Her Mountain Man

But Sierra just couldn’t figure out why. She’d steeled herself for a swaggering braggart who would try to impress her with tales of his mountaineering exploits. Instead, she’d met a disarming, slightly goofy regular guy who seemed reluctant to talk about climbing mountains at all.

He was also decidedly better-looking than the blurry Internet photo she’d located had indicated. Not too tall, with short, spiky brown hair and brown eyes and the great legs she’d expect from a climber. He had a smile that would stop any female in her tracks—but if he thought he could use that smile to distract her from her purpose here, he’d be disappointed.

She, of all people, was immune to the charms of a mountain climber.

Dear Reader,

The closest I’ve come to mountain climbing is hiking a few of Colorado’s fourteeners—peaks that rise over 14,000 feet above sea level. Getting to the top was a major rush, a little taste of what I imagine real alpinists feel.

Overcoming any big obstacle can feel that way—scary, exhausting and triumphant. Some obstacles in our lives can certainly seem as insurmountable as any mountain: a serious illness or the pain of hurt suffered in childhood.

In Her Mountain Man I wanted to write about two people who confront personal obstacles in different ways. Sierra thinks she’s conquered the hurts of her past by ignoring them, while Paul feels compelled to face down his personal demons over and over. Neither of them is getting anywhere until falling in love forces them to take a different approach.

I hope you’ll enjoy Paul and Sierra’s story. Write and let me know. I love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at Cindi@CindiMyers.com.

Cindi Myers

About the Author

CINDI MYERS fell in love with the mountains of Colorado the first time she saw them, and she fell in love with her husband almost as quickly. They met on a blind date and were engaged six weeks later. It’s no wonder she writes about romance and people who were meant to be together.

Her

Mountain Man

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

ONLY THE DEAREST OF friends could have persuaded Sierra Winston to risk life and limb—and some very expensive shoe leather—on this wild-goose chase. She looked down at her nearly new pair of Christian Louboutins sinking slowly into the muddy streets of Ouray, Colorado. “Mark, you sooo owe me,” she muttered, as she pulled one foot, then the other, out of the mud and took stock of her new surroundings.

The Victorian-era storefronts along Ouray’s main street looked straight out of a postcard, but the backdrop for this slice of small-town Colorado drew the eye and made Sierra’s breath catch in her throat. Snowcapped mountains soared above the former mining town, their icy granite spires and sun-washed slopes making the village and the people in it seem tiny in comparison.

Sierra felt a little sick to her stomach, staring up at those mountains. They reminded her of too many things she’d avoided thinking about for too many years.

That was part of the reason she was here today, she reminded herself. She would have to face her past if she ever wanted to let go of it, and this was the place to do it.

She started across the street, slowing to allow an open-topped Jeep to pass. The two male occupants of the vehicle whooped and waved at her. She managed a thin smile, conscious of how out of place her designer miniskirt and red stilettos were in a town where most of the women wore jeans and hiking boots. You’re definitely not in Manhattan anymore, she reminded herself as she reached the opposite side of the street. Here, a life-size bronze sculpture of a bugling elk confronted her.

“Can I help you, miss?” An older man with a thick head of graying hair approached her.

“I’m looking for Sixth Avenue.” None of these dirt roads was what she’d term an avenue, but that was the address she’d been given.

“Who’s the lucky person you’re going to see?” The question was delivered in a jovial tone, but the old man’s eyes sharpened. In Manhattan she’d have blown off the question, but this was a small town, where everyone knew everyone else. There was little chance she’d keep her destination secret for long.

“I’m going to see Paul Teasdale,” she said.

The man’s friendly manner quickly became guarded. “Are you some kind of reporter?” he asked.

Apparently she wasn’t the first journalist to have found her way to this remote outpost. Then again, it wasn’t every day that the body of one of the most celebrated mountaineers of the twentieth century was recovered from the side of an Alaskan peak by one of the mountaineering stars of the twenty-first century—a man who just happened to live in Ouray, Colorado. Sierra offered her most disarming smile. “It’s all right,” she said. “Mr. Teasdale is expecting me.”

