Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(87)

“Even if I keep you awake?” she muffled against the column of his neck. How she needed Roan’s arm around her, holding her tightly. He felt so strong, like a rock where she presently felt like Jello-O. As he stroked her cheek, Shiloh closed her eyes, feeling some of the tension bleed out of her.

“I want you here, with me, no matter what, Shiloh.”

“I tend to talk when I’m nervous.”

He chuckled, the rumble moving through his chest. “I can tell.”

“What do men do? You don’t seem to worry like a woman does.”

“Just put it into a box,” he said. “SEALs call it a kill box, but I prefer to call it something more benign.”

“You can honestly stuff your emotions into a box within yourself?”

“Yes. Our focus is on the bad guy. Not how we’re feeling. If we did let our emotions run wild, we’d never be able to focus on the enemy and kill him.”

“Humph, that’s a pretty slick arrangement you guys have in your brain. It’s not how a woman’s brain works. We’re all about connections. It sounds like you guys have files and whatever file you pull out, that’s your focus. And none of the other files open up to bother or distract you.”

“Brain Science 101?” he teased, skimming his fingers slowly up and down her arm.

She laughed a little, relaxing more. “I guess. I’ve always been curious about how a man’s brain works versus a woman’s brain. It helps me create dialogue for my male characters, since I’m not a man.”

“That, you aren’t,” Roan agreed. “Thank God.”

Shiloh smiled a little, more of her tension dissolving. “Leath hated Mom talking all the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t like us talking a lot. I don’t know why. He said we were like two chattering squirrels. That we never knew when to shut up.”

“You were a child. Children talk nonstop. They’re learning.”

“My mother didn’t take that lying down, believe me. She told Anton if he didn’t like hearing us talk, to move out.”

“When did this happen?”

Sighing, Shiloh whispered, “About six months before he murdered her.”

“It sounds like your mother was tired of being controlled and manipulated by him.”

“I think so, but she never said that to me directly.”

“Because you were a child. She wasn’t going to put that on you. She protected you as much as she could.”

“Yes, she did. But I saw and heard a lot. It was a small apartment. When Anton would chide my mother, try to humiliate or embarrass her, she’d get angry and get into his face. She was never one to hold back how she felt.”

“Maybe an artist’s temperament?”

“My mother was very confident in herself. She was independent. I still don’t know to this day why she married that bastard. He was the exact opposite of my father. What did she see in him?”

“Maybe she was lonely, Shiloh.”

“Yes . . . that’s what I eventually thought, too. My mother was still so young, so beautiful and vibrant. She was such an extrovert. She loved going to parties, to galleries that held openings for her paintings. She loved interacting with people.”

Shiloh sighed, beginning to feel the exhaustion claim her mind, her worrying thoughts starting to slow down and dissolve. “She’d painted a beautiful zebra and her foal on the Serengeti Plain of Africa. Leath had bought it.”

“He hunted there.”

“Yes. I loved the painting because the baby zebra was dancing around his mother. It was such a beautiful painting. So real. As if you could reach out and touch that little baby. My mom was an amazing artist.”

“Do you have it?”

A rush of pain flowed through Shiloh. “No. About six months before Leath murdered my mom, they got into a screaming and yelling argument. He tore the painting off the wall in the den where he had his office, brought it out, and took it into her studio. He had a skinning knife in his hand and he shredded it in front of her.” Shiloh’s mouth compressed. “He did it to hurt her because he knew it was one of her favorite paintings.”

“Jesus. Were you there when it happened?”

“It happened on a weekend. My mom had set up my little easel next to hers. She was teaching me how to paint when Anton came yelling into her studio. I was so scared. I saw murder in his eyes and I screamed as he charged toward my mom with the painting in his upraised hand. I ran to the corner and cowered, hiding my face, so afraid. That knife he had”—Shiloh shivered—“it was the same one he later used to kill my mother.”

He caressed her tense back. “I’m sorry you had to witness that, Shiloh. What happened next?”

“They started shouting at each other. My mom was furious because he’d scared the hell out of me. She stood up to him, and shoved him back, trying to push him out of her studio. He pushed back. My mom almost fell but caught herself. And then he held up the painting, stabbing and slashing through the canvas until it hung in shreds. It was horrible. I couldn’t stop crying.”

Roan scowled. It was a sign of things to come from Leath. And he was out there, somewhere, right now. But where?