Paul was evading her questions

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

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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.”

She looked up from her notes, hazel eyes meeting his, her expression troubled. “What I really want to know is what would lead a man to repeatedly risk his life on the side of a mountain?”

The question was less an accusation than a plea. Paul searched for some way to answer her. “Climbing mountains is only part of any climber’s life,” he said. “A big part, but the climbers I know aren’t irresponsible about it, whether it’s their job or their avocation.” He rearranged the salt and pepper, as if lining up his defenses against her probing looks and questions. “I don’t look at it as abandoning my responsibilities,” he said. “I mean, I don’t really have any.”

“So you’re single. No significant other?”

He shook his head. He hadn’t exactly avoided serious relationships, but his schedule—away half the year or more—made attachments difficult.

“What about your parents? Don’t they worry about you?”

“My parents have been my biggest fans. They’re very happy for me.” He paused while Kelly put down their drinks. Ordinarily he would have encouraged her to stay and chat, but Sierra didn’t seem to want to linger on niceties.

Her question about his parents fueled his curiosity, and he leaped at the opportunity to turn the conversation momentarily away from him. “What about you? Tell me about growing up with Victor Winston,” he said. “What was it like having such a legend for a dad? Did he share his love of mountains with you?”

It was her turn to look uncomfortable. “I’m supposed to be interviewing you, not the other way around,” she said.

“Yes, but the whole reason I agreed to this interview was to get a chance to meet you.” He leaned across the table. “Your dad was my hero when I was a kid. I was fascinated by the incredible things he did. He wasn’t content to follow in other climbers’ footsteps. He insisted on finding new routes up some of the most challenging peaks. And he was one of the first to create high-quality films of his expeditions, so that others could share the experience. I wore out a tape of a British documentary made about him. You know the one—about his ascent of K2?”

He grinned, remembering a point in the film where others in Victor’s climbing party wanted to turn back in the face of adverse conditions. Victor had insisted on forging on, and stood at last at the summit, a solitary conqueror, wind whipping back the hood of his parka, the huge grin on his homely face saying all that needed to be said about his triumph. Paul had watched that part over and over, imagining himself in Victor’s boots, victorious after overcoming insurmountable odds.

She shook her head. “I don’t think I ever saw that one.”

“Aww, you gotta find a copy. You’re even in it.”

“I am?” She looked surprised.

“Well, you were probably too young to remember, but there’s this great shot of him carrying you in a sling on a training climb.” Amazing to think that the woman before him was that baby. “He said he wanted you to learn to climb almost as soon as you could walk.”

Her expression softened. She looked … almost wistful. “I don’t remember that. How old was I?”

“Two? Maybe a little older. I’m not good at judging ages. How old are you now?”

“Twenty-six.”

“The documentary was made in 1986, so you would have been two.”

“And you were four. How old were you when you saw the film?”

“Ten. It wasn’t released in the U.S. until 1992, after Victor became more well-known.” Before she could ask why he’d been watching the film—a subject he didn’t care to discuss—he shifted the conversation again. “Are you hungry? I forgot to eat lunch and I’m starved. I bet you didn’t get a chance to eat, either.”

“I had a pack of pretzels on the plane.”

“I’ve gotten to where I pack a lunch when I fly. You never know when you’ll get a chance for real food. Do you care if we order a pizza?”

“Uh, I guess not.”

He signaled Kelly and ordered a pepperoni-and-mushroom pizza, and another beer for him and more water for Sierra. He really was hungry, but mostly he was glad of the chance to shift the conversation away from his least-favorite topic—the dark circumstances that had driven him to climb mountains for a living.

CHAPTER TWO

SIERRA KNEW PAUL was evading her questions; she 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 found 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.

“Why don’t we get back to the interview,” she said when they were alone again.

His brown eyes were wide and innocent. “I figured you’d be sick of listening to me talk by now.”

“You keep changing the subject.” She tapped her pen against the pad of questions. “Tell me more about yourself.”

