He turned his head to find Heather watching him, her golden eyes wide with uncertainty. That look smote him. Her lips were still dampened and reddened from his mouth, her naked thighs glistening with the sheen of his seed. Even now, after he’d sated himself with her, her pale sensuality made his loins swell. He could smell her scent… heated feminine flesh mingled with the musk of their coupling.

With an oath, Sloan reached over and roughly tugged the hem of her nightdress down to cover her bareness. Averting his gaze, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

He needed to get away. One hand over his eyes, he stumbled from the room, seeking escape from his devils and the ghost that haunted him. Seeking escape from her.

Stunned, Heather lay there unmoving. She tried to tell herself not to feel wounded. Sloan was hurting, and lashing out was a natural response. Yet any slim hope she’d held out for closeness had just been shattered. It made her ache with sadness.

Shivering, Heather turned to stare at the fire. She had to make allowances for the haunted, complex man she had wed. For the anger and bitterness and hatred she knew he harbored inside.

But it wasn’t easy.

A hard chill shook her. Self-protectively, she curled herself into a ball, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, trying desperately to get warm.

The stone-piled grave was buried under two feet of snow, but by dawn’s first light, Sloan unerringly directed his bay saddle horse to the place beneath the giant fir. The gelding’s frosted breath came in puffs of steam as he struggled through the uneven drifts.

The winter blizzard had vanished with the night, but the bitter cold remained. The rising sun hung low in an ice-blue sky, casting glittering rays over a meadow that glistened pristine white, the reflection brilliant enough to hurt the eyes.

This was a private place, a hidden glade secreted in the foothills of the Rockies, surrounded by bare, white-trunked aspens. Doe had first brought him here on their wedding day. In summer, Sloan knew, the meadow would be blanketed with blue columbine; in autumn it would shimmer with the fiery gold of the aspens.

They had consummated their love here. Doe was buried here.

Reining to a halt, Sloan dismounted slowly and hunkered down beside the concealed grave. With his gloved fingers he gently brushed the snow from the granite headstone, reading the inscription carved there:

Here lies Doe Who Sleeps

Beloved wife of S. McCord

Tugging off his hat, Sloan bowed his head. The pressure in his chest was heavy; his heart ached with a sense of loss.

He shut his eyes, trying to recall Doe’s smile. It was her shy smile that had captured his heart from the first. So soft and gentle and filled with promise, it touched something deep inside him.