He had overreacted, Sloan knew. He’d had no cause to jump down Heather’s throat when she was simply trying to help his daughter. She was right. She wasn’t his enemy.

A whole host of uncomfortable emotions crawled like ants inside Sloan’s skin when he considered the way he’d treated Heather since her arrival in Colorado. She was his wife, but he’d shown her less regard than an unpaid servant, shunning her like a rabid animal.

To her credit, Heather had stood up to him better than most men did. That sure as hell had surprised him. The duchess wasn’t the helpless widgeon he’d feared. Truth was, she was adapting to the lonely, hard life of a rancher’s wife better than he could have hoped for. She was well on her way to winning the hearts of his daughter, his ranch hands, his neighbors … hell, anyone who got to know her. And with each victory his defenses grew harder to sustain.

While he might resent her for fitting in so well, he found himself admiring her grit. She was strong in her own way—tough and fragile at the same time. A combination that touched him in a way he didn’t want to admit. He didn’t like having to deal with her. Yet each time he lashed out at her, he only wound up feeling more vulnerable.

But he wasn’t going to drive her out of his life, Sloan conceded. It was time he accepted that.

He had married her, and he had to live with her.

She still unnerved him, though. Like the morning he heard gunshots coming from the north side of the house as he repaired tack in the barn while waiting for a sick cow to calve.

His heart thudding with alarm, Sloan broke into a run, drawing his Colts along the way. He slowed as he reached the corner of the house and edged his way around cautiously, every nerve alert for danger.

He took in the scene in an instant: The empty fruit tins standing upright on the ground. Heather picking herself up off the ground, muttering to herself. The shotgun lying where she had dropped it.

Relief flooded Sloan with such overwhelming force that he had to lean weakly against the timber siding. Evidently she’d only been practicing shooting and had been knocked on her elegant backside. The only thing in any danger was the split-rail fence some twenty yards beyond her target cans.

It might have been relief making him lightheaded, but the sight of the duchess cussing so inadequately as she dusted off her skirts was somehow humorous.

“You dratted, ornery, son-of-a… of a bluebell…”

Sloan holstered his guns. “Remind me to teach you some real swear words sometime,” he said, chuckling.

Heather spun around, to find him leaning lazily against the house, hands on hips, dry amusement kicking up one corner of his mouth.