Walking in, he quietly shut the door and dropped his gray Stetson on a nearby wooden peg. First, he had to get a shower. Filthy with dust because he’d helped some wranglers herd cattle into another pasture, Roan wanted to get the grit off his skin.
As he ambled down the wooden hall, he lightened his walk, seeing the door to Shiloh’s room open. Frowning, he slowed to a stop. She was asleep on the bed, curled up into almost a fetal position, on her right side. Seeing how deeply she slept, as if she hadn’t rested easily for quite some time, Roan began to understand the stress created by the stalker, and how it had deeply affected Shiloh. Flexing his hand into a fist and releasing it, Roan thought he would like to get his hands on the bastard who had tortured her nonstop for six months. Even in sleep, as his gaze moved from her long legs up across her curvy hip to her breasts and then to her face, Roan could see subtle lines of tension throughout her body.
She had an attractive oval face, a stubborn-looking chin, some strands of her red hair dropping across her smooth brow. Her lashes were long, curved against her high cheekbones. She slept with her hands beneath one cheek and it stirred his heart. Childlike was a word that came to mind when Roan gazed at her freckled cheeks and nose. It was her mouth, the perfect, sensual shape of it, that his body reacted to.
Roan felt himself stir. Cursing silently, he stepped in and pulled the door closed. The less he saw of Shiloh, the better off he was going to be. Running his fingers in an aggravated motion through his short hair, he stepped across the hall into his bedroom. Worse, he had inhaled her sweet, feminine scent. He’d spent too many years in danger and his senses were finely honed. He could pick up an odor and know if it was Taliban or not a hundred feet away from where they were hiding. Her scent reminded him of a wildflower meadow that sat near the cabin he was building and it was playing havoc on his body. Damn.
Emerging from a hot shower, Roan changed into a pair of clean Levi’s and a black T-shirt. He traded his cowboy boots for a pair of hiking boots. As he walked past Shiloh’s door, he listened, but heard nothing. All her luggage that he’d put in her room was exactly where he left it. She was exhausted. That realization twinged at his heart.
Scowling, he rubbed his chest and wandered into the kitchen. Grabbing a cold beer out of the refrigerator brought back strong memories of his A-team. Usually they were living at an Afghan village and alcohol was off-limits. It was one of the few good memories Roan had about getting to Kandahar, to the Special Forces compound, and being able to get a cold beer. The fine sand and grit got in every crack and crevice of a man’s body. He was always chafed raw around his collar and other places. A cold beer washed that crud out of his throat and gave his mouth a clean taste. Tipping it back, he drank deeply, the one concession he gave himself at the end of a tough day of wrangling.
Roan wanted to forget Shiloh was in the house as he rustled up some food from the refrigerator. He wasn’t heartless. Choosing two T-bone steaks, he put them on the wooden cutting board. He was big on salads, bringing out an armful of veggies and placing them on the counter. Wondering if Shiloh enjoyed them, he made more than usual. Grabbing flour and other ingredients, he whipped up some biscuits. Unsure of when she might wake up, if at all, Roan went ahead and made dinner for himself. He would cook up her steak later, if she wanted it.
Going to the living room, he turned on the television and selected a news station. That’s all he wanted was the news. He’d gotten a newspaper earlier and would read it as he ate. This was his normal nightly schedule. Nothing fancy. Just rest.
Roan half turned, sensing movement before he saw her. It was Shiloh coming out of her room, rubbing her drowsy eyes, her hair tangled around her shoulders. She was barefoot. Smiling to himself, Roan thought she looked like a child, not the woman she was. Yawning, she suddenly halted when she became aware Roan was watching her.
“Oh . . .”
“Feel better?” he asked, turning back and heading for the kitchen.
Shiloh felt drugged. The shock of seeing how large and broad-shouldered Roan was with that tight-fitting black T-shirt yanked her awake. She saw his gray eyes narrow upon her like a predator stalking his quarry. Unsure of whether to feel alarmed or not, her lower body sizzled instantly beneath his sweeping gaze. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted thickly, walking into the living room. The wood felt warm beneath her bare feet. Late western sunlight slanted in a set of windows on that side of the house, glinting and showing the gold and red in the wood. Her heart was beating a little quicker.
“Feel up to eating something?” Roan asked, glancing her way as she came and stood at the edge of the kitchen, looking unsure.
“I could eat.” Shiloh sniffed the air. “Something sure smells good. What are you baking, Roan?”
“Biscuits.”
“A man who cooks. I like that. Do all cowboys know their way around a kitchen?”