Читать онлайн книгу «Conquering The Cowboy» автора Kelli Ireland

Conquering The Cowboy
Kelli Ireland
Trusting him is dangerous…When a mission goes disastrously wrong, search-and-rescue team lead Taylor Williams is left with indescribable terror at the prospect of climbing. But she knows she has to face her fear to overcome it. Now she's at a ranch in New Mexico, where her climbing recertification is in the hands of cowboy climber Quinn Monroe. Only this devilishly handsome rancher is about as friendly as a spur in the backside…As they prepare for the climb, Taylor can’t ignore Quinn’s rugged physicality. The scorching heat between them helps distract Taylor from her fear, but her growing feelings make spending time with him dangerous. In the end, conquering her past may be a small feat compared to conquering this cowboy…


Trusting him is dangerous...
When a mission goes disastrously wrong, search-and-rescue team lead Taylor Williams is left with indescribable terror at the prospect of climbing. But she knows she has to face her fear to overcome it. Now she’s at a ranch in New Mexico, where her climbing recertification is in the hands of cowboy climber Quinn Monroe. Only this devilishly handsome rancher is about as friendly as a spur in the backside...
As they prepare for the climb, Taylor can’t ignore Quinn’s rugged physicality. The scorching heat between them helps distract Taylor from her fear, but her growing feelings make spending time with him dangerous. In the end, conquering her past may be a small feat compared to conquering this cowboy...
“How long have you been running the ranch?”
“For a little over a year and a half,” Quinn said. Instinct shouted at him to proceed with caution. “Why?”
“Did you give up climbing for this?” Taylor asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I want to know what your priorities are. If you’re a rancher, you’re a rancher. That’s fine. But I didn’t hire a rancher to see me through my recertification. I hired you under the express belief you were a dedicated mountaineer.”
Muscles along his jaw worked and knotted. “I’m perfectly capable of doing, and being, both.”
“I disagree.” She crossed her arms and looked at some point well beyond him. “When was the last time you summited, Quinn? Eight months? Twelve? More?” She waved him off when he started to answer. “What you’ve been doing with yourself over the past several months may not matter so much to you, but it matters very much to me.”
Dear Reader (#u23f18607-63ac-5ef6-aa70-fe808a38ad3f),
There are times when a book speaks to an author, and this book was one of those times. It was also one of those times when the author spoke back to the book, and not all of the words were amiable. This book challenged me in ways I wasn’t prepared to confront, both good and bad. Both the manuscript and the characters pushed me to write with such emotional authenticity that there were days I was literally incapable of making dinner—or even ordering off a menu—because I was so mentally fried! The end result was a book that resonated with me on a unique emotional level and proved worth every ounce of sweat and every minute of sleep lost. May you find yourself as caught up in the tale as I was and, in the end, as enamored with the characters as I am.
Happy reading,
Kelli Ireland
Conquering the Cowboy
Kelli Ireland


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KELLI IRELAND spent a decade as a name on a door in corporate America. Unexpectedly liberated by fate’s sense of humor, she chose to carpe the diem and pursue her passion for writing. A fan of happily-ever-afters, she found she loved being the puppet master for the most unlikely couples. Seeing them through the best and worst of each other while helping them survive the joys and disasters of falling in love? Best. Thing. Ever. Visit Kelli’s website at kelliireland.com (http://kelliireland.com).
To Vivian Arend, a beautiful soul who recognizes the value of a country boy. Muah!
Contents
Cover (#uab01298c-bfe8-58f3-96cd-6104f6164797)
Back Cover Text (#u0d7176d4-e11a-524d-81ed-163665344273)
Introduction (#u4be7a60b-b5a2-59fa-aaf1-6ccac65364f4)
Dear Reader (#u2764c90d-aa4b-52f8-b833-3de668f890d3)
Title Page (#u953ef52d-c2c2-5fe8-8964-55ac1eb67373)
About the Author (#ua7cce252-4911-5c14-b787-33fe67f62191)
Dedication (#u37528db0-9b0b-5741-8860-8cf485ded7ff)
Chapter 1 (#ub1749669-0a1a-5353-b5c6-30c864675ae6)
Chapter 2 (#u14c41ddb-224e-59aa-b15f-0fc46998f569)
Chapter 3 (#u38e366f0-ba6c-58f7-b459-15f2cc19225d)
Chapter 4 (#uc06e1e0a-55eb-524b-8f2c-ab88651860d7)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#u23f18607-63ac-5ef6-aa70-fe808a38ad3f)
WHETHER IT WAS beating the house in Vegas or coming back from a search-and-rescue call that had much higher stakes, Taylor Williams thrived on beating the odds. No, that wasn’t quite right. She didn’t just thrive on it. She lived for it, for those moments when she turned the bell curve into a ninety-degree climb and made the competition sweat—not to keep up, but merely keep her within sight, when she forced “average” to recognize her as irrefutably superior.
And if being a member of the Pacific Northwest’s Mountain Search and Rescue team, known as the Prime Times, had taught her anything about superiority, it was that staring down long odds—without blinking—was the easy part. Surviving the consequences? That was the ultimate measure of true strength.
Never before had she doubted her ability to survive. Not until the early morning hours of May 17 when the rescuers had become the rescued...and recovered.
She’d lived while her team, and the climber they’d been sent to retrieve, had died.
Sole survivor.
If only she’d been a soul survivor.
But she wasn’t. Nothing but broken remnants of who she’d been lay scattered around what was left of her life.
Details were scarce. Her memory’s recall abilities were less effective than using six feet of rope for a twelve-foot descent—she’d get halfway there and hang. The entire event had narrowed down to a few mental snapshots and a handful of sensory memories—a sound, a word, a smell. Nothing more. Her only recourse had been to read the After Action Review, and she had. Exhaustively. She’d tried to fill in the blanks, tried to piece together what had gone so wrong, until she now possessed every detail known to the crash-site investigators. Those facts were efficient. Factual. Cold. Few.
Page one: Team Leader Taylor Williams requested helo OH-58 Bell Jet Ranger in response to a distress call received at 17:52 from a lone climber who identified himself as Gary Wilcox, age 29.
He’d had blue, blue eyes.
Had.
Past tense.
Her fist balled against her thigh.
She pounded the steering wheel of her Toyota Tundra. A sharp beep sounded, and she jerked the wheel. Deep substrate along the side of the road sucked the passenger tires down. Gravel flew as the truck fishtailed. Her control slipped.
“No!” A short scream was ripped from her throat as her gaze shot to the instrument panel. No. The dash. Not the instrument panel.
Truck. Not a helo. I’m on the ground.
Her fuel light flickered once...twice...before glowing bright orange against the dark dashboard.
Regaining control of the truck, she slowed and, finally, stopped. All around her, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains rose, rock faces reflecting the afternoon sun even as, well above the tree line, a spattering of snow dotted the highest peaks. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she leaned forward and rested her forehead against the steering wheel.
Not Rainier. Nothing like Rainier.
Memories that always hovered just out of conscious reach left her wondering, for what seemed like the millionth time, if she might have changed the ultimate outcome, might have saved lives versus costing them, had she made different choices, been five minutes earlier or ten seconds later to the scene. Perhaps if she had, she wouldn’t have been required to spend the last several months in intensive therapies, physical and psychological, trying to come to grips with her injuries and worse—much, much worse—the loss of her team.
Survivor’s guilt swelled into monster emotional waves not even the best psychiatrists had been able to teach her to surf. Those waves peaked and then crashed, the impact rolling through her like a detonation. Her chest seized and air became a commodity so scarce she didn’t have an emotional credit with a deep enough credit line to get what she needed. Fighting off the looming panic attack, Taylor forced her hands to relax, but not before her blunt fingernails had left deep crescent marks in the flesh of her palms. The panic, and her response, had become so predictable. She hated that and fought to push the panic away. To control her breathing. To ban the memories she couldn’t completely access. To block the total recall she had where the factual reports were concerned.
Her last therapist called this type of reaction “extreme avoidance.” Taylor preferred to call it “critical self-preservation,” because if she didn’t? If she couldn’t find the strength to fight back? She was done. The bottom line didn’t change, though. Her reaction could be interpreted a hundred different ways, but the ultimate explanation was the simplest, the most consistent. Her head was a freaking mess. But Taylor was going to change that. Fate, Karma and all their cousins could kiss her ass.
A semi blew past her, rocking her four-wheel-drive truck on its shocks. The vehicle settled long before she’d convinced herself to lift her forehead and take in the fuel gauge’s digital display, which read 48 Miles. She’d better find fuel, and fast. The last town lay much farther behind her than that. Hell, it had been nearly half an hour since she’d seen another car.
A quick tap on the GPS and the electronic voice, male with a slight British accent—she’d named him Daniel early on the first day of this unsanctioned trip—advised she was only eleven miles from her destination.
Crooked Water, New Mexico.
A late-model pickup passed her, then brake lights glowed as the truck slowed.
