turned away. The duchess didn’t belong in this room. She had invaded his own private sanctuary, where his memories of Doe remained inviolate.

Still, she was caring for his daughter….

Grimly, he fetched another blanket from the bed and draped it around Heather’s shoulders.

At the solicitous gesture, she looked up, lips parted in surprise.

“You don’t need to catch cold,” he explained gruffly.

Yet it wasn’t the cold he was afraid of. It was the images in his mind. The trouble was, he knew what lay beneath that virginal nightdress. He knew how Heather could look, that radiant hair tangled by the wildness of their passion, her mouth red and swollen from his kisses.

All too easily he could remember her beneath him, writhing in the throes of desire he’d awakened in her, that cool refinement melted into primitive heat.

All too easily he could forget Doe.

His jaw clenched. No, by God. He had no intention of giving in to his urges this time. He would keep his hands off the duchess and maintain his distance. For his own survival.

He couldn’t bear the sense of vulnerability that came with letting her too close. He couldn’t bear the guilt.

Two nights later his resolve was tested severely.

The hour was late, during a harsh new snowstorm. Having long since put Janna to bed and changed her gown for a nightdress and woolen wrapper, Heather sat in the kitchen mending clothing and watching worriedly for Sloan to ride in from the range.