Roan Read Online Free PDF Page B

faded cotton gown that smelled of bleach. She was in a hospital.
    She returned her gaze to the man who stood next to the bed with his body partially blocking the light from the window. She moistened her parched lips, and began, “You. You’re…”
    â€œSheriff Roan Benedict.” He inclined his head in a brief, almost courtly gesture. At the same time, he released her and backed away a step, as if he felt he might be too close.
    Tory appreciated that retreat; his tall figure looming over her had been unsettling. She took a slow, deep breath against the raw heaviness of her lungs and chest while she stared at him in the light of day, measuring what she saw against her impressions from the night before.
    He wasn’t what she’d call devastatingly handsome; his face was rough-hewn and weathered to a deep bronze, his lips were a bit too firm, and a half-moon scar indenting the end of one brow gave him a quizzical look even in repose.Still, there was strength and inherent attraction in the alignment of his features. Like some western actor from the late-night movies, his height, square jaw and piercing steel-gray eyes bracketed by smile lines made him look like a man it would be easy to trust but dangerous to cross.
    Her gaze dropped past his broad shoulders, touched briefly on the silver star pinned to his shirt pocket, and then came to rest on the wide leather belt that supported his holstered weapon.
    â€œYou’re the one who shot me,” she said in bald accusation.
    The corners of his mouth tugged into a grim smile. “That has a familiar ring.”
    He was right; she’d said something similar before. For a second she glimpsed, like a dream on first awakening, the events of the night. The van. Zits. The shot. She’d been angry and confused. There was pain followed by the comfort of a firm voice and life-giving warmth of enfolding arms.
    No, the last had to be a figment of her imagination; it couldn’t have happened. Here in broad daylight, she could not picture this man, with his stiff stance, muscle-corded jaw, and shiny image of authority pinned to his chest ever unbending enough take her in his arms.
    She met his gaze with a troubled frown. He was watching her, his expression shuttered, though some dark and not quite official awareness lingered in the gray depths of his eyes. She was so startled by it that she lay perfectly still, barely breathing, while feverish heat moved over her in a slow wave.
    The door of the room swished open. A dark-haired nurse clad in a scrub suit of lilac and green bustled toward her. “Well, so you’re awake! How are you feeling?”
    â€œShe’s fine, we’re fine,” the sheriff responded smoothly, before Tory could marshal her thoughts enough to answer.
    â€œLet’s see she stays that way, shall we?” For all her cheerfulness, the glance the nurse turned on the sheriff seemed to hold a warning. She reached for the stethoscope looped across her neck. “While I’m here, I need to get her vital signs.”
    It was a short drill without much entertainment value, but the sheriff seemed to find it interesting. He looked over the nurse’s shoulder as she made notations on the bedside chart. When she turned to leave, he held the door for her, then stepped through it after her. It clicked shut behind them as if it had been given a firm push.
    Tory could hear low-voiced conversation out in the hall. Since it was almost certainly about her and her condition, she strained to hear but could make no sense of it. She relaxed on the pillow again with a sigh.
    This was the second time she’d been awake, she thought. She could remember being in recovery and parts of the gurney ride down long halls to this room. She looked around, taking stock in frowning concentration since she was half afraid that the hallway consultation meant she was more seriously injured than she seemed.
    Both her wrists were wrapped in