More than anything, he liked the freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. It made him feel good that she didn’t try to cover them up with makeup. She wore pink lipstick, but he could discern no other cosmetics. It seemed that Shiloh, despite being a bona fide city slicker, liked to be au natural.
Roan wondered if her mother, Isabella, had been the same way. Maybe he’d find out later because Shiloh seemed shy. He sensed a lot of vulnerability about her and wondered if she was able to protect herself. Could she defend herself if needed?
Shiloh had walked ahead of him and Roan watched as she halted and helped a gray-haired lady among the travelers who had accidentally dropped her purse. Roan stopped, assessing the interaction. Shiloh was the only one who seemed concerned. She quickly picked up the purse, smiling at the woman, chatting with her, helping her place the strap back upon her rounded shoulder. She asked if she needed more help. The woman said she did, so Roan walked over and cocked his head toward Shiloh.
“Can I be of help here?” he asked her.
Nodding, Shiloh kept her hand on the elder’s arm. “Yes. This is Mrs. Ellie Sanders. She has a bag, Mr. Taggart. Could you possibly get it and carry it out for her? She’s meeting her brother who hasn’t shown up yet.”
Tipping his hat to the elder, Roan said, “Ma’am? Why not show me which bag is yours? I’ll be happy to carry it out for you.”
Ellie gave him a look of relief. “Oh, thank you, son. My brother will be here shortly. If you can just carry it outside to the benches, I’ll wait for him there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.
Shiloh kept her arm on the woman because she limped badly and didn’t seem all that sturdy.
Grateful that Roan would do this for her, Shiloh wondered if the hardness of his facial features was only skin-deep. She’d watched his eyes turn kind, his deep voice grow gentle as he chatted respectfully with unsteady Ellie. As a writer, she gleaned information from small things, such as voice, body language, and watching a person’s eyes. Humorously, Shiloh thought Taggart would make a great romance hero. He wasn’t pretty and he wasn’t exactly charming, rather rough-hewn. But he had courtly manners and he was kind to the flustered Ellie, so he got a gold star from her because of that.
As Shiloh stood at the carousel waiting for her luggage to appear, she watched Roan with the elder who was half his size. He didn’t try to hurry her or force her to walk faster than she could. She watched Ellie fall under his spell. Who wouldn’t? Shiloh almost swore she saw the woman become more plucky, more active, smiling all the time with rugged Roan Taggart at her side. Yeah, this cowboy could make a woman feel really good about herself.
Frowning, she turned and saw her first bag arrive, so she hauled it off the carousel and set it nearby. She had six bags in total since she was going to stay with Maud for two months. She knew Roan would be back in a few minutes after settling Ellie outside to wait for her brother.
It was utter pleasure watching Roan walk casually back into the airport and head in her direction. The man moved with a masculine grace Shiloh had rarely seen. And on him, it was a perfect fit with his rugged quality, his work-worn jeans, those ropy lower arms and large hands. There was such a blatant sensuality about him. His masculinity was squarely in her face. She noticed how many women’s heads swiveled as he strode by them. Tucking away her smile, Shiloh picked up her last suitcase and set it down next to the others.
“Got them all?” Roan asked, halting.
“Every last one of them.”
“It’ll take me two trips. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll take you to the truck?”
She snorted. “If you take three, I can get the other three.”
Roan gave her a steady look. “Code of the West, Ms. Gallagher. Men do the heavy hauling.”
She was about to protest but he wrapped his hand around her upper arm. The instant his fingers brushed her skin, wild, fiery tingles radiated in every direction. With a quick breath, Shiloh opened her mouth to protest.
“No excuses,” Roan growled, marching her in front of him.
She had the good grace not to put up a fight with the cowboy. Twisting a look across her shoulder, she said, “You wouldn’t last a day in New York City. Women are on their own there, believe me.” He probably opened doors for women too.
“I made the mistake of going there only once,” he said, taking the first three suitcases in hand. He saw the amusement deep in her green eyes, that wide, lush mouth of hers pulling tentatively into a smile. There was nothing to dislike about Shiloh. He especially liked her name. It rolled off his tongue like melted honey. And he’d like to taste that mouth of hers but, he darkly reminded himself, she was Maud’s guest.
