Her Mountain Man

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.”