He threw one arm across the back of the booth and looked out over the saloon. Was the pensive profile an act, or was he really that uncomfortable with her? “I don’t know why you want to know all that stuff about me,” he said. “The real story is your father and all he did. I’m only a small part of it, the person who found his body. I thought you came to talk about that.”

She never liked to talk about her father, yet he was, in truth, the reason she was here. Because the magazine wanted this story from the point of view of Victor Winston’s daughter. And because she was determined to uncover some insight that would help her reconcile the father she’d adored as a child with the man who’d abandoned her when she was older. In some ways, Paul seemed to know Victor Winston better than she had; could he be the key to reconciling her two views of her father?

“I need to know your background in order to give readers a complete picture,” she said. She consulted her notebook. “I read that the first mountain you climbed was Long’s Peak, here in Colorado. Why did you pick that one?”

He faced forward again. “Because I was living in Boulder at the time and it was close. Say, did you and your mom ever go with your father on his climbs?” he asked. “I know you didn’t climb with him, but were you at base camp? Or waiting in a nearby village?”

“No. We never accompanied him on his climbs.” The idea of her pampered, patrician mother in some frozen base camp was preposterous. “I’m sure he would have thought we were in the way.”

Even as she said the words, a memory flashed in her mind of her at six or seven, weeping and clinging to her father as he prepared to leave on an expedition, begging to go with him. Victor had knelt and embraced her. “Maybe I’ll take you with me someday, sweetheart,” he’d said. “When you’re a little older. We’ll go climbing together.”

She blinked rapidly, and sipped water to force down the knot in her throat. She hadn’t thought of that memory in years.

“Base camps are like little villages, you know,” Paul said. “There are all kinds of people there—men and women, and some children, too. There’s a fourteen-year-old boy who’s already summited four of the seven sisters. His parents climb with him.”

“Not my idea of fun family bonding,” she said. Though if her father had asked her to follow him into the icy, forbidding wilderness that was a high mountain peak, there had been a time when she would have gladly done so.

The waitress, Kelly, delivered plates and silverware. “Pizza will be out shortly,” she said.

“Great.” Paul rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “I’m starved. I remember reading about your dad waiting at base camp for two weeks for conditions to clear enough to climb Everest,” he said. “He lived off oatmeal and peanut butter for the rest of the expedition.” He made a face. “I hate oatmeal.”

“But you became a mountain climber despite the hardships. Why?” This was a question she would have asked her father; the one her readers would surely want to know.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

He hesitated, then said, “There’s a tremendous sense of accomplishment in climbing. The freedom of setting your own pace. The challenge of testing yourself.”

“That describes how climbing makes you feel, but is that the only reason you do it—for the adrenaline rush?”

“You don’t think that’s enough?” The grin was a little more lopsided now, a little less sure.

“Most people don’t spend their lives looking for a rush,” she said. “Is that really all you get out of mountaineering?”

“Let’s put it this way—why did you become a reporter?”

“You’re trying to shift the conversation away from the interview again.”

“No, no, this relates, I promise. You’re asking me to explain what I do for a living. I want to hear your reasons. Did you always have a burning desire to write? Or did you just fall into the job after college?”

“I always wanted to write,” she said. She’d majored in journalism and had gone to New York after she’d graduated, determined to get a job at a magazine. She’d never even thought about a different job.

He nodded. “I guess mountaineering is like that for me. It feels like what I was meant to do.”

“Climbing mountains? Come on—that isn’t a real job. It doesn’t offer a service or entertainment or improve the world. And unless things have changed since my father’s day, the pay is pretty lousy.” Her mother had had the money in the family; in darker moments, Sierra had wondered if that was the chief reason her parents had wed.

“He made money selling the film rights to his expeditions, didn’t he?” Paul said. “He was one of the first climbers to do that. Today, it’s all about sponsorships. I have a couple of mountaineering-equipment manufacturers and outdoor-clothing suppliers who sponsor me. And I’ve got an agent who’s trying to get me to go on the lecture circuit.”

