“We’ve got plenty of time,” he said. “Let’s not spoil dinner with a bunch of boring talk about me.”
“You’re terribly modest for someone who’s supposedly one of the best in his field.”
“Trying to flatter me into submission?” He hit her with another of his engaging smiles. “I promise I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” he said. “But let’s not spoil tonight. Tell me more about you.”
His continued stalling intrigued her. Did he have some secret he was hiding? If so, what was the best way to get him to reveal it? “I filled you in on the basics last night,” she said.
“Then let’s go beyond the basics. I already know you don’t like climbing mountains—what do you like to do? Any hobbies? Do you collect ceramic frogs or take belly-dancing lessons or read Sanskrit in your spare time?”
She laughed. “No, no, and no.”
“So what do you like to do? You must have a life outside of your writing.”
“I collect netsuke—little Japanese carvings that were designed to attach items to the sash of a man’s kimono.”
“I know what they are,” he said. “I should have guessed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your father had a fantastic collection.”
“He did not! You’re making that up.”
“I am not. They were donated to the Denver Museum of Nature and Science upon his death. You didn’t know?”
She shook her head, confused. Her father had given her her very first netsuke, red coral carved into the shape of a dragon, when she was nine years old. He’d gotten it while in Japan for a winter climb of Mount Fuji. “It must have been something he picked up after my mother and I moved away.”
She couldn’t believe she hadn’t known this about him. She’d been fourteen when he died, and he’d left everything to her mother. She must have disposed of the netsuke collection—but why hadn’t she mentioned it to Sierra?
“How do you know so much about my dad?” she asked Paul. How did he know more than
she
did?
“I already told you that documentary inspired me to want to climb. Dallas isn’t exactly a climbing mecca, so I had to learn about the sport from books and movies, like your dad’s. I decided that in order to succeed, I should model myself after the top climbers—your dad was one of the best, so I read everything I could about him, to try to learn all his secrets.”
“What secrets did you uncover?” She kept her voice light, but she steeled herself for some shocking revelation—another family, a drug habit. After the news about the netsuke, she realized how much of a stranger her father had been.
“Climbing secrets,” Paul said. “I unearthed an old interview where he talked about a new route up K2. He never got a chance to climb it, but I did last year.”
“You climbed all his routes, didn’t you?” she said, remembering her research.
“I still have a few to go.”
“That’s what you were doing on McKinley—retracing his last climb.”
“Right.” The waiter brought the bill and Paul took out his wallet. “I know that’s what you came here to talk about, and I promise I’ll tell you everything,” he said. “But can it wait until tomorrow? I’m having a good time tonight, and it’s not a pleasant subject.”
“All right.” For a man who’d been missing, either literally or figuratively, for much of her life, her father still elicited such strong emotions in her. She would never look at her netsuke collection the same way now, wondering if he’d owned a similar piece, or if he’d thought of her when he began his own collection.
“Are you ready to go?” Paul asked.
“Yes.” She’d had too much of her father, and maybe too much of Paul, for one day.
They walked in silence to the Jeep, past bars whose open doors spilled music and restaurant patios lit with strings of paper lanterns. Sierra might have been walking through the East Village. She felt a sharp pang of homesickness.
But there was nothing of New York in the drive back to Ouray, the highway a black ribbon winding past blacker countryside, without even the light from a home appearing for miles. The only illumination was from the millions of stars overhead, like glitter scattered with a heavy hand. Sierra shivered and drew her coat more tightly around her. Everything about this place, from the towering mountains to the vast star-strewn sky, seemed designed to emphasize man’s insignificance. Some people claimed the big city was impersonal, but she couldn’t agree less. This emptiness was far more lonely and demoralizing to her.
Paul parked in front of the hotel and came around to help her out, though that was unnecessary. He took her hand and held it. “Thanks for humoring me and coming with me today,” he said. “I had a good time.”
“I had a better time than I expected,” she said. “And you’re right—seeing you in your element, as it were, will add to my article. What time should we meet tomorrow?”
“Look me up whenever you’re ready. No rush.” He leaned close. She caught the scent of warm male skin—soap, sweat and spice—then felt the caress of his lips, soft on her cheek. “Good night,” he murmured, then released her.
“Good night,” she mumbled, and hurried blindly into the hotel, her cheek still burning from the kiss.
