Her unease grew when sleet began spitting against the glass windows. She knew she shouldn’t fret. Sloan had lived here his entire life. He knew this land and its savage challenges. He would survive the danger.

She was unprepared, however, when at last the door burst open and Sloan stumbled inside, ushered in by a shrieking, biting gust of wind.

With a start, Heather rose abruptly to her feet. When he forced the door shut and sagged heavily against it, Heather realized he was half frozen and shaking with fatigue. Ice encrusted his heavy shearling coat and wool chaps, while snow crystals frosted his lashes.

He had driven himself to the limit of his endurance.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” she urged, going to him.

“Yeah,” he agreed simply, too tired to argue.

He made no protest when she took his hat and gloves and hung them on wall pegs to dry. With difficulty she unfastened the buttons of his coat and dragged the heavy garment free of his arms. The chambray work shirt beneath was damp at the collar and shoulders, and he shuddered with terrible, numbing cold.

Swiftly Heather poured a mug of steaming coffee and wrapped a dishcloth around it, then forced it into his hands. His frozen fingers curled stiffly around the cup, seeking warmth.

“Let me get some blankets,” she murmured.

When she returned from upstairs, however, Sloan still hadn’t managed to pull off his chaps or boots but had collapsed in a chair beside the table. Evidently he would need help undressing.

She knelt beside his chair and worked to unfasten the hooks that ran down the outer seams of his chaps. When she had unbuckled the belt, the garment fell to the floor in a puddle. With effort she dragged off his boots, then his denim trousers, leaving only his woolen drawers and undershirt and socks.

Solicitously Heather wrapped two blankets around his shoulders and took his hand as she would a child’s. His flesh was so cold, it frightened her.

“Come to the study, Sloan. The fire will warm you.”

Surprisingly he allowed her to lead him. When he reached the hearth, he sank to his knees on the bearskin rug. For a long moment he stared into the flames. In the firelight she could see the stark lines of weariness etched into his face.

“We found two dozen dead steers today,” he said, his low tone dark with despair.

Heather didn’t know how to reply. Her heart ached for him.

“The hell of it is, I can’t do one goddamn thing to save them.” He laughed harshly. “If this keeps up, there won’t be anything left of the Bar M.”

Unbidden, a fierce protectiveness welled up inside her. Sloan didn’t deserve such hardship. He’d been hurt too much already.