Wind River Wrangler

by Lindsay McKenna

  Now, Shiloh felt the adrenaline leaving her body. She was exhausted. She had to do something to break this cycle.

  Slowly getting to her feet, she shuffled stiffly to her desk where she wrote. The window was curtained, a transparent white chiffon that made the other skyscrapers of New York look like archetypal symbols in a fog. Every book she’d written had been written at this desk.

  Looking at the phone, she wondered if she could write anywhere else but here. Shiloh had never traveled outside the city. She lived in a fishbowl, but she was happy in it, with no need to go elsewhere. Everything she needed or wanted was right here. What should she tell Maud? The truth? That she was a coward? Running away from a fight? Couldn’t take it anymore? That’s how Shiloh felt: tired, beaten, and maneuvered into a corner where there was no escape. Just as Anton had shoved her mother into the corner of the kitchen, trapping her so he could stab her to death. She had no way to escape, either.

  But Shiloh did.

  Suddenly, she didn’t care what Maud or her editor thought of her. She’d tried to dismiss the stalker. Tried to work with the police. But still, the stranger tormented her. Maybe if she was gone for two months, her nemesis would leave. No more faxes. No more heavy breathing over the phone. No more doorknobs twisting one way and then the other, the stalker wanting in to get to her.

  With new determination, Shiloh picked up the phone, praying that Maud would allow her to travel to Wyoming for a visit to see her. It was the only hope she had left.

  * * *

  “Roan?” Maud Whitcomb called from the steps of the Wind River Ranch office porch. She waved toward a cowboy mounted on a blood bay quarter horse. He rode like he was born to the saddle, his gray Stetson low over his eyes, shading them from the welcome overhead sunlight. She saw him turn his gelding her way instead of heading down to where he and other wranglers were going to push about twenty head of cattle from one pasture to another.

  She held on to her bright red baseball cap as the breeze picked up. When Roan drew near, she called, “I need to talk with you for a moment.” She saw the man’s hard, lined, and weathered face remain unchanged. It was his gray eyes that narrowed slightly. Maud pulled the screen door open and walked back to her office. Her husband, Steve Whitcomb, was behind the counter. This was where all the tourists coming in for a weeklong vacation would check in.

  “I want to talk with Roan in back for a moment,” she told Steve. Usually, Maud manned the desk midweek, fussing over paperwork, and her sixty-year-old husband was off with the wranglers doing ranch work to keep the place up and running.

  “Got it,” he told her, giving her a wink.

  Roan opened the door, brushed his dusty boots off before entering. Taking off his Stetson, he nodded toward Steve, who nodded back.

  “Come to the other office,” Maud called, waving Roan to follow her.

  Frowning, Roan wondered what was up. He was part of the wranglers behind the scenes who kept the largest ranch in the valley operational. He wanted nothing to do with the dude ranch families who came here on vacation.

  He hit his hat against his thigh and dust flew off it. In long, casual strides, he headed down the highly waxed oak floor to the other office Maud had disappeared into. His curiosity was piqued because for the two years he’d worked at the ranch, Maud had never asked him to come into the office to speak privately with her. Other than giving him raises that he’d earned through a lot of hard, consistent work, she rarely called him aside.

  Entering the office, he saw Maud sitting behind her messy desk. She’d taken off her baseball cap, her silver and black hair short and just below her ears. She was frowning, her expression worried.

  “Shut the door, Roan. Thanks.”

  His straight, dark brown brows rose a little over the request. “What is this, Maud? A stealthy new procedure now in practice around the ranch?” Roan asked, giving her a teasing grin as he came over and settled in the chair. It was a normal chair but he wasn’t normal size. He was six foot two and two hundred pounds of brute muscle. Good thing it didn’t have arms on it or he’d never have fit into it. The metal chair squeaked as he sat down, hat resting on his long, hard thigh.

  Maud chuckled a little and leaned back in the chair, rocking it slightly. “Some things need to be said behind closed doors.”

