Wind River Wrangler

by Lindsay McKenna

  “Let me take a look at it,” he said, and he held out his sun-darkened hand toward hers.

  Shiloh felt the heat of Roan’s powerful body. He was so close her nostrils automatically flared and she inhaled his male scent. Her heart was still tumbling wildly in her chest, adrenaline still surging through her. She turned off the faucet and placed her hand in his wide, callused palm. Roan had beautiful hands. His fingers were long and strong-looking. His nails were blunt cut and clean. Dark hair smattered across the back of it. The moment she made contact with his palm, shocking heat soared through her fingers. Her heart turned mushy as he gently held her hand and then, with his other one, took her index finger and looked at the deep cut across it.

  “This is going to need a couple of stitches,” he muttered, looking up, her face six inches from his. Roan wasn’t prepared for the gold dappling in the forest green depths of her eyes. Her pupils, large and black, widened as he gently cradled her hand. Her skin was soft, telling him she didn’t do hard work for a living. Her nails were short and she had a clear polish on them. Artistic, long fingers. As he tried to stop the vision of her fingers trailing down across his chest, Roan’s mouth tightened. “What were you doing up?”

  Shiloh saw the intense concentration in his gray eyes as he assessed the cut. It was deep and long. And it stung, still bleeding heavily. “I . . . ummm . . . had a nightmare,” she said, and quickly glanced up expecting to see censure in his eyes. But there was none. Instead, his eyes became dove gray and she saw sympathy . . . maybe tenderness in them. Roan’s hand closed a little more around her hand. It felt so good, so stabilizing. Shiloh felt safe for the first time in a long time. He was so massive against her, all sleek, powerful muscles, a male animal at its finest, her wild imagination told her. She felt his strength, wanting to reach out and slide her fingers through that dusting of black hair across his chest. Her body ached. The man was sensual as hell. She pulled her hand out of his, afraid of herself, not him.

  Roan took a step back. He pulled some tissues from a nearby box and wrapped her bleeding finger with them. “And I scared the hell out of you by not announcing myself. That’s why you dropped the cup.”

  He missed nothing. Shiloh wasn’t sure she was relieved or alarmed by his intelligence and swiftly cobbling the situation together. Maybe because Roan had been black ops he was used to sizing up a situation and then distilling it into a neat little nutshell. His life probably had depended upon this skill. “Yes, you scared the living bejesus out of me.” She saw a faint curve at one corner of his mouth, his eyes now a darker gray, like a storm was coming, maybe.

  “It won’t happen again,” Roan promised her in a low tone. “Keep pressure on that finger and go sit on the couch. I’ll fetch the first aid box.”

  Shiloh nodded and followed him out of the kitchen. She took one corner of the couch, resting her injured hand in her lap. In moments, Roan was back. Silent. Like a shadowy ghost. He turned on the overhead light, and she winced, covering her eyes for a moment.

  Roan had to sit close. He had gone to his bedroom and found a black T-shirt and pulled it over his head. He was unsure of the look Shiloh was giving him; she seemed afraid of his bulk and size. But maybe it was just the fact she was still high on that adrenaline charge that had shot into her bloodstream when he scared her. Feeling bad, Roan pulled out everything he’d need from the medical kit and put on a pair of latex gloves.

  “You ever been stitched up before?” he asked. His knee was against her knee and he gently guided her hand to his hard, curved thigh.

  “No.”

  “Not many places for a kid to get scraped or injured in New York City, huh?” he teased, threading the needle. Roan looked up and saw her watching him with wide green eyes. Her hair was lusciously mussed and he found he wanted to tunnel his fingers through that mass and feel how strong and silky he knew it would be.

  She heard a bit of amusement in his voice. “No . . . not many. Is this going to hurt?” she asked, and tucked her lower lip between her teeth, her brows lowering. She saw his chiseled mouth quirk.

  “Yeah, it will. But I’ll put a pain deadener around where I have to stitch and that will help you a lot.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t lie to me.”

