“I still do.”
Her mouth went dry. Her heart amped up, thundering in her breast. “I—I’m afraid.”
“Because?”
His patience embraced her. She sensed him monitoring her, that kindness in the recesses of his gray gaze made her feel safe. It gave her the courage to go on. “Because I know you’re not the type of man who wants a one-night stand, Roan.”
“And you are?” he asked, one brow raised questionably.
Her mouth quirked. “No . . . no, I’m not built like that, either.”
“It’s just a kiss, Shiloh.”
She stared hard at him. “A kiss is never just a kiss and you know it.” She watched his mouth twitch, warmth drenching his gray eyes. “It . . . well, it’s always meant more to me than that. I can’t help it. It’s who I am.”
“You’re saying there has to be more important reasons to kiss than just to kiss?”
Roan was maddening. She glared at him, frustrated. Jamming her hands on her hips, she muttered, “Yes.”
“You play for keeps, Darlin’.”
Wincing, Shiloh tore her gaze from his. “I don’t take liking someone lightly, Roan. I—just never had it in me to just have a fling and walk away from it the next morning.”
Nodding, he murmured, “I didn’t take you for a woman who played around much.”
“Thanks. That’s a compliment.”
“Are you presently with another man?” Roan wanted to know, damn his soul. There was such powerful yearning tautly strung between them; like a living, heated connection that was screaming to be satiated.
“No . . .”
“Not the last six months, I would guess?” Because that’s when the stalker entered her life, imprisoning her. He saw angst in her face and she chewed momentarily on her lower lip. He knew that meant Shiloh was experiencing stress, and he felt bad, but they had to broach this topic. Roan had no idea what the fallout would be, one way or another. But at least he’d know if Shiloh was interested in him or not.
“Yes . . . that . . . of course.” Shiloh shook her head and walked away from him and took a few steps, turning around. “I guess you could call me commitment-phobic, Roan. I don’t enjoy saying it about myself, but that’s my track record.” Pushing her damp palms down her thighs, she added, “Maybe I’ve never fallen in love. I mean, really in love. I meet a guy, and it seems good and positive . . . And then, when things start to get serious, I get scared. I mean, I panic.” She looked at him through her lashes, feeling shame. She felt she wasn’t whole. It was a feeling; one that she’d never been able to get rid of.
“Panic over what?” Roan wondered, taking off his hat. He placed the Stetson on a wooden peg next to the door and came back, standing a few feet away from Shiloh. Whatever was going on with her was tangled. And complicated. Why would he ever think otherwise?
“I-I don’t really know.”
“You lost your father when you were young?” he probed gently, seeing her bow her head, staring down at her feet.
“Yes.” Shiloh lifted her chin, holding his kind gaze. Despite Roan’s size, his muscle, his height, she felt nothing but care emanating from him toward her. The expression in his eyes was full of caring. This was no longer about the kiss. This was about her. Them. Maybe. “Why?”
Shrugging, Roan said, “You said earlier that your mother and father had a very deep love for each other. That after he suddenly died, your mother was lost. For a year?”
Painfully remembering that time, Shiloh gave a jerky nod. “It was the worst year in my life,” she admitted softly.
“I’m no shrink,” Roan said in a deep tone, “but is it possible you were at such a young, impressionable age when you lost your dad, that when you grew up, a relationship scared you?”
“What do you mean?” Shiloh wanted to cringe and hide within herself because the eagle-like look in Roan’s eyes scored her to her soul; as if he suddenly understood everything about her flawed personality. Shiloh wanted him to think good thoughts about her, not see her as distorted, less than, or perhaps not a whole woman.
“Maybe you’re hesitant to commit to someone you love because you’re afraid you’ll lose them? Like your mother lost your father?” he asked, searching her eyes. Roan saw the impact of his observation in her expression, especially her wide, intelligent eyes. His words struck her like an RPG going off beneath her feet. Roan told himself it was always easy for a stranger to see another person’s wounds. It was never easy to see one’s own scars, however.
