Wind River Wrangler

by Lindsay McKenna

  Shiloh knew in her heart she could trust Roan with her life. Literally. Don’t ask her how she knew it. She just did. And the way he gruffly asked her, his eyes clearly concerned, something very old and painful broke deep within her. “I trust you,” she said, a little breathless. For a moment, she watched the horses contentedly eat the thick green grass around where they stood.

  Pulling her legs up against her body, Shiloh wrapped her arms around them, staring out across the grassy valley. “When my dad died of a heart attack, I was eight years old, and I saw my mother fall apart. For a year after that, she was lost . . . she loved my father so much. It was hard on both of us in different ways.” Shiloh pushed some strands of hair away from her cheek, feeling the anguish return, pushing up through her, making her want to cry. “And then, my mother was at a Manhattan gallery opening for her paintings, the rich and famous attended it. She met a multimillionaire construction owner, Anton Leath.” Her mouth curved downward, corners in. So many feelings came to life within her. Feelings she didn’t ever want to feel again. But here they were just as bright and intense as the day she’d felt them. Would they EVER go away?

  “You didn’t like him?” Roan asked, seeing her expression grow pained. He sensed such anxiety and anguish around her and yet, it wasn’t showing up on her face. His arms literally itched to enfold her, hold her against him, hold her safe from something tragic that had happened to her. He found himself holding his breath and, at the same time, starting to automatically shove his own feelings down in that box. It was an instinctive, trained reaction whenever he felt danger. But the danger was around Shiloh. Because he cared a helluva lot more than he should, Roan knew he was being deeply and intensely affected by her reaction.

  As she shook her head, the words stuck like peanut butter in her throat. She felt it closing up on her, felt the terror stalking her once more. “My mother didn’t know,” she began hoarsely, refusing to look at Roan. “She didn’t know. . . .” Rubbing her face, trying to will away that time in her life, she could feel the powerful protection of Roan invisibly surrounding her. He hadn’t made a move to touch her, and yet, she felt that blanket surround her like unseen arms and it gave her the courage to go on. “Leath was a sexual predator.” Her words came out quietly. Filled with angst. “I was nine when she married him. I never liked him. I was afraid of him. He seemed so nice on the surface. Always smiling. But he kept touching me. Always touching me. I hated his touching my hair, my shoulder, or my clothes. I didn’t want his contact, but my mom thought it was sweet of him to pay so much attention to me.”

  Roan closed his eyes for a moment, his mouth hardening into a thin line. He had no idea. None. But hearing Shiloh’s low, pain-filled voice, it was starting to rip him apart internally because he couldn’t not care for her. His gloved hands slowly flexed into fists and he had to forcefully remind himself to relax. “Then,” he rasped, “it wasn’t a stepfather’s-caring-for-his-child kind of contact?” Roan knew it wasn’t, but he could see Shiloh struggling. His heart crashed when she looked up at him, like that child of nine, utterly unprotected, being hunted by the bastard, her eyes filled with anguish.

  “N-no, it wasn’t. The first time he came into my room it was at night when I was ten. My mother had gone to sleep, and he sneaked in. He began touching my chest, my hips, and I screamed. I tried to get away from him, Roan. I think my scream scared him and he quickly got up and left.”

  Closing his eyes for a moment, Roan pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to kill this son of a bitch. No child should ever be harmed. Ever. Something inside him whispered that Shiloh needed to talk it out. And by talking it out, she could maybe start healing. But Roan sensed it was her deepest, darkest secret. And it was so damned toxic to her. Now he was beginning to understand why she was so rattled by a stalker. “What happened next?”

  His voice was fraught with barely held emotions. Shiloh didn’t have the courage to look over at him, but she felt his raw care. “He left me alone for a while after that. I wanted to go to my mother and tell her, but I was afraid. She was so happy with Anton. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t see what he really was. And I wanted her happy. I didn’t want to ever see her like she was that year after my dad died. I thought . . . well, I thought, maybe it was me. Maybe I did something to make Anton treat me like that.”