Crap. She did not need help. Fumbling with her blinker, she checked her mirror, found empty highway in both directions and pulled back onto the asphalt. She didn’t look at the driver of the truck but instead gave an absent wave as she passed him. A sigh of relief escaped when she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw him make his way back onto the road. Confrontation avoided. As small a town as Crooked Water was reputed to be, she knew people would be curious, knew there would be questions. That’s why she’d booked herself into the tiny rental at the Rocking-B Ranch. The place had no reviews and seemed to have been listed on the online rental site only in the last couple of weeks. She’d simply tell anyone who asked that she was a guest there. While it was true, the answer served a bigger purpose. It meant she didn’t have to tell them the real reason she’d come to New Mexico.
“Your destination is ahead.”
“Thanks, Daniel,” she said, reaching out to mock fist-bump the GPS.
The word unsanctioned tripped through her mind, rolling around as she crested a hill and the first signs of civilization appeared. This personal expedition certainly hadn’t been approved by anyone—her boss, her doctor, her physical therapist or her psychiatrist. But she needed to start taking some of her own back. Getting here was the equivalent of learning to crawl. Braving the fears she’d face as she prepped for the climb would equate to the first time she’d stood on her own two feet. And the four-day recertification climb she’d booked?
Her palms went cold and sweaty, her heart rate ratcheting up to jackhammer level in seconds.
It was the climb that was all about her learning to walk again. Neither her mind nor her body’s systems cared that the “walking” she’d be doing was figurative. All she could think about was falling.
Literally.
Her hand fisted so tight her knuckles bleached out to a skeletal white. “Not going there.”
Pulling off at the first gas station she saw, she set the pump to fill her tank and crossed the lot to use the tiny, unisex restroom. Splashing water on her pasty face didn’t do anything but make her look pale and wet.
“Excellent. I’m proof the walking dead can tolerate daylight,” she muttered, pulling her ball cap off and finger combing her hair. She pulled the mass back and tucked it up in a sloppy topknot. Best she could do at the moment. Another final glance at the mirror revealed hazel eyes, too wide, dark brows parked under a seemingly perma-creased forehead and a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. The V-neck of her T-shirt offered some decent cleavage, though. An unladylike sound—half hiccup, half snort—escaped. She was comedy and tragedy all rolled into one, but comedy didn’t have its game face on.
Crossing the lot to her truck, she hung up the pump nozzle, took her receipt and boosted herself into the cab again. Only habit, and certainly not the nonexistent traffic, had her looking both ways before she pulled back onto Highway 39 and continued west. It took more energy than she typically had this time of day to force herself to pay attention to the winding road. The Sangre de Cristo Mountain Range rose around her in stunning glory, the peaks of each granite precipice defying the tree line and piercing an impossibly blue sky. Late spring and the temperatures were still cool, but the forecast said the weather would hold for the climb.
Sweat created instant half-moons on the fabric under her armpits, the moisture stolen straight from her mouth.
Her stomach dove for the soles of her feet, and she swallowed back the seemingly ever-present bile that kept her throat raw.
I’m probably going up one of those peaks.
No, not probably. The climb was happening. No backing out.
“Not alone,” she whispered to herself. “I’m not going to be alone.”
She’d have Quinn Monroe, owner of Legendary Adventures, as her climbing partner.
He was notorious in the mountaineering community. Considered one of the best in North America, he’d climbed all over the world. He’d be a strong enough partner and professional instructor to help her shed this unrelenting fear and regain her confidence. Unless she managed the class with success, there was no way she’d be able to complete her recertification as an alpine guide and wilderness first responder nurse for the National Park Service.
She might have neglected to mention her, well, neuroses in her email correspondence with Mr. Monroe, but he’d find out soon enough. Hiring the best of the best had been her only hope of getting through this, so they’d both deal with the repercussions of her omission when it became necessary. Until then? It wasn’t relevant.
Her initial obstacle would be getting through the refresher course. She’d have to hold it together long enough to make the trek to the base of the climb. Then she’d gear up and the truth would be out there. She had to recertify if she wanted to keep her job as the team leader for the National Park Service’s Search and Rescue Team, or SRT. Recertification was standard for any team member who had been involved in a rescue attempt that had resulted in the death of a team member, but as a team lead who’d lost all five members of her team and the climber they’d gone after?
She readjusted her sunglasses and tried to swallow the lump of truth lodged in her throat.
If she failed, there were no second chances. She’d be out of a job, without a certification. She could go into clinical nursing, but a hospital setting didn’t suit her. She’d be miserable. Beyond miserable.
Since the accident, her employer had been compassionate as well as generous, holding her job while granting her more than the mandatory recovery period. But compassion only carried an employee for so long. Management had begun making noises about her getting back to work, prompting her boss, Greg, to call.
“Your name’s been coming up at management’s roundtable meetings. HR is all over me to get a firm return-to-work date from you.”
Tension had formed an invisible noose that tightened around her throat. “I told you I’m working on it.”
“They’re asking for something in writing.”
“What, my word’s no good?” she demanded, nausea forming a greasy film that coated her stomach lining.
“You are coming back, right?”
“That’s always been the plan.”
“Then give them something, Taylor.” Greg’s voice had been solid but somber. “Tell them you’ll get your re-cert by whatever day and you’ll be back a week after that.” He’d paused. “Whatever date you pick, keep in mind that sooner would be better.”
The unspoken truth had been there, suspended on the airwaves between her cell and his. She would either get herself together and get back to work or management would cut her loose.
So she’d make that first, and only, attempt to face the mountain and complete her recertification climb...or she wouldn’t. If she couldn’t do it, if she couldn’t conquer this fear of heights or, more specifically, of falling from significant heights, she’d be done. Out of work.
And probably over the edge.
* * *
DUST OBSCURED EVERYTHING in the rearview mirror as Quinn Monroe pulled onto the highway. The shoulder medium—fancy way to say dirt—was so dry his tires fought for purchase. The county needed rain. Bad. The harsh conditions were what had prompted him to stop and offer to help the owner of the out-of-state tag that had pulled onto the shoulder, the driver resting his head on the steering wheel. This was no place for vacationers to get lost, run out of gas or need a bottle of chilled spring water. Big-city conveniences didn’t exist out here. Hell, nothing existed out here but grassland, cows, mountains and the handful of human souls who called Crooked Water, New Mexico, home.
Home.
If someone had suggested to Quinn even five years ago that he’d be back in the remote little village for more than just a visit, that he’d come back to this godforsaken place for good, he would have called the guy a liar. Sure, he may have grown up here, but he’d never been at home, never felt like part of the community or part of something bigger than himself. That’s what he’d been looking for when he left more than a decade ago. And damn if he hadn’t found it—only to lose it and wind up back here, after all.
His focus shifted, drifting away from the road, across the grassland and up the foothills before settling on the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. That was where he belonged—in the mountains, on the mountain face, granite under his fingertips. Not here.
I was never meant for this life.
Sunshine glinted on metal in the field south of the highway and Quinn glanced that way instinctively. Muscles in his stomach tightened at the sight of the windmill, the tail wagging back and forth to keep the lazily spinning fan faced into the wind.
Forcing himself to refocus on the two-lane highway, he tried to keep his mind on the faded yellow and white lines in front of him.
No dice.
It had been almost eighteen months since the middle-of-the-night phone call that had changed everything. Eighteen months back here, home, in New Mexico. His heart ached with loss and longing.
Rolling onto one hip without slowing, he pulled his smartphone out of the back pocket of his Wranglers. A single press of the home key showed no missed calls. He’d become paranoid about being inaccessible, and cell service out here was sporadic at best, nonexistent at worst.
Five bars of service.
No missed calls.
The ringer was on.
Volume was up.
A small part of him relaxed. The rest of him remained as knotted up as ever.
Memories crowded in on him, despite his objections, and for a split second Quinn wasn’t in his truck headed to town. He was in bed in his little Idaho home, the alarm set unreasonably early so he’d be on time for a scheduled climb up Baron Spire. The ringer on his smartphone had been shut off, the vibrate function left on in case his parents needed him. And they had.
Mom.
She’d called four times in a row, the phone eventually shimmying its way across the nightstand and over the edge, hitting the floor with a thunk that pulled him out of deep, dreamless sleep. He’d rolled over, blindly fishing around on the floor for the phone, accidentally hitting Answer before he had the phone to his ear.
Soft sobs came from the caller.
Adrenaline had careened through his system and driven his heart wild, setting his nerves on edge and sharpening his voice. “Mom?”
No answer.
“Mom?” he’d asked again, undiluted fear souring his stomach. He had fallen out of bed then, his knees striking the hardwood floor with a loud crack. He’d buried his face in his hands and the phone had slipped, forcing him to re-pin it between his ear and shoulder to hear her.
Odd thing to remember.
“You need to come home, Quinn.”
“Where’s Dad?” he’d demanded. “Put Dad on the phone, Mom.” Pleaded. “Where is he?” Beseeched.