“My dad did some of that, too. There was nothing he liked better than a captive audience.”

“Really?” He leaned forward, eyes alight with interest. “Was he like that at home, too?”

The man was good, but she’d dealt with tougher interview subjects. She focused once more on her notebook, reserve firmly back in place. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why do you climb mountains?”

“There are some people who think that each person fulfilling his or her potential is enough of a reason to do anything,” he said.

“Let me guess—you picked that up from a Sherpa you met on Everest.”

“I met him on Nanga Parbat, actually. Do you like your job? Do you enjoy what you do?”

“Most of the time, yes.”

“I enjoy mine, too.” He leaned back to allow room for Kelly to set down the pizza.

“What is there to enjoy about risking frostbite and hypoxia on some lonely mountain peak? About living on peanut butter and oatmeal for days in the middle of a blizzard?”

“All those things you mentioned—the frostbite and danger and lousy food—that part of mountaineering sucks,” he said. “But the climbing itself—pitting myself against the elements and then reaching my goal—in those moments, I feel so incredibly alive. I think it’s the closest any human can get to immortality.”

She stared at him. “Aren’t you a little young to be worried about immortality?”

He dragged a slice of pizza onto his plate and refused to meet her gaze. “High mountains are one of the few places still relatively untouched by human development. The scenery is spectacular, like nothing you’ll find on the flatlands. Your father must have felt the same way. Didn’t he ever talk about it?”

“No.” She laid her pen aside and helped herself to the pizza.

“Then I don’t really know how to explain it to you. Tomorrow, let’s go up into the mountains so you can see for yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll take a Jeep tour. Go up above tree line. It’ll give you a whole new perspective on what I do and why I do it.”

Would it? Or was this just another way for him to avoid answering her probing questions? “And if I refuse?”

“You want to get a good story, right? I’m better at showing what I do and why than sitting here talking about it. If we were up in the mountains, I think I could explain things better.”

She could see his point. Putting a subject in an environment where he felt comfortable could sometimes get him to reveal a side of himself she might not otherwise see. “If I go with you, you’ll answer my questions?”

“I’ll do my best.” He offered another charming smile. “Hey, you came here to work, but it doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, too.”

“Barreling up a mountain in a Jeep isn’t really my idea of fun.”

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing. Better skip the skirt and heels,” he said. “And wear a coat. It gets cold up there.”

“Anything else I should bring?”

“No, I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Just come prepared to talk.”

AN HOUR LATER, with blisters the size of half-dollars on both heels and heartburn from the delicious but too-spicy pizza, Sierra climbed the stairs from the Western Saloon to the hotel overhead. Unlike her tiny, contemporary apartment, the accommodations were spacious and furnished with an old-fashioned brass bed and a wooden chest of drawers, table and chairs that looked straight out of the 1800s. Chintz curtains and a matching comforter added to the visit-to-Grandma’s feel. It was a nice enough room, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend a whole week here.

When she’d found out Mark had booked her for seven days and six nights here in the back of beyond she’d been livid, but since she’d only picked up the tickets this morning, it had been too late to do anything about it. Did he really think it would take her a week to do this interview?

Granted, Paul wasn’t exactly spilling his guts into her tape recorder, but she’d find a way around his reluctance to tell his story. And as soon as she wrapped up the interview she’d be heading to the airport to change her flight, no matter what it cost.

She kicked off her shoes and lay back in the bed, trying to organize her whirling thoughts. The interview with Paul hadn’t gone quite as she’d hoped, but she’d gotten some material she could use. Tomorrow she’d dig deeper; she was nothing if not stubborn. She could already feel the story taking shape: a portrait of two mountain climbers—the laid-back boy wonder versus her single-minded father.

A knock on the door roused her. She shoved off the bed and went to look through the peephole. The waitress from the saloon downstairs stood frowning up at the door, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently.

Sierra released the chain and opened the door. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Hi. I’m Kelly. From the Saloon?”