  “Sounds serious.” Roan saw the sparkle in her eyes. Maud was fifty-five years old and a force to be reckoned with. The ranch had been in Steve Whitcomb’s family for a hundred years. He’d asked Maud to run the Wind River Ranch because he was a world famous architect. She’d put the ranch on the map decades earlier with the help of her husband, Steve. Both were damned hard workers, regardless of their age, and that had Roan’s respect. Steve liked escaping his always busy architectural practice and throwing a leg over a good horse and working with the wranglers whenever he could. It was one of the few ranches in Wyoming to be flourishing, thanks to his wife’s vision and passion for this valley.

  “Well, it’s serious enough.” Maud pulled out a color photo from her pocket and slid it across the desk to Roan. “And the reason I’m roping you into this is because you used to be Army Special Forces. You have skills and talents most of my other wranglers don’t, with some exceptions like Cord McCall who is an ex-Delta Force operator.”

  Nodding, Roan said, “McCall is a good man.”

  “And he’s doing wonders with our new River Walk Hiking Trail,” Maud agreed. The mighty Snake River ran parallel to Highway 89. Both ran through the ranch. Maud figured to take advantage of the situation. Her idea for a River Walk had met with enthusiasm from tourists driving through the area, on their way to Jackson Hole, fifty miles north of where they were at. Now, families would stop, take a break from the driving, sit and have an impromptu picnic at one of the many wooden tables, and hike along the lush, beautiful Snake River. It was money in the ranch coffers to keep their business vibrant and healthy.

  She looked up at Roan. “This conversation is between you and me. Of course, my husband, Steve, already knows about it.”

  “You got it,” Roan murmured, picking up the photo. Looking at it, he felt his chest expand. It was a helluva unexpected reaction. One he’d never had before. The red-haired vixen staring at him with huge evergreen-colored eyes, her face oval, with a perfect nose and stubborn chin, made his heart beat harder. That was a strange reaction to have to a picture, and Roan unconsciously rubbed his chest beneath the chambray shirt he wore. It was damp and clung to him. “Who is this?”

  “She’s a dear friend of ours,” Maud began worriedly. “Her name is Shiloh Gallagher. Years ago, I bought some paintings from Isabella Gallagher, her mother. She was a very famous oil painting artist whose work with landscape is well known. I met her daughter, Shiloh, who was five years old at that time when I first met her.” She touched her brow. “It’s a really sad story,” she admitted. “I made a lasting friendship with Isabella and her husband over those years because I liked them. Never mind the money I spent acquiring her paintings,” Maud said, and smiled fondly. “But they are worth every penny. Anyway, I fell in love with her daughter. Her husband, Jeffrey Gallagher, was a best-selling thriller writer. He’d been in the Air Force, a jet fighter pilot, got out and married Isabella, and started writing for a living. Jeff was a wonderful man,” Maud said wistfully. “Handsome devil, loved his wife and daughter like they were sacred beings.”

  “Sounds like a pretty happy, creative family,” Roan said.

  “All creative to their bones. Yes. Anyway, six months after I’d first met them, Jeffrey died of a massive heart attack. God, he was only thirty-five years old, Roan. Such a loss. It was completely unexpected. He and Isabella had a love that was so rare and beautiful,” Maud said, her voice going soft. She shook her head. “Like the love I have with my husband. We married when I was twenty and we’re the best of friends and we love each other. You just don’t see that kind of love very often, Roan. And when you do, if it happens to you, you savor it, you keep the flame of it alive an
d strong because real love IS rare.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think the love bug is going to bite me, Maud, so I don’t have to worry about it.”

  She snorted and gave him a one-eyebrow-raised look. “Roan Taggart, you’re a damn fine-lookin’ man. I see the way women look at you in Wind River.”

  Shrugging, he said, “I’m not cut out for settling down, Maud. Let’s just leave it at that.” He held up the photo. “So, she’s the daughter of your friend Isabella?”

  “Yes, but I need to tell you more sad stories,” and she went on to fill Roan in on the fact that Isabella had been murdered by Shiloh’s stepfather, Anton Leath, when the girl was only ten years old.

