“Do you ever think about doing something different with your life?” she asked.
“Not really. I like what I do, and I’m good at it.”
“Yes, but do you plan to spend the rest of your life climbing mountains?”
“Sir Edmund Hillary was still climbing in his forties.”
Another ten or fifteen years. “That’s a long time to tempt death,” she said.
“When you put it that way, yeah,” he said. “But I don’t think of it like that. At least not most of the time. I’m living my life in a way that never lets me take it for granted.”
“There are some things I enjoy taking for granted,” she said. “When I get up in the morning I take it for granted the lights will come on, that the coffee shop on the corner will have fresh coffee brewing, my desk will be the way I left it the night before and that I won’t die before nightfall. It’s a good way to live.” She wanted a love she could take for granted, too—a man she could count on to be there for her every day.
“It would be nice to live that way,” he said. “But I’m not sure that I could.”
“Because it’s not exciting enough?”
“I think it’s more because I had to accept at a young age that I
could
die at any time,” he said. “It’s the kind of thing that stays with you.”
His cancer. It was so easy to forget about that with him standing beside her so healthy. Was that really what drove him? “Paul, you’re not going to die,” she protested.
“Not anytime soon, I hope.”
He stopped at the base of a rock spire. The view past him distracted Sierra from their debate. Struggling to catch her breath, she stared up at the steep slope filled with loose rock and boulders. “What do we do now?” she asked.
“There’s a path to the left around the spire.” He pointed to the narrow track. “It’s a little exposed in places, but you’ll do fine.”
“Exposed? What do you mean by exposed?”
“There’s a steep drop-off on one side, and you’ll be walking pretty close to the edge. But don’t worry.”
She swallowed. “Did I mention I’m afraid of heights?”
“Really?”
“Not exactly, but then, I’ve never been up so high, out in the open before, either.”
“Hold my hand. You’ll be fine.”
She started to refuse, then glanced at the narrow path again. No sense taking foolish chances. She shifted the strap of one trekking pole to her wrist, then slipped her hand into Paul’s and allowed him to lead her around the spire and along the narrow path.
The trail was as wide as any city sidewalk, but bordered on one side by a wall of sheer granite and the other by a thousand-foot drop, it seemed as precarious as a balance beam. Sierra clung tightly to Paul as they inched across. She couldn’t believe people actually did this for fun. Men like Paul and her father went out of their way to dance along the edge of disaster this way. Did they have some secret death wish, or was there something different in their makeup, some bit of DNA that made the danger not seem as real for them?
Pondering such questions held sheer terror at bay, though she didn’t relax until they reached a wider expanse of rock that allowed them to move farther away from the edge.
“Take a look at the view,” Paul commanded.
She forced her eyes from her feet and caught her breath. “You can see for miles,” she said, gazing out at a patchwork of green meadows, wildflower-strewn tundra and snowfields below, all bound together by the silvery ribbon of the creek. It was like the view from an airplane, or rather, the view one might see standing on the wing of a plane, unobstructed by walls.
“It’s even better at the top,” he said.
By the time they reached the last stretch leading to the summit, she was able to let go of his hand and climb on her own. He led at a slow pace, turning often to make sure she was all right. His solicitude touched her. He was careful, but not condescending, and he seemed genuinely delighted to share this experience with her. She tried not to think about her pounding heart and aching chest as she struggled for each breath, or the leaden tiredness in her legs as she climbed the last few hundred yards. She was doing this, and she was proud that she hadn’t given up. She’d made it to the top.
When she joined Paul at the summit, he stood at the very edge of the mountain. He pulled her up beside him, then put his arm around her, holding her securely as they gazed at what might have been the whole world spread at their feet.
“You did great.” He looked at her, not the view, and she was conscious of her racing heart. It beat hard in her chest from a combination of exertion, thin air and maybe, also, from the presence of the man beside her.
“Paul, I…I never would have done this without you,” she said. She’d never have seen the world from this vantage point, but she also wouldn’t have made the effort to understand her father and resolve her feelings for him. Those feelings were still unsettled, but she’d made some progress. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for letting me show you this.” He continued to look into her eyes. Perhaps inspired by the risk she’d taken climbing this mountain, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his, her arms tight around him.
He tilted his head and deepened the kiss, sending a tremor through her. This was no tentative first kiss, but the embrace of two people who desperately wanted each other. Sierra felt a surge of triumph, knowing Paul returned her feelings. She felt giddy and reckless in his arms, emotions wholly unfamiliar yet exhilarating.
They were both breathless when he finally broke the kiss. They stared into each other’s eyes, the view forgotten. “I’ve never gotten to do that at a summit before,” Paul said. He brushed his thumb across her lips, smiling. “Nice.”
Someone brushed past, mumbling “Excuse me,” and Sierra looked away, suddenly self-conscious. At least half a dozen people had appeared on the summit from another path—all witnesses to that impulsive kiss. “What should we do now?” she asked.
“I can think of a few follow-ups to that kiss, but most of them are illegal in public. So let’s sign the summit register,” he said. Still holding tightly to her hand, he led her to a metal canister anchored to the mountain.
“Someone actually keeps records?” she asked.
“Sure.” He unscrewed the end of the metal tube and took out a sheaf of paper and a pencil. “Not everyone bothers to sign, but most do, and now everyone will know that you were here.”
She took the paper, and feeling only a little self-conscious, she wrote her name, the date and the time on the line provided. He signed just below her. “I should take your picture so you can show everyone back home,” he said.
