He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He spent endless hours in an agonized struggle with his conscience. He told himself it was right—evil right—to make his marriage real. What better way to crush Andrew Sinclair than to take his daughter away from him? He told himself it was right—true right—to make his marriage real. When Andrew Sinclair lost his ranch, he could take care of Victoria. He could get a job as a ranch foreman somewhere north. Montana. Wyoming. He could provide for her. Then he told himself it was not all right in any way at all. She needed to be able to marry one of those affluent men her father had talked about. And that was the thought that got him out of bed. The thought of her married to someone else. Right or wrong, he didn’t know. But he knew he had to do it. He got up in the faint glow of moonlight and took his yellow shirt from the bedpost where he’d slung it. He shoved his arms into the sleeves, tearing another seam. His bare feet were soundless on the floor as he padded out of the room.