  She saw the line of the wrangler’s mouth tighten, his eyes turning that icy gray when he was upset about something. Maud didn’t see it often because Taggart was what she called an interior person. One never knew what he was thinking or feeling unless he wanted to let you know about it. Stoic was a word Maud would use to label the tall, powerful wrangler. She was sure it was because of his black ops background. Cord McCall, was similar, but not as hard to read as Roan. They were different, she supposed, due to their military experiences. One look at Roan’s deeply tanned face, the harsh lines at the corners of his eyes, and Maud knew he spent his military years out in the harsh elements. He was no desk jockey, that was for sure.

  “Now, Shiloh called me an hour ago. The poor girl is at her wit’s end,” Maud began, and then dove into the reason why, that currently, she had an unknown stalker after her for the last six months. She told him the entire situation. “She can’t write. She’s a best-selling author like her daddy was, but this never-ending situation has her so shaken and terrorized that she’s mentally paralyzed by it all.”

  Frowning, Roan growled, “That’s a helluva note, Maud, that the police are telling her it’s all in her head. Where do they get off saying that?”

  Maud gave him a frustrated look. “Darned if I know, Roan. It isn’t right. Anyway, Shiloh asked if she could come out for a visit for two months. Stay with us. The only place I can put her is where you’re staying: It’s the only employee house that isn’t filled. It has three bedrooms and currently, you’re the only one in the house. I wanted to find out if you’d be all right with that arrangement. There’s a kitchen, living room, and office for anyone staying there. But you’d be sharing living quarters with her and I needed to feel you out before I tell her it’s okay to come West for a while.”

  Roan studied the photo in his hand. Shiloh Gallagher had to be twenty-nine years old according to what Maud had told him. Damned if she didn’t look twenty-five or so, her features unlined. She wasn’t model pretty, but she had an arresting face, with huge intelligent-looking green eyes. His gaze dropped to her mouth and he felt himself stir. Her mouth would make any man go crazy. Her upper lip was full, but thinner than her lower one. The shape of her mouth made him feel heat in his lower body. “Is she married?”

  “No. Single. Never did marry. I don’t know why. Shiloh’s a beautiful girl.”

  She was hardly a girl, but Roan said nothing because he was fully reacting to her as a woman. He wondered if she was curvy or rail thin. He was disgruntled over his avid curiosity. “I have no problem with it. You know I get up early and come in late. She’s going to have to fend for herself. I’m not cooking for her.”

  “Right,” Maud agreed. “She’s pretty shaken up, Roan. You might find that stressful until, hopefully, Shiloh will start to relax.”

  Shrugging, he slid the photo onto the desk. “Maud, I just hope I don’t stress her out with my award-winning personality,” he said, and he cracked a small, sour grin.

  Maud cackled. “I think you’ll like her, Roan. She’s a very kind person. An introvert like you. Just remember, she’s trying to write. Because of the stalking, she’s suffering from writer’s block and she’s got a book due to her editor in six months. So, she’s under a lot of other pressure.”

  “I’ll handle it, Maud. No problem.”

  “Good,” Maud said, relieved. She sat up in the chair. “I’ll call Shiloh back, let her know she can come, and I’ll find out what time she’s arriving tomorrow. I’d like you to pick her up at the Jackson Hole Airport. So take that photo with you.”

  He stood, settling the cowboy hat on his head. “Don’t need the photo.” Because her face was already stamped across his heart. Whatever that meant. “I’ll find her after she deplanes, don’t worry. Just get back to me on the time.” Roan thought Maud looked more than relieved. He knew from being around the matriarch for two years that she cared deeply not only for her family and friends, but for those who worked here at the ranch. Maud treated everyone as her children, loved them to death, nurtured them, held them when they were hurting, and celebrated when happy things happened in their lives. She was a well-loved icon in the long, oval valley. She’d even rubbed off on him, which was a miracle in itself. He smiled occasionally now, thanks to her mother-henning him. She was tall, five foot nine inches, but she’d hugged the hell out of him sometimes, just to let him know he was loved by her.

  “Will do,” Maud murmured. She gave him a warm look. “Thanks for doing this, Roan.”