Rubbing her wrinkled brow, Shiloh slowly turned away, walking around the shell of the cabin, absorbing his words, what he saw in her. “God,” she muttered, halting and staring across the cabin at him, “I never saw this. I never did. . . .”
“Don’t be hard on yourself, Shiloh. It wasn’t yours to see. When we’re in the middle of a firefight, you never have the overview.” Roan could see her mind working at the speed of light, saw sudden awareness dawn within her as she sponged in his observation. He saw anguish in her eyes, sadness, and finally a spark of awareness he read as hope.
Roan hoped that she could break this unconscious pattern of being afraid to get into a serious relationship with someone and riding it out to its natural conclusion. Not afraid to even take the first step to find out what it might be like. Shiloh wasn’t a risk taker because she felt if she fell in love, that love would be torn away from her, just as her mother’s husband was torn away from her. Even as an eight-year-old, she saw the heart-wrenching destruction of her mother’s soul over the loss of her loved one. Roan felt deeply for her, but there was little he could do to help her out of that deadly mind construct she’d erected when so young. To change that pattern, Shiloh would have to consciously face her fears and overcome it.
And then, he asked himself, why was he pursuing this at all with her? To what end? Yes, he wanted this woman in his bed. He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to hear her sweet cries of pleasure. He wanted to please her. Why? Damned if Roan knew. But there was something sweetly innocent about Shiloh that wasn’t a put-on; it was simply her. It was who she was. The idealist who wrote about love and romance. Her books always had happy endings that she probably had searched for, and had not found for herself. The books fulfilled a part of her life that had fallen through the cracks of hard knocks and traumatizing experiences at eight years old. But books were no substitute for the real thing. Roan even wondered if she was a virgin. How commitment-phobic was Shiloh? Did a kiss send her into panic? A man wanting her in bed? Or after being in bed, did the relationship get too close to her fear of loss, so she ran? Grimacing, Roan thought he shouldn’t use that word. Maybe she left the relationship out of fear. The distorted pattern ran her personal life.
Shiloh stood quietly, feeling such a deep, internal shift within herself, she couldn’t describe it. But she sure felt it. That shift was palpable, deep in her unconscious. It scared her. It liberated her. Shiloh felt . . . vulnerable. Really feeling ALL her emotions, not just some of them. It was as if she were falling, but it wasn’t frightening. It was just . . . well . . . different. And uncomfortable. But no panic, thank God. She hated when she panicked. It only happened when a man got too close to her heart.
Lifting her lashes, she held Roan’s steady gray gaze as he studied her from across the room. It was as if he realized that she’d shattered inwardly. As if . . . as if he could feel what she had just encountered. And that first rush of vulnerability sweeping through her right now, for whatever reason, was awakening her on levels she’d never before experienced. And Roan Taggart knew it.
Chapter Nine
Roan entered the employee house at nearly seven P.M. Tiredness moved through him, but it was taken away as he saw Shiloh in the kitchen, making them dinner. The house smelled good, like he was home, not just at an employee residence. Roan automatically inhaled the aromas as he shut the door and put his hat on a nearby peg.
“I’m late,” he apologized, fighting the desire to walk into the kitchen and ta
lk with her. Since their intense discussion at his cabin a week ago, Roan had decided to back off from Shiloh. Given her past, pressuring her about moving forward in a relationship with him was put on hold. Shiloh was wearing her Levi’s and a red tank top that lovingly outlined her breasts, her red hair in a sloppy knot on top of her head. She was busy frying something in a large iron black skillet. When she turned, her smile made him go hot, made him ache so damn much for her. Hands off, he warned himself. If Shiloh wanted him, she had to come to him. Not the other way around.
“Good thing,” Shiloh teased, smiling as she placed the fried chicken into an awaiting bowl. “I got so immersed in the chapter I was writing, I lost track of time. I thought dinner was going to be late, but you’re right on time.” Shiloh felt her heart open to Roan. Since their talk, he’d been different. Maybe less available. She couldn’t pinpoint what had happened between them. He seemed to be respectful of her understanding of why she always ran from a relationship, never toward it. Grateful for Roan’s thoughtfulness, Shiloh still missed the warm intimacy they’d originally established when she first came to the ranch. “Why don’t you grab a quick shower? I still have to make us a salad.”
