Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(39)

“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.

“Are you pleased with what you wrote today?”

“I am. It’s a rough draft and what I do is put it away for about three months after I’ve written the manuscript. Then, I return to it to edit and polish it.”

“Have you ever had writer’s block before?”

Shaking her head, Shiloh said, “Never. My dad never did, either.” Painfully, she offered, “I think it’s the stalker, my mind is on him. He’s stolen my focus.”

“Did you think that writer’s block meant you’d lost this skill?”

“I didn’t really know.” She gave Roan a worried look. “I was scared I’d lost it.”

“But if it’s a genetic gift, you can’t lose it,” Roan pointed out mildly, giving her a slight smile.

“You’re right . . . of course. But you’re more pragmatic and logical than I am.”

Roan leaned back in his chair, enjoying their conversation. “If you can build houses,” he said wryly, “that makes you logical, too. Don’t shortchange yourself, Shiloh.”

She felt her heart swell with a quiet happiness. Roan was such a refreshing change from the men she knew in New York City. “I think you’re right.”

“And speaking of building houses,” he said, “how would you like to come out tomorrow and work with me? I need to get that porch started. Interested?” and he pinned her with his gaze. Her cheeks flushed and he saw eagerness dancing in her eyes.

“I’d love to!”

“Will it interfere with your writing schedule, though?”

“No. It will be all right.”

“I bought you a good pair of leather work gloves. They’re in my toolbox at the cabin.”

Touched with his consideration, she said, “That’s even better than roses and chocolate.” Her heart rolled in her chest over his thoughtful gift.

“Well,” Roan drawled, “I wouldn’t go that far. But you are certainly worth buying roses and chocolate for, too.”

Her heart swooned over his dark, low words. Shiloh knew if Roan did something like that, he meant it. It wasn’t about trading them off to get her into bed, which is what her other men usually tried to do. Without success. “Thanks,” she murmured, giving him a shy glance, “that means a lot.” And it did. More than she could say.