“You want to head two blocks up that way,” the man said, pointing. “Though I can’t say if he’s home right now.”

He’d better be home, she thought, after I flew two thousand miles and drove another forty to see him. And all because an old boyfriend had asked her to do him this one big favor.

She thanked the old man and set off once more. After hours on a plane and in the small rental car, she’d decided to stretch her legs by walking to Paul Teasdale’s house. She walked everywhere in Manhattan, and two blocks didn’t seem that far. Sierra had looked forward to a pleasant stroll around town—not an endurance march. The sidewalk ended after only a few yards and she found herself picking her way along another dirt street, this one ascending sharply uphill. Her progress was slow, since she had to stop every few feet to catch her breath in the thin air. This gave her plenty of time to think about what she would say to Paul Teasdale when they met—and how she’d ended up here in the first place.

“I need a reporter for an assignment,” Mark had said the morning he’d called Sierra in her office at Cherché magazine, one of the top women’s magazines in the country. Mark worked two floors up at the male-oriented Great Outdoors.

“Why are you calling me?” As she talked, she searched in her desk drawer for a nail file. “I already have a job. And I don’t have time to freelance.”

“I already okayed this with your boss. You can work on this assignment and still draw your salary from Cherché.”

“What kind of assignment?” Her beat was gossip, glamour and women’s issues. Great Outdoors specialized in testosterone, grit and gear.

“It’s a human interest story. Right up your alley. Top pay and all expenses.”

“There has to be a catch.”

“Yeah, that’s where the favor comes in. This is the kind of story that could make my career—and you’re the only one who can write it for me.”

She gave up her search for the file and resisted the urge to gnaw the ragged nail instead. The uneasy quaking in her stomach increased with each word from Mark. “What’s the story?”

“I’ve landed an interview with Paul Teasdale. But he’ll only talk to you.”

Paul Teasdale—a name she’d heard far too often these past few days. “No.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Mark continued, as if he hadn’t heard her refusal. “But Teasdale isn’t talking to anyone. Rumor is he’s angling for a big book contract. My editor already struck out trying to get a story from him, so I took a big chance and offered him you.”

“What am I, the sacrificial virgin?”

“You’re Victor Winston’s daughter.”

As if that wasn’t a sacrifice of a different kind. Sierra had refused to think of her father for years, and then Paul Teasdale had carried his body down from a mountain and for the past week she hadn’t been able to turn on the television or pass a newsstand without seeing or hearing his name. The headlines screamed at her in stark black letters: Famed Mountain Climber’s Body Discovered Twelve Years After His Death! Or Twelve Years On Mount McKinley—Body Of America’s Most Famous Climber Recovered.

Dead more than a decade, Victor Winston was still a celebrity. No doubt, he would have loved all the attention. Other mountaineers may have been more technically proficient, but no one was better than Victor at playing to the press. Even freezing to death in a blizzard at nineteen thousand feet, he’d radioed details to all the major wire services.

Never mind Sierra and her mother, sitting at home glued to the television and waiting for news. By then, it had been years since fourteen-year-old Sierra had felt close to her father, but the memories of those times were still fresh—days when public acclaim and the allure of summiting the next peak hadn’t meant more to him than spending time with his family. In those last few anxious days of his life, she’d listened to the increasingly desperate dispatches from Mount McKinley, hoping for some sign that he was thinking of her, but it never came.

When the transmissions ceased and it was assumed Victor Winston had died, what little love she’d had left for him had died, too. She’d followed her mother’s example, presenting a stoic face at the public memorial service after he was declared legally dead, boxing away the pain like old clothes that didn’t fit anymore.

Now Mark was asking her to take out those old garments and try them on again.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he said again quietly. “But it’s the big break I’ve been waiting for.”

Promotions at Davis Partners Publishing were tough to come by, especially on the testosterone side of the company. The editors of the hot rod, hunting, fishing and other male-targeted publications tended to stay on the job until they suffered heart attacks at their desks. The only way for an assistant like Mark to score a better position was to do something earth-shaking.

