Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(14)

Roan looked up at the stove clock. “About an hour ago.”

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You won’t.”

She hesitated at the drawer next to the stove where he was cooking the T-bone steaks. “Because you were in black ops?”

Frowning, Roan cut her a quick glance. “Did Maud tell you I was in Special Forces?”

“Yes.” Shiloh carried the flatware over to the table, placing it. “In my mind’s eye I could see you as an operator. Or”—she smiled a little—“maybe a biker on a big Harley motorcycle, or a mixed martial arts fighter.”

His flesh riffled listening to her smoky voice. “You’ve got quite an imagination.” He could envision several scenarios with her in bed with him, too. But he didn’t think she’d appreciate him being verbal about his fantasies that involved her.

“Yep, that’s me. When I see a person, I fantasize who they might be beneath the clothes they’re presently wearing. Faces tell me so much.”

Roan checked on the biscuits. They’d be crispy about the time the medium-rare steaks would be ready. “Have you always done that?” His curiosity about her was new to him. Maybe if he knew Shiloh better, she wouldn’t be such a damned magnetic draw for him. Maybe she had a dark side, was a bitch in disguise . . . anything to make her less appealing to him. However, looking at her face, Roan couldn’t see anything but honesty in her drowsy expression. He knew body language as well as breathing. Body language interpretation had saved his life too many times to count. Shiloh was open toward him. She wasn’t putting her arms across her chest, her eyes weren’t moving rapidly, as if looking for someone to jump them. Her stride was relaxed, not tense or shorter than normal. All those things served to tell Roan about a person’s state. She also candidly met his gaze and held it.

“What? Read faces?” She smiled sleepily and discovered the salt and pepper shakers in a nearby spice rack.

“Yes.”

“My Dad did it. I remember him teaching me about people, their expressions, and their body movement from the time I was six until he died. He used to take me to Central Park and we’d sit on a bench and he’d ask me what I saw in a face as someone jogged by or walked their dog past us.” Shiloh halted at the edge of the kitchen, thinking how much Roan filled it with his powerful, muscular presence. The man was big. His hands were big. So were his feet. Shoulders so broad. And a chest that reminded her of someone who swam a great deal; maybe a diver, her imagination whispered.

“Your father was teaching you body language?”

“Yes. He was a jet fighter pilot in the Air Force, but I think he always had a love of people and what made them tick the way they did. A curiosity. You’d see it in the characters he wrote so richly about in his books.”

“What did he write?” Roan put on an oven mitt and drew out the tray of biscuits. He set it on a trivet next to the stove and pulled down a straw basket. Without a word, Shiloh came over and quickly took a spatula and transferred the golden-brown biscuits to the basket. Roan smiled a little to himself. She was a team person. That was another box ticked off in his world of people. He’d always been a team player in the A-team. Everyone relied on everyone else. They all had specialties and, as a group, they were powerful. Shiloh took the biscuits over to the table and then went to the fridge and found the butter.

“My dad wrote military thrillers. His first book went number one on the New York Times Best Seller list.”

“And how many did he write before he passed?” Roan pointed toward the plates on the table. Shiloh must have read his mind and understood what he wanted without even saying it. Which shook him. She brought the plates over so he could put a sizzling steak on each one of them. It wasn’t lost on Roan that she’d accurately pieced together what he wanted. That was pretty amazing to him.

Taking the two plates, Shiloh set them on the table. “He wrote four books. Every one a best-seller.”

He could hear the pride and the sadness in her voice. And when he looked into her eyes, Roan saw how much Shiloh still missed her father.

Turning off the stove, he removed the skillet from the burner. “When did you start writing?”

Shiloh was shocked when Roan came over and pulled out the chair for her to sit on. That was right: He was old-fashioned. But her heart skittered with pleasure over his thoughtfulness. Now, he looked like a gallant knight to her, scarred, hardened by many battles, seeing too much and yet surviving.

“I started writing when I was six, believe it or not. My Dad used to have me read what I wrote to him. He always praised me and that’s probably why I kept at it.” She unfolded the white linen napkin and spread it across her lap. Everything looked so good on the table and she was salivating, hungry for the first time in a long time.

“Did you get published because of your father’s work?” Roan wondered, spooning heaps of corn onto his plate.

“No. That doesn’t happen in publishing,” she said, taking the bowl from him. Their fingers met, warmth skating up into her hand. Shiloh watched as he lobbed tablespoons of butter onto the steaming corn. Did the man worry about cholesterol? Apparently not. Roan was in fit, athletic condition. It was usually those who were overweight, not getting exercise, and had a genetic predisposition, who had to worry, instead. “I published at eighteen, which is very young, really.”