Sloan bit back any further comment, not trusting himself to speak as he urged the bay through the deepening snow. Brutally he clamped down on the emotion he refused to recognize as protectiveness. He didn’t want to examine any of his emotions too closely. What he wanted was to punish Heather for scaring him so. His relief at finding her unhurt was no compensation for the stark terror she had put him through.

When at last they reached the house, Sloan set her down none too gently. “Get inside and get warm. I’ll see to the horse.”

Heather could barely move, she was so cold, but she forced herself to climb the back porch. Rusty was waiting for her inside, a worried frown on his weathered face.

Gently, yet fussy as a mother hen, the cowboy helped her remove her wet coat and bonnet and gloves and led her to the stove. Solicitously, he poured her a steaming mug of coffee, but her frozen fingers couldn’t bear the heat. She took a sip and gave it back. Instead she held her icy hands out to the stove and stood there trembling as painful feeling began to return to her numb limbs.

She hadn’t moved when Sloan came in a moment later. He took one look at his wife, then nodded to his hired hand.

“Thanks, Rusty, I’ll handle things now. You can go back to bed.”

The silence when he was gone was terrible. Left alone with Sloan, she risked a glance at him. He was watching her, his blue eyes icy and lethal.

“I … I’m s-sorry,” she murmured.

His jaw hardened. “Sorry isn’t good enough, duchess. What the hell were you thinking? You could have died out there.”

She shuddered and swayed weakly. His hands were there—rough, impersonal, catching her.

“C-Caitlin needed me,” she replied, tears crowding her throat like jagged rocks.

“So did Janna! You left her alone with no one but a cowhand to care for her.”

“Would you r-rather I’d exposed her to the snowstorm?”

Sloan ground his teeth. Janna’s welfare wasn’t what really worried him—Rusty had seen to her well enough. It was Heather who had scared the hell out of him. He had feared for her life.

He was furious that she should endanger herself that way. He couldn’t forgive her either for the anguished memories she’d aroused, the helpless, suffocating feeling of panic that had risen like bile in his throat. She might have died and he would have been helpless to prevent it. Just like Doe.

His fear took the form of anger; the rise of his protective instincts made him even angrier.