Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(52)

“Oh. Well, you’re right about that. We don’t speak much to each other. Like two ships passing in the night, if you ask me.”

What a little hellion. Roan swallowed his grin and remained serious for her sake. If he did grin she’d probably think he was laughing at her and he wanted to avoid that at all costs. “I don’t have a problem speaking more than a paragraph to you, Shiloh. But I need you to give me the signal. Only you know when you’re settled in around here, feeling safe. Comfortable.” And more than anything, Roan’s protectiveness was always there where Shiloh was concerned. “I guess we’ve reached that point?”

“Yes,” she said, the frustration leaving her voice. “I don’t want to have to pick and pry away at you all the time, Roan.”

A corner of his mouth drew upward. “Pry and pick?” He saw a hesitant smile burgeoning across her lips. “I must be a nightmare to the writer in you, then? Being a man of few words and all?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

The hellion was back and Roan saw the glint in her eyes, as if he were the target and she had him in her gunsight. His grin grew. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Shiloh?”

She blushed and then laughed. “Touché.”

Roan laughed with her, feeling his heart swell in his chest. Shiloh was part pert teen, sometimes a willful, pouting child, but always a woman in his heart. Roan wished he could be more like her, but he had one speed and that was serious and responsible. Not that she wasn’t, Shiloh was, but her ability to be utterly herself mesmerized him. She made him laugh. Made him feel lighter. Hell, even happy, if he’d admit it to himself.

She opened her hands. “Truce?”

“Sure, I don’t mind surrendering over to you.” That was a loaded statement with layers upon layers on it, but Roan saw her take it at face value.

“More than a yes or no?”

He stood and picked up the dishes and flatware, taking them to the sink. “What do you want to talk about?”

Shiloh stood and went to the sink and grabbed the dishcloth. “You. Your family. How you grew up. Why you went into black ops.”

“I might have known you’d have a list,” he said drily, watching her wipe the table off.

“I’m a writer.”

“I’ll bet you hide behind that label a whole lot, gal.”

She grinned and washed the cloth out beneath the sink faucet. “It serves a purpose.”

He grunted. “Maybe too much so.” Giving her a glance as he placed the rinsed dishes into the dishwasher, Roan said, “I’d like to get to know the woman behind the writer label.” Roan saw it hit Shiloh directly, her eyes widening a bit, her pupils growing black and large in response to his growling words.

She hung the cloth between the two sinks and pulled a towel off the rack and dried her hands. “Because?”

He pushed the door shut on the dishwasher and straightened, a few feet separating them. “Because you interest me. Isn’t that good enough reason to pry and pick at you?” Her lips twitched. Shiloh tried not to smile, but failed. Roan decided it was fun sparring with her. Despite everything, the stresses still on her, Shiloh was able to be free and spontaneous. He found himself wondering how he’d lived in this big house alone for so long, without her vital presence, her sunshine smile, her quick intelligence that kept pace with his. Roan didn’t want to see Shiloh leave. And he knew she was here for only two months.

“That’s a good enough reason,” she said mildly, hands on her hips. “And you won’t have to pick and pry at me, either.”

“You’re an open book?” he guessed.

“You’ve got a rapier mind, Taggart.”

He saw the gleam in her eyes dance. “It’s my rapier wit that’s saved my ass out on many black ops assignments, believe me.”

“I like a man who thinks on his feet.”

“And I like a woman who speaks her mind.”

“Then we must be in communication heaven and not know it?” Shiloh teased.

Shrugging, Roan wanted to reach out and slip his hand into hers, but resisted. “Let’s find out, Darlin’. I’m pouring myself a fresh cup of coffee and going to sit in the living room. Want to join me?”

“Are you throwing down the gauntlet?” Shiloh wondered warily.

“No, handing it over to you,” he offered, pouring coffee into his mug. “Want a cup?”

“Please.”

“Go pick out a spot for us?” Roan gestured lazily toward the living room. He wanted Shiloh to decide where he should sit. If he had his way, he’d sit in the corner of the couch, tuck her in beneath his arm, and never let her go. They could sit there and talk all night that way. But he knew he was fooling himself and was accepting of whatever made Shiloh comfortable. There was no way he was going to pressure her. As he poured her a cup of coffee, Roan tried to rein in the joy thrumming through his chest. He liked Shiloh’s spunk. Her feistiness. Almost smiling, Roan knew she’d bring all of that to his bed. She was going to be a fearless lover and his body and heart ached for her.

Sauntering through the living room he saw Shiloh pull an overstuffed chair near one corner of the couch. Handing her the cup, he settled down on the couch, leaning back, his long legs crossed out in front of him, sitting opposite her. Shiloh had initiated that surprising kiss. Roan felt he knew her well enough to know she’d one day boldly walk right into his arms and tell him she wanted to go to bed with him. Such a fearless, beautiful creature. Keeping it all to himself, he settled back, his gaze holding hers.