  Roan laid a gloved hand on her arm. He met and held her glistening eyes. “Shiloh, you were a child. You couldn’t understand what was going on, but you were caught up in a lot of emotions that children simply can’t figure out or walk through. Don’t blame yourself.” His fingers curved more firmly around her arm and he saw some of the darkness lift from her narrowed eyes. Her mouth, once soft and full, was compressed, as if to hold back a tidal wave of tortured feelings, grief, and guilt.

  Shiloh nodded jerkily, starving for Roan’s steadying touch. Did he realize by touching her, he gave her strength? It calmed her inwardly. When he released her, she wanted to turn and crawl into his arms, feel them wrap around her because he made her feel safe. “You’re right, of course.” She sniffed, giving him an embarrassed look, and quickly wiped the tears out of her eyes. “Anton stalked me. I could always feel his eyes on me, on my chest, between my legs. I felt stripped and naked even though I was wearing clothes. I could feel the heat of his gaze on certain parts of my body.

  “A week later, he came into my bedroom. He woke me up. His hands were all over me, touching my chest . . . trying to open my legs. I started to scream, but this time, he clamped his large hand over my mouth.” She trembled, closing her eyes, reliving that night. “He tried to touch me with his fingers and I kicked, hit at him and I finally got away. I ran out of my room, screaming. My mother woke up. He met her and said I was having a nightmare.” Her voice turned bitter. “I came so close to telling my mother that night when she walked me back to my room. I was so torn, Roan. I was so afraid of Leath. I knew he was going to hurt me. I knew it. . . .”

  It took every bit of control on Roan’s part to sit still, to simply listen. Not move. Not haul Shiloh into his arms where she needed to be. “Did you ever tell her?”

  Sniffing, Shiloh whispered brokenly, “Yes, I did. I told her about three days later. I was so torn. She was so happy. And here I was telling her that her husband was a sexual predator.” Rubbing her face, she uttered, “I was so scared. I wasn’t sure if she’d believe me or not. And if she did, I was afraid of Leath and what he might do to us. I-I just didn’t know what to do.”

  Roan reached out, gently sliding his hand across her tense, gathered shoulders. “You did the right thing, Shiloh. Parents are supposed to protect their children.” He saw her give a jerky nod, her hands covering her face. “What did she do after you told her?”

  His physical presence buoyed her wildly fluctuating emotions. Lifting her hands away, Shiloh gave him a miserable look. “She confronted Leath about it that night when he got home. They had a horrible argument. My mother was wild with outrage and anger. It escalated in the kitchen. H-he had a skinning knife on the counter, sharpening it while my mother prepared a beef roast at the other end of the counter. He had a huge collection of knives. I hated that we’d sharpen them in the kitchen, hated the sound it made,” she said, and shivered. Choking, she managed to whisper, “Their argument escalated. He stabbed my mother four or five times moments later. I ran screaming out of the apartment. I ran down the exit stairs and screamed for help. Thankfully, a policeman who was on his beat was just passing by our building and came to my rescue.”

  Roan’s arm tightened around her shoulders. He saw the utter loss in Shiloh’s wan features, the loss in her damp, dark eyes. “Did they get him?”

  Nodding, swallowing against a lump in her throat, Shiloh whispered unsteadily, “I led the two policemen up to our apartment. Leath was gone, but my mother . . . oh, my poor mother . . . she was dead. She’d bled out. Dead at twenty-nine years old. I-I just screamed and cried. One of the policemen picked me up, carried me out of the apartment, call
ed Child Protective Services, and stayed with me. He didn’t want me to see it. But I already had.”

  And it was with her to this day. Roan knew that one. He’d seen and done things in Afghanistan that would never leave him, either. He understood what she meant. “My mother’s younger sister, who lived a few blocks away, came and got me later. My aunt Lynn and uncle Robert raised me until I was eighteen. Then, I moved back into my parents’ original apartment, where I’ve stayed ever since.”

  “What happened to your stepfather? Did they find him?”

  “Yes. They caught up with him and charged him with first-degree murder.” Wearily, she added, “There was a trial when I was eleven years old, and I testified against him. It sent him to prison for only twenty-five years because his lawyer fought for and got second-degree murder charges leveled against him, instead of first-degree, which would have put the bastard on death row where he belonged.”