After leading her to the white Chevy pickup truck with WIND RIVER RANCH painted on the door, he opened it for her. “Climb in,” Roan said, putting the suitcases in the rear bed. The sun was warm and bright in a cloudy blue sky. Roan walked back and retrieved the rest of her luggage. As he slid into the truck, he asked, “Did Maud tell you that you’ll be staying over at one of the employee houses? That there’s a room waiting for you?”
“Yes.” Roan filled the cab of the truck. Somehow, and she didn’t know how, Shiloh felt a very protective feeling extending invisibly from him to her. She felt embraced by it and it was wonderful, de-stressing her. Maybe it was the warm look he gave her as their eyes briefly met? As if he was trying to reassure her?
“Then you know you’ll be doing your own cooking?” Roan saw her nod. “Do you feel like going over to the local grocery store to buy your food? Things you like to eat?”
“Sure. It will feel good to be able to walk around for a while. My legs are cramped up from that darned economy seat in the plane.”
Driving slowly out to the asphalt road that would take them into Jackson Hole, Roan said, “I thought you were a best-selling author.”
“I am. Why?”
Shrugging, Roan murmured, “Just thought all you authors were rich.”
“I wish it were true,” she said. “I make a decent living, but I’m not rich. Maybe later, if my books continue to be popular, that might happen.”
“So that’s why you flew the cattle car instead of business or first class?”
Shiloh nodded, already in love with the sharp, jagged peaks rising in the west near the airport. “Right. What are these beautiful mountains called?”
“The Grand Tetons, but we’ll be driving for about an hour south of here. In the Wind River Valley, where we’re going, you’ll see two mountain ranges on either side of it: the Salt River and Wilson ranges. They aren’t as exciting as the Tetons, but they’ll do.”
She sighed. “The Tetons are stunning.” And then she glanced at his rugged profile. “You’re lucky.”
“Well, you have canyons in New York City,” he said. “Skyscrapers are mountains of another type.”
“You’re a writer.”
Roan shook his head. “No way.”
“The way you see things. That’s creative. And you’re right: All the tall buildings do create canyons. And our skyscrapers do look like mountains.”
Roan shouldn’t feel good about her enthusiastic compliment, but he did. There was such an ease between them he could neither explain, stop, nor change. “Well,” he drawled, “I’m no writer.”
“I think everyone can write. Even if it’s into their personal diary. I have a wonderful software called Alembic. I put my daily journal entries in there.” She saw him give her a cool look. “Okay, maybe you don’t think you’re a writer. But you DO have a way with words.” She enjoyed going down the long hill. Far below she could see a town and assumed it was Jackson Hole. To her left was the Elk Refuge, a ten-foot fence for as far as she could see to keep the elk off the main highway.
“Let’s not talk about me,” Roan said gruffly, uncomfortable. “What kind of books do you write?”
Inwardly, Shiloh squirmed and then hesitated. Finally, she said, “I’m a romance writer.” She saw his brows
shoot up. Then, she saw that catlike grin cross his beautifully shaped mouth. Heat pummeled her face and she knew she was blushing! Tucking her hands tensely into her lap, she waited for what she knew was coming. Telling a man she was a romance writer was like green-lighting the guy to either make some snide remark about the genre or to believe it was a come-on, which usually led to him making a pass at her.
Giving her a sidelong glance, Roan saw she was blushing to her roots. He saw anxiety in her eyes, felt her defensiveness. It was even in her voice. “I don’t imagine you tell too many people what you write.”
Anger stirred in her. “I’m PROUD of what I write, Mr. Taggart. I’m not ashamed of it. I tend NOT to tell men precisely because of the way you’ve just reacted.”
So, the filly had some spunk in her after all. Roan wasn’t going to argue the point because she was right. “Maud said you were a best-seller. That means someone likes your books.” Roan really didn’t want to get into an adversarial position with Shiloh and upset her. Maud would be pissed off for starters. He thought he’d smoothed it over with that casual kind of comment.