Nodding, Roan fought the need to walk up to her, touch her cheek, look deep into her green eyes. He now lived in a new hell of having Shiloh in the house, just a hall’s width between their bedroom doors. But he was old enough to know what not to do. Shiloh had to have time to digest their last, serious conversation. And already, he could see evidence of subtle changes in her behavior because of it. Nothing overt, nothing in-your-face. Just a sense that something deep within her had shifted. And, he hoped, for the better. Roan hoped it would lead to her allowing him into her life. “It won’t take long,” he promised, sauntering through the living room, heading down the hall toward the bathroom.
Yearning moved through her lower body as she watched Roan, dressed in a dusty pair of Levi’s and a dark green cowboy shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, walk away. How she wanted him to touch her. Hold her. The past week had been the best and worst of her life in some ways.
She put the last of the fried chicken in the bowl and set it in the oven to keep warm. Moving to the sink, she washed her hands and then pulled out all the salad ingredients. The look in Roan’s eyes told her he still wanted her. Nothing had changed. Shiloh swallowed hard because a part of her wanted him. Wanted to kiss this man who gloried in being outdoors challenging the elements and winning. There was nothing soft about Roan. Nothing. Yet, he’d been tender with her when she’d cried and he’d held her in his arms. Shiloh could not forget those moments, forever stamped on her frightened, wary heart. Could she overcome her past pattern of running when things got serious in a relationship? She didn’t know.
Later, as they sat at each other’s elbows, eating dinner, Roan detected a subtle happiness about Shiloh. Again, nothing obvious, but his operator’s senses told him that. “You said you were writing a chapter? On your latest book? The one that’s due to your editor’s desk?”
“Yes.” She shrugged. “I woke up this morning WANTING to write.” She met his gray gaze, seeing his interest. Roan, she was discovering, was a very good listener. And he listened to her without ever interrupting her flow of thought. “First time.”
“Is this a good thing?” he wondered, adding more spoonfuls of whipped potatoes onto his plate.
“Sure is,” she sighed. She spooned some green beans onto her plate. “Ever since the stalker came into my life, my writing has turned off.”
“Kind of expected?”
“I suppose,” Shiloh muttered. “It’s hurt me in so many ways, seen and unseen.”
“It’s what we in the military call ‘psy ops’ or ‘psychological warfare.’” He wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand, make her feel safe because so often, Roan saw Shiloh was frightened. Always looking over her shoulder. When he took her into Jackson Hole the other day, she was tense and on guard; as if still expecting the unknown stalker to leap out of the shadows. It hurt him to see her in this mode, but since then, she made some kind of internal breakthrough and she settled down. There was more peace in her face, less tension. The flightiness that was always there seemed to be gone the last three days. Shiloh was struggling and Roan knew all humans went through times like this. He wished he could be of more help to her.
“Good way to put it,” she griped, giving him a tight smile.
“Food’s top-drawer,” he praised, wanting to get her mind off the stalker. “You’re really blooming as a cook around here.” Roan saw her cheeks turn pink, her shyness returning. He wondered if her aunt and uncle had ever taken serious parental interest in Shiloh as she grew up beneath their roof. Her lack of confidence in herself was stunning. And yet, she’d gone on to become a world-renowned writer, so there was some confidence expressing itself through her. He had a hunch her father’s loving care and interest in her at such a young age had forged that creative link with Shiloh. It was a healthy, vibrant part of her that was alive and well.
“Thanks,” she said, feeling good about it. “When you said you and the other wranglers were going to be out building fence, I figured you’d be starving by the time you got home tonight.” He’d already eaten two chicken breasts, a thigh, and a drumstick. The man knew how to tuck it away. And yet, Roan was made of nothing but hard, sculpted muscle, powerfully built, but not muscle-bound. His dark brown hair was still damp from his recent shower. She could smell his male scent along with the sage soap he’d used.
“Yeah, we got a lot done. It’s a good crew I work with.” He studied her profile. “So, tell me about writing today? What inspired you to do it?”