An exclusive from Paul Teasdale probably qualified. Mark was one of Sierra’s dearest friends, but could she do this, even for him? “What would I have to do?” she asked. Maybe a phone call or two wouldn’t be so bad …

“He lives in some little town in Colorado—Ouray. We’d fly you out there and you’d hang out for a few days, get an idea of what he’s like. And I want your personal touch on the story—emotions, opinions, whatever comes to mind.”

In other words, he was asking her to bare her soul.

“I’d have to go there and meet him?” She’d avoided looking at any pictures of Teasdale, but she knew what he’d be like—wiry and ruggedly handsome.

It was enough to make her gag.

“Come on, Sierra. Aren’t you a little bit curious?” Mark asked. “Don’t you think this would help you, too?”

She stiffened. “Help me how?”

“I don’t know—answer some questions about your dad. Bring you some closure.”

“I don’t need any closure, Mark.”

“Right. Of course you don’t. So interviewing this guy should be no big deal. Think of it as a free vacation to the mountains.”

She knew Mark; he wasn’t going to let this go. She took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll go out there and talk to him. But not only do you owe me that big fat paycheck, when I get home I want dinner at Jean-Georges.” The exclusive Central Park restaurant was a favorite of well-heeled foodies.

“Dinner, with champagne and all the chocolate you can eat. And thank you! I’ll send down the travel documents as soon as they’re ready.”

So here she was in Ouray, Colorado, hiking uphill in high heels and fighting a queasiness in her stomach that had nothing to do with the altitude. She’d lied to Mark when she told him she wasn’t curious about her father. She didn’t have any questions about how he died—the details had been played over and over in the news the past few days. But since he and her mother had separated when Sierra was ten, she did want to fill in the blanks of his life between then and when he’d died four years later.

What had driven him to risk his life in such hazardous conditions, to spend months away from home and family and suffer all manner of hardships?

What had he found in the mountains that he couldn’t find with his wife and child?

Why had he played the part of the devoted father for the first ten years of her life then left her, taking with him a piece of her heart she’d never been able to get back?

Those questions had been enough to override her better judgment and persuade her to leave Manhattan for the wilds of middle-of-nowhere Colorado. She hoped that in talking to Paul Teasdale she could somehow solve the mystery of her father and discover what had driven him to the mountains—and away from her.

PAUL TEASDALE SAW the woman long before she spotted him. He’d climbed onto the roof of his duplex to replace some damaged shingles and had scarcely driven the first nail when he glanced down the hill and saw a vision in short skirt and crazy high heels doggedly hiking toward him. She stopped every half block to catch her breath, giving him the opportunity to study her. Her brown, shoulder-length hair, her narrow black skirt and crisp white blouse, though simple, screamed designer pedigree.

He let his gaze linger on her long, shapely legs. That’s what high heels did for a woman.

What was a woman like her doing in Ouray, Colorado, a long way from fancy gyms and designer boutiques? She didn’t look like the typical tourist, so that left the other category of visitors the town had seen too much of lately: reporters.

Frowning, Paul turned his gaze from the woman and fished another nail from the pouch at his waist. He’d really hoped the news media had tired of him and his refusals to talk to them. Yes, finding the body of Victor Winston had been an historical moment, but also an intensely personal one.

Like much of the rest of the country, Paul had been glued to his television twelve years before, when the mountaineer had been trapped on Mount McKinley, the weather keeping his rescuers at bay, infrequent radio transmissions relaying his plight. Only sixteen at the time, Paul had vowed to replicate Winston’s historic climb one day.

He’d never dreamed he’d come face-to-face with his idol upon doing so. He was still processing everything the discovery meant, and didn’t care to share his feelings with reporters.

Excited barking from his dog, Indy, announced a visitor. “Hello! Excuse me! Hello!” called a feminine voice.