  “Anything to be of service, Maud.” He lifted his hand, turned, and opened the door. Maud had allowed him to choose five acres on the ranch to build his own cabin, which he was in the process of doing. She wanted her employees to be happy. She paid them well and Roan felt damned lucky to have driven in one day and asked if they needed another wrangler. Thank God they did. Maud and Steve had given him respect and liked hiring military vets because they were such hard, consistent workers. Roan had thought getting a job after leaving Special Forces would be tough. But it hadn’t been. He owed the Whitcombs a lot.

  Chapter Two

  Shiloh wearily stepped beyond the security area of the Jackson Hole Airport, a knapsack on her back, her computer in a nylon carrying case across her shoulder. Maud had said she was sending one of her wranglers, a Roan Taggart, to meet her at the airport.

  Midafternoon sunlight lanced through the windows of the small but busy airport. She thought it would be easy to pick out the wrangler, but every man here, just about, wore a cowboy hat, boots, or a baseball cap. The writer in her, the observer, took note of the clothes they wore, listened to their dialect, the words they used. She halted near the wall and looked around.

  “Ms. Gallagher?”

  Shiloh jumped. She almost screamed at the man’s low, deep voice coming from behind her. Heart leaping like a wild thing in her chest, she whirled around, her eyes huge with fear. Her gaze shot upward to look into the man’s craggy, weather-lined face. Mouth going dry, she felt mesmerized by his pale gray eyes, the pupils large and black, glittering with intelligence. He wore a set of jeans, a white cowboy shirt, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, a gray Stetson hanging loosely between his long fingers. His hands were large and work worn. There was nothing soft about this man. The word tough came to mind. Not only that, he was tall like a New York City skyscraper, his shoulders incredibly broad. She looked at his forearms dusted with hair, the muscles taut from a lot of work. Gulping, she said, “Yes, I’m Shiloh. A-are you Mr. Roan Taggart?” Her heart nearly melted when he gave her a slight smile, warmth replacing his icy gray gaze.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. May I get your luggage over at the carousel? If you’ll point out the bags to me?”

  Now her heart was swelling in her chest and it wasn’t from fear. Sexuality oozed off this man like rain being soaked into thirsty, dry ground. Her lower body felt suddenly hot and needy. When he swept his gaze across her face, lingering on her breasts beneath the pale green tee she wore, to her chagrin, her nipples began to harden. Oh! Embarrassment! She saw a flicker of some emotion in his narrowing gray eyes for a split second, and then it disappeared. Her pulse leaped.

  The man was not pretty-boy handsome. Rather, he was stoic-looking and simmering with closeted power she felt tight
ly wrapped around him. The elements had sculpted his flesh and as he had lifted his hand to place the cowboy hat over his short brown hair, she saw the calluses across his palm and fingers. An unexpected warmth sizzled through her, easing her nervousness. Did she see concern in his eyes? Shiloh wasn’t sure as she wove in and out of the crowd toward the carousel where luggage was arriving.

  “I’m afraid I have a lot of bags,” she apologized.

  Roan deliberately cut his long stride in half for her. Damned if Shiloh Gallagher wasn’t twice as good-looking in person as in that photo of her. She had long red hair and when they crossed a slat of sunlight, Roan saw the gold and ginger highlights among the strands. Tall and willowy, she was small-breasted. He liked the natural sway of her rounded hips, thinking her butt was one fine piece of real estate. Roan wasn’t immune to an attractive woman. He always appreciated them. Shiloh, however, for being a best-selling author, looked more like a young woman who was a hiker and outdoors person, not some stuffy, famous person. She wore comfortable jeans and had on a pair of tennis shoes. No one would ever look at her and think she was a writer, used to sitting at a computer. Roan smiled to himself. Looks were always deceiving. Or? What was the saying? Don’t judge a book by its cover?

  As a Special Forces operator, his life depended upon being observant. He was ruthless in his observation of Shiloh Gallagher. Some of her red hair was in a long, thick braid, falling between her shoulder blades. He could tell she was working out by just her graceful walk. Her hands were supple, fingers long, nails blunt cut. The only scent around her was her own, unique feminine scent that stirred up lust in him. Glad she didn’t wear perfume; in the house it would be hell on his sensitive nose. He did pick up a subtle honeysuckle fragrance, figuring it was probably the soap she used either on her hair or her skin.