Her Mountain Man

“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?”