Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(34)
“At least you’re honest,” she muttered, turning away from his apologetic-looking gaze. She walked forward and placed her hand on one of the twelve-foot tall posts. Turning, she said, “This is known as a four-by-four. These types of posts are used to anchor in something pretty heavy or something you want to stand the test of time. You’d put them at the corners of walls, or in areas where you need extra load-bearing strength.” She patted the post. “And I will guess that all these posts are in prep for a wraparound porch you’re going to eventually build. Am I right?” she asked, and gave him a narrow-eyed look.
“I’ll be damned,” Roan murmured, a slow smile hooking one corner of his mouth. “What do you know? I’ll bet you watch the DIY channel on TV. Or maybe you’ve taken some courses over at your local Home Depot store?” He saw the blaze of challenge in her green eyes, liking this feisty side to Shiloh. Who knew? With an internal groan, he forced himself to put a steel clamp on his desires for this red-headed hellion. Every time Roan discovered another facet of Shiloh, he wanted her even more. It was driving him crazy.
Shiloh made an unhappy growling sound in her throat. She leaned against the sturdy post, her arms crossing her breasts. “Like a woman can’t know something about construction? Give me a break, Roan. You really ARE a Neanderthal throwback. I’ve handled my fair share of building things. And yes, I know which end of the hammer to use. Further, I know how to test a hammer to see if it’s made correctly. Do you?”
Chuckling, Roan walked over to her. “I do. You stand it on its head and if the handle remains upright, it’s balanced and built properly. Well, now that I know you’re a regular contractor type, do you want to see more?”
She smiled up at his shadowed face. “You bet I do. Building is exciting to me. It’s like writing a book: You’re building from the foundation upward and by the end of the book, your house or novel is built. Or”—she shrugged, pushing off from the post—“the story is told, lock, stock, and barrel for my readers.”
Roan slid his glove beneath her elbow, guiding her around to the south side of the house. “Nice analogy,” he congratulated her. He didn’t want to drop his hand, but he forced himself to do so. “I’ve got the blueprints for the cabin inside, but you’re right, I’m going to build a wraparound porch on the north, south, and east sides of the cabin.”
“Are you using cedar planking?” she wondered.
He gave her a praiseworthy look. “Normally, I would. But because we get eight months of winter and the weather is very hard on wood, I’m going with Trex. It’s a composite material made of plastic and wood fibers from reclaimed and recycled resources. It helps the environment, it weathers much better than wood, and it’s cost-efficient.”
“I’ve seen Trex,” Shiloh said, nodding. She saw the confusion in his expression. Thinking a city slicker wouldn’t know a thing about building a house. “Okay, I’m going to stop making you suffer, Roan.” She held up her hand. “I’m a yearly volunteer for Habitat for Humanity. I’ve helped build five houses over the years, working with other volunteers. That’s where I learned about construction.” She saw his gray eyes flare with an unknown emotion. His mouth softened a little.
“You just keep surprising me, Shiloh. And here I thought as a writer you just sat eight hours a day creating.”
She chuckled. “I do that, too, but my life isn’t one-dimensional, Roan. Never was until of late,” she said, and she grew sad. “The last six months . . . well, with this stalker, I haven’t felt safe leaving my apartment or driving out to where the next house needs to be built.” Giving him a painful shrug, Shiloh quietly admitted, “With my vivid imagination, Roan, I think this guy is going to jump out of the shadows, capture and kill me. It’s really stopped me from doing a lot of things I love to do.” She gave a flourish of her hand toward his cabin. “Like this. It’s so inspiring. I love working with raw wood. I love the smell of cedar. I love to see things come together and look beautiful after a lot of hard work.”
Rubbing his jaw, he eyed her. Shiloh’s sadness dissolved the moment she started talking about building a house. “Well, out here, you don’t have to worry about your stalker. Not while I’m around. And maybe”—he pointed with his chin toward the cabin—“you might want to come out on my days off and help me a little. Get a hammer back in your hand?” He saw her expression blossom with joy. The woman moved and touched him in ways no woman ever had. And Roan couldn’t explain why. His body sure as hell lusted after her. But more, he liked the quality of her heart. She was a good person in a dangerous situation with that stalker.
“I’d LOVE to do that!” she whispered, clapping her hands. “I’m REALLY good, Roan. My specialty is drywall. I love spackling and I’m VERY good at it. I know how to work with plumbing and stringing electrical wire, too. Another specialty is painting. I just love to paint. It’s so creative.”
Scratching his jaw, Roan shook his head. “Maybe I should sit down with you here and ask you what else you do besides write best-selling books?”
Giving him a coy look, Shiloh shook her finger at him. “Shame on you for trying to pigeonhole me as a one-note person, Roan Taggart. Everyone has many sides to them and everyone is multifaceted.” Her grin increased and she tapped his massive chest with her index finger. “Even you,” she said, and she turned around and walked up to the door and waited for him to open it for her.