Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(7)

It was utter pleasure watching Roan walk casually back into the airport and head in her direction. The man moved with a masculine grace Shiloh had rarely seen. And on him, it was a perfect fit with his rugged quality, his work-worn jeans, those ropy lower arms and large hands. There was such a blatant sensuality about him. His masculinity was squarely in her face. She noticed how many women’s heads swiveled as he strode by them. Tucking away her smile, Shiloh picked up her last suitcase and set it down next to the others.

“Got them all?” Roan asked, halting.

“Every last one of them.”

“It’ll take me two trips. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll take you to the truck?”

She snorted. “If you take three, I can get the other three.”

Roan gave her a steady look. “Code of the West, Ms. Gallagher. Men do the heavy hauling.”

She was about to protest but he wrapped his hand around her upper arm. The instant his fingers brushed her skin, wild, fiery tingles radiated in every direction. With a quick breath, Shiloh opened her mouth to protest.

“No excuses,” Roan growled, marching her in front of him.

She had the good grace not to put up a fight with the cowboy. Twisting a look across her shoulder, she said, “You wouldn’t last a day in New York City. Women are on their own there, believe me.” He probably opened doors for women too.

“I made the mistake of going there only once,” he said, taking the first three suitcases in hand. He saw the amusement deep in her green eyes, that wide, lush mouth of hers pulling tentatively into a smile. There was nothing to dislike about Shiloh. He especially liked her name. It rolled off his tongue like melted honey. And he’d like to taste that mouth of hers but, he darkly reminded himself, she was Maud’s guest.

After leading her to the white Chevy pickup truck with WIND RIVER RANCH painted on the door, he opened it for her. “Climb in,” Roan said, putting the suitcases in the rear bed. The sun was warm and bright in a cloudy blue sky. Roan walked back and retrieved the rest of her luggage. As he slid into the truck, he asked, “Did Maud tell you that you’ll be staying over at one of the employee houses? That there’s a room waiting for you?”

“Yes.” Roan filled the cab of the truck. Somehow, and she didn’t know how, Shiloh felt a very protective feeling extending invisibly from him to her. She felt embraced by it and it was wonderful, de-stressing her. Maybe it was the warm look he gave her as their eyes briefly met? As if he was trying to reassure her?

“Then you know you’ll be doing your own cooking?” Roan saw her nod. “Do you feel like going over to the local grocery store to buy your food? Things you like to eat?”

“Sure. It will feel good to be able to walk around for a while. My legs are cramped up from that darned economy seat in the plane.”

Driving slowly out to the asphalt road that would take them into Jackson Hole, Roan said, “I thought you were a best-selling author.”

“I am. Why?”

Shrugging, Roan murmured, “Just thought all you authors were rich.”

“I wish it were true,” she said. “I make a decent living, but I’m not rich. Maybe later, if my books continue to be popular, that might happen.”

“So that’s why you flew the cattle car instead of business or first class?”

Shiloh nodded, already in love with the sharp, jagged peaks rising in the west near the airport. “Right. What are these beautiful mountains called?”

“The Grand Tetons, but we’ll be driving for about an hour south of here. In the Wind River Valley, where we’re going, you’ll see two mountain ranges on either side of it: the Salt River and Wilson ranges. They aren’t as exciting as the Tetons, but they’ll do.”

She sighed. “The Tetons are stunning.” And then she glanced at his rugged profile. “You’re lucky.”

“Well, you have canyons in New York City,” he said. “Skyscrapers are mountains of another type.”

“You’re a writer.”

Roan shook his head. “No way.”

“The way you see things. That’s creative. And you’re right: All the tall buildings do create canyons. And our skyscrapers do look like mountains.”

Roan shouldn’t feel good about her enthusiastic compliment, but he did. There was such an ease between them he could neither explain, stop, nor change. “Well,” he drawled, “I’m no writer.”

“I think everyone can write. Even if it’s into their personal diary. I have a wonderful software called Alembic. I put my daily journal entries in there.” She saw him give her a cool look. “Okay, maybe you don’t think you’re a writer. But you DO have a way with words.” She enjoyed going down the long hill. Far below she could see a town and assumed it was Jackson Hole. To her left was the Elk Refuge, a ten-foot fence for as far as she could see to keep the elk off the main highway.

“Let’s not talk about me,” Roan said gruffly, uncomfortable. “What kind of books do you write?”

Inwardly, Shiloh squirmed and then hesitated. Finally, she said, “I’m a romance writer.” She saw his brows shoot up. Then, she saw that catlike grin cross his beautifully shaped mouth. Heat pummeled her face and she knew she was blushing! Tucking her hands tensely into her lap, she waited for what she knew was coming. Telling a man she was a romance writer was like green-lighting the guy to either make some snide remark about the genre or to believe it was a come-on, which usually led to him making a pass at her.