“This afternoon...” She’d hiccuped, a sharp sound. “Oh, Quinn...” Deep breaths had raked across the phone’s receiver, scraping at him through the earpiece.
“Tell me.”
Then she’d done as he’d asked. He’d stopped breathing the moment she complied, uttering damning words he wanted to childishly demand she take back. “Your dad was working on the windmill in the south pasture. No one is sure what happened. Not exactly. All we know is that he fell. The doctor said his injuries were massive. Quinn, he didn’t...”
The words make it weren’t spoken, but they were there just the same as if they had been shouted, hovering a moment before they crashed into him. The impact tattooed the truth on his heart. And then? The world simply stopped.
His dad. The man Quinn had spent years following, listening to, emulating. The man who had convinced Quinn it was okay to want more than the rural lifestyle he’d grown up with. The man who’d handed him the title to his pickup and $15,000 in cash, telling Quinn to figure out what made him happy and where he’d be happiest doing it. The man who’d been unashamedly in love with his wife and left a light on for his only child every night.
His heart had seized, a tight band of pain around his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Dad.
A jackrabbit darted across the road and he jerked the wheel. “Pay attention,” he muttered to himself.
More than eighteen months since he’d lost the man and Quinn still felt off-center, like the world had tilted hard to the left and he couldn’t get it back on its axis.
When he crested the small hill, the town appeared as if conjured by dark memories that defied the impossibly blue sky. It looked exactly as it had when he’d left twelve years ago. He chuffed out a harsh laugh as he realized that there was as little for a man of thirty-one to do here as there was a nineteen-year-old boy on the edge. Nothing had changed. Not a single. Damn. Thing.
“Except that one half of the best part of this place is gone.” His words were swallowed by the noise his all-terrain tires made on the rough asphalt road.
Stomach rumbling, he shot a look at the clock. It was late for lunch. He could skip it altogether, head to the ranch and snag something from his mom’s fridge or—he turned onto Main Street—he could grab a bite in town. The cook at Muddy Waters, the local bar and grill, was an old high school buddy. He’d throw a burger on the grill without complaint and Quinn would be sure to tip the waitress well. His stomach growled in response. A burger it was.
He parked curbside, hopped down from his truck and traversed the fractured concrete walk that never failed to trip up drunks and tourists alike.
Inside, the atmosphere was comfortable in its familiarity. Square laminate tables, each surrounded by four vinyl-covered chairs, were scattered around the floor.
He nodded to a handful of familiar faces as he settled at a table in the corner and dropped his hat on the neighboring chair.
The waitress sauntered up, order pad and pen in hand. “What’ll it be, handsome?”
He didn’t even bother with the menu. “Cheeseburger, medium, all the trimmings, large basket of onion rings and a lemonade. How’s your mom, Amy?”
The waitress was another high school friend, and her family had owned the restaurant for three generations. She rolled her eyes. “Same as always. Swears I’m running this place into the ground and am going to end up being forced to sell to an—” she feigned a gasp “—outsider. She’s threatening to come out of retirement.”
Quinn chuckled. “If she comes back, tell her she’ll have to make her chocolate cream pies by the dozen. I miss those.”
“Secret family recipe I just happen to possess.” She considered him for a moment before tacking on, “You should come to dinner one night. I’ll make you a pie.”
He appreciated her predicament, being single in Crooked Water. The dating pool was more mud puddle than pond. But as much as Quinn liked her, he wasn’t the solution to her problem.
He’d once thought he wanted a love like his parents had shared, had spent years looking for it, dating, hoping every new face was The One. It hadn’t taken him long to realize exactly how rare that kind of love was. And now, given what he’d seen his dad’s death do to his mom? He intended to avoid relationships at all costs. No amount of love could make that amount of grief worth it.
Looking up at Amy, he smiled. “I appreciate the offer, but I have to pass. With Dad gone, Mom needs all the help she can get. Keeps my priorities at home, making sure she’s taken care of.”
The waitress smiled. “Can’t blame a girl for asking.”
“I’m flattered you did.”
She tucked her pen into her topknot of hair and ripped his order off the pad. “I’ll turn this in. Hank should have it out in just a few.”
He settled back to wait, sliding down in his chair to stretch his legs out in front of him.
“I hear you’re taking someone up the mountain,” Art Jameson, a town local and family friend, called out across the vacant dance floor. “That mean you’re back to climbing again, Q?”
Every eye in the place landed on Quinn.
He had no idea how the news had reached the gossip mill, but it clearly had. And he wasn’t ready to answer. Mostly because he didn’t have a damn clue what to say.
There’d been speculation that he’d be out of Crooked Water and back on the ropes before the seasons changed. But he hadn’t. Not this season, anyway. He was still grieving his dad’s passing, for Pete’s sake. More than that, his mom needed him. None of that mattered. People around here were fascinated that he’d left home and made something of himself. And since Jeff, the guy who’d bought Quinn’s former business, had referred this climber to Quinn—the first client of his new climbing business—he had expected folks would discover he was going up the mountain again. Next, word would get out he was opening up shop as a full-time guide. Managing that news would be...difficult, at best, seeing as he hadn’t discussed it with his new ranching partner.
His mom.
Fighting the urge to pull his shoulders up around his ears and growl, he instead met Art’s curious gaze with his level one. “I never really quit.”
Sam Tolbert, the region’s large animal veterinarian, picked up his tea glass and tipped it in Quinn’s direction. “Heard you agreed to take some climber up Trono del Cielo next week.”
Trono del Cielo. The Throne of Heaven.
Quinn arched a brow as he slid lower in the hardbacked diner chair. “Gone a handful of years and the only thing to have changed around here is the gossip mill’s efficiency.”
This, this, was what he hated about small towns. You couldn’t switch toilet paper brands without someone noticing and “mentioning” it to someone else.
“Rumors come and go, Doc. Hang around long enough and time will let you know what’s true.” Grabbing his hat, he stood, slapped it on his head and searched Amy out in the small crowd. “Make that a to-go order, would you?” He needed to get out of here. The levee of polite restraint had been publicly breached. People would ask what they wanted to know, pose question after question that he didn’t want to answer. He wasn’t prepared for that and was pretty sure he wouldn’t live to see the day he was.
“Hank was just plating it. I’ll wrap it, instead.”
“Thanks.” Quinn tipped his chin, first toward Art and then Doc as he passed their table. “You boys mind yourselves. And don’t you go flirting too much with Miss Amy here without your wife’s express consent, Art.”
The older men chuckled, and Art nodded at the young woman. “Too much respect for Miss Amy to put her through the missus’s jealous rage.”
Amy snorted. “Betty would probably send me spousal support if I’d take your sorry ass off her hands.”
Everyone in the bar laughed, louder this time, and Quinn relaxed as he felt the interest in him shift away. “What do I owe you?”
“Nine and a quarter,” Amy said, smile wide. “Plus the tip you would’ve left, of course.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Quinn handed her several bills and took the sack of food she offered him. “Thanks for this.”
“Sure. You want your drink to go?”
“Nah. I’ll pop over to the mercantile and grab something. I have a list of things to pick up before I head home, anyway. Thanks, though.”
He turned for the door, and a question he hadn’t been prepared for hit him in the back.
“You coming to the barn dance at the Hendersons’ place Friday night?” Doc Tolbert asked. “Bring Elaine if you do. She’d probably enjoy a night out.”
Everyone paused and waited for him to answer.
Quinn shot the vet a quick, steady look. “You want Mom to go, you ask her directly. Not me.”
Several people chuckled, but the humor was strained.
“I’m asking you as a matter of courtesy,” the vet responded, level and calm.
“She’s a grown woman who knows her own mind.” The words sounded tinny in his head, sort of far away. Denial at its best. No way was Sam asking after Elaine as anything but friends. Sure, his mom was a widow, but that didn’t make her single. As in datable. Not now, and maybe not ever.
Definitely not in Quinn’s eyes.
2 (#u23f18607-63ac-5ef6-aa70-fe808a38ad3f)
TAYLOR SANG ALONG with the radio and Toby Keith as he professed why he should’ve been a cowboy. Pulling into town, Taylor reached up and turned the radio off. Nothing in the online ad for the little cabin she’d booked had prepared her for the reality of arriving in Crooked Water, New Mexico.
Not even close.
Slowing to the posted speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour, she had plenty of time to assess the town. All of it. The sign outside the tiny village advertised a population number someone had taped over with duct tape and, using stencils and spray paint, modified to 207. There was a post office housed in a glass-faced stucco building that couldn’t be more than twenty-five feet square.
Beside it sat a brick-bodied bar and grill with a neon sign over the front door that buzzed loud enough she could hear it.
Directly across the street was a mercantile-cum-grocer with touristy knickknacks set in the plate glass window. Sale ads were hand drawn with permanent marker on fluorescent paper and peppered the remaining window space.
And a block farther down, set apart from what seemed to be the heart of the town, a small white chapel faced off with a windowless drive-thru liquor store.