Paul swiveled ninety degrees and looked down on the woman. She tilted her head toward him, cheeks flushed pink, hazel eyes sparkling. He clamped one hand on the ridgeline to steady himself. “Uh, hi,” he stammered. So much for impressing her with his charm and savoir faire.

His golden retriever, Indy, scampered around her, tail wagging. She absently patted the dog. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Paul Teasdale. I was told he lived on this street.”

“Are you a reporter?” he asked. Who else would be looking for him these days?

“I am.” The woman’s expression sharpened and she studied him with anew intensity. “He’s supposed to be expecting me. In fact, my visit here was his idea.”

Paul blinked, the vague memory of a telephone conversation he’d had last week—one of many telephone conversations last week—sharpening. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Sierra Winston.”

This sophisticated beauty was the daughter of the great outdoorsman, Victor Winston—a man who had bragged about never wearing a suit, and who was known in his youth as “potato face”?

Paul almost fell off the roof in his haste to scramble over to where he’d anchored his climbing ropes. He slid down the side of the house and landed directly in front of Sierra. He wiped his hand on his cargo shorts, then offered it to her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Winston. I’m Paul Teasdale.”

She didn’t take his hand. “A moment ago you didn’t seem so sure about that.”

“Sorry about that. Reporters have been hounding me. I’ve been doing my best to avoid them.”

Her expression relaxed and she took his hand. “I know what you mean. I’ve gotten a lot of calls from the press lately, too.”

He winced. What a clod he was, complaining about his own notoriety, when she’d had her grief and pain made public again after twelve years, all thanks to him.

“You’ll be safe here,” he said. “I think most of the press have given up and gone home.” Indy sat at his feet and leaned against him. “This is Indy, by the way. I promise he’s harmless.”

A hint of a smile appeared on her lips, then vanished. She reached into her purse and pulled out a mini tape recorder. “Why don’t we go inside and start our interview,” she said, her tone brisk.

He pictured the chaos that was his living room—climbing gear competed for space with dirty clothes, half-chewed dog toys and cross-country skis he was in the middle of waxing. “Hold on a minute,” he said. “Did you just get into town? Where are you staying?”

“I’m at the Western Hotel. And yes, I just got here—my flight out of Denver was delayed.”

“I hate it when that happens,” he said. “But it’s a beautiful drive from the airport, isn’t it? What kind of rental did you get?”

“Some little car. I’m not sure what kind. I don’t own a car, so I never pay attention.”

“Yeah, well, we thought the subway would be finished by now, but they ran into a vein of gold while they were blasting the tunnel and decided to mine that instead of building track.”

She stared at him, as if debating his sanity. Usually women laughed at his jokes; maybe his brand of humor didn’t play well east of the Mississippi. “Why don’t we just get on with the interview?” she asked.

“My house isn’t really in any kind of shape for company,” he said. “I’ll just stow my climbing gear and we can go over to the Western Saloon for a drink,” he said. “How long are you staying?”

“My return ticket is for next Monday.” She didn’t sound very happy about that.

“Then we’ve got a week. Plenty of time.”

He began to roll up the rope, carabiners and harness. “Why don’t you use a ladder, like everyone else?” she asked.

“Because I don’t own a ladder. Besides, this is more of a challenge.” He stashed the gear in a box on the front porch. “Let me get my keys and I’ll drive you back to the hotel.” He glanced at her feet. “I can’t believe you walked over in those shoes.”

“I like to walk.” But she didn’t protest when he returned with his keys and motioned for her to follow him to the red Jeep Wrangler parked beside the house. Indy hopped into his customary place in the backseat, tail wagging.

“There are a lot of great trails around here,” he said as he backed the vehicle into the street. “But you might want to think about a pair of hiking boots. They wouldn’t go with your outfit, but they’d be a lot more comfortable.”

She ignored the remark and pointed to the dog. “Does she go everywhere with you?”

“He. Indy, after Indiana Jones. And yeah, he pretty much goes everywhere with me when I’m in town. When I’m on an expedition my neighbor keeps him for me. Do you have any pets?”

“No.”