Sierra nodded. “I remember.”

“I’m on break and thought maybe we could talk.”

“About what?”

“Oh, you know. The town. Fashion. New York. I overheard Paul say you were from there.”

Was it a passing mention, or had the waitress been eavesdropping? Sierra had planned on interviewing some of the locals about their notorious neighbor, so she might as well start with this young woman. Maybe Kelly could provide some interesting background on what Paul was like when he wasn’t scaling mountains. Sierra held the door open wider. “Come on in.”

Sierra guessed Kelly was about twenty-one or twenty-two. Dressed in low-slung jeans and a black polo shirt with the Saloon’s logo, she might have been mistaken for any small-town waitress. But her jeans were an expensive name brand, and her pointed-toe boots had a three-inch heel and a designer pedigree. Her hair was cut in the latest style. She might be waitressing in an out-of-the-way restaurant, but she clearly wanted to set herself apart. “Have a seat,” Sierra said, indicating the room’s only chair, and settling herself on the side of the bed. “My name’s Sierra, by the way. Sierra Winston.” She waited for the last name to ring a bell, but Kelly gave no indication that it registered, which made Sierra relax a little more. She’d had enough of competing with her father’s ghost for one morning.

Kelly sat in the chair and crossed her legs, jiggling one foot. “Are you a reporter or something?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m a writer for a magazine called The Great Outdoors.”

“So you and Paul just met?”

“That’s right.”

The foot stopped jiggling. “I was wondering. He didn’t exactly act like you were strangers. He was being really friendly.”

“He isn’t usually friendly?” The idea didn’t jive with the Paul she’d seen so far.

“Not with reporters.” She laughed. “The other day a couple approached him while he was eating lunch in the Saloon and he threatened to sic his dog on them. As if Indy would hurt a flea! But the reporters didn’t know that, I guess. They backed off.”

“He agreed to an exclusive interview with my magazine,” Sierra explained. “It was all arranged before I flew out here. So, what can I do for you?”

“What part of New York are you from?”

“I live in Manhattan.”

“So you’re right where all the action is. Do you see many Broadway shows?”

“A few.”

“Know any actors or actresses?”

“Not well, but I’ve met a few. One of my neighbors is an actress, I think.”

“No kidding. What’s her name?”

Sierra shook her head. “I don’t know.” She didn’t know most of her neighbors’ names. “People in the city like their privacy.”

“I guess so. I mean, she probably doesn’t want to be bothered by fans and everything.”

“Right.” Sierra doubted her neighbor was famous enough to be recognized by anyone on the street, much less mobbed by fans.

“You’re so lucky,” Kelly said. “New York has everything—the theater, night life and great shopping. Those are killer shoes, by the way.” She nodded to the heels that lay on the rug beside the bed. “Totally impractical here, but they look awesome.”

“Thanks. But you’re right—they’re useless on these dirt streets. I’m supposed to go on a Jeep tour into the mountains tomorrow and I guess I need to find some hiking boots to wear.”

“What size are you? About an eight?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a new pair I’ve hardly even worn. I could lend them to you.” Her gaze settled on the heels once more. “And maybe you’d let me borrow those? I have a hot date tomorrow night.”

The heels were brand-new and had cost more than the week’s accommodation at the hotel. But Sierra needed the hiking boots by tomorrow and Ouray didn’t look as if it boasted a lot of shoe stores. Besides, she liked Kelly, who so clearly craved more excitement than this small town could offer. “It’s a deal,” she said.

“Great.” Visibly more relaxed now, Kelly settled back in her chair. “I’d like to live in Manhattan one day. What I really want to do is act, but I guess there are probably plenty of waitressing jobs there.”