Parking in front of the Muddy Waters Bar and Grill, she hopped down from her truck and strolled across the street. Somewhere nearby, Quinn Monroe waited. She wasn’t slated to meet him until the day after tomorrow, but she’d wanted some time to settle into her little cabin at the ranch.
That’s a load of crap and you know it, her subconscious snarked. You wanted to scope the climb and afford yourself plenty of time to skulk out of town if it looked too tough. At least have the good grace to wait for the bartender to hand you that first double shot of whiskey before you start lying to yourself.
Man, if her inner voice grew any more compassionate, she’d have to think about finding a way to suffocate the witch.
She pushed through one of the large doors to the mercantile and stopped, door still half open. Generic canned chili—a lot of generic canned chili—had been built into a pyramid display right inside the entry. A large sign proclaimed “BOGO! Get it before it’s gone!”
“How much chili can a community of barely two hundred people eat?” she asked quietly, still frozen halfway through the doorway.
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” a tiny, bespectacled man answered from a stool behind an ancient register.
He was so diminutive in a wizened way that it took her a second to realize he’d stood. Shuffling around the end of the worn pine counter with its aluminum flashing and green glass candy jars, he couldn’t have topped out at more than five foot three inches.
“Get fishermen in here all damn day who think they’ll pull a Bear Grylls and live off the land. Bunch of morons, the lot of ’em. More men end up with food poisoning from trying to cook their catch over an open fire and forage for greens along the riverbanks than those eatin’ at my sister’s diner over in Boise.” He gazed up at her with rheumatic, watery blue eyes and grinned. “Works out for me, though. Buy-one-get-one-free chili is mighty tasty when you’ve had the dysentery in the wilds. Got a special on Charmin, too, for that matter, but you don’t look like a moron.”
Lips quivering, Taylor stepped the rest of the way in and let the door fall shut before she burst out laughing. It had been so long since she’d let loose, her facial muscles ached with it. Bent over, hands on her knees, she glanced up to find the old man grinning even wider. “And the locals?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“We don’t touch that canned, preservative-filled crap. Anything with a shelf life of eight years is bound to kill you,” he said, gesturing across the street with a small jerk of his chin. “Town folk eat at Muddy Waters.”
“What’s good over there?” she asked absently as she peered down the store’s aisles. The place was admittedly well stocked for such a small, remote grocery.
The little man shrugged. “Just about everything.” Then he held out a hand twisted by years of arthritis and roughed by physical work. “I’m Joseph Cummings. You can call me Joe. And if you’re here long enough, Old Joe.”
She shook his hand, surprised at the strength in his grip. “Hey, Joe. I’m Taylor Williams. I’ll be here a little over a week. I’m climbing Trono del Cielo.” She swallowed hard at the last bit, not at all sure why she’d offered a stranger the information.
He cocked his head to one side, considering her. “You’re the one going up the mountain with Quinn Monroe, then.”
“I am, yes. Why?”
“He mentioned he had someone booked for the climb when he came in and ordered provisions.” He waved a hand dismissively, shuffling around the counter to reclaim his seat as he spoke. “Couldn’t be no one better to lock yourself onto for that climb.”
The idea of being locked together, of carabiners tying her fate, her very survival, to another’s—and his to her—made her swallow convulsively. Gear could fail. Decisions made under pressure, decisions not carefully weighed and measured, could be wrong. Do-overs weren’t a given but a matter of grace, and if life lacked one thing, it was grace.
“Good to know,” she croaked out.
He carried on, not seeming to notice the sweat suddenly trickling down her temples. “Got a small storefront here, but we do a bang-up catalog order business. I might be older than a petrified dinosaur turd, but I’m good with a computer.” His fragile-looking chest puffed up. “I can get you anything I need from my Santa Fe supplier or with my laptop, so you need something while you’re here, something I ain’t got on the shelf? Just let me know.”
“I’ll do just that. Thanks.”
Joe’s eyes narrowed. “You nervous about the climb or meeting Quinn?”
So he had noticed. “Why would I be nervous about meeting Quinn?” she asked, avoiding the first part of the question.
The old man cackled. “You’re a woman, ain’t ya?”
“Yeah, but my breasts don’t tend to get too intimidated by the male species.” She grinned. “They have a bit of a narcissistic side.”
“Rightly so,” he said, winking and, of all things, causing her to blush as the door swung open behind her, a rush of hot, dry air washing over the sweat at the nape of her neck. “But Quinn? Well, he’s famous in these parts for lovin’ and leavin’ in nothing flat. Broke a lot of hearts when he left town that first time. Imagine it’ll be the same when he leaves this time.”
“Good thing I’m just here for the climb, then, isn’t it, Joe? That’ll keep us both safe.”
“Safe?”
“No chance of falling for someone if you go into things knowing he’s a one-trick pony prick.”
“Not too far off the mark but for one thing,” said a deep, smooth voice from behind her. “My bag of tricks is bottomless.”
The depth of the newcomer’s voice rooted her in place. Taylor couldn’t have moved if the hem of her jeans caught fire. She couldn’t turn. Couldn’t face the man at her back.
Joe laughed, the sound part wheeze, part cough. “Quinn, this here’s Taylor Williams.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Williams,” he said, voice cool and detached.
Oh, man. “Somehow I doubt that’s true, Mr. Monroe.”
“Is it safe to assume you’re the climber I’ve been exchanging emails with? The one who recently hired me to obtain his recertification?” His voice, the pitch deep but smooth, sent a shiver up her spine.
“Her recertification, and yes. That’s me. I’m her.”
“You didn’t tell me you’re a woman,” he said, the accusation clear.
“It shouldn’t matter, seeing as my gender has nothing to do with my ability to get up or down a mountain, Mr. Monroe.”
“Since you’ve discussed my prick and its tricks with our local grocer, you’ve invoked the discussion on gender. It also seems more personal if you go ahead and call me Quinn.”
Taylor closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. Only one thought ran through her head. The burning heat of abject humiliation would keep her warm when the desert nights grew cold.
* * *
QUINN MONROE HADN’T expected Taylor Williams to show up early. He also hadn’t expected Taylor to be, well, a woman. But from the slim column of her neck to the end of long, seriously toned legs and the very fine ass parked right between the two, Taylor looked like she was all woman. That Old Joe had been giving her the standard spiel about Quinn’s reputation was further proof. The grocer must’ve taken to her quickly. Otherwise he never would’ve felt the need to warn her to mind herself around him. Unless Joe was just screwing around. You never could tell with him.
Curiosity ate at Quinn and he wondered if her face was as expressive as the unblemished skin of her neck. The red flush that had raced across that pale expanse had been telling. It struck him then that she was incredibly pale for such a highly accomplished climber. Clearly she’d been out of the sun long enough to lose the tan every climber sported. But why? Only way to get the answers he wanted was to ask. Crossing his arms over his chest, he let a smile play around his lips and unquestionable desire burn in his gaze. “If you’re going to disparage my capabilities, Ms. Williams, at least face me when you do.” When she hesitated, he said softly, “Turn around.”
She turned her head just enough to keep him from seeing her face when she answered. “We’re not on the mountain yet, Mr. Monroe. You don’t dictate what I do and don’t do until I’m geared up and paying you for your expertise.”
Sassy and able to shrug off his surliness. He liked the combination. She’d need it once they hit the mountain, where he would call every shot. Further intrigued, he found himself closing the distance between them and pushing her a little harder. “According to Old Joe, my reputation is that I have specific expertise you don’t have to pay for.” High school reputations died hard in a small town...if they died at all. “To get it, you’ll have to turn around.”
Ah, that got her going.
Spinning, she faced him, her hazel eyes bright with fury and her mouth working silently.
Then, in a voice so deep and sultry he felt it wrap around him like a silken noose, she lit into him. “Excuse me, Mr. Monroe, but did you just proposition me? I’m your client, not some...some...two-bit, cheap-thrill, ‘experience-seeking’—” she emphasized it with air quotes “—tour-on out here looking to ‘climb your mountain’ and stroke your ego every step of the way as you critique my physical form instead of critiquing my climb approach. Clear?”
Joe laughed so hard Quinn couldn’t help but worry the old man would choke on his dentures.
Whatever.
Quinn consumed Taylor in one visual gulp. She was roughly six inches shorter than his six foot three, fine boned and lean with defined muscle, but she owned her body and her space like she was his size. Tendrils of hair escaped the edge of her ball cap to trail down her neck and over her shoulders, and he had the most ridiculous urge to see her without the hat. He wanted to set that mass of wavy hair free, wanted to know how long it was, wanted to see it frame her face.
An erotic image of it playing across her bare breasts caught him off guard and he shook his head. He didn’t react to women. They reacted to him. It had been the natural order of things since eleventh grade, when twelfth-grader Marcy Jacobs had hauled him into the tack room in her parents’ barn and taught him things about older women. Not since then had he allowed a woman to cause every rational thought to vacate his brain, and he wasn’t going to start now. He just had to figure out how to retrieve the logical thoughts that had already fled without his consent. In the meantime, he looked her over with what was, at best, open interest and, at worst, carnal intent.