She handed over her camera and posed with a view of neighboring peaks stretched out behind and a little below her. “We should find someone to take one of us together,” she said.
“Good idea.” He turned and spotted a young couple crouched by the registry canister. “Will you take our picture?” he asked.
The couple obliged and Sierra and Paul stood arm in arm at the summit, smiling for the camera as the wind whipped Sierra’s hair and tugged at their clothes.
“The wind is really picking up,” Sierra said as she stowed the camera once more. “Those clouds look a lot closer, too,” she said.
The dark mass, which only a few minutes before had seemed miles away, was racing toward them, smothering the sun and sending the temperature plummeting. She shivered and drew her fleece jacket more tightly around her.
She was about to ask him what he thought the temperature was when a distant lightning strike, followed by a boom of thunder, galvanized him into action. He counted the seconds between the lightning and the thunder out loud. “One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi…five-Mississippi.” The storm was only five miles away, and moving fast. “We have to get down,” he said.
Another jagged bolt of lightning tore across the sky, and a woman nearby screamed. Sierra grabbed Paul’s arm. “Get me out of here,” she said. Her father might have died on a mountainside, but she had no intention of doing so.
They clambered down the upper stretch of barren granite, following the handful of other people who had been on the summit when the storm first made its presence known. No one spoke, and soon the others were ahead. Sierra knew she was holding Paul back, but she couldn’t make herself move any faster.
When they reached the narrow exposed trail, he took her hand to lead her across and she made no protest, gripping him so tightly her fingers ached.
They’d reached the rock spire when it began to hail, sharp ice pellets striking them like gravel thrown by some giant hand. The ground around them quickly grew slippery with ice. Her fingers dug into Paul’s bicep as another loud clap of thunder sounded. “We should stop and find shelter,” she said, looking around. “There might be a cave.”
“No. We have to get off the mountain. All this bare rock is like a giant lightning rod.”
As if to prove his point, another flash of lightning ripped through the air. Sierra tried to remember everything she’d read about death by lightning—something about open spaces like golf courses and, presumably, mountaintops, being the most dangerous locations in a thunderstorm.
They half ran, half slid down the loose talus slope. Sierra fell and sharp rock cut into her palms, but she scarcely noticed. She was too terrified to feel the aches and pangs that had plagued her earlier. If only she could move faster, or sprout wings and fly off this mountain. She’d never go near another one.
Next they had to cross a wide expanse of treeless tundra. It began to sleet, icy rain stinging like needles. Paul plowed forward, head down. Was he focusing on the goal of reaching the Jeep, or, as he’d said he did during difficult climbs, only on the next step?
She stumbled after him, thinking not of the next step but of her father. Had he ever been afraid—of lightning or avalanches or falling? Surely he’d been frightened at the end, when he’d known he was dying. Had he thought of her? Did he know she’d cried herself to sleep every night for a week, praying he would survive and come back to her?
These were the questions she’d ultimately hoped to answer with this trip to Ouray. This was the real reason she’d accepted Mark’s assignment to interview Paul. But Paul himself had given her more questions than answers.
“It’ll help some,” he said.
She shrugged off her pack, head down, shoulders drooping. He cursed himself once more for getting her into such a predicament. “I should have paid closer attention to the weather,” he said as he fastened his jacket. “I listened to reports this morning, but I ought to know by now how fast conditions can change at altitude.”
Her rain suit crackled as she unfolded it from its pouch. The bright red vinyl stood out in the gray world, the way Sierra herself did. She didn’t belong in his world, so why was he so determined to make her understand it?
She struggled to pull on the oversize raincoat and hood and he hurried to help her. “I think it goes this way.” He twisted and turned the vinyl until it slid into place. Then he steadied her while she climbed into the pants. “There. That’ll be a little better,” he said.
She gave him such a classic look of skepticism he wanted to laugh, but he smothered the impulse. He wanted to kiss her again, but once he started, he wouldn’t want to stop, and now was not the time or place. He helped her on with her pack. “You’re doing great,” he said. “The worst part is over. We’re below tree line, so we should be out of danger.”
She stared through the rain, up the path they’d just descended. He could no longer make out the summit of the mountain, shielded as it was by a silvery haze. “Was it as dangerous as it felt up there?” she asked.
“It could have been,” he said. “Every year climbers are killed by lightning.”
She shivered. “This is not something I have to deal with in Manhattan.”
“Yeah, well, it was a great day until the weather turned on us,” he said. He would never forget those few moments on the summit, their arms wrapped around each other, lips pressed together. He’d never shared a mountaintop with a woman before—having Sierra there made the moment so much more special.
But now she was wet, cold and exhausted. He’d be lucky if she ever spoke to him again after this. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, pushing past him and starting down the trail.
They reached the Jeep after two more hours of slogging through the steady downpour. They piled their wet gear in the backseat and Paul switched the heater to high, then turned to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was a beautiful day until the storm rolled in.”
“You can’t control the weather,” she said, not looking at him.
“You’ll feel better after a hot meal,” he said. “Lake City has some good restaurants.”
“I don’t want to go to a restaurant. I want to go home.”
By home did she mean Manhattan, or the Western Hotel? “We’ll go back to my place,” he said. “I have some dry things you can borrow.”
“Do you have anything to drink?”
“Absolutely. We deserve a drink after the afternoon we’ve had.” He began backing out of the parking area. “Dry clothes, hot food and a little alcohol will have you feeling better in no time.” With a little luck, he could persuade her not to hate him for the rest of her life.