  Roan chuckled a little, taking off the bloody tissue and setting it aside. “Honesty puts everyone on a level playing field.” He looked up and drowned in her worried expression. “Do you faint from the sight of blood?”

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  “From pain?”

  “I don’t think so . . .” He held her hand in his, cradling it, and Shiloh could feel his latent strength as his fingers curved comfortingly around hers. He gave her several shots of lidocaine around the cut to numb the area it so it wouldn’t cause her ongoing pain and stress.

  “Why don’t you sit back, close your eyes, and not watch?” he suggested drily.

  “That’s a good idea,” Shiloh admitted, a little breathless. The heat of his hand was incredible! She felt little electric shocks moving up her hand and into her wrist. Leaning against the couch, she tried to take a deep breath and relax. But how could she relax with Roan this close? Literally, she could smell the warmth of his flesh, the sage scent of the soap he’d used to shower with.

  Roan carefully put the first of the needed three stitches into the deep cut. Every time he had to put the needle into her flesh, Shiloh flinched.

  “Hurt?”

  “No. I just feel the pressure of the needle, is all.”

  She didn’t move her hand. She had given him her trust. Roan found himself respecting her courage. Shiloh had tucked her lower lip between her teeth, worrying it. Wanting to distract her, he asked, “What are you doing this morning? Going to write on your latest book?”

  “Uhh, no . . . I have writer’s block. I talked to Maud about it and she said I should follow you around and learn to be a cowgirl, instead. She said my block would disappear if I got my mind off it for a while.”

  “Maud is a wise woman,” Roan agreed quietly, going for the second stitch. “You’re doing fine, Shiloh.”

  His rumbling praise went through her like hot sunlight, warming her core, making her ache even more for him. Roan’s head was bent, dark brows drawn downward in concentration, his hand steady and obviously having stitched someone up before. “Thanks . . . you probably think I’m a big weenie.” She saw his mouth hook into a faint grin. His entire demeanor changed in that moment. Gone was the hardness. Instead, she saw the man beneath that mask he wore like a good friend. And he was breathtaking to her.

  “Never a weenie. You’re doing fine.”

  “Thanks . . .”

  “You said you had writer’s block?”

  Cringing, Shiloh groaned. “Yes. Not that I like admitting it. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Caused by the fact you’ve been stalked for six months straight?” he asked, and he looked up for a moment, holding her humiliated stare. Her eyes went wide with surprise, probably because he got the crux of the reason for the block.

  “Why . . . yes . . . how did you know?”

  Shrugging, Roan saw he could easily distract her. She didn’t wince or take in a ragged breath as he closed the cut with the third stitch. “Maud had told me about the situation before you arrived,” he told her, quickly tying a knot. Placing the needle and thread aside, he drenched the stitches with antiseptic and then carefully placed a waterproof bandage around his handiwork.

  “Somehow,” Shiloh murmured, “I don’t think you guess about much at all.” She saw his eyes glimmer for a moment before he finished up with her finger. She saw amusement come to his gaze. He was a man of few words.

  “There. How does it feel now?” he asked, releasing her hand. Roan didn’t want to. Instead, he had a vision of tugging her hand gently toward him and then levering her breasts against his chest, angling her chin and dropping a hot, searching kiss on those mobile lips of hers.

  Turning her hand that still vibrated with heat from hi
s touch, she said softly, “Much better. Thank you,” and she looked up at him as he soundlessly rose, the medical kit in his hand. “How did you—”

  “Special Forces operators are trained for all kinds of things,” he told her. Turning, he walked out of the living room and disappeared down the hall.

  Sitting there, Shiloh felt as if the sun had left the room. Did Roan Taggart realize how larger than life he was? The man filled the room with his quiet, intense presence. Was that because of his black ops background, too? She’d run into a lot of people in New York City, but never anyone like him. His presence soothed her, calmed her, and made her feel protected when she hadn’t felt safe in six months. Moving her hand, Shiloh had no pain from the injury. She felt him appear and looked up. He was heading to the kitchen.

  “Were you making yourself something to eat?” he asked over his shoulder. Reaching up into the cupboard, Roan brought down two cups.