What happened next shocked him and left him scrambling to get his brain back in gear, if for no other reason than to save his pride.
She stepped into his space and glared up at him, going toe-to-toe without batting an eye. “I know you did not just tell me to turn around so you could...could...take my physical measure and decide whether or not you deem me worthy of your bag of tricks.” When he didn’t answer, because he couldn’t, she shoved him hard enough he was forced to step aside as she stormed past him on her way to the door. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Monroe. The collision of your reputation with your self-adoration has created a testosterone-dense fallout that’s making me nauseous. I need some fresh air.”
He watched her long-legged strides eat up the pavement as she crossed the street. She yanked open the door to a familiar truck—the same one he’d stopped to help on the highway—and all but launched herself inside, slamming the driver-side door closed behind her. Reverse lights flared, she backed out of her parking spot and, with a chirp of tires, took off down Highway 39.
“You just made a colossal mistake, boy,” Joe hooted.
Quinn glanced over at Old Joe and went with the one thing he knew to be true. “Yeah? Well, she’s my client.” The first client he’d had since he’d gone live with his new adventure guide business and website. He needed this climb to go well. Months spent racking his brain had yielded little in terms of ways to help his mom make ends meet. The only thing that made any sense at all was to put his skills to use locally. He more than wanted this venture to work. He needed it to. Quinn had to find a way to bring in the extra income his dad had earned cowboying for others in order to cover the lean years on their own small place, and no one was hiring Harding County’s version of the prodigal son.
“She’s a woman who deserves respect, is what she is.” Joe looked up with a kind of seriousness that wasn’t at all common on that old face. “I know you and your mama have been through hell. Especially your mama. I can’t imagine losing my wife, Josie, after more than sixty years married.” He shook his head, light glinting off his pate. “But if gossip’s right and you intend to stick around and help your mama keep the family ranch running, you’re going to have to set aside your pride, and not just this once, mind you. There’s no room for pride when you’re clawing your way up from hell’s own belly.”
Quinn stared at his boots, considering.
“Hurts to have your pride lashed by an old man’s tongue, I know. My old man was brilliant but brutal with it, so I’ve been there and more than once.” Old Joe leaned on the counter. “Go on after her and tell her you’re sorry. It’ll likely hurt your pride, but no man’s pride has ever caused him to bleed out. Besides, it’s your best shot of making something of this climbing thing.”
Quinn’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Make something?”
Joe waved him off. “I know all about your accomplishments and records and such. Stuff you’ve done in the past,” he said, dragging out the last word. “I don’t give a rat’s patooty about what was. Can’t change it anyhow. I care about what is and what might be. I don’t want to see your mama hurt again because her son followed in the father’s footsteps and put pride out front just waitin’ for the fall. Say you’re sorry to the lady. It won’t kill you, boy.”
Quinn considered Old Joe, then gave him a quick nod. “You have that order ready that Mom called in?”
“Been boxed up and waiting on you since yesterday.”
Quinn settled the tab and thumbed through the dollar bills in his wallet. All four of them. Heading to his truck with two boxes of necessities, he mentally rerouted his trip home. He’d stop by the bank and see what it would take to get an extension on the ranch’s credit line. While he was there, he’d withdraw a little cash to keep on hand for incidentals and cash-only emergencies.
He chuffed out a strained laugh. If things kept on like they had been, the money would be gone before the week’s end. It seemed everything had been an emergency of late, from the tractor breaking down and requiring special-order parts to the unanticipated replacement of the septic tank down at the bunkhouse.
The money he’d made selling his mountaineering business before coming back to Crooked Water had been good, and he’d really believed it would cover enough of the bills and buy him enough time to see his mom settled and secure. Then he had planned on figuring out where he’d go and what he’d do when he got there.
But the costs of keeping the ranch afloat had been staggering, and he’d watched the money flow from his account faster than water disappeared down a storm drain during monsoon season. With less than $10,000 left, he’d been forced to find a way to change the flow from solely out to at least something coming in.
He’d tried odd jobs, day jobs and more, but nothing ever panned out. With no options left, he’d quietly set up a website and begun reaching out to old contacts and looking for one-time climbs and such. Taylor had come to him through one of those channels. He’d initially hesitated. A re-cert would mean a solid week, maybe a little more. But the money... A short-notice, one-on-one recertification course demanded a hefty premium. In the end, the cash was too much of an incentive to turn down, his need for it too great.
He’d signed the contract.
And now here he was, getting ready to find his student and apologize for behaving like an ass. Because he had, and he knew it. That didn’t make the apology any easier.
Thoughts running amok, he stopped beside the bed of his truck and deposited the boxes near the cab before opening the driver’s door. A wall of heat hit him, the air infused with the leftovers of his burger and onion rings. The smell was so heavy and dense he nearly choked. Finishing lunch was clearly off the day’s agenda. Grabbing the grease-stained brown paper bag with the diner’s logo printed on the side, he tossed it into the bed of his truck and then climbed into the cab. First priority, windows down and heat wave be damned. That smell had to go.
And second...
Taking a deep breath and shaking his head in disbelief at what he was about to do, he cranked the truck’s engine, looked down the street in the direction Taylor had gone and backed out of his parking slot.
Quinn had an apology to deliver.
3 (#u23f18607-63ac-5ef6-aa70-fe808a38ad3f)
IRRITATION CHASED TAYLOR down State Road 120, pushing the speedometer well to the right of the posted speed limit. She muttered to herself, saying aloud everything she wished she’d thought to say to Quinn Monroe when she’d faced off with him. Smart, cutting remarks that would have made an impression. But no. Not Taylor. The most she’d been able to do was call him a “one-trick pony prick” and storm off.
“Way to go, Williams,” she groused, yanking her hat off and tossing it onto the empty passenger seat. A tug on her hair tie was punctuated by a curse, and both were followed up by a hard yank, but her hair came down. She finger combed the mess of waves, but nothing less than a hot shower and a quart of conditioner would tame the flyaway thing she had going on. She’d get settled in her little cabin, eat whatever the owner sent over for supper, since she hadn’t picked up anything at the mercantile, and then she’d get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow had to be better. Right?
Her opinionated subconscious remained silent, despite the invitation to cut Taylor to ribbons.
That didn’t bode well. Ever.
Some obscure emotion wound its way around her ankles, subtle enough, at first, that she wasn’t sure what she’d stirred up. That mystery feeling became inescapable, squeezing and tightening its way up and up her body until it became an emotional anaconda that was squeezing the air out of her chest. Trepidation, and a hell of a lot of it.
She couldn’t stand the constriction and loss of control, was so conditioned by fear to respond by shutting her mind down and focusing on surviving, that she almost missed the bright red mailbox denoting the road to the rental.
Taylor stomped on the truck’s brakes, the back wheels chattering as she came to an abrupt stop. Backing up on the empty highway, she turned down the dirt road and passed under a black metal sign displaying the place’s name.
Place. Ranch? Family? Resort? Whatever.
Losing control like that had left her too rattled to pay attention.
She pulled over, the truck’s passenger wheels well into the pasture and, closing her eyes, let her head tip back onto the headrest. Doubt moved in, swift and assertive. Had she made a mistake coming here? Why did she think she could do this? What would happen to her if she couldn’t? Clearly Monroe wasn’t a compassionate man. Should she have booked someone else as her recertification guide? There were a handful of people she could have picked from, all of whom were qualified to see her through the process. There was no reason it had to be him. After all, he’d only just reemerged onto the climbing scene after more than a year’s absence. It had been serendipity she’d tripped into a recommendation to Quinn Monroe from another climb instructor she’d contacted. That guy had been booked, but he’d told her Quinn was back in business, providing her with Quinn’s new website and contact information. She hadn’t been comfortable calling, scared he’d recognize her from the accident, which had made national news. Last thing she needed was to hear the derision or judgment that were bound to be in his voice. Rejection would be easier to take in an impersonal email.
She was wildly curious about him, though. No climber had ever worked so hard to gain international notoriety for his skill and then walked away from a career—with sponsorships—when he was at the top of his game. But Quinn had. And then he’d fallen off the grid. Two interviews had briefly featured him since then. In each, Quinn had refused to talk about the reason he’d quit. He’d been borderline surly in his responses when the interviewers tried to talk him around to discussing his stage-left exit. After all, they’d said, the climbing world wanted to know why.
Quinn’s response? “The decision was driven by personal obligations, and I don’t talk about my personal life. Sorry.”
The last articles had been printed before the accident, but the dates were fuzzy. What she knew for certain was that Quinn had disappeared, closed up shop, not long after that. Maybe she should terminate the contract, find someone else.
Except he’d been the best. A person didn’t lose that distinction simply because they took a hiatus. He’d voluntarily come back to the real-life Chutes and Ladders. She didn’t need to know what prompted the absence or return, only that he was back and had the ability to lead her back, as well. To that end, she needed the best climber and instructor money could buy. So what if he’d never be nominated for Most Congenial Mountain Man? Heaven and hell alike knew that personality wouldn’t save a person’s ass in a pinch. Cold, logical decisions were their only chance.
