“Thank you,” she murmured as she laid her hand into his. There was regret in Taggart’s eyes. Her fingers tingled, encased by his rougher ones. In fact, it looked like her hand had been swallowed up by his.
To Roan’s surprise, she was quick and efficient. She knew what she wanted. There was enough food for a week in her cart and Roan carried the bags out to the truck for her. Shiloh was inquisitive, always looking around. Like him. Only she was very sensitive. She was a writer. Maybe there was some common ground he could plow with her. On the way back to the ranch, he decided to try again and, hopefully, not stir her up into defensiveness or anger.
“I noticed you observe a lot,” he said, sliding her a glance.
“Part of being a writer, I guess. My dad always did it. I probably picked it up unconsciously.”
“What are you looking for?” Roan wondered, driving down Highway 89 south, which would eventually allow them to leave the town behind. Fifty miles south lay the Wind River Valley.
Shrugging, Shiloh said, “Just the way people act or behave. Body language. Voice inflections. Facial expression. If I see something I haven’t got in my repertoire, I catalog up here,” and she tapped her head. “It helps me create believable and sympathetic characters my readers can fall in love with, root for, and put an emotional investment into.”
“Why do you say ‘sympathetic’?” Roan found himself wanting to talk to Shiloh. It wasn’t one of his finer points: carrying on a social conversation. He was usually abrupt and if one or two words would suffice, that was the end of his sentence. Maybe because he’d never been around a writer, she was like a bug under a microscope to him. His body begged to differ with him. There was something deep driving him to get to know her better. Maybe two months with a woman underfoot wasn’t going to be as bad as he thought it might be. He liked women. In bed. Outside of it? No. Of course, Maud Whitcomb was his employer, and he always enjoyed being around her.
Opening her hands, Shiloh said, “Readers of romances need to connect on a compassionate level with the hero and heroine. If one is unsympathetic, it turns them off and they’ll never buy another book from you. They want to emotionally connect with the characters.”
“Then,” Roan struggled, frowning, “these men are perfect?”
Shiloh laughed and felt heat moving into her face again. Every time Taggart looked at her, she felt as if he were looking through her and knew every secret she carried. “No. They have weaknesses and strengths, but not a fatal flaw.”
“Fatal flaw?”
“Yes. Some of the not-so-nice traits humans have like being a robber, a liar, or a murderer are some examples,” she said, her hand going to her neck as the gruesome spectacle rose in her once again. Shaking off memories of her mother’s murder, Shiloh said in a strained voice, “Developing a character is a lot of work. The hero and heroine have to be believable to the readers.”
“You’ll find plenty of characters here at the Wind River Ranch,” he said wryly, turning down the half-mile drive that would take them to the ranch.
Shiloh was thinking he was one himself, but said nothing. He’d probably take it the wrong way. “Have you always been a wrangler, Mr. Taggart?”
“Call me Roan. No, just the last two years.”
“Roan? That’s different. Where did you get that name?”
Now he was the bug under her microscope. He could feel Shiloh zeroing in on him. If it had been anyone but her, Roan would have shut them down in a helluva hurry. The look in her green eyes became sharpened and curious. “My parents.”
“But,” she stumbled, “was it a name of a favorite grandfather or uncle? That’s a very odd name and it’s very old. In fact, it goes back to Germany, I believe. It’s a derivation of the German word for raven.”
He slid her a glance. “You’re a walking encyclopedia. My father’s side came from Germany in the nineteen hundreds and settled in Montana. And yes, my grandfather’s name was Raven, so Dad decided to give me a variation of it.”
“I’m good,” she teased, giving him a smile. Her heart flipped when he smiled back at her. That mouth of Roan’s was dessert of the finest kind. It was a wide, chiseled mouth, his upper lip thinner than his lower lip. It was a mouth that shouted of masculinity and confidence. What would it be like to kiss this man? Shiloh winced inwardly. He was probably married with a pack of kids. Where was her head? Her body?
“You are good,” Roan murmured. He slowed down as they rolled into a populated area. The ranch sat in a flat area, mostly buildings and corrals. “Sometime you’ll have to tell me the story of how you got your name.”
“It’s interesting,” Shiloh promised, craning her neck, excited about seeing a real Western ranch. “How far is it to Wind River Ranch where I’ll be staying? Maud had said it was a long way from Jackson Hole.”