Conquering The Cowboy

2

TAYLOR SANG ALONG with the radio and Toby Keith as he professed why he should’ve been a cowboy. Pulling into town, Taylor reached up and turned the radio off. Nothing in the online ad for the little cabin she’d booked had prepared her for the reality of arriving in Crooked Water, New Mexico.

Not even close.

Slowing to the posted speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour, she had plenty of time to assess the town. All of it. The sign outside the tiny village advertised a population number someone had taped over with duct tape and, using stencils and spray paint, modified to 207. There was a post office housed in a glass-faced stucco building that couldn’t be more than twenty-five feet square.

Beside it sat a brick-bodied bar and grill with a neon sign over the front door that buzzed loud enough she could hear it.

Directly across the street was a mercantile-cum-grocer with touristy knickknacks set in the plate glass window. Sale ads were hand drawn with permanent marker on fluorescent paper and peppered the remaining window space.

And a block farther down, set apart from what seemed to be the heart of the town, a small white chapel faced off with a windowless drive-thru liquor store.

Parking in front of the Muddy Waters Bar and Grill, she hopped down from her truck and strolled across the street. Somewhere nearby, Quinn Monroe waited. She wasn’t slated to meet him until the day after tomorrow, but she’d wanted some time to settle into her little cabin at the ranch.

That’s a load of crap and you know it, her subconscious snarked. You wanted to scope the climb and afford yourself plenty of time to skulk out of town if it looked too tough. At least have the good grace to wait for the bartender to hand you that first double shot of whiskey before you start lying to yourself.

Man, if her inner voice grew any more compassionate, she’d have to think about finding a way to suffocate the witch.

She pushed through one of the large doors to the mercantile and stopped, door still half open. Generic canned chili—a lot of generic canned chili—had been built into a pyramid display right inside the entry. A large sign proclaimed “BOGO! Get it before it’s gone!”

“How much chili can a community of barely two hundred people eat?” she asked quietly, still frozen halfway through the doorway.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” a tiny, bespectacled man answered from a stool behind an ancient register.

He was so diminutive in a wizened way that it took her a second to realize he’d stood. Shuffling around the end of the worn pine counter with its aluminum flashing and green glass candy jars, he couldn’t have topped out at more than five foot three inches.

“Get fishermen in here all damn day who think they’ll pull a Bear Grylls and live off the land. Bunch of morons, the lot of ’em. More men end up with food poisoning from trying to cook their catch over an open fire and forage for greens along the riverbanks than those eatin’ at my sister’s diner over in Boise.” He gazed up at her with rheumatic, watery blue eyes and grinned. “Works out for me, though. Buy-one-get-one-free chili is mighty tasty when you’ve had the dysentery in the wilds. Got a special on Charmin, too, for that matter, but you don’t look like a moron.”

Lips quivering, Taylor stepped the rest of the way in and let the door fall shut before she burst out laughing. It had been so long since she’d let loose, her facial muscles ached with it. Bent over, hands on her knees, she glanced up to find the old man grinning even wider. “And the locals?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“We don’t touch that canned, preservative-filled crap. Anything with a shelf life of eight years is bound to kill you,” he said, gesturing across the street with a small jerk of his chin. “Town folk eat at Muddy Waters.”

“What’s good over there?” she asked absently as she peered down the store’s aisles. The place was admittedly well stocked for such a small, remote grocery.

The little man shrugged. “Just about everything.” Then he held out a hand twisted by years of arthritis and roughed by physical work. “I’m Joseph Cummings. You can call me Joe. And if you’re here long enough, Old Joe.”

She shook his hand, surprised at the strength in his grip. “Hey, Joe. I’m Taylor Williams. I’ll be here a little over a week. I’m climbing Trono del Cielo.” She swallowed hard at the last bit, not at all sure why she’d offered a stranger the information.

He cocked his head to one side, considering her. “You’re the one going up the mountain with Quinn Monroe, then.”

“I am, yes. Why?”

“He mentioned he had someone booked for the climb when he came in and ordered provisions.” He waved a hand dismissively, shuffling around the counter to reclaim his seat as he spoke. “Couldn’t be no one better to lock yourself onto for that climb.”

The idea of being locked together, of carabiners tying her fate, her very survival, to another’s—and his to her—made her swallow convulsively. Gear could fail. Decisions made under pressure, decisions not carefully weighed and measured, could be wrong. Do-overs weren’t a given but a matter of grace, and if life lacked one thing, it was grace.

“Good to know,” she croaked out.

He carried on, not seeming to notice the sweat suddenly trickling down her temples. “Got a small storefront here, but we do a bang-up catalog order business. I might be older than a petrified dinosaur turd, but I’m good with a computer.” His fragile-looking chest puffed up. “I can get you anything I need from my Santa Fe supplier or with my laptop, so you need something while you’re here, something I ain’t got on the shelf? Just let me know.”

“I’ll do just that. Thanks.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “You nervous about the climb or meeting Quinn?”

So he had noticed. “Why would I be nervous about meeting Quinn?” she asked, avoiding the first part of the question.