“Looks like I’m keeping him,” she whispered.
The admission didn’t subdue her offended independence and female pride. His gall chafed that part of her raw. Who the hell did he think he was, ordering her around as if she were some green climber who needed him to dictate her every move from the moment she hit town to the second she was off the mountain and on her way home.
What. An. Ass.
Of course, she hadn’t exactly been a peach. More like a pit. She laughed, lifted her head and gasped as the view out the windshield hijacked her attention. Every bit of it.
A series of mesas ran north to south, their varying heights accentuated by extremely flat tops. Each mesa was a mélange of browns and greens, the grass a short carpet interrupted by cedar shrubs and split by the dirt road that snaked its way deeper into the heart of the ranch. At the foot of the nearest mesa stood a lone windmill. Cattle gathered around the stock tank below the spinning fan, their white faces and rusty-red-brown bodies bright against the neutral background of grassland. And above it all rose an endless blue sky.
Taylor shut her truck off and got out, walking to the front and leaning against the bumper. A slight breeze lifted tendrils of hair off her neck and cooled the shirt that sweat had glued to her skin earlier. Inside, she quieted, the change startling enough to be apparent but reality too big to be bothered by it. Never had she experienced anything like this. The mountains in Washington were big, but the space here?
Massive.
This wasn’t the first time nature had made her feel small in relation, but this? No way was this the same. Standing there looking out over the wide-open space, the horizon appeared endless, the sky infinite.
All the questions that had been jockeying for position, each wanting her immediate attention, stopped. And Taylor breathed. Simply...breathed. Lungful after lungful she reveled in the clean air infused with earth and cedar and green growing things.
If a soul could sigh, she swore hers did.
Tires hummed on pavement, the sound carried by the wind. Unwilling to compromise the quiet she’d discovered, she got back in her truck, started it up and put it in Drive. She didn’t look back.
The truck rattled and chattered all the way across the metal-pipe cattle guard.
“Rustic rumble strips,” she mused.
The road was in very good shape, devoid of the washboard surface or shin-deep ruts inherent to dirt roads exposed to wind and rain. A good drainage ditch had been cut down one side. Fences were in good shape. Grass was grazed but pastures were clearly managed for conservation. She slowed as she reached the first incline. The herd stood spread out across the road like giant yard art, unmoving save for the occasional flick of a tail or slow, considering blinks of long-lashed eyes. They all looked young, given their size, but also healthy. And undisturbed.
She inched forward and the young cow—steer?—nearest her ambled off with a disgruntled chuff. The herd shifted around and a couple of others that had been in the road followed the first one out onto the grass.
Impatience bubbled to the surface and the urge to hurry things along got the best of her. Yes, the cows were moving, but they were too damn slow. Rolling her window down, Taylor waved an arm wildly and shouted. “Move!”
The cattle stopped and looked at her.
“Get out of the road!” she shouted.
She hit the truck’s horn, beep-beep-beeping before leaning on it hard and steady, the grating, obnoxious noise shattering the quiet.
One of the cows lay down. In the road.
The soul-deep peace she’d found was lost.
To a bovine antagonist.
“I’ve been reduced to this,” she thought, tears and laughter arriving at the same time.
She gave in to both.
Several minutes passed before she even tried to collect herself. Several more passed before she was successful. Drying her face on her shirt hem, she fished around in the console for a napkin, blew her nose and tried to decide what to do. She could attempt to drive around the animal, but the pasture on either side had cattle scattered about. She could nudge this guy and try to get him to move, but she didn’t want to hurt him. How fragile are cows? She also didn’t want to bang up her truck if it turned out the animal was more dent-proof than her vehicle.
When she was two seconds from throwing in the towel and calling the cabin owner for help, the cow stood up and moved on.
The universe was laughing. She could hear it.
Unwilling to waste any more time, she drove through the remaining animals—who all moved—as fast as she dared. The road went on long enough that she wondered if she’d taken a wrong turn, and she crossed three more cattle guards before she rounded the mesa and found herself in a canyon and following a stream. Aspens clustered here and there, white trunks stark against the hillside, their leaves shimmering in the slight breeze. The stream widened and turned north, winding through an empty field littered with wildflowers.
A little house sat straight ahead. Other buildings were situated behind and, like the stream, to the north so they faced the water. She parked in front of the main house, put her hair back up and hopped out of her truck.
“It’s like a fairy tale,” she whispered, standing behind the open driver’s door as if it would shield her from the fallout when the image shattered. And it had to shatter. Nothing like this existed in real life.
The house was half stacked river stone, half rough-hewn log cabin topped by an aged tin roof and embraced by a deep, wraparound front porch with tree branches used as porch railings. A porch swing hung from the rafters on one side while rocking chairs occupied the other. Country music played on a radio inside and, somewhere in the house, a woman sang along. The smell of fresh-baked bread drifted out of open windows. Beneath that hovered the scent of something rich and savory.
Please, God, let that be dinner.
Taylor laid her hand over her stomach when it growled in protest. When had she last eaten? Breakfast in Colorado? Must have been.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from the truck and shut the door.
Inside, the singing stopped.
Seconds later, the front door opened and a lovely woman stepped out, a dishtowel in one hand. She looked to be in her midfifties. Long dark hair threaded with gray had been braided, but a few flyaways rebelled. Worn jeans, faded and slightly frayed from a hundred washings, hugged slim hips. Her dark T-shirt had a smudge of flour on one corner. Her gaze met Taylor’s and each woman lifted a hand in greeting and smiled at the same time.
The older woman laughed. “If you’re Taylor Williams or if you’re selling Girl Scout cookies, come on in. Otherwise, I don’t need any, want any, have already registered to vote, found the Lord decades ago so He’s not missing anymore and I’ll warn you I have a loaded shotgun inside the doorway.”
Taylor paused halfway up the front steps. “Shotgun?”
The woman’s grin widened. “It’s reserved for salesmen and politicians.” She stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Elaine Bradley.”
A vehicle came around the bend. Taylor turned and squinted into the bright afternoon sun glaring off the windshield of what turned out to be a truck.
Light glinted off the late-model hood as it approached the house at speed. Slowing just outside of what Taylor considered the driveway, the driver pulled in at an angle, the dust trail the truck had kicked up rolling forward and swallowing the vehicle. The driver waited for the majority of the dust to clear before stepping out. Hat settled low on his head, he gripped the front of the driver’s door in one hand and the cab in the other, leaning into the V created between the two. His eyes narrowed and the cords in his neck stood out.
“That’s my son,” Elaine said from behind Taylor.
No. No, no, no. This was not happening.
“Come on up and meet our guest,” Elaine called out.
Taylor turned around and, clutching the step railing, swallowed hard. “He’s your son?”
Merry eyes crinkled at the corners as the woman’s smile widened. “He is, yes. Handsome as the devil is dark, and stubborn as a mule to boot, but he’s a good man,” she added softly, maternal pride coloring her words.
Heavy footsteps made the stair treads vibrate beneath Taylor’s feet, stopping before the owner drew level with her. His presence loomed at her back, large and hot and strong. Déjà vu struck her and she almost laughed at the irony when the bourbon-smooth voice spoke into her ear.
“I’m sure there’s a very good reason you’re standing here, on my porch, on my land, talking to my mother.” His tone wasn’t hostile but it sure as hell wasn’t welcoming, either.
“Mind yourself, Quinn,” Elaine bit out. “Taylor Williams is a guest of the ranch.”
“I can’t...” Taylor shook her head and stepped aside in an attempt to create space between her and the man at her back.
Quinn Monroe.
She’d thought this place was a fairy tale when she’d arrived—too pretty, too perfect, too good to be true. The thing was, all of the original fairy tales had been told as warnings. With this being Quinn’s territory, that made him either the hero or the ogre. If she had to put money on which was more likely, he wouldn’t end up king of the castle.
Fairy tale, indeed.
* * *
“GUEST OF...” QUINN was rooted to the spot. All he could think was that she was here and her damn hair was still up. “Since when?”
“Since I rented her the bunkhouse last week.” His mom stepped to the edge of the porch and towered over him, her gaze boring into his in that parental way that brooked no argument. “You’re well aware I’ve been working to revamp it, from décor to the new septic system. My intent was to make it available as a rental for people visiting the area, so once we were done, I listed it on a couple of online vacation-rental sites. Is there a problem?”
He had clenched his teeth so hard he wondered if they’d cold-welded. “You didn’t mention that was your end goal, Mom.”
“Wait. You’re a Monroe,” Taylor interjected, looking at Quinn. “And, Elaine, you’re a Bradley?”
“Quinn’s father and I split right after Quinn was born. I married Alan Bradley before Quinn was two, and Alan raised him,” she answered, not taking her eyes off Quinn. “When you treat me like an actual business partner, son—” and no one missed the emphasis there “—I’ll reciprocate. Seems there’s something going on you’re not sharing yourself.”
