her earlier. At last she was now free of his control.
It should have been liberating. Yet all she could feel was a sense of trepidation.
Had she merely exchanged one problem for another? At least with Evan she had managed to maintain some measure of independence. But after tomorrow, she would be tied to Sloan McCord in holy matrimony … for life.
There would be no turning back.
“It will work out for the best, you’ll see,” Winnie murmured, patting her hand.
Heather wished she could be so certain. Her mouth twisted in a faint smile. “Mr. McCord doesn’t believe that I’m … woman enough to handle him.”
Winifred’s eyebrow rose. “Doesn’t he, now?”
“I expect he’s right.”
Affectionately the elderly widow tucked her arm into Heather’s. “Well, we’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we? Gentlemen like innocence in their brides, but
ignorance
is another thing entirely. We can’t have you going to your bridal bower without any notion of how to go on.”
Winnie smiled, her blue eyes twinkling. “I think an intimate little talk about men is in order, dear.”
Chapter 3
S loan lay awake in the darkened hotel room, only half listening to the unaccustomed night sounds of the nearby train depot and river docks. His mind was focused unwillingly on his bride-to-be … the sweetness of her taste, the lush softness of her body … her total unsuitability to be his wife.
Damn it to hell, how had he gotten himself into this fix? This time tomorrow he would be saddled with a woman he had no business marrying. And he was fifteen hundred dollars poorer to boot—
A creaking floorboard from out in the hallway alerted him to the presence of a visitor. Cautiously Sloan reached for his revolver, his instincts roused in warning.
A soft rap sounded on the door. “Mr. McCord?” an aristocratic male voice called out.
The accent was vaguely familiar. Sloan rose from the bed and opened the door. A gentleman in black evening attire and satin opera cape stood there, looking doubtful. He eyed the six-shooter with mild surprise.
“You are a difficult man to find,” Evan Randolf said dryly. “I’ve made inquiries at nearly every hotel and tavern in town.”
Sloan caught the subtle disdain in his visitor’s tone. The Muleskinner Hotel was not the lodging a rich railroad baron would have chosen, he knew. But he’d settled for it because it was cheaper. Tomorrow morning he would visit the bathhouse down the street in order to spruce up for his wedding. Other than his boots and hat, he was still fully dressed, both to ward off the chill of the unheated room and to be prepared for any trouble.
“I’m a cattleman. I’m used to roughing it,” Sloan replied casually. “Now that you’ve found me, what can I do for you … Randolf, is it?”
“Yes, Evan Randolf. May I come in?”
Sloan stepped aside, allowing his visitor into the darkened room.
“Would you mind lighting a lamp, so that we might hold a conversation in a civilized fashion?”
Sloan preferred to keep Randolf at a disadvantage, but he struck a match and set it to the wick of the lamp beside the bed. A yellow glow burgeoned in the darkness, casting flickering shadows against the bare walls.
“The Claridge or the Warwick Hotel both offer far better accommodations, you know,” Randolf drawled in that same mocking tone.
“Have a seat,” Sloan replied, ignoring the comment. He gestured toward the single chair in the room, a wooden rocker.
There was a moment’s hesitation before Randolf gave a grudging sigh and moved forward to settle there. Sloan took the bed. He propped his back against the wall while keeping his revolver in his lap.
“I understand you visited my bank today and made a payment in Miss Ashford’s name, to close out her account.”
“What if I did?” Sloan said unhelpfully.
Evan Randolf’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ve made inquiries by telegram about you, sir. And I must say I am …
It should have been liberating. Yet all she could feel was a sense of trepidation.
Had she merely exchanged one problem for another? At least with Evan she had managed to maintain some measure of independence. But after tomorrow, she would be tied to Sloan McCord in holy matrimony … for life.
There would be no turning back.
“It will work out for the best, you’ll see,” Winnie murmured, patting her hand.
Heather wished she could be so certain. Her mouth twisted in a faint smile. “Mr. McCord doesn’t believe that I’m … woman enough to handle him.”
Winifred’s eyebrow rose. “Doesn’t he, now?”
“I expect he’s right.”
Affectionately the elderly widow tucked her arm into Heather’s. “Well, we’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we? Gentlemen like innocence in their brides, but
ignorance
is another thing entirely. We can’t have you going to your bridal bower without any notion of how to go on.”
Winnie smiled, her blue eyes twinkling. “I think an intimate little talk about men is in order, dear.”
Chapter 3
S loan lay awake in the darkened hotel room, only half listening to the unaccustomed night sounds of the nearby train depot and river docks. His mind was focused unwillingly on his bride-to-be … the sweetness of her taste, the lush softness of her body … her total unsuitability to be his wife.
Damn it to hell, how had he gotten himself into this fix? This time tomorrow he would be saddled with a woman he had no business marrying. And he was fifteen hundred dollars poorer to boot—
A creaking floorboard from out in the hallway alerted him to the presence of a visitor. Cautiously Sloan reached for his revolver, his instincts roused in warning.
A soft rap sounded on the door. “Mr. McCord?” an aristocratic male voice called out.
The accent was vaguely familiar. Sloan rose from the bed and opened the door. A gentleman in black evening attire and satin opera cape stood there, looking doubtful. He eyed the six-shooter with mild surprise.
“You are a difficult man to find,” Evan Randolf said dryly. “I’ve made inquiries at nearly every hotel and tavern in town.”
Sloan caught the subtle disdain in his visitor’s tone. The Muleskinner Hotel was not the lodging a rich railroad baron would have chosen, he knew. But he’d settled for it because it was cheaper. Tomorrow morning he would visit the bathhouse down the street in order to spruce up for his wedding. Other than his boots and hat, he was still fully dressed, both to ward off the chill of the unheated room and to be prepared for any trouble.
“I’m a cattleman. I’m used to roughing it,” Sloan replied casually. “Now that you’ve found me, what can I do for you … Randolf, is it?”
“Yes, Evan Randolf. May I come in?”
Sloan stepped aside, allowing his visitor into the darkened room.
“Would you mind lighting a lamp, so that we might hold a conversation in a civilized fashion?”
Sloan preferred to keep Randolf at a disadvantage, but he struck a match and set it to the wick of the lamp beside the bed. A yellow glow burgeoned in the darkness, casting flickering shadows against the bare walls.
“The Claridge or the Warwick Hotel both offer far better accommodations, you know,” Randolf drawled in that same mocking tone.
“Have a seat,” Sloan replied, ignoring the comment. He gestured toward the single chair in the room, a wooden rocker.
There was a moment’s hesitation before Randolf gave a grudging sigh and moved forward to settle there. Sloan took the bed. He propped his back against the wall while keeping his revolver in his lap.
“I understand you visited my bank today and made a payment in Miss Ashford’s name, to close out her account.”
“What if I did?” Sloan said unhelpfully.
Evan Randolf’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ve made inquiries by telegram about you, sir. And I must say I am …
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