It felt like steam was coming out of her ears as Shiloh sat there tensely, her hands knotted in her lap. It was a huge disappointment to her that Taggart was like any other male finding out about her occupation. Upon first meeting him, he seemed different. But in all fairness to him, Shiloh knew she was absolutely stressed out and she wasn’t seeing much of anything realistically right now because of the stalker. She rubbed her scrunched-up brow. “Look,” she whispered, “I’m really out of sorts, Mr. Taggart. Just the long flight. I don’t mean to come off as snarky.”
His heart winced. There was a wobble in her voice, as if she were going to cry. Giving Shiloh a glance, he saw her face hidden by a curtain of her red hair. “I’m the one who is at fault here, Ms. Gallagher. I apologize. You’re obviously a good writer and you have an audience who loves your books.” Roan wasn’t sure he should let her know he was aware of her stalker problems. She’d come out here to get away from them. He pulled into the grocery parking lot, glad for the diversion.
“Let’s go in and get you some grub,” he said, trying not to sound so gruff. Instantly, he saw her respond positively. How sensitive was this woman? He walked around and opened the door for her. Shiloh hesitantly took his hand and he helped her out. She looked at him as if he was going to bite her. He felt worse about the way he’d handled the conversation with her.
Shopping wasn’t really his thing. When Roan came to the store, he got what he wanted and was out as fast as possible, not liking crowds of people.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she laid her hand into his. There was regret in Taggart’s eyes. Her fingers tingled, encased by his rougher ones. In fact, it looked like her hand had been swallowed up by his.
To Roan’s surprise, she was quick and efficient. She knew what she wanted. There was enough food for a week in her cart and Roan carried the bags out to the truck for her. Shiloh was inquisitive, always looking around. Like him. Only she was very sensitive. She was a writer. Maybe there was some common ground he could plow with her. On the way back to the ranch, he decided to try again and, hopefully, not stir her up into defensiveness or anger.
“I noticed you observe a lot,” he said, sliding her a glance.
“Part of being a writer, I guess. My dad always did it. I probably picked it up unconsciously.”
“What are you looking for?” Roan wondered, driving down Highway 89 south, which would eventually allow them to leave the town behind. Fifty miles south lay the Wind River Valley.
Shrugging, Shiloh said, “Just the way people act or behave. Body language. Voice inflections. Facial expression. If I see something I haven’t got in my repertoire, I catalog up here,” and she tapped her head. “It helps me create believable and sympathetic characters my readers can fall in love with, root for, and put an emotional investment into.”
“Why do you say ‘sympathetic’?” Roan found himself wanting to talk to Shiloh. It wasn’t one of his finer points: carrying on a social conversation. He was usually abrupt and if one or two words would suffice, that was the end of his sentence. Maybe because he’d never been around a writer, she was like a bug under a microscope to him. His body begged to differ with him. There was something deep driving him to get to know her better. Maybe two months with a woman underfoot wasn’t going to be as bad as he thought it might be. He liked women. In bed. Outside of it? No. Of course, Maud Whitcomb was his employer, and he always enjoyed being around her.
Opening her hands, Shiloh said, “Readers of romances need to connect on a compassionate level with the hero and heroine. If one is unsympathetic, it turns them off and they’ll never buy another book from you. They want to emotionally connect with the characters.”
“Then,” Roan struggled, frowning, “these men are perfect?”
Shiloh laughed and felt heat moving into her face again. Every time Taggart looked at her, she felt as if he were looking through her and knew every secret she carried. “No. They have weaknesses and strengths, but not a fatal flaw.”
“Fatal flaw?”
“Yes. Some of the not-so-nice traits humans have like being a robber, a liar, or a murderer are some examples,” she said, her hand going to her neck as the gruesome spectacle rose in her once again. Shaking off memories of her mother’s murder, Shiloh said in a strained voice, “Developing a character is a lot of work. The hero and heroine have to be believable to the readers.”
“You’ll find plenty of characters here at the Wind River Ranch,” he said wryly, turning down the half-mile drive that would take them to the ranch.