It had been such an unexpected gesture, so gentle and courtly, even. Her whole body was warmed by it.
Paul definitely had a knack for throwing her off balance. Was it a skill he’d cultivated, or was it something in her that was responding to him in such unexpected ways?
Much as he aggravated her at times, Paul was impossible not to like. She might as well enjoy his company, as long as they had to spend so much time together.
There was nothing wrong with liking him. The trick was not to forget herself and like him too much. It had been a long time since she’d fallen for a man, but she remembered the feeling—the rush of fascination, the sense of danger, the exhilaration even of arguing with him. Paul kindled all these things in her. It was a heady combination, but one she wasn’t interested in pursuing. Not now. Not with Paul.
The blare of “New York, New York” roused her from her reverie. She grabbed her cell phone and shoved herself into a sitting position. “Hello?”
“Good morning.” Mark’s voice was entirely too cheerful for seven in the morning. Though of course it was nine in New York. “How are the mountains?”
“The mountains are fine,” she said.
“And how’s our mountain man? Are you getting a lot of great material for your article?”
“Lots of great stuff.” She suffered only a twinge of guilt as she thought of the single page of notes she’d collected. Though she and Paul had spent quite a bit of time together, he’d successfully avoided answering most of her questions. “It’s going to be a great story,” she said to Mark, with forced cheerfulness.
“You okay?” he asked. “You sound funny.”
“It’s only seven here. I’m still in bed.”
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not, um, interrupting anything, am I?”
“Mark!”
“Sorry. I mean, it’s none of my business.”
“I came here to work, not to pick up men.”
“Forget I mentioned it. I know you’re not like that. I just…listen, you’re okay with this, right?”
“Okay with what?” She rubbed her right temple, fighting the beginning of a headache.
“I mean, dredging up the past isn’t too painful for you, is it?”
“No, of course not.” Before leaving New York, she would have said her father was a part of her past she’d dealt with long ago. But being here with Paul, unearthing memories of her dad—both pleasant and not so pleasant—made her realize the pain she’d locked away was still there.
“It isn’t the easiest subject in the world for me,” she admitted. “But I think you were right. I needed to come here and hear Paul’s story, for closure.” When she left Ouray, maybe she’d have a more complete picture of Victor Winston, and a glimmer of understanding about what drove him.
“I started feeling guilty as soon as you left,” Mark said. “I really do appreciate this.”
“I’ll make sure you show that appreciation when I get home. Speaking of which, what was the big idea of exiling me to this place for a whole week? Do you really think it’s going to take me that long to do an interview?”
“I thought you could use the time off.”
“Seven days?”
“You’re entitled to four days bereavement leave for the death of a parent. I thought you might like to use it.”
“Mark, that was way out of line.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I told you I felt guilty about all this. But I hear Ouray’s beautiful—take some time off and enjoy yourself.”
“I’m coming home as soon as I’ve gotten all the information I need.”
“Be that way, then. I really do appreciate you taking the assignment. The publisher saw me in the elevator yesterday and he congratulated me on landing this story. Before last week, I don’t think he even knew my name.”
“That’s great. I’m happy to hear it. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m counting on you to turn in a killer story. It’s going to be the lead for the November issue, did I tell you?”
“No, you didn’t.” A shiver of excitement swept through her at the idea of a cover story—followed closely by apprehension. She’d have to work harder to pin down Paul and get him to tell her his whole story—not just what had happened on McKinley, but all that had led to that moment.
“If you need anything from this end, research or anything, let me know,” Mark said.
“I will.” They said goodbye and she slid her phone shut and stared through the gap in the curtains at the snowcapped mountains. Most people probably saw tremendous beauty or awe-inspiring majesty when they looked at those peaks. Sierra remembered her mother helping pack her father’s climbing gear as he prepared to leave on yet another expedition. Tears streamed down her mother’s face as she worked, and her father pretended not to notice.
Once, when eight-year-old Sierra had begged her father to stay home, he’d patted her shoulder and smiled. “This is what Daddy has to do,” he’d said, as if he was a coal miner who was forced to risk death to feed his family.
But what was it about mountain climbing that he “had” to do? As she’d grown older, Sierra had decided her father used climbing to avoid his other responsibilities, including taking care of his family. After all, who could be expected to remember to change the oil in the car or renew the insurance policy when there was an expedition to Everest to plan?
