Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(53)

“Would you tell me about your growing-up years?” she asked, looking at Roan over the cup.

“My dad, Al, was stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, because he was with the Third Special Forces Group headquartered there. That’s where I was born. Shortly afterward, my mother, Grace, went home to our family ranch. I grew up on my grandparents’ ranch and when my dad got to come stateside for a year or more, then we’d move to where he was stationed.”

“You had your grandparents to help you grow up even though your dad was gone?”

“Right.”

“Are they still alive?”

“No.” Roan’s mouth quirked. “I miss the hell out of both of them. They were tough Depression-era stock, believed in work that paid off, didn’t ask for handouts and didn’t see themselves as victims.”

“Do you carry photos of them?” Shiloh wondered. She heard an emotional catch in Roan’s deep voice, saw a softening in his normally hard, glinting eyes.

“Afraid not. My mom has all the family photos at their ranch in Montana. I was in the U.S. Army from eighteen to age thirty-two. And because I was black ops, we never carried anything on us that could identify us or anyone else.”

Shiloh felt sad for Roan. It was clear he was tied strongly to his family. “But you’re out now.”

His mouth moved into a cutting line. “Old habits die hard, Shiloh.”

“I understand.” She held the cup between her hands in her lap. There was such a comfortable feeling between them; as if they were old friends sitting down to catch up on each other’s lives. Shiloh tried not to gaze at Roan’s well-shaped mouth because it sent a skitter of heat and longing through her.

He frowned. “I’m trying to put myself in your place, Shiloh.”

“Oh?”

“Both your parents are gone. I know how much I’ve always relied on my mom and dad. Being able to pick up the cell phone and talk to them. Send an e-mail. And you seem very family-oriented. The loss must be like a hole in your heart that never heals.”

“You’re right,” she murmured, looking down at the coffee in her hands. “The hole in the heart is exactly right.” His observations cut through her and Shiloh felt tears gather at the back of her eyes. She swallowed a couple of times, forcing them away. The expression on Roan’s face made her want to cry, though. That hard mask he wore dissolved. And in its place, she saw a sensitive man who was very aware and in touch with those around him, in so many rich and wonderful ways. Shiloh swore she could feel his invisible embrace around her shoulders as he spoke quietly to her, his tone reflective. She detected sadness in his eyes—for her. It had been such a long, long time since she’d talked about her parents. Her heart twisted with grief.

“I’m sorry, Shiloh. You’re a good person. I think your parents were a powerful support for you. When they got ripped away, it’s tough to suddenly be standing alone and having to always be strong with no support.”

“There’s no one to lean on,” Shiloh agreed softly, closing her eyes, feeling the tears creeping back. Tonight, she did not want to break down and cry. This was the first time Roan had opened up to her and she didn’t want to lose that opportunity with him. Opening her eyes, she said mirthfully, “If I could have had a pair of cosmic crutches for a couple of years after that, it would have helped. At least I got to live with my aunt and uncle. And that was so much better than being put into the state system and sent to a foster home.”

“You turned out beautiful, intelligent, kind, and incredibly creative,” Roan said. “You’ve got a strong spirit, Shiloh. A helluva backbone.”

She perked up. “What? You saw my backbone the other day when I was nailing that Trex down your cabin porch? Is that when you stopped seeing me as a New York City cream puff?” She saw delight burn in his eyes, that wonderfully strong mouth of his curving recklessly upward.

Snorting, Roan put the cup on the lamp stand and sat up, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. “I never thought of you as a cream puff.”

“What then?”

“A city slicker.”

“And while I may be that, I have other qualities and skills that move beyond that label.”

“Indeed you do,” Roan agreed. “I just wonder where you got that fearlessness of yours. From your mom? Your dad?”

She touched her red hair. “I got this, my green eyes and risk-taking personality, from my mom.”

“What was she like?” Roan wondered.

“My mother was an artist. She studied at the Sorbonne, in Paris. She loved Europe and had many adventures over there in her early twenties.” Shiloh grinned. “My mother ran with the bulls in Spain, right along beside the men.”

Brows rising, Roan said, “That’s really something. She didn’t get hurt, did she?”

“No,” Shiloh said, fondly remembering the story. “And I have photos of her with her Spanish boyfriend before, during, and after the run.” Giving Roan a warm look, she added, “You’d have loved my mom. She was an absolute free spirit. She lived out of her heart. She did everything on emotional whim. She had such faith in the unknown. She never had a lot of money but it would always turn up when she needed it. To help pay for her art training in Paris, she worked as a cabaret dancer at a club in downtown Paris.”