The longing in the younger woman’s voice struck a familiar chord in Sierra. She’d arrived in Manhattan with one thousand dollars in her bank account, clips from her college newspaper and a determination not to leave until she landed a job. She badgered every publisher in Manhattan until she found work as a copy editor at one house and a receptionist at another. She’d shared a tiny apartment with three other women and had worked practically around the clock for the first year. But eventually she’d landed a writing job and a few years later had moved into her own apartment. So who was to say Kelly wouldn’t make it as an actress, as well? “I think it’s almost a requirement that aspiring actors and actresses have waitressing jobs on the side,” she said. “Do you have any experience—acting, that is?”

“Only with local community theater. But I’m saving my money and I’m going to go there and take my chances soon.”

“When you’re ready to move, I can give you the names of some places to look for an apartment and roommates, and some casting agencies who might be able to help you,” she said. She’d interviewed several people at top agencies for a story for Cherché only last year.

“That would be great.” Kelly looked around the room. “So what do you think of Ouray? It’s a lot different from the city, isn’t it?”

“It might as well be on another planet,” Sierra admitted. “But the scenery is breathtaking.”

“The people are nice, too,” Kelly said. “Of course, being a small town, everyone pretty much knows everybody’s business, which makes it hard to have much privacy, if you know what I mean.”

“Then give me the scoop on Paul. What’s he like?” If Paul was so reluctant to talk about himself, maybe Sierra could gain some insight from those around him.

“Oh, he’s a lot of fun. Very …” Kelly tilted her head, as if searching for the right words. “Thoughtful. Considerate. I mean, some guys only think about themselves. Some women, too, I guess. But Paul is really interested in other people’s opinions. We went out a few times and he always wanted to know what I thought about the movie, or my views on local politics. Little stuff like that.”

“So you dated.” Her fingers itched for her notebook to write some of this down, but she didn’t want to risk interrupting the flow of conversation. She could make notes later.

“Only for a little while. Paul’s not interested in settling down and neither are most of the women he’s dated. I know I wasn’t. Besides, how can you have a relationship with a man who’s gone half the year climbing mountains?”

Right. One of the many problems in her parents’ marriage. “Why do you think he climbs mountains?”

“Don’t those guys always say they climb because the mountain’s there?” Kelly shook her head. “Seriously, I have no idea. He says it’s something he loves to do. It doesn’t seem any crazier than a lot of things guys around here do. In the winter, this hotel is full of men, and a few women, who come here just to climb the ice in the ice park. Then you have the Jeepers and hikers in the summer, and the skiers and snowmobilers in the winter. There are folks whose whole lives revolve around their sport. I guess they’re dedicated to it the way I’m dedicated to acting.”

The way Sierra was dedicated to writing? No, it wasn’t the same at all. Writing hadn’t taken over her life, and it didn’t separate her from her friends and family the way climbing did. “Does he have any family nearby?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. His parents live in Texas—Dallas, maybe? I think he came here to be close to the mountains.”

Of course. No matter what other positive traits he might possess, Paul still had the glaring flaw of loving big piles of rock more than anything else.

Kelly stood. “I have to get back to work. I get off late, so I’ll leave the boots for you at the front desk.”

“Thanks.” Sierra retrieved the heels from the rug. “Take good care of them,” she cautioned as she handed them over.

“I’ll treat them like gold.” Kelly paused in the doorway. “When you see Paul tomorrow, ask him to tell you about his secret swimming hole in the mountains. It’d make a great story for your article.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

When she was alone again, Sierra sat on the side of the bed and contemplated her bare feet. The Louboutins were the most expensive shoes she owned, and her favorites. Paul had better give her one heck of a story to prove he was worthy of such a sacrifice.

PAUL MET SIERRA AT EIGHT the next morning in the Western Hotel lobby. She attracted plenty of attention as she strode across the lobby, dressed in slim-fitting jeans and a sweater that emphasized her curves. Her long hair was plaited in a single braid that hung down her back, and she carried a leather jacket. Paul stood a little straighter, pleased that he was the one she was coming to meet, even if she was only doing so in hopes of completing their interview.