  “Yes,” she admitted, standing up. “When I get this nightmare, I need to drink a cup of milk so I make myself some hot chocolate. That way, I’ll go back to sleep.”

  “Take a seat at the table,” he directed. “I’ll make us some.”

  “But you said I needed to take care of myself while I’m here. I could make—”

  Roan gave her a dark look. “It wasn’t written in stone, Shiloh. Relax and have a seat.”

  Frowning, she took the chair at the other end of the table where she could watch him. Did Roan know how delicious he was to watch? The sleek, graceful movements of his body? She watched the ropy play of muscles in his forearms as he brought the chocolate out of the cupboard, lined up the sugar bowl, a salt shaker and located marshmallows. Going to the fridge, he pulled out a carton of milk. Even after he pulled on that T-shirt, she could see every detail of his magnificent chest and abs. He was in such great shape.

  “Do you work out in a gym?” she wondered.

  “Yes, it’s called being a wrangler,” he answered, and Roan hitched up one eyebrow and glanced with amusement at Shiloh. Her face was partly shadowed because the only light on in the kitchen was over the stove. She looked so earnest. Serious. And when she moved her fingers through her hair, trying to tame those stubborn strands, Roan felt his heart stir. God knew, he had put a steel clamp over his desire for her as he stitched up her finger. The shadows caressed and emphasized her breasts and he saw the nipples standing out, pushing against the fabric, as if begging to be touched. Roan didn’t see any arousal in Shiloh’s eyes. Just tiredness and a type of lingering exhaustion that came from long-term stress. The stalker was making her pay in so many ways and he found himself getting angry, wishing he could find the son of a bitch.

  “You’d put the guys in Manhattan to shame,” she told him.

  “Oh, the gym routine?” Roan asked, and chuckled a little, pouring the milk into a pan and turning on the gas stove.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you work out, Shiloh?”

  “Sort of . . . I jog in Central Park every day that I can. Just . . . well . . . lately, the last few months, I haven’t. I can’t just sit and create all day long. I’m restless by nature. Usually, I get up about every twenty minutes from what I’m writing and go do something else.”

  “Because you were worried about the stalker? Is that why you haven’t jogged?”

  Grimly, Shiloh nodded. “Yes. And believe me, it was killing me in another way. I have to get up and move around.”

  Roan put the chocolate, sugar, and a bit of salt into the saucepan, and stirred the contents. “I couldn’t sit more than ten minutes if you asked me to. Not in my DNA.”

  “Is that a good thing if you’re black ops?” Shiloh wondered. Roan was a tall man, his shoulders pulled back with unconscious pride, confidence radiating from around him like a galaxy. There simply was no hint of weakness anywhere in Roan. She liked his droll sense of humor, too. And she waited, almost breathless, to see him smile. Oh, he never really smiled, just that one corner of his mouth hooking upward sometimes. Shiloh felt like she was some kind of amusing little toy barging into his masculine world. He didn’t laugh at her, however. She just felt like she was so different from him. Like two aliens from two different planets getting together for the first time to learn about each other.

  “I don’t know many operators who aren’t wanting to be on the move. We’re a restless lot by nature.”

  Rubbing her face, Shiloh began to feel less tense. Just talking to Roan, listening to his low, husky voice, was a balm to her frayed nervous system. “Would you mind if I accompanied you tomorrow? Maud said I could. I don’t want to stay here in this house alone. At least . . . not yet . . .”

  Shrugging, Roan said, “Sure, no problem.” He poured the heated mixture into the two cups, added marshmallows, and brought them over to the table. He slid one cup toward her awaiting hand. He sat down at her left elbow. His legs were so long that he accidentally brushed her left knee. Moving the chair back a little because he saw the reaction in her face, Roan knew that his hoping she’d be a little drawn to him was wishful thinking. And he purposely kept his gaze above her breasts because those nipples were standing strong, begging to be touched, suckled. Shiloh had given him no hint that what he felt toward her was about to be reciprocated. “Drink up,” he told her.