  “And the judge and jury knew that he was a sexual predator, too?”

  “Yes, it all came out at the trial.” Shaking her head, Shiloh said, “I don’t know how I got through it all. If I hadn’t had my aunt Lynn . . .”

  Roan could not imagine any child that age having to do what was asked of her. A new respect flowed through him for Shiloh. She might look young and beautiful, her face unmarred by life, but the tragic wounds she carried were still inside her. The loads she carried . . . The guilt . . . The grief...

  Unconsciously, he moved his hand across her tight shoulders, trying to assuage some of the tension he felt beneath his gloved fingers. “You did the right thing for the right reasons, Shiloh. You know that now, don’t you?” he asked, pinning her with a searching look, holding her marred green eyes. Tears were leaking down her cheeks, falling into the corners of her beautiful mouth. A mouth he wanted to cover, to kiss. Roan knew he could give back to this woman who had so much taken away from her. He also realized that her trust with men in general was more than likely broken. And he was a man. He monitored his touch across her shoulders. She hadn’t pulled away or made any movement to suggest she didn’t want him touching her.

  “Y-yes, I know I did the right thing.” And then her face scrunched up and she buried it in her hands. “But it got my mother killed,” she said, and she sobbed, broken over what she’d done.

  Oh, hell!

  Roan couldn’t stop himself and he rasped, “Come here, Shiloh . . .” and gathered her up in his arms, pulling her against him. She came without fighting him, huddled, face in her hands as she turned her cheek against his chest. He couldn’t stand a woman’s or child’s tears. It was the one thing that he had no defense against. Never had. Shiloh was quivering like an animal caught in an invisible trap that held her in place and she couldn’t escape it. He smoothed her hair with his hand, holding her tight against himself, wanting to will away her pain because she sure as hell didn’t deserve to be carrying it.

  Roan knew how impressionable children were. They were wide open, innocent, without anything written on their hearts and minds. His father and mother had been good parents. Roan knew from experience what parents were supposed to do to protect their children, teach them to be confident and strong, allow them to make mistakes, grow and learn from them.

  Shiloh’s young life wasn’t anything like his had been. As Roan held her, she sobbed softly into her hands, her whole body shaking. He closed his eyes, resting his jaw against her head, the strands of her hair tickling his chin. Gently, he smoothed his glove up and down her strong, supple spine. She might look soft but Roan had a whole new perspective on her: She was steel strong inwardly. She had to be in order to survive. He simply couldn’t imagine a trial of that magnitude with a scared little girl at the center of it. Her testimony put Leath away. The strength that took shook Roan as little else would. Shiloh was strong because life had tested her long and early. Amazed, he began to see her in a completely new light. No longer was he going to think of her as a city slicker. As an Easterner. Those labels carried certain assumptions that really didn’t apply to Shiloh.

  He unconsciously pressed a kiss to her hair, murmuring low, gruff words meant to heal her, help her. As his gloved hand came to rest on her wet cheek, he gently removed her hands from where she was hiding her face. She made a little sound of desperation, as if ashamed, turning her face more deeply into his chest. His blue chambray shirt was splotched with her tears and he could feel the warmth of them against his flesh beneath the material. Mouth tightening, he cupped her cheek, allowing her to hide beneath his large hand, trying to give her solace. Or maybe, give her some of his strength to get through this storm of agony.

  Roan didn’t know how long he held Shiloh in his arms. She finally quit weeping. And gradually, that fine quiver within her dissolved too. As the birds sang and flew around them, the scent of her hair and skin tantalizing him, he looked out over the verdant valley.

  The horses were calm, resting, one rear leg cocked. The sky was a darker blue as the sun rose higher. The breeze no longer held a cold edge to it as it lifted strands of Shiloh’s red hair here and there. He felt her breasts pressed to the wall of his chest, noticed how soft and rounded they were. He could feel himself responding, growing hard with yearning. And he forced himself to stop responding to her.