Shiloh hesitated. “I don’t know. I just woke up with this driving need to put words to paper.”
“Does it always happen that way?”
“Yes. I love waking up every morning, feeling that inner drive and excitement to find out what my characters are going to do next.”
He smiled a little, polishing off the potatoes and gravy with a piece of bread. “I’ve never been good at writing, so you’re sort of an anomaly in my life.”
“What? Something to be studied under a microscope?” Shiloh teased, grinning. When Roan smiled, that well-shaped mouth of his sent raw, hungry heat flowing throughout her. Shiloh couldn’t keep her gaze off his long, spare hands, the calluses she saw on his palm and fingers. A hand she wanted to touch her, explore her and . . . She had to stop going there.
“No,” Roan murmured, getting up and taking his plate to the sink. “Interest in how a creative person thinks. How you create. This is all new territory for me.”
“I can’t explain the process. I once had an editor ask me if I thought writers could be made or were just born the way they were.”
Roan poured them coffee, brought the mugs over to the table, and sat back down. “What was your answer?”
“I told her I felt they were born. I mean, you can teach someone the basics of writing, the structure. But you can’t teach them how to create. That’s where it separates the girls from the women.” She stood and took her plate to the sink. Turning, she saw Roan was watching her as he sipped his coffee. Her skin tingled with pleasure. The man’s look aroused her body to a level of urgent need. Sitting down, she put cream and sugar in the cup of coffee. “It’s a driving, inner passion, Roan. It’s not something you can develop by thinking about it. You either have it, or you don’t.”
“Sort of like falling in love? It just happens?” Roan wondered why the hell he’d picked such an example.
Giving him a grimace, Shiloh muttered, “I’ve never been in love, so I wouldn’t know what those feelings were, Roan. Sorry.”
“Bad example,” he agreed. Roan saw the regret in her eyes. “But what you experience is an inner passion or drive to put those words down on your computer?”
“Yes.” Shiloh touched the center of her forehead. “This may sound weird, but I see, like a color movie screen moving across my brow, the characters and the
scene. I can move inside each character and know what they are thinking and feeling. I hear them talking. I feel their emotions. It’s very real to me. And then I write down what I’m seeing, hearing, and feeling from them. It’s exciting because I don’t know what they’re going to say or do.”
“Kind of an amazing process,” Roan admitted, enjoying getting to know how she wrote a book. “Has it always been like this for you?”
“Yes.”
“Did your dad teach you this method?”
“No. But he had the same movie-like process. I definitely think he passed that writing gene on to me,” she said, and smiled fondly, still missing her father. Even now, after all these years. Her dad was someone she could confide her dreams to, who encouraged her, and he got just as excited about them as she did. And then Shiloh realized Roan was showing her that same level of interest, even excitement. She could feel his genuine interest and it made her feel good.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing, but it sounds like what we called the ‘imaginal world.’ Part of what we did as operators was to imagine our bullet hitting the target when we’re practicing out at the range. Much like an athlete visualizes himself or herself being successful at what they’re trying to do.”
“Yes, it’s sort of like that, but it comes from within me, Roan. It’s like it’s a living entity, a part of me, that just bubbles up, grabs my attention, engages all my senses, and off I go to write another book.”
“Well,” he said drily, sipping his coffee, “whatever you have, genetic or otherwise, it’s a highly sophisticated ability and skill.”
“I’ve always been grateful to have it.” Shiloh felt good beneath his praise. Roan might not be a writer, but he was trying to understand the process and in the end, understand her. It made her feel desired. Respected. The men in her life had all wanted to let their friends and world know they were going with a famous writer. They had used her. And maybe part of why she took herself off the market was because her fame was an impediment. It drew the wrong kind of man. Looking over at Roan, she knew this cowboy wasn’t the least bit interested in her because of her fame. The questions he asked, the insights he’d garnered, all showed her he was interested in her as a human being. And that was giddily refreshing as well as scary to her. But now, at least, she knew where her fear had originated. Shiloh would be forever grateful to Roan for his startling insight into why she could not make a relationship work.
Wind River Wrangler Page 12