  “Mmmm, this is good,” Shiloh murmured, giving him a warm look of thanks. “You really are handy in the kitchen.” She saw Roan’s eyes change, a glint in them. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but the feeling radiating from him was like a velvet embrace around her shoulders. What would it be like to slide her fingers down that hard-muscled forearm, sun darkened, dusted with dark hair? Something cautioned Shiloh not to try to find out. There was intense sexuality oozing out of his pores. She could practically feel it. And worst of all, her nipples were puckered. Groaning inwardly, Shiloh didn’t want to try to move the material because it would only draw his attention to them. Geez Louise. What was wrong with her body? It suddenly had a mind of its own! At least around Roan, it did.

  There was nothing she could do. If she tried to put her arms across her chest to hide them, then she couldn’t drink the hot chocolate. Her breasts tightened with just the thought of Roan’s callused fingers grazing her nipples. What must it feel like? Her mind had gone off the deep end for sure. Shiloh never looked at men in sexual terms. And that’s all she could see in Roan when he was near her. Shiloh was convinced the stress of the last six months had finally caught up with her and she was having some kind of lusting meltdown.

  “I’m going to be riding out to the Pine Grove area tomorrow,” he told her. Roan could see the sudden realization and awareness in her face about her nipples pressing proudly against the material she wore. A pink flush had crept up her throat and into her face. The sudden skittering of her eyes said it all. She had a momentary panicked look in them and then quickly looked away from him.

  Roan made sure he didn’t look down at her breasts, having no wish to make Shiloh any more stressed or uncomfortable than she already was. He laughed at himself because in the past, in Special Forces, he could have any woman he wanted when stateside. Didn’t take much to get one, either. They always hung around well-known Team clubs off base. For some, it was a notch in their gun belt when they bedded down a vaunted sergeant out of the A-teams.

  “I don’t know how to ride a horse,” Shiloh confessed, giving Roan a concerned look.

  “No worries. We’ll find you a nice, quiet mount and I’ll walk you through everything.” He saw instant relief on her face. Roan decided Shiloh was incapable of hiding her feelings. “How often do you get these nightmares?”

  Squirming, Shiloh admitted haltingly, “A couple of times a week. Sometimes more, if I get faxes from him.”

  Nodding, Roan saw the terror banked deeply in her green eyes, wishing he could remove it. “What are the nightmares about?”

  Rubbing her brow, Shiloh felt fear snaking through her. “Just . . . a shadowy man’s form moving from one building to another, coming after me.”<
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  “Do you see a face?” No wonder she screamed and dropped the mug when she saw him in the shadows of the living room. Damn. Roan felt bad now.

  Shaking her head, she muttered, “No, but I wish I did. I wish I knew who this bastard was. He’s taken my life away from me, Roan. I can’t explain it, but I’m so fearful now.” Giving him a misery-laden look she admitted, “Like right now? I happened to catch your shadowy figure in the living room and it just punched every fear button I own. I’m really sorry. It wasn’t you. It’s my damned imagination, I guess.”

  “I’m glad you can separate me out from your stalker,” he teased, trying to make her feel better. Roan would have liked to put his fist through the man’s face. “Look,” he said, “this guy is gutless. He can’t face you.”

  “I would never associate you with a stalker, Roan,” she said, giving him a frown. “I’d give ANYTHING to know who he is. No one in law enforcement will believe me. They think I’m making this up to get newspaper and Net publicity.” She snorted. “That is so crass! I would NEVER do anything like that! Any publicity I’ve ever received, I’ve earned the hard way by writing a darned good book.”

  Hearing the fierce passion in her words, seeing it in the defiant look in her eyes, Roan nodded. “So the FBI or local law enforcement aren’t trying to follow down the phone used for those faxes?”

  “Correct.” She rested her chin in the palm of her hand, feeling the frustration. “I mean, the only way they’re going to believe me is when they find me dead in my apartment someday. Then it will be too late.”

  Just the thought of Shiloh dead made his heart feel as if a fist had suddenly squeezed it. “Do you have any idea who it might be? A pissed-off male fan?”