  Just how broken was Shiloh’s trust in men? Did she see some or all men in her stepfather? How much damage had he done to her? And did she view Roan through that toxic, stained lens of her life? Lumping him with all men? This was a minefield Roan had never anticipated. He thought she was just a romance writer. Writing frilly stuff that had no value, really. And her real life was a friggin’ ongoing nightmare. He wondered how she could create anything under that kind of pressure. It once more served to tell Roan just how resilient Shiloh really was. He had to stop seeing her as a helpless, ignorant Easterner.

  His mind ranged over her nightmare the other night in the house. Was it about that time in her young life? Roan wasn’t sure. But he’d find out and he didn’t look too closely at why he wanted to know.

  Gradually, her breathing went from ragged to slow and deep. Shiloh had innocently placed the palm of her hand over his heart. Her touch felt good. And he wanted to make love to her even more than before. There was depth to Shiloh. Roan knew bad experiences honed and shaped people’s emotions and lives. And as soft as she felt in his arms, all curves in the right places, her femininity, she was a survivor. That appealed to Roan more than anything else. He’d lived as an operator and knew life-and-death up front and close. Knew how it had shaped him, changed him, made him strong in ways most people would never be. And he knew internal strength was the most important power to have because it kept a person moving forward in the worst of times.

  Shiloh had done that very thing at age eleven when she became the prosecution’s star witness in the murder of her own mother. The resilience and strength she possessed blew him away. He hadn’t seen it in her. And usually, he was very adept at assessing a person. But he hadn’t with her. Why? Roan’s mouth twitched and he stared sightlessly across the valley as he realized his whole reaction to her had been purely sexual. Shiloh was beautiful. Willful. Her feelings on the surface. Like a ripe fruit to be plucked and eaten. And he did want her in every possible way.

  His brows flattened out as he considered her in this new, realistic light. Whether Shiloh was aware of it or not, she was a warrior. That what she’d survived, most eleven-year-olds would not have survived without wounds scarring their souls forever. She, on the other hand, had not only survived, but she had thrived. She had a career and she was highly successful. The only reason she was here was to get a respite from her stalker in New York City.

  And that concerned him deeply. Roan tightened his arms around her for a moment, trying to feed her some of his strength. She was relaxed in his arms. Trusting. Not stiff. Not tense. But . . . at ease. For whatever reason, Shiloh trusted him. Roan closed his eyes. He wanted her to trust him and to come to him, to want him as much as he desired her. Then, and only the
n, would they be on equal, respectful footing with each other. Roan wouldn’t chase Shiloh. He’d let whatever was between them, if anything, unfold naturally. He refused to push her, get her in a corner, or manipulate her.

  More than anything, Roan wanted Shiloh to be drawn to him just as much as he was to her. Could it happen? And why the hell did he WANT it to happen?

  Chapter Seven

  The feeling of being protected was so overwhelming to Shiloh as she lay in Roan’s arms that it made her want to cry all over again. Only this time, tears of relief. She had always felt this sense of safety around him, but now, she was getting a taste of it firsthand and it was incredible. As he gently moved his gloved hand across her shoulders and then slowly down her back, she thought of him doing this to a fractious, wild-eyed horse. Well, she was one, in a sense.

  Licking her lower lip, Shiloh didn’t want to move out of his embrace. She could feel the slow, solid beat of his heart beneath her ear, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Most of all, her eyes closed, she absorbed each of his ministrations. The roughness of the leather across the thin fabric of her shirt made her tense and skitter with fire of the most pleasurable kind. And those tiny, heated shocks tightened her breasts, hardened her nipples, and then dove straight down to remind her how long she’d gone without sex. She knew she wanted Roan in bed. But she’d been so scared. Commitment was something she’d never been able to muster and manage. And she knew without a doubt that Roan Taggart was not the kind of man who played around. He played for keeps. She wasn’t sure at all if she could. At least, not yet.

  But to feel his quiet power, the strength of his arms around her, the sensitivity he possessed, as if knowing she needed to be tenderly held, made her stop and look at herself. What did she really want? She wanted a marriage like her mother and father had. Yet look what had happened to them. It scared her to death. Shiloh was afraid to fall in love because she could never take the loss of the man she fell in love with. It would destroy her. Utterly. Forever. Unlike her mother, she didn’t possess that backbone to survive the loss and move on.