tenderness he’d given so unwillingly last night; another wanting to rail at him for shutting her out so coldly; another yearning to understand the deep sorrow she sensed in him, the complex forces that had made him the uncompromising stranger he was.
Taking her bag, Sloan led her to the buckboard and handed her up. When he considerately tucked a blanket over her skirts, she thought of those hands touching her last night.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her face flushing from the vivid recollection.
“It’ll be cold,” he replied matter-of-factly. Climbing up beside her, he gave her a single glance before the brim of his hat shaded his face. “Jake and Cat will be expecting us. I sent them a telegram.”
She nodded, trying to forget the memory of his hard fingers and soft mouth, of his heated lips on her skin.
Sloan slapped the reins and the team moved forward. Leaving the crowded depot behind, they traveled along streets lined with ornate false-fronted buildings and bustling stores and less refined saloons.
As they left the city, they maintained a mutual silence, Sloan concentrating on driving over roads patched with ice and mud, while Heather studied the scenery. The land surrounding Denver was flat prairie dotted with shrub, yet the snow-covered mountains seemed quite close, shining in the distance.
Eventually the level grassland gave way to rugged hills flecked with cattle and the occasional ranch. The cold air had a cleaner, sweeter smell here, it seemed, while the view from the ridgetops was utterly spectacular. Beyond the foothills the main range of the Rockies rose up in jagged splendor, their snowy peaks glistening in the sunlight, their slopes covered with frosted ponderosa pine and tall spruce and bare, white-trunked aspen.
Heather found herself staring in awe. It was an unbelievably beautiful country, splendorous and wild, with a sheer vastness that was breathtaking.
Once toward sunset, Sloan drew the team to a halt and sat for a moment in silence, regarding the panorama. Heather could understand his reverence for the untamed grandeur. The mountains had turned purple and gold as the sun slid down their massive shoulders.
When he glanced at her to gauge her reaction, she offered him a quiet smile. “It’s beautiful.”
“God’s country,” he said simply.
A while later they heard the staccato sound of hoofbeats behind them. With one hand Sloan reached for the rifle stowed in the scabbard beside the wagon seat. He kept the weapon slung across his knees until the three riders, all older cowboys, passed with a greeting and a tip of their hats.
“Are you expecting trouble?” Heather asked in a low voice when they were alone.
“No, but the range war hasn’t been over long enough to go around unarmed. I want you to always carry a gun with you when you travel.”
Hearing his grim tone, Heather recalled soberly what Caitlin had told her—that Sloan’s Indian wife had been killed by gunmen while simply driving home.
The road became rougher as it grew dark, with boulders and ruts and broken snow choking the trail. Sloan made frequent use of the brake on the steep inclines and had to dismount several times to lead the horses through particularly treacherous patches. Shortly, though, a full moon rose to bathe the countryside in pale luminescence, lighting the way. As they edged alongside dangerous precipices, Heather clung to the rocking buckboard, yet somehow she felt safe in Sloan’s care.
The bitter cold was another question. She buried her face in the wool blanket as she found herself shivering.
“Not much farther,” Sloan said sympathetically. “We’ll turn off before we reach Greenbriar.”
Heather nodded. Caitlin had told her about the town that was the local watering hole for ranchers and miners.
“Is Greenbriar part of the district you would represent if you run for the state senate?” she asked.
Sloan gave her an odd look, as if surprised she would concern herself with such
Taking her bag, Sloan led her to the buckboard and handed her up. When he considerately tucked a blanket over her skirts, she thought of those hands touching her last night.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her face flushing from the vivid recollection.
“It’ll be cold,” he replied matter-of-factly. Climbing up beside her, he gave her a single glance before the brim of his hat shaded his face. “Jake and Cat will be expecting us. I sent them a telegram.”
She nodded, trying to forget the memory of his hard fingers and soft mouth, of his heated lips on her skin.
Sloan slapped the reins and the team moved forward. Leaving the crowded depot behind, they traveled along streets lined with ornate false-fronted buildings and bustling stores and less refined saloons.
As they left the city, they maintained a mutual silence, Sloan concentrating on driving over roads patched with ice and mud, while Heather studied the scenery. The land surrounding Denver was flat prairie dotted with shrub, yet the snow-covered mountains seemed quite close, shining in the distance.
Eventually the level grassland gave way to rugged hills flecked with cattle and the occasional ranch. The cold air had a cleaner, sweeter smell here, it seemed, while the view from the ridgetops was utterly spectacular. Beyond the foothills the main range of the Rockies rose up in jagged splendor, their snowy peaks glistening in the sunlight, their slopes covered with frosted ponderosa pine and tall spruce and bare, white-trunked aspen.
Heather found herself staring in awe. It was an unbelievably beautiful country, splendorous and wild, with a sheer vastness that was breathtaking.
Once toward sunset, Sloan drew the team to a halt and sat for a moment in silence, regarding the panorama. Heather could understand his reverence for the untamed grandeur. The mountains had turned purple and gold as the sun slid down their massive shoulders.
When he glanced at her to gauge her reaction, she offered him a quiet smile. “It’s beautiful.”
“God’s country,” he said simply.
A while later they heard the staccato sound of hoofbeats behind them. With one hand Sloan reached for the rifle stowed in the scabbard beside the wagon seat. He kept the weapon slung across his knees until the three riders, all older cowboys, passed with a greeting and a tip of their hats.
“Are you expecting trouble?” Heather asked in a low voice when they were alone.
“No, but the range war hasn’t been over long enough to go around unarmed. I want you to always carry a gun with you when you travel.”
Hearing his grim tone, Heather recalled soberly what Caitlin had told her—that Sloan’s Indian wife had been killed by gunmen while simply driving home.
The road became rougher as it grew dark, with boulders and ruts and broken snow choking the trail. Sloan made frequent use of the brake on the steep inclines and had to dismount several times to lead the horses through particularly treacherous patches. Shortly, though, a full moon rose to bathe the countryside in pale luminescence, lighting the way. As they edged alongside dangerous precipices, Heather clung to the rocking buckboard, yet somehow she felt safe in Sloan’s care.
The bitter cold was another question. She buried her face in the wool blanket as she found herself shivering.
“Not much farther,” Sloan said sympathetically. “We’ll turn off before we reach Greenbriar.”
Heather nodded. Caitlin had told her about the town that was the local watering hole for ranchers and miners.
“Is Greenbriar part of the district you would represent if you run for the state senate?” she asked.
Sloan gave her an odd look, as if surprised she would concern herself with such
Similar Books