Shiloh was thinking he was one himself, but said nothing. He’d probably take it the wrong way. “Have you always been a wrangler, Mr. Taggart?”
“Call me Roan. No, just the last two years.”
“Roan? That’s different. Where did you get that name?”
Now he was the bug under her microscope. He could feel Shiloh zeroing in on him. If it had been anyone but her, Roan would have shut them down in a helluva hurry. The look in her green eyes became sharpened and curious. “My parents.”
“But,” she stumbled, “was it a name of a favorite grandfather or uncle? That’s a very odd name and it’s very old. In fact, it goes back to Germany, I believe. It’s a derivation of the German word for raven.”
He slid her a glance. “You’re a walking encyclopedia. My father’s side came from Germany in the nineteen hundreds and settled in Montana. And yes, my grandfather’s name was Raven, so Dad decided to give me a variation of it.”
“I’m good,” she teased, giving him a smile. Her heart flipped when he smiled back at her. That mouth of Roan’s was dessert of the finest kind. It was a wide, chiseled mouth, his upper lip thinner than his lower lip. It was a mouth that shouted of masculinity and confidence. What would it be like to kiss this man? Shiloh winced inwardly. He was probably married with a pack of kids. Where was her head? Her body?
“You are good,” Roan murmured. He slowed down as they rolled into a populated area. The ranch sat in a flat area, mostly buildings and corrals. “Sometime you’ll have to tell me the story of how you got your name.”
“It’s interesting,” Shiloh promised, craning her neck, excited about seeing a real Western ranch. “How far is it to Wind River Ranch where I’ll be staying? Maud had said it was a long way from Jackson Hole.”
“It’s fifty miles as the crow flies,” Roan said. “But it goes through some pretty valley areas along the way.”
Shiloh saw the lush, green valley below the four-lane highway of 89A. “It looks like one of my mom’s paintings. She never did landscapes in this area, but over in Colorado and the Rocky Mountain area. Those were favorites of mine.”
“Wind River Valley got its name from the Snake River flowing north to south through it. The valley is nearly a hundred miles long and anywhere between twenty to fifty miles wide. It’s bracketed by two different mountain ranges. You’ll be able to
see the Salt River Range from the kitchen window of the employee house where you’ll be staying.”
“This is so different from New York City,” she sighed, relaxing for the first time in so long. She heard him chuckle but he said nothing further. Through half-closed eyes, tiredness lapping at her, Shiloh wanted to stay awake to absorb the beauty around her, but at some point, her eyes drooped closed.
* * *
The jolt of the truck leaving the asphalt highway and crossing a metal cattle guard that made a lot of racket jolted Shiloh out of her sleep. Momentarily disoriented, she looked around, realizing she was in a large, grassy valley. There were few homes around, and fenced pastures everywhere. Wiping her eyes, she sat up.
“Get a little shut-eye?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice still thick with sleep. “Where are we?”
“Home,” he murmured, gesturing with his hand toward the windshield. “Up ahead you’ll see the main ranch house. The two-story log home was created in nineteen hundred by the first Whitcombs traveling through this area. They fell in love with it, staked a claim, and started building that ranch house you see. Over the generations, everyone added to it. Now, it’s about five thousand square feet in total.”
“Wow, that’s big,” Shiloh said, staring at the huge home. Nearby she saw two red barns, both three stories tall. There were a lot of pipe rail fences. In some of them, she saw Herefords. In others, pretty-colored horses. There were a lot of smaller log cabins down on the other side of the main house. “What are those?”
“They’re the tourist cabins. Maud and Steve rent them out every year. Some people come to fish out of the Snake River, others like to hike, or they want to backpack into the Salt River Range,” he replied, and motioned to the snow-capped blue-gray mountains. “They handle about twenty people per week from May through September.”
“I imagine it helps them financially,” she said, excitement thrumming through her. Her heart leaped as she saw two cowboys on horses galloping down a path between two of the huge, oval corrals. “This is so magical,” she whispered, thrilled.
Wind River Wrangler Page 3