“Not even a cat?”

“No.”

“I thought all single women in the city had cats or little dogs—like they came with the apartment.”

She laughed. “No.” Then sobering. “I had a cat once. Oliver. He got sick and died.”

“I’m sorry. That’s tough.”

“Yeah.”

“So you never got another one?”

“No. It was just too hard.”

They stopped at the end of the street. A pickup truck rumbled past on Main, the driver sounding three toots on his horn and waving. Paul returned the greeting. They passed two more pickups and another Jeep between his house and the Western Hotel and Saloon. Every driver slowed and waved, grinning at Paul.

“You have a lot of friends here,” she observed.

“I do, but they couldn’t care less about me today. They’re interested in you.” He parked at the curb and climbed out of the Jeep, motioning for Indy to stay. With a sigh, the dog lay down on the backseat.

“In me?” Sierra asked.

“Yeah. They want to know who you are, where you’re from, if you’re single and what are the chances they could score a date with you.”

“You’re putting me on.”

He held open the door for her. “An attractive young woman always draws attention in a small town where males outnumber females,” he said.

Every time Paul stepped into the Western Saloon he half expected to see John Wayne bellied up to the carved-oak bar. The tin ceiling, scuffed wood floors and brass spittoons looked straight off a movie set, but Paul knew they were the real deal.

“Are there really more men than women in this town?” Sierra asked as he guided her toward a booth at the back.

“Have been ever since it was founded by miners in the 1800s. Like those guys there.” He nodded to a black-and-white photograph of a group of solemn-faced men with elaborate moustaches that hung over the booth. “They came here planning to get rich and go home, but a lot of them ended up staying. There are a lot more women here now, but even more single guys. They come for the climbing and hiking and skiing and Jeeping and the outdoor lifestyle.”

“You don’t think women like those things?” she asked.

“Not as many, I guess.” He thought of her high heels and miniskirt. “You don’t strike me as the out-doorsy type.”

“Not really, no.”

The waitress, Kelly, sauntered over. “Hey, Paul.” She rested one hand on the back of his chair and smiled warmly. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a Fat Tire. What would you like, Sierra?”

“I’ll have a glass of water, thank you.” She arranged the small tape recorder, two pens and her notebook on the table in front of her.

He eyed the tools of her trade warily. Right after his discovery of Victor Winston’s body he’d been eager to talk to the one person who might understand the mixture of grief, admiration and frustration the find had kindled in him. He’d imagined Victor’s only child would understand his admiration for her father and that she’d be able to tell Paul things about his idol he’d always wanted to know. But Sierra was nothing like he’d expected.

He’d tried to find information about her online, but other than her byline on a few articles, he hadn’t discovered much. He’d imagined a tomboyish, outdoorsy type—a female version of the young Victor Winston.

Confronted with this beautiful, sophisticated, coolly businesslike woman, he realized how delusional he’d been. Why should this woman want to commiserate with him, much less share intimate details about her life with her father?

She switched on the tape recorder. “Tell me about Paul Teasdale,” she said. “I did a bit of research on the Internet, but I’d like to hear your story in your own words.”

He shifted in his chair. This was why he didn’t do interviews—he hated talking about himself. “What exactly do you want to know?” he asked.

“What led you to become a mountaineer?”

“I enjoy the challenge of climbing, and the sense of discovery. Mountains are one of the last frontiers left to us, remote and largely untouched by development.” He climbed places where he was likely the first man to ever set foot, and felt awed and humbled by the experience.

“You say you enjoy the challenge—so is it an adrenaline thing? You get a charge out of the risk?”

He frowned. “That makes me sound reckless. I’m not. My goal is always to climb safely.”

“Safety is a relative term at nineteen thousand feet.”

“Things have changed since your father’s day,” he said. “We have more high-tech gear now, though I prefer to climb without supplemental oxygen as much as possible.” He watched as she made note of this. “How technical do you want me to get here?” he asked. “I can bore you with descriptions of safety harnesses, if that’s what you really want to know.”