She snorted and flipped her dishtowel over her shoulder, shaking her head. “This isn’t an argument we need to expose Ms. Taylor to.” As she shifted her attention to Taylor, her smile returned. “I’m truly glad you chose the Rocking-B Ranch for your stay. The cabin, formerly our cowboys’ bunkhouse, is about two hundred yards north with the barn situated just beyond it. It’s a lovely two-bedroom place built as a smaller version of the main house. The porch there is much closer to the stream, so you can leave the windows open and listen to the running water if it suits. Above all, it affords you—” she glared at Quinn “—privacy. I’ll walk you over now, if you’re ready. Quinn, be a gentleman and grab her bags.”
Taylor didn’t look at him, didn’t even seem to look at his mom when she spoke. Her voice was shaky but resolute. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradley. Given my unanticipated acquaintance with Quinn, I’m going to have to find another place to stay.”
His mother glanced between him and the woman. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Quinn rolled his shoulders. “She’s my client.”
His mother’s eyes flared wide with alarm. “You’re climbing again.”
His answer was a single nod. No, he hadn’t told his mother about Taylor hiring him to see her through recertification. He hadn’t wanted to admit he’d been forced to lean on his former profession to shore up their financials. Cattle prices were lean this year, and the first three semi-truckloads of yearlings they’d sent to the sale had averaged a paltry seventy-nine cents per pound. If the remaining three truckloads did the same, the ranch would break even, covering operating costs and land taxes. There’d be nothing left over, nothing to live on.
Not to mention the bank note that had come due.
Quinn pulled his cowboy hat off and slapped it against his thigh. Sweat beaded on his nape at the memory of the notice that had come on official letterhead via certified mail. The ranch’s operating loan was more than ninety days past due. They had thirty days to bring that loan current or the foreclosure process would begin.
He and his mother had put their heads together, trying to come up with some feasible option to raise the money. Short of selling off the equipment, which they needed, or the animals, which were their only source of income at the moment, they’d come up with nothing together—but, apparently, separate plans they hadn’t shared with each other.
And Murphy’s Law said those individual plans would involve the same woman.
He met and held his mom’s unblinking stare. “Private discussion.” The last thing he wanted Taylor to know was that he was desperate for her fee. It would undermine his authority, both in prep work and on the climb.
“Obviously communication isn’t a strong point between me and Mom, but it doesn’t change the fact you need somewhere to stay while we do the pre-climb work and then get your climb hours in.” She started to object, and he interrupted in a rush. “Truly, Taylor. It’s fine.” Before she could argue, he tipped his hat and spun on his heel, strode to the Toyota and stopped at the driver’s-side rear door. “Is it unlocked?”
Taylor looked at him, her face blank. “Your mom has a shotgun. I think she’s more a deterrent to thieves than the factory alarm.”
Quinn grinned and pulled the door open, hauling out one moderate suitcase and a small overnight bag. He looked in the truck bed and found three decent-sized army duffels. “That all your gear?” He shook his head. “Never mind. We’ll inventory what you brought later. I’ll bring those over after a while.”
“No worries.” Taylor’s voice was softer when she moved closer to Elaine, but Quinn heard her just fine. “You realize my staying here will be awkward, at best, and impossible, at worst.”
Elaine shrugged. “Your options in town are the six-room motel run by the Moots. He’s eighty-seven. She’s eighty-six. The motel was renovated in 1958. No wi-fi, no cable and no kitchenette. You could check out the dude ranch to the south, but last I heard, they were booked through Valentine’s Day next year. Beyond that? There’s nothing else within sixty miles.”
Quinn watched as Taylor worried her bottom lip with her teeth, rocking back and forth on her feet, sneaking looks between the truck and the general direction of the cabin. She settled her focus on Elaine. “I need to speak to Quinn, if you don’t mind.”
The woman gave a short nod. “I’ll go in and wrap up the last of dinner. Holler when you’re ready and I’ll walk you to the cabin.”
Taylor’s smile was small and decidedly noncommittal.
Quinn hoisted her bags over one shoulder and retrieved one duffel, watching as Elaine disappeared into the house and Taylor skipped down the porch steps. He waited, watching her close the distance between them.
“Would you put those back in the truck, please? I need to talk to you.”
He didn’t comment but dropped the duffel at his feet and set her two personal bags atop the military-green canvas. He had a good idea which punch she’d throw first, but knowing wasn’t going to make it any less painful. So he decided to swing first. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you’re irritated.”
Her flat stare was answer enough.
“Care to elaborate?”
She pulled her ponytail down, worked her hands through the loose curls and pulled the entire mass up in a sloppy topknot. “How long have you been running the ranch?”
“Coming up on two years too soon.” Instinct shouted at him to proceed with caution. “Why?”
“Did you give up climbing for this?”
“Excuse me?”
“I want to know what your priorities are. If you’re a rancher, you’re a rancher. That’s fine. But I didn’t hire a rancher to see me through my recertification. I hired you under the express belief you were a dedicated mountaineer.”
Muscles along his jaw worked and knotted. “I’m perfectly capable of doing, and being, both.”
“I disagree.” She crossed her arms and looked at some point well beyond him. “When was the last time you summited, Quinn? Eight months? Twelve? More?” She waved him off when he started to answer. “What you’ve been doing with yourself over the last several months may not matter so much to you, but it matters very much to me. I decided to hire you, signed the contract you required, paid your well-above-the-going-rate fee up front and then came to you, and I did it all based on your skills and qualifications as I understood them.”
“And? I’m not tracking here, Taylor.” He leaned one hip against the rear door of her quad-cab pickup and mimicked her, crossing his arms over his chest. “If this is about the cabin rental, it’s not that big a deal. The arrangement caught me off guard, but it’ll be fine—easier, even, since I intended to have you come out here every day to train, anyway.”
Her lips thinned. “This isn’t about the cabin.”
“Then break it down for me. Why, exactly, can’t I ranch and climb? Is there some cosmic law that says a man is capable of one but never both?” he demanded, words razor sharp.
“I’m sure you can do both and be good at both. But to be the best at something, you have to focus, dedicate yourself and give your complete time and attention to that one thing.”
His chin rose slowly until narrowed green eyes met her hazel ones. Drawing a deep breath, then another, he worked to keep his tone level and his hands from shaking. “That may be the most screwed-up logic I’ve ever heard. It’s like saying a man can’t be a CEO and a father.”
The corners of her eyes tightened and she looked away. “Yeah? Well you hit that nail square on the head,” she muttered, carrying on before he could question her. “For a man to be the best CEO, he has to dedicate himself wholly to that pursuit. He can’t shut it off when he gets home and give the same time and focus to being a father.” She met his gaze, then. “The demands of the CEO are always there, always hovering and commanding his attention, even as his kid does the same. Sure, he can give a percentage of his attention to one and the remaining percentage to the other, but he can’t give his full time and attention to both, and never at the same time. And just because he’s a father doesn’t mean he’s not a CEO and vice versa. So he’s forever divided and only half as good as he might have been if he’d dedicated himself wholly to only one pursuit.”
“I disagree.” Anxiety, as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome, created distinctive half-moons of sweat under his arms. He instinctively picked up her suitcase when she reached for it and tried to check his panic. “I’ll carry this for you.”
“No need. I’m not staying.”
He froze. This wasn’t happening. Quinn needed this climb too bad for her to bail on him now. No, the climb wasn’t what he needed. It was the fee. If she walked, he’d have to refund at least half the money she’d paid him based on the contract she’d referenced—the contract he had drafted. That couldn’t happen, in large part because he’d spent two-thirds of it to settle the vet’s bill for vaccinating the weanlings. There was no money to return.
“If you’ll move your foot, I’ll grab my gear and get out of your way.”
He looked down, confused. “My foot.”
“You’re standing on my duffel handle.”
Something in him snapped, and he ground his boot—and the handle—into the dirt. “So that’s it. You track me down, hire me, show up and take one look around before deciding I’m not focused or dedicated or single-minded enough to be damn good at what I do.” He leaned into her space, closing the distance until they were nearly nose to nose. “Who the hell do you think you are, putting me through the front-end work of interviewing you, checking references and all that shit only to have you show up and immediately declare me ‘unfit’ just because you don’t like the backdrop I’m standing against? Is that your MO, Taylor, to pick and choose only what agrees with your definition of the world and deny everything, and everyone, else?” His eyes widened as hers narrowed. “Wow. Okay, fine. If you’re that willing to quit before your first day of ground work, it’s probably a good thing you’ve put on the brakes.” He stepped back and picked up her duffel, tossed it in the bed of her truck and started for the house.
“I’m not quitting,” she called after him with open defiance. “And it’s my right to put on the brakes.”
“Sure it is. It’s just...” He waved her off. “Never mind. Best of luck to you.”
“Just what?” she demanded.
“I’ve never once had someone with a quitter’s attitude complete my groundwork let alone make it up the mountain, and trust me, Taylor. This is a quitter’s attitude no matter how you dress it up.” Quinn didn’t slow or turn back when he delivered the kill shot. “You didn’t stand a chance of passing the re-cert. This saves us both the embarrassment—you from failing and me from failing you.”
