“I suppose,” Shiloh muttered. “It’s hurt me in so many ways, seen and unseen.”
“It’s what we in the military call ‘psy ops’ or ‘psychological warfare.’” He wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand, make her feel safe because so often, Roan saw Shiloh was frightened. Always looking over her shoulder. When he took her into Jackson Hole the other day, she was tense and on guard; as if still expecting the unknown stalker to leap out of the shadows. It hurt him to see her in this mode, but since then, she made some kind of internal breakthrough and she settled down. There was more peace in her face, less tension. The flightiness that was always there seemed to be gone the last three days. Shiloh was struggling and Roan knew all humans went through times like this. He wished he could be of more help to her.
“Good way to put it,” she griped, giving him a tight smile.
“Food’s top-drawer,” he praised, wanting to get her mind off the stalker. “You’re really blooming as a cook around here.” Roan saw her cheeks turn pink, her shyness returning. He wondered if her aunt and uncle had ever taken serious parental interest in Shiloh as she grew up beneath their roof. Her lack of confidence in herself was stunning. And yet, she’d gone on to become a world-renowned writer, so there was some confidence expressing itself through her. He had a hunch her father’s loving care and interest in her at such a young age had forged that creative link with Shiloh. It was a healthy, vibrant part of her that was alive and well.
“Thanks,” she said, feeling good about it. “When you said you and the other wranglers were going to be out building fence, I figured you’d be starving by the time you got home tonight.” He’d already eaten two chicken breasts, a thigh, and a drumstick. The man knew how to tuck it away. And yet, Roan was made of nothing but hard, sculpted muscle, powerfully built, but not muscle-bound. His dark brown hair was still damp from his recent shower. She could smell his male scent along with the sage soap he’d used.
“Yeah, we got a lot done. It’s a good crew I work with.” He studied her profile. “So, tell me about writing today? What inspired you to do it?”
Shiloh hesitated. “I don’t know. I just woke up with this driving need to put words to paper.”
“Does it always happen that way?”
“Yes. I love waking up every morning, feeling that inner drive and excitement to find out what my characters are going to do next.”
He smiled a little, polishing off the potatoes and gravy with a piece of bread. “I’ve never been good at writing, so you’re sort of an anomaly in my life.”
“What? Something to be studied under a microscope?” Shiloh teased, grinning. When Roan smiled, that well-shaped mouth of his sent raw, hungry heat flowing throughout her. Shiloh couldn’t keep her gaze off his long, spare hands, the calluses she saw on his palm and fingers. A hand she wanted to touch her, explore her and . . . She had to stop going there.
“No,” Roan murmured, getting up and taking his plate to the sink. “Interest in how a creative person thinks. How you create. This is all new territory for me.”
“I can’t explain the process. I once had an editor ask me if I thought writers could be made or were just born the way they were.”
Roan poured them coffee, brought the mugs over to the table, and sat back down. “What was your answer?”
“I told her I felt they were born. I mean, you can teach someone the basics of writing, the structure. But you can’t teach them how to create. That’s where it separates the girls from the women.” She stood and took her plate to the sink. Turning, she saw Roan was watching her as he sipped his coffee. Her skin tingled with pleasure. The man’s look aroused her body to a level of urgent need. Sitting down, she put cream and sugar in the cup of coffee. “It’s a driving, inner passion, Roan. It’s not something you can develop by thinking about it. You either have it, or you don’t.”
“Sort of like falling in love? It just happens?” Roan wondered why the hell he’d picked such an example.
Giving him a grimace, Shiloh muttered, “I’ve never been in love, so I wouldn’t know what those feelings were, Roan. Sorry.”
“Bad example,” he agreed. Roan saw the regret in her eyes. “But what you experience is an inner passion or drive to put those words down on your computer?”
“Yes.” Shiloh touched the center of her forehead. “This may sound weird, but I see, like a color movie screen moving across my brow, the characters and the scene. I can move inside each character and know what they are thinking and feeling. I hear them talking. I feel their emotions. It’s very real to me. And then I write down what I’m seeing, hearing, and feeling from them. It’s exciting because I don’t know what they’re going to say or do.”
“Kind of an amazing process,” Roan admitted, enjoying getting to know how she wrote a book. “Has it always been like this for you?”
“Yes.”