She looked up at Roan. “This conversation is between you and me. Of course, my husband, Steve, already knows about it.”
“You got it,” Roan murmured, picking up the photo. Looking at it, he felt his chest expand. It was a helluva unexpected reaction. One he’d never had before. The red-haired vixen staring at him with huge evergreen-colored eyes, her face oval, with a perfect nose and stubborn chin, made his heart beat harder. That was a strange reaction to have to a picture, and Roan unconsciously rubbed his chest beneath the chambray shirt he wore. It was damp and clung to him. “Who is this?”
“She’s a dear friend of ours,” Maud began worriedly. “Her name is Shiloh Gallagher. Years ago, I bought some paintings from Isabella Gallagher, her mother. She was a very famous oil painting artist whose work with landscape is well known. I met her daughter, Shiloh, who was five years old at that time when I first met her.” She touched her brow. “It’s a really sad story,” she admitted. “I made a lasting friendship with Isabella and her husband over those years because I liked them. Never mind the money I spent acquiring her paintings,” Maud said, and smiled fondly. “But they are worth every penny. Anyway, I fell in love with her daughter. Her husband, Jeffrey Gallagher, was a best-selling thriller writer. He’d been in the Air Force, a jet fighter pilot, got out and married Isabella, and started writing for a living. Jeff was a wonderful man,” Maud said wistfully. “Handsome devil, loved his wife and daughter like they were sacred beings.”
“Sounds like a pretty happy, creative family,” Roan said.
“All creative to their bones. Yes. Anyway, six months after I’d first met them, Jeffrey died of a massive heart attack. God, he was only thirty-five years old, Roan. Such a loss. It was completely unexpected. He and Isabella had a love that was so rare and beautiful,” Maud said, her voice going soft. She shook her head. “Like the love I have with my husband. We married when I was twenty and we’re the best of friends and we love each other. You just don’t see that kind of love very often, Roan. And when you do, if it happens to you, you savor it, you keep the flame of it alive and strong because real love IS rare.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think the love bug is going to bite me, Maud, so I don’t have to worry about it.”
She snorted and gave him a one-eyebrow-raised look. “Roan Taggart, you’re a damn fine-lookin’ man. I see the way women look at you in Wind River.”
Shrugging, he said, “I’m not cut out for settling down, Maud. Let’s just leave it at that.” He held up the photo. “So, she’s the daughter of your friend Isabella?”
“Yes, but I need to tell you more sad stories,” and she went on to fill Roan in on the fact that Isabella had been murdered by Shiloh’s stepfather, Anton Leath, when the girl was only ten years old.
She saw the line of the wrangler’s mouth tighten, his eyes turning that icy gray when he was upset about something. Maud didn’t see it often because Taggart was what she called an interior person. One never knew what he was thinking or feeling unless he wanted to let you know about it. Stoic was a word Maud would use to label the tall, powerful wrangler. She was sure it was because of his black ops background. Cord McCall, was similar, but not as hard to read as Roan. They were different, she supposed, due to their military experiences. One look at Roan’s deeply tanned face, the harsh lines at the corners of his eyes, and Maud knew he spent his military years out in the harsh elements. He was no desk jockey, that was for sure.
“Now, Shiloh called me an hour ago. The poor girl is at her wit’s end,” Maud began, and then dove into the reason why, that currently, she had an unknown stalker after her for the last six months. She told him the entire situation. “She can’t write. She’s a best-selling author like her daddy was, but this never-ending situation has her so shaken and terrorized that she’s mentally paralyzed by it all.”
Frowning, Roan growled, “That’s a helluva note, Maud, that the police are telling her it’s all in her head. Where do they get off saying that?”