“Doe, there’s something I have to tell you,” Sloan murmured in a voice that was low, ragged. “I married again. A stranger from back East. But I want you to know, it doesn’t mean anything to me. She doesn’t mean anything. I did it for Janna. Our daughter needed someone to care for her and raise her to be a lady. I know that’s what you would have wanted.”

He paused, unwillingly remembering the woman who’d lain unprotesting beneath him last night, allowing him the hot sweet comfort of her body while he pounded into her.

“She can’t take your place, Doe. I can’t think of her as my wife, or even mistress of the Bar M. Hell, she doesn’t know beans about ranch work. She’s never tanned a hide or driven a herd through a snowstorm. But she’s not as green as I first feared. And Janna has taken to her. She’s good with Janna, Doe. I think you’d approve.

“Still … it’s hard, seeing her in your place. The other day she found your buckskin coat, the one you were wearing the day you… She was washing out the bloodstains.” His mouth twisted. “I yelled at her. Scared the daylights out of her. But I didn’t want her touching your blood.”

Sloan stopped, distractedly fingering the brim of his hat as he remembered his fury at Heather that day. It wasn’t just her interference that had riled him so unreasonably. It was the insidious effect she had on him. For the past year his heart had been encased in ice, yet the duchess kept finding cracks in his defensive armor.

He despised the emotion she roused in him. He resented her fiercely for all he felt, all she made him feel. He resented his weakness for her.

He didn’t want to want her. Yet he couldn’t get the taste of her out of his mouth, or the feel of her off his skin, or her voice out of his mind. His attraction for Heather was getting out of hand. Last night had shown him his own frightening vulnerability—

With a harsh oath, Sloan pulled some semblance of control around himself. What the hell was he doing, thinking such profane thoughts over Doe’s grave, for crissakes?

Clenching his teeth, he gave one last glance at the headstone and jammed his hat on his head. Then, turning away, Sloan gathered the bay’s reins and swung himself into the saddle.

He was halfway across the meadow before a measure of equanimity returned, and his resolve along with it. He had no intention of being led around by his groin. He would get his craving for his new bride under control if it killed him.