Her Mountain Man

The important thing was to not let her attraction to Paul get in the way of writing a good story. Her job was to find out everything she could about him and his motivation for climbing, and share that with her readers. If she also gained some insight into her father, that would be a bonus.

If she could only understand why her father had been so determined to conquer mountains while he avoided any obstacle at home, maybe she could find a way to reconcile her feelings for him—to mingle love and hate into acceptance.

“The mine ruins I was telling you about are just ahead.” Paul touched her elbow, pulling her from her reverie. “On the left.”

She stopped and studied a square black hole in the side of a hill, framed by leaning timbers and blocked by a rusty metal grate. “What was the name of the mine?” she asked.

“I don’t know. There are dozens of them scattered around these mountains. Maybe hundreds.”

“I wonder how many of them ever made any money?”

“Apparently a lot of them—for a while, anyway. There are still people with mining claims up here, still looking to strike it rich, I guess.”

They continued on the trail, which began to slope down, making the hike easier. “I’d forgotten there are still places this remote in the United States,” she said.

“I guess there’s not much hiking in New York City,” he said.

“There are trails in Central Park, though I haven’t explored them. When I was a girl, I used to go hiking with my dad.” She hadn’t thought about those trips in years. Climbing this trail—the smell of pine, the crunch of gravel beneath her feet—had brought the memories rushing back.

Those trails had seemed long and steep to her, but her father must have chosen the easiest routes, and modified his long strides to accommodate her short ones. When she tired, he’d carry her on his shoulders; the whole world had looked bigger and brighter from that lofty perch.

“Where did you go?” Paul asked.

“Everywhere. Weekends when he was home, we’d get in the car and drive. We’d pack a lunch and hike for hours. We were living in northern California then, so we had a lot of trails to choose from. We’d stay out all day, just him and me.”

“In the Sierra Nevadas, right? You must have been named after them.”

She frowned. “Yes. I still can’t believe my mother let my father name me after a mountain range.”

“At least he didn’t saddle you with Shasta or Bernina or Lhotse. Sierra’s a really pretty name. Maybe that was his way of bringing together two things he loved most.”

She swallowed past a sudden knot in her throat. As a girl, she had looked forward to those hiking trips with her father with all the anticipation of Christmas. The opportunity to have him all to herself for an entire day had been better than any gift she could have received.

“How old were you when you went hiking with him?” Paul asked. His expression was gentle, full of warm interest. The caring in his eyes emboldened her to reveal more than she ordinarily would have to someone she’d known such a short time.

“This was probably between the time I was six or seven and ten. Before my parents split up and Mom and I moved back east to live with her parents.”

“I didn’t know your father and mother were divorced.”

“Technically they weren’t. I think my mom hoped her leaving would convince him to stay home more and give up risking his life climbing mountains. She told him he had to choose between his family and the mountains.” She watched Paul’s face, waiting for his reaction to this statement.

“And he chose mountains,” he said matter-of-factly, as if of course this was the only choice. Sierra turned away, disappointment a bitter taste in her mouth.

She’d begun to imagine that because Paul was more laid-back than her father, that because he had room in his life for friends and other interests and even a dog, he might be different from her dad. She’d have to be on her guard not to make such misjudgments again.

This reminded her of the real purpose for this trip. Why not use this glimpse into Paul’s real nature to develop her article?

“So you don’t have any regrets about the choices you’ve made?” she asked Paul.

“Regrets? Why should I have regrets?”

“You chose to become a mountaineer instead of going to college and starting a more conventional career. You travel much of the time instead of having a more stable home. You work mostly alone …”

“No regrets,” he said firmly. “I’d go nuts if I was imprisoned in a cubicle in an office. And I do have a home—right here. I’m here about half the time. Being away makes me appreciate it that much more.”

“And working alone so much of the time doesn’t bother you?”

“You don’t write with a partner, do you?”

“No, but I still work with other people at the office.”

“And I have climbing partners and participate in large expeditions from time to time,” he said. “I’m no hermit who hates people. But I like the challenge of facing a mountain alone. Climbing solo requires you to live very much in the moment.”

“How very Zen.”

“It is. People spend too much time worrying about the future.”

Or fretting about the past, she thought. This trip to Ouray was turning into more of an excavation of her history than she’d been prepared for, dredging up memories of her father—both good and bad. She’d anticipated some of that, of course. Her father, or at least his body, was the link between her and Paul. But trying to understand her father’s motives by examining Paul’s wasn’t working out that well. Paul was so much warmer, much less interested in the spotlight than her dad. Yet he clearly felt a strong connection to her father.

That mystery both drew her and frustrated her. The simple story she’d expected to write about two generations of mountain climbers grew more complex by the hour. And Paul grew more intriguing.

The idea unsettled her, the way that moment on the trail when she’d craved his kiss had unsettled her. She didn’t want to be attracted to a man who climbed mountains for a living. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t like her father—he still had that one very big strike against him.

Fine. She wasn’t at the mercy of unpredictable emotion. Whatever brief chemistry had passed between she and Paul, it wasn’t permanent or fatal. She’d step back into her reporter’s shoes and get this story done. And Paul would be just another interview subject—more memorable than most, but not the kind of man who would change her life.

PAUL SENSED THE CHANGE in Sierra’s attitude. The easy warmth of her manner vanished, and was replaced by the cool, all-business demeanor she’d greeted him with yesterday. “We should get back to the car now,” she said. Not waiting for an answer, she turned and started back the way they’d come.

“Wait,” he called. “You haven’t seen the waterfall.”

“I don’t need to see the waterfall.”

He hurried after her, Indy at his heels. “Be careful,” he called. “If you take a wrong turn you might end up at the bottom of a mine shaft.”

She said nothing, but slowed down.

“What’s wrong?” he asked when he caught up with her.

“Nothing,” she said. “I just think we should get back to the Jeep and get on with our interview.”

“Wait a minute.” He stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. “Something happened just now and I want to know what it was.”

“You’re imagining things.” She tried to move around him, but he refused to give way.

“We were getting along great, like friends. Now it’s almost like you’re angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you. I don’t even know you.”

“The whole point of this outing was for the two of us to get to know each other better. And I thought we were making pretty good progress. Until we started talking about your dad.” As soon as he said the words, he felt sick to his stomach with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been an idiot.”