The old man cackled. “You’re a woman, ain’t ya?”

“Yeah, but my breasts don’t tend to get too intimidated by the male species.” She grinned. “They have a bit of a narcissistic side.”

“Rightly so,” he said, winking and, of all things, causing her to blush as the door swung open behind her, a rush of hot, dry air washing over the sweat at the nape of her neck. “But Quinn? Well, he’s famous in these parts for lovin’ and leavin’ in nothing flat. Broke a lot of hearts when he left town that first time. Imagine it’ll be the same when he leaves this time.”

“Good thing I’m just here for the climb, then, isn’t it, Joe? That’ll keep us both safe.”

“Safe?”

“No chance of falling for someone if you go into things knowing he’s a one-trick pony prick.”

“Not too far off the mark but for one thing,” said a deep, smooth voice from behind her. “My bag of tricks is bottomless.”

The depth of the newcomer’s voice rooted her in place. Taylor couldn’t have moved if the hem of her jeans caught fire. She couldn’t turn. Couldn’t face the man at her back.

Joe laughed, the sound part wheeze, part cough. “Quinn, this here’s Taylor Williams.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Williams,” he said, voice cool and detached.

Oh, man. “Somehow I doubt that’s true, Mr. Monroe.”

“Is it safe to assume you’re the climber I’ve been exchanging emails with? The one who recently hired me to obtain his recertification?” His voice, the pitch deep but smooth, sent a shiver up her spine.

“Her recertification, and yes. That’s me. I’m her.”

“You didn’t tell me you’re a woman,” he said, the accusation clear.

“It shouldn’t matter, seeing as my gender has nothing to do with my ability to get up or down a mountain, Mr. Monroe.”

“Since you’ve discussed my prick and its tricks with our local grocer, you’ve invoked the discussion on gender. It also seems more personal if you go ahead and call me Quinn.”

Taylor closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. Only one thought ran through her head. The burning heat of abject humiliation would keep her warm when the desert nights grew cold.

* * *

QUINN MONROE HADN’T expected Taylor Williams to show up early. He also hadn’t expected Taylor to be, well, a woman. But from the slim column of her neck to the end of long, seriously toned legs and the very fine ass parked right between the two, Taylor looked like she was all woman. That Old Joe had been giving her the standard spiel about Quinn’s reputation was further proof. The grocer must’ve taken to her quickly. Otherwise he never would’ve felt the need to warn her to mind herself around him. Unless Joe was just screwing around. You never could tell with him.

Curiosity ate at Quinn and he wondered if her face was as expressive as the unblemished skin of her neck. The red flush that had raced across that pale expanse had been telling. It struck him then that she was incredibly pale for such a highly accomplished climber. Clearly she’d been out of the sun long enough to lose the tan every climber sported. But why? Only way to get the answers he wanted was to ask. Crossing his arms over his chest, he let a smile play around his lips and unquestionable desire burn in his gaze. “If you’re going to disparage my capabilities, Ms. Williams, at least face me when you do.” When she hesitated, he said softly, “Turn around.”

She turned her head just enough to keep him from seeing her face when she answered. “We’re not on the mountain yet, Mr. Monroe. You don’t dictate what I do and don’t do until I’m geared up and paying you for your expertise.”

Sassy and able to shrug off his surliness. He liked the combination. She’d need it once they hit the mountain, where he would call every shot. Further intrigued, he found himself closing the distance between them and pushing her a little harder. “According to Old Joe, my reputation is that I have specific expertise you don’t have to pay for.” High school reputations died hard in a small town...if they died at all. “To get it, you’ll have to turn around.”

Ah, that got her going.

Spinning, she faced him, her hazel eyes bright with fury and her mouth working silently.

Then, in a voice so deep and sultry he felt it wrap around him like a silken noose, she lit into him. “Excuse me, Mr. Monroe, but did you just proposition me? I’m your client, not some...some...two-bit, cheap-thrill, ‘experience-seeking’—” she emphasized it with air quotes “—tour-on out here looking to ‘climb your mountain’ and stroke your ego every step of the way as you critique my physical form instead of critiquing my climb approach. Clear?”

Joe laughed so hard Quinn couldn’t help but worry the old man would choke on his dentures.

Whatever.

Quinn consumed Taylor in one visual gulp. She was roughly six inches shorter than his six foot three, fine boned and lean with defined muscle, but she owned her body and her space like she was his size. Tendrils of hair escaped the edge of her ball cap to trail down her neck and over her shoulders, and he had the most ridiculous urge to see her without the hat. He wanted to set that mass of wavy hair free, wanted to know how long it was, wanted to see it frame her face.

An erotic image of it playing across her bare breasts caught him off guard and he shook his head. He didn’t react to women. They reacted to him. It had been the natural order of things since eleventh grade, when twelfth-grader Marcy Jacobs had hauled him into the tack room in her parents’ barn and taught him things about older women. Not since then had he allowed a woman to cause every rational thought to vacate his brain, and he wasn’t going to start now. He just had to figure out how to retrieve the logical thoughts that had already fled without his consent. In the meantime, he looked her over with what was, at best, open interest and, at worst, carnal intent.