4 (#u23f18607-63ac-5ef6-aa70-fe808a38ad3f)
HE...DID...NOT...
Taylor took off after Quinn, yanking on his arm hard enough he was forced to face her. “What?” he bit out.
“How dare you call me out for quitting,” she spat. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you about as well as you know me, darling. I’d be willing to amend my opinion, though.”
She waited.
One corner of his mouth kicked up. “I’d add that you’re a quitter riddled with hypocrisy, coming down here and dishing out judgment on a stranger and then getting your back up when he does a little of the same in return.”
Stepping into his space, she was forced to tilt her chin up and arch her neck in order to see him. “You don’t get to make those allegations, not about me and never to me. Ever.”
“Too late to warn me off, seeing as I just did.” He waved her away. “Get in your truck and head back to wherever you came from. I have no doubt you’ll be able to find someone willing to sign off on your paperwork for the right price. People like you seem to always have some kind of contingency plan.”
“Wait. ‘People like me.’ Sounds a little like a snap judgment there, Quinn.” The taunt hung there, suspended between them.
He didn’t comment.
“I have to have this recertification, but I fully intend to earn it. I don’t buy my way out of tight spots or life’s inconveniences, thanks.” He was right. Her back was up. She knew it. But this man pushed every button she had and accused her of all sorts of asinine stuff, to boot.
To say she’d buy her recertification...
First lesson dear old Dad taught me—achieve your goal, no matter what it takes or who you have to pay off.
Not a lesson she intended to employ.
The problem she faced was getting the recertification before her official post-accident medical leave expired. If she didn’t report for duty by that date, certification in hand, her job-protected leave would expire. The unit would have to open her job up to outside applicants and fill the position. She wouldn’t be guaranteed a spot.
Crap.
Taylor took a step away from Quinn and was struck nearly dumb at the realization that the man in front of her represented her best, and possibly only, shot at achieving her end goal. It changed things, and while she loved the idea of walking away under the power of moral superiority, that was so not going to happen. Truth? She had to decide whether she’d take her serving of crow with hot sauce or gravy, because one way or another, she was going to have to eat it.
Man, she hated crow.
Swallowing her pride and ignoring the bitter aftertaste, she squared her shoulders and met Quinn’s bold stare with one of her own, fabricated as it was. “You know what? Fine. I need this climb and I don’t have time to organize another instructor.”
“Flatter me much more and I’ll lay prostrate at your feet begging for a belly rub.” His tone and affectation were dryer than July dust, but he eked out a smile.
She cringed a little, realizing how bad her word choice had been. “Sorry.” Drawing a deep breath, she held it and then let it out in a rush. “Look, I’d really like to start over. From the point I drove into town and encountered Old Joe and his mountain of chili, this has been a cluster.” Shoving her hands in her pockets, she rocked back on her heels and forced herself to continue to meet Quinn’s unblinking eyes. On a whim, she held out her hand and waited while he considered her offering. With a casual flair she could only hope to master someday, he took her proffered hand.
She smiled, more with relief than anything. “Hi. My name’s Taylor Williams. I’m a Taurus, which explains my occasional superiority complex. The guy who read my palm for five bucks at the county fair assured me that I’m very fortunate my superiority complex is countered by both my humor and good taste. I consider picking out my toenail color a major commitment every time I get a pedicure. I rent my home, don’t own. Maybe someday. I love baseball, cars, travel and camping, though not necessarily in that order. I will never put vegetables on my pizza because, really? That’s just wrong. And I am absolutely willing to try anything once.”
“Except veggies on your pizza,” Quinn added.
She gave a mock shudder. “I did try it once. That’s how I know what an extreme level of wrong we’re talking about here.”
He grinned then, wide and genuine, and her heart skipped in her chest when he squeezed her hand, which he was still holding. “My name’s Quinn Monroe. I’m a Sagittarius and only know that because the newspaper horoscope says my birthday falls on that sign. I have no idea what that means about my personality, but I know myself well enough to know I’m honest, practical, hardworking, appreciate humor and I’m loyal to a fault.
“I love a good steak and will have a mild seizure if you put curry anywhere near my plate. Trucks over cars unless you’re talking a 1969 Camaro Rally Sport. Then? This grown man will be reduced to tears, grunts of approval and inappropriate sounds of pleasure—all with the engine’s first rumble. I prefer outdoors to in, believe towels should always be dried without dryer sheets and can’t plow a straight line even if the tractor is equipped with GPS and the new self-drive technology.
“My cosmic gripe is that Brussels sprouts aren’t sprouts but actually minicabbages. Some politician somewhere needs to make that part of his platform—Sprout Reform—because if the American farmer can’t be truthful about his crop, and grocers perpetuate the lie, then the world has gone to hell and we’re all just along for the ride.”
Taylor found herself smiling before Quinn had finished his short monologue-slash-introduction, but the sprout rant? That tipped her over into full-blown laughter. Squeezing his work-roughened hand, she let go. “Sprouts are clearly a hot-button issue for you.”
“You have no idea.”
She nodded. “Clearly.” She looked in the direction of the cabin, trying to figure out how to mend that last breach and put herself back on track. She wasn’t entirely confident Quinn was the right instructor to see her through this, not with her complicated history and the voice of her father delivering one of an infinite number of stern speeches on the fact she needed to choose her life’s calling and pursue it with singular focus. He’d raised her under the strict decree that an individual devoted his life to the pursuit of professional perfection in one thing and one thing only. To do otherwise was to divide one’s focus and settle for being no more than half as good. He’d taught her firsthand, too, devoting himself to his profession before his family and, specifically, before his children.
Unwelcome doubt crowded her newfound relief. What if Quinn wasn’t the “best” anymore? What if he’d lost the edge that made him a force on the mountain, notorious for taking calculated risks? What if he’d divided his focus and would only get her halfway to where she needed to be? What if—
The man occupying her thoughts interrupted her rapidly developing case of What-if-itis, tipping his head toward her bag. “Why don’t I take these to the cabin and see you settled.”
She grabbed her small suitcase and overnight bag, hoisted them over her shoulders and fought the surge of panic that struck without warning. To take that first physical step toward the cabin meant more than staying. It meant she would climb, putting her safety, her well-being, her life into the hands of the man before her.
He simplified things when he hefted the duffels containing her gear and grabbed her small ice chest. “I’ll leave your rope duffel in the truck. We won’t need them, even on the official climb. I prefer to use my stuff. Once you’re settled, we’ll work out our training plan. I want you to be comfortable with the approach I intend to use in recertifying you.”
She swallowed hard and nodded, grateful she could breathe after finding she was unable to force sound around the fear clogging her throat.
If I stay, I climb.
He started up a narrow path, calling back, “Cabin’s this way.”
Her feet moved of their own volition, ultimately following him down the path. Looked like she was staying.
They made their way to the cabin and it took Taylor two-point-six seconds to fall in love. More cottage than true cabin, the rustic place was, essentially, a smaller version of the main house, from building materials to the wraparound porch to the stone chimney on one side.
Impossible as it seemed, the inside of the little house was more appealing than the outside with its warm-colored wood walls and floors, worn leather furniture huddled around the large hearth and the bright efficiency kitchen. Simple décor centered around the ranch’s heritage, from pictures to tools to an old copper double boiler that had been artfully filled with dried wildflowers and displayed on the steps leading upstairs.
Taylor gestured to the loft. “Second bedroom?”
“And a three-quarter en suite bath.”
“Your mom’s seriously not charging enough per night,” Taylor said, delighted. “But I’m selfishly glad.” Moving into the bedroom on the main level, she dropped her bags on the floor beside the closet.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that Mom’s got you coming up for breakfast and dinner. Breakfast is on the table at 6:30 every morning and dinner’s around 6:30 every evening. Bring an appetite—she’s a helluva good cook. Lunch is usually whatever we have lying around—leftovers or sandwich makings or some combination of the two.” Quinn pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll, uh, leave you to get settled.”
He was gone before Taylor could protest.
She was alone.
Wandering through the space that would be hers for the next couple of weeks, she looked in cabinets, checked out the loft and searched for extra supplies like paper goods, laundry detergent, dishwashing soap. It was all there. After opening most of the windows on the main floor, she grabbed a soda from the stocked fridge and headed to the living room. She lay down on the leather sofa and stretched out, tilting her head over the rolled arm. Overhead, ceiling fans whirred and rocked as they lazily stirred the cool afternoon breeze. She placed the as-yet unopened can against her neck. That extra burst of cold felt good.
Exhaustion stole over her and made her eyes feel gritty, her eyelids heavy and her limbs leaden. Setting the unopened can on the floor beside her, she rolled over with her back to the room and snuggled into the sofa. Her breathing slowed. The urge to close her eyes was too strong. She’d close them for a few minutes. Then she’d get busy, unpacking and showering before dinner. All she needed was...a...minute...

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