Maybe things would go better between them today. He hadn’t done a very good job of explaining himself yesterday. Part of it was his own fault—he’d thought talking to Victor Winston’s daughter would somehow be different from an interview with any of the other journalists who wanted his life’s story served up neatly on a platter. Today, he hoped he and Sierra could find a middle ground. He was prepared to talk about finding Victor’s body, and he hoped that she could help him know the real man behind the famous mountain climber’s public image.

“You look all ready to go,” he said when she stopped in front of him.

“I am. I even have boots.” She held out one foot for him to admire.

“I was wondering if you’d brought any with you. You probably don’t have much call for them in Manhattan.”

“I don’t. I borrowed these from Kelly.”

“From Kelly?” Sierra had been so focused on grilling him yesterday he was surprised she even remembered the waitress.

“Actually, I traded my heels for her boots—temporarily.”

Had there been some silent communication between the two women he hadn’t picked up on? “When did all this happen?”

“After you left last night. She and I had a long talk.” Her smile was closer to a smirk. “She told me all about you.”

He tried to think of any embarrassing stories Kelly might have shared with Sierra. Unfortunately the list was long. He could be absentminded when he was planning an expedition, and more than once he’d forgotten about a date they’d arranged, or she’d had to pay for a meal because he’d accidentally left his wallet at home. He always paid her back, but still—those stories didn’t make him look good.

They’d dated off and on for a couple of months, but his long absences had gradually cooled their ardor. Last he’d heard, she was seeing a real-estate tycoon from Telluride.

“I’ve got everything we need in my Jeep, so let’s go.” A few minutes later, they were headed out of town. Indy sat in the backseat, ears flapping in the breeze.

“You really did mean it when you said the dog goes everywhere with you,” Sierra said.

“Yep. You never know when a dog will come in handy.” And as much as he usually enjoyed his own company, it was good to have someone to come home to after a long trip.

“An interesting philosophy,” she said, writing in her notebook.

“Are you going to write down everything I say today?” he asked.

“That’s sort of the idea behind an interview.” She looked amused.

“I was hoping we could get to know each other a little first. Off-the-record.”

She studied him a moment. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t like talking about myself.”

“But you agreed to this interview. From what I understand, it was your idea.”

So much for his brilliant ideas. “I thought talking to Victor’s daughter might be easier than talking to someone who had no connection to the story.” He glanced at her. “And I figured I owed you.”

“Owed me?”

“It’s my fault you’re having to go through your father’s death all over again, after twelve years.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she said. “But if it’ll make you more comfortable, I’ll save most of my questions for later. I’m happy to spend the morning gathering a little background.”

The background stuff was exactly what he didn’t want to talk about, but he’d humor her. “You’re allowed to have fun while you work,” he said. “Tourists come here and pay big money for the kind of tour I’m giving you today.”

A smile flirted with her lips. “I’ll remember that.”

Just outside of Ouray, the highway began to climb up a series of switchbacks. Through the trees, they glimpsed steep valleys and soaring peaks. “You don’t get views like this in Manhattan,” Paul said.

“No.” Gripping the seat with both hands, she glanced at the drop-off on her right side. Approximately three feet from the Jeep’s tires, the pavement fell away to nothing. “Aren’t you taking these curves a little fast?” she asked.

“Don’t worry. I could drive this stretch of highway blindfolded. It’s really only dangerous in winter. This time of year it’s a lot of fun.”

“What’s fun about taking chances?” She peered at the drop-off again. “Just because you’re familiar with a situation doesn’t make it less dangerous.”

“But you can’t let a little risk keep you from doing what you want to do.” He downshifted to take a steeper grade. “I don’t take foolish chances, but I want to really live.” Having come face-to-face with death made him value life all the more. Every time he made it back from that precipice safely, he was more aware of every heartbeat and every breath.

“I think a person can live a very fulfilling life without ever risking death,” she said.

“Some people probably can,” he said. “Guess I’m not one of them.”

Near the top of Red Mountain Pass, he turned the Jeep off the highway onto a narrow gravel road that wound uphill through stands of aspen already beginning to turn gold. Even in August the air up here hinted at fall, the breeze cool on Paul’s bare skin. He breathed deeply the aroma of purple asters that bloomed in profusion along the road.

