Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(27)

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, called 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.”