What happened next shocked him and left him scrambling to get his brain back in gear, if for no other reason than to save his pride.

She stepped into his space and glared up at him, going toe-to-toe without batting an eye. “I know you did not just tell me to turn around so you could...could...take my physical measure and decide whether or not you deem me worthy of your bag of tricks.” When he didn’t answer, because he couldn’t, she shoved him hard enough he was forced to step aside as she stormed past him on her way to the door. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Monroe. The collision of your reputation with your self-adoration has created a testosterone-dense fallout that’s making me nauseous. I need some fresh air.”

He watched her long-legged strides eat up the pavement as she crossed the street. She yanked open the door to a familiar truck—the same one he’d stopped to help on the highway—and all but launched herself inside, slamming the driver-side door closed behind her. Reverse lights flared, she backed out of her parking spot and, with a chirp of tires, took off down Highway 39.

“You just made a colossal mistake, boy,” Joe hooted.

Quinn glanced over at Old Joe and went with the one thing he knew to be true. “Yeah? Well, she’s my client.” The first client he’d had since he’d gone live with his new adventure guide business and website. He needed this climb to go well. Months spent racking his brain had yielded little in terms of ways to help his mom make ends meet. The only thing that made any sense at all was to put his skills to use locally. He more than wanted this venture to work. He needed it to. Quinn had to find a way to bring in the extra income his dad had earned cowboying for others in order to cover the lean years on their own small place, and no one was hiring Harding County’s version of the prodigal son.

“She’s a woman who deserves respect, is what she is.” Joe looked up with a kind of seriousness that wasn’t at all common on that old face. “I know you and your mama have been through hell. Especially your mama. I can’t imagine losing my wife, Josie, after more than sixty years married.” He shook his head, light glinting off his pate. “But if gossip’s right and you intend to stick around and help your mama keep the family ranch running, you’re going to have to set aside your pride, and not just this once, mind you. There’s no room for pride when you’re clawing your way up from hell’s own belly.”

Quinn stared at his boots, considering.

“Hurts to have your pride lashed by an old man’s tongue, I know. My old man was brilliant but brutal with it, so I’ve been there and more than once.” Old Joe leaned on the counter. “Go on after her and tell her you’re sorry. It’ll likely hurt your pride, but no man’s pride has ever caused him to bleed out. Besides, it’s your best shot of making something of this climbing thing.”

Quinn’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Make something?”

Joe waved him off. “I know all about your accomplishments and records and such. Stuff you’ve done in the past,” he said, dragging out the last word. “I don’t give a rat’s patooty about what was. Can’t change it anyhow. I care about what is and what might be. I don’t want to see your mama hurt again because her son followed in the father’s footsteps and put pride out front just waitin’ for the fall. Say you’re sorry to the lady. It won’t kill you, boy.”

Quinn considered Old Joe, then gave him a quick nod. “You have that order ready that Mom called in?”

“Been boxed up and waiting on you since yesterday.”

Quinn settled the tab and thumbed through the dollar bills in his wallet. All four of them. Heading to his truck with two boxes of necessities, he mentally rerouted his trip home. He’d stop by the bank and see what it would take to get an extension on the ranch’s credit line. While he was there, he’d withdraw a little cash to keep on hand for incidentals and cash-only emergencies.

He chuffed out a strained laugh. If things kept on like they had been, the money would be gone before the week’s end. It seemed everything had been an emergency of late, from the tractor breaking down and requiring special-order parts to the unanticipated replacement of the septic tank down at the bunkhouse.

The money he’d made selling his mountaineering business before coming back to Crooked Water had been good, and he’d really believed it would cover enough of the bills and buy him enough time to see his mom settled and secure. Then he had planned on figuring out where he’d go and what he’d do when he got there.

But the costs of keeping the ranch afloat had been staggering, and he’d watched the money flow from his account faster than water disappeared down a storm drain during monsoon season. With less than $10,000 left, he’d been forced to find a way to change the flow from solely out to at least something coming in.

He’d tried odd jobs, day jobs and more, but nothing ever panned out. With no options left, he’d quietly set up a website and begun reaching out to old contacts and looking for one-time climbs and such. Taylor had come to him through one of those channels. He’d initially hesitated. A re-cert would mean a solid week, maybe a little more. But the money... A short-notice, one-on-one recertification course demanded a hefty premium. In the end, the cash was too much of an incentive to turn down, his need for it too great.

He’d signed the contract.

And now here he was, getting ready to find his student and apologize for behaving like an ass. Because he had, and he knew it. That didn’t make the apology any easier.

Thoughts running amok, he stopped beside the bed of his truck and deposited the boxes near the cab before opening the driver’s door. A wall of heat hit him, the air infused with the leftovers of his burger and onion rings. The smell was so heavy and dense he nearly choked. Finishing lunch was clearly off the day’s agenda. Grabbing the grease-stained brown paper bag with the diner’s logo printed on the side, he tossed it into the bed of his truck and then climbed into the cab. First priority, windows down and heat wave be damned. That smell had to go.