“This road once led to the old Tomboy Mine,” he explained. “It was used to transport ore into Telluride.”

“So mountains aren’t the only things that interest you,” she said. “You know the history of the area, too.”

“History is interesting,” he said. “It’s everywhere you look around here. So many reminders of the past are out in the open—old buildings, mine trams, ore carts. People walked away from some of the old settlements and mines over a hundred years ago and left everything behind. Stuff survives a long time in the thin mountain air.”

They passed the remains of mining buildings, the wood weathered to silver-gray, orange-yellow mine tailings spilling down the hillsides. “Whenever I drive this road, I try to imagine what it must have been like for those miners, with their wagonloads of ore, negotiating these same curves,” he said. “They didn’t have the benefits of four-wheel drive and power brakes.”

“They must have been pretty desperate to make a living, to work such a dangerous job in such remote and wild surroundings.”

“I prefer to think of them as brave adventurers who relished the freedom of life on their own terms.”

They stopped at a stream crossing and a bull elk raised his head to watch them. The gurgling of the water sounded over the low rumble of the Jeep’s engine. Other than an occasional burst of birdsong and Indy’s enthusiastic panting from the backseat, there was no other sound. “We haven’t seen any other cars in a while now,” Sierra said.

“Traffic’s pretty light today. Come back Saturday and you’ll see bumper-to-bumper Jeeps sometimes. Four-wheel-drive clubs from all over the world come here to run these trails.”

“I guess a lot of people like to get back to nature in a powerful, gas-guzzling machine.”

He laughed. “I knew there was a sense of humor somewhere under that veneer of cool sophistication.”

“Are you saying I’m a snob?”

“You have snob potential, but I don’t think you really are.” A woman who’d trade her fancy high heels for a waitress’s hiking boots could never be called a snob.

“I can’t decide if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

“Not an insult, I promise.” He pulled the Jeep into a turnout on the side of the road. “There’s a trail here that leads back to some neat old mine buildings and a waterfall. Let’s check it out.” He collected his pack from the back of the Jeep, whistled to Indy and led the way up a narrow trail through the trees.

“How long have you lived in Ouray?” she asked, walking close behind him while the dog bounded ahead.

“About five years. I’d been coming here for a few years to climb the ice in the winters. I decided I wanted to live at altitude, near good climbing to help me stay in condition.”

“So Ouray was a practical choice.”

“That, and I really like it here.” He held a low branch up out of her way until she’d passed. “It’s beautiful. Not too big. The weather’s nice—what’s not to like?”

“Maybe the fact that it’s three hundred miles from a major city? Almost a hundred miles to a mall?”

He laughed. “If I want to buy anything, I order it off the Internet.”

“Spoken like someone who doesn’t understand the allure of shopping.”

“Guilty as charged.”

The trail began to climb and they fell silent as they scrambled up the incline. Indy took off in halfhearted pursuit of a squirrel, then circled back to Paul’s side. Sierra fell farther and farther behind, until Paul stopped to wait for her. “Want me to get behind and push?” he called.

She glared at him. “Some of us … are used to … breathing air … that contains … oxygen.”

“More like smog for you. Stick around a few weeks and you’ll get used to the thin air up here.”

She caught up with him and stopped to catch her breath. “I’ve got it figured out now,” she said after a moment.

“Got what figured out?”

“Why you’re crazy enough to climb mountains. Lack of oxygen has obviously left you brain damaged.”

“I never said I wasn’t crazy.” Their eyes met and he felt the heat of attraction. She had the most amazing eyes, so full of emotions he couldn’t read. He’d like to know her well enough to interpret those emotions.

She looked away. “We’d better get going,” she said, and moved past him up the trail.

He shrugged. Not that he minded the view from this angle, but he couldn’t help but feel she’d moved ahead to get away from him—or from something in herself he made her feel.

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