Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(13)

Roan felt himself stir. Cursing silently, he stepped in and pulled the door closed. The less he saw of Shiloh, the better off he was going to be. Running his fingers in an aggravated motion through his short hair, he stepped across the hall into his bedroom. Worse, he had inhaled her sweet, feminine scent. He’d spent too many years in danger and his senses were finely honed. He could pick up an odor and know if it was Taliban or not a hundred feet away from where they were hiding. Her scent reminded him of a wildflower meadow that sat near the cabin he was building and it was playing havoc on his body. Damn.

Emerging from a hot shower, Roan changed into a pair of clean Levi’s and a black T-shirt. He traded his cowboy boots for a pair of hiking boots. As he walked past Shiloh’s door, he listened, but heard nothing. All her luggage that he’d put in her room was exactly where he left it. She was exhausted. That realization twinged at his heart.

Scowling, he rubbed his chest and wandered into the kitchen. Grabbing a cold beer out of the refrigerator brought back strong memories of his A-team. Usually they were living at an Afghan village and alcohol was off-limits. It was one of the few good memories Roan had about getting to Kandahar, to the Special Forces compound, and being able to get a cold beer. The fine sand and grit got in every crack and crevice of a man’s body. He was always chafed raw around his collar and other places. A cold beer washed that crud out of his throat and gave his mouth a clean taste. Tipping it back, he drank deeply, the one concession he gave himself at the end of a tough day of wrangling.

Roan wanted to forget Shiloh was in the house as he rustled up some food from the refrigerator. He wasn’t heartless. Choosing two T-bone steaks, he put them on the wooden cutting board. He was big on salads, bringing out an armful of veggies and placing them on the counter. Wondering if Shiloh enjoyed them, he made more than usual. Grabbing flour and other ingredients, he whipped up some biscuits. Unsure of when she might wake up, if at all, Roan went ahead and made dinner for himself. He would cook up her steak later, if she wanted it.

Going to the living room, he turned on the television and selected a news station. That’s all he wanted was the news. He’d gotten a newspaper earlier and would read it as he ate. This was his normal nightly schedule. Nothing fancy. Just rest.

Roan half turned, sensing movement before he saw her. It was Shiloh coming out of her room, rubbing her drowsy eyes, her hair tangled around her shoulders. She was barefoot. Smiling to himself, Roan thought she looked like a child, not the woman she was. Yawning, she suddenly halted when she became aware Roan was watching her.

“Oh . . .”

“Feel better?” he asked, turning back and heading for the kitchen.

Shiloh felt drugged. The shock of seeing how large and broad-shouldered Roan was with that tight-fitting black T-shirt yanked her awake. She saw his gray eyes narrow upon her like a predator stalking his quarry. Unsure of whether to feel alarmed or not, her lower body sizzled instantly beneath his sweeping gaze. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted thickly, walking into the living room. The wood felt warm beneath her bare feet. Late western sunlight slanted in a set of windows on that side of the house, glinting and showing the gold and red in the wood. Her heart was beating a little quicker.

“Feel up to eating something?” Roan asked, glancing her way as she came and stood at the edge of the kitchen, looking unsure.

“I could eat.” Shiloh sniffed the air. “Something sure smells good. What are you baking, Roan?”

“Biscuits.”

“A man who cooks. I like that. Do all cowboys know their way around a kitchen?”

The corner of his mouth curved faintly. “It was a learn-or-starve situation.”

She chuckled, pushing the hair away from her face and across her shoulders. Roan Taggart didn’t look like a cowboy right now. Her imagination ran wild. Perhaps a dark, sexy biker on his black Harley hog. Or a mixed martial arts fighter. Or . . . in her bed. Wow . . . her drowsy brain was really stuck on sex, wasn’t it? “You said I had to cook for myself.”

Hitching one shoulder, Roan replied, “I’ll let you off the hook tonight. You’ve had a long flight and you looked like you were going to keel over from exhaustion at the airport. We’re having T-bone steaks, corn, biscuits, and a salad. Sound edible to you?”

Her heart warmed. His voice was low and husky, but she saw a glint in his gray eyes, maybe amusement. Maybe he felt sorry for her? Shiloh wasn’t sure. “It sounds wonderful. Thank you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You could set the table.” He pointed up to the cabinets nearby. “Dishes in there and silverware down here.” It felt strange to have a woman underfoot. Roan liked a woman in his bed. But in his house? When Shiloh came close, he could smell her feminine scent. His body stirred. Again. Dragging in a deep breath, Roan was unhappy with himself. Whatever door that was open between them remained that way. He’d always been able to shut out emotions when necessary because his survival was at stake. The only danger here was his damned body beginning to ache for hers. Shiloh wasn’t doing anything to cultivate that kind of a reaction from him. Roan tried to ignore her puttering around the kitchen barefoot. Worse, the sway of her hips got him. Big-time. She could wear sackcloth and he’d still see those hips of hers moving. She was shapely in all the right places and his hands practically itched to curve around her.

“What time did you come home?” Shiloh asked, putting the two white ceramic plates on the square cedar table.