Was Paul as irresponsible? He’d mentioned being so involved in his work he’d stood up Kelly on dates. Maybe he wasn’t really a “new breed” of climber at all—just the same fanatic in different clothes.
The idea focused her determination. No more wasting time with Paul Teasdale. She was going to pin him down and make him answer her questions. Then she’d write a story the readers of
Great Outdoors
would never forget.
She was putting the finishing touches on her makeup when someone knocked on her door. Had Paul come looking for her?
Her visitor wasn’t Paul, but Kelly, red high heels in hand. “Thanks for the loan,” Kelly said, handing over the shoes. “They were a big hit.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Sierra glanced from the glamorous shoes in her hand to the hiking boots on her feet. “I guess I should buy some boots of my own.”
“Just borrow those for the week.” Kelly gave the boots a dismissive wave. “I have others.” She sat on the edge of the unmade bed. “How’d it go with Paul yesterday?” she asked.
The chance to discuss the situation with another woman, especially one who knew Paul, was too good to pass up. Sierra set the shoes on the dresser and pulled up a chair across from Kelly. “Yesterday was interesting,” she said. “I’m supposed to be interviewing Paul, but he doesn’t talk much about himself.”
“Yeah. Unusual in a guy, right?”
“Right. So, how long have you known him?”
“Since he moved to town five years ago.”
“And you know him pretty well?”
“I can tell you he has a pretty nasty scar on his chest.”
“Oh?” Sierra grabbed her notebook and jotted this down. “Was he injured in a climbing accident?”
“I don’t know. Like you said, he doesn’t talk much about himself.”
“What about his family? Do they get along? Does he have brothers and sisters?”
Kelly frowned. “Are you asking me to dish dirt on my friend?”
“No!” Sierra set aside the notebook. “I’m simply trying to get some background on him.”
Kelly relaxed a little. “I’m sorry. I really can’t help you, though—I don’t know anything.”
“And I’m sorry if you thought I was out of line. I promise, I’m not writing a negative piece. It’s just helpful to have input from other people who know the subject of a profile like this, especially if the subject is as modest as Paul.” And as closemouthed.
“If I think of anything interesting, I’ll let you know,” Kelly said.
“Thanks for the tip about the private swimming hole story.”
“You asked him?”
“I did!” Sierra laughed. “Though he made me promise not to use the story in my article. Did you see him when he hiked back into town?”
“Oh, yeah. People lined the streets to get a look. We could have sold tickets.”
“He seemed to be a pretty good sport about it.”
“That’s Paul. He never gets too worked up about anything.”
Sierra thought of his patience while she shopped yesterday, and his calm as he navigated the steep, winding road. Was he really so Zen—or merely emotionally detached? What would it take to set him off? “Have you ever seen him lose his temper?” she asked.
Kelly shook her head. “Never. He’s just not that type of guy.”
Levelheadedness was certainly a good quality, but weren’t there times when being more emotional was appropriate? How could a man who professed to be so passionate about mountains be so even-keeled about the rest of his life?
Sierra was aware of Kelly studying her. Did she think Sierra was a little
too
interested in Paul? Time to change the subject. “How was your date?” she asked.
“Oh, it was great.” Kelly crossed, then uncrossed her legs, her expression somber. “Were you serious the other day, when you said you could put me in touch with some people in New York who could help me?”
“Absolutely.”
“My boyfriend is talking about paying my way, so I might be moving out there sooner than I thought.”
“Generous boyfriend,” Sierra said.
“Yeah, he really is.”
“Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll give you a list of names and numbers,” she said.
“Thanks.” Kelly stood. “And thanks again for the shoes.” She grinned. “You should have seen my boyfriend’s eyes pop when I walked in wearing them.”
“Thank you for the boots. I’d probably be crippled now without them.” Sierra followed Kelly to the door. “Have you seen Paul this morning?” she asked.
“No. He’s probably still repairing his roof. If he’s not at his house, you might try the hot springs. Or he could be hiking one of the trails around town.”
“All right. Where is the hot springs?”
“Just as you come into town, on the right side of the highway. But this early in the day, he probably won’t be in the pool. He goes there to climb.”
“To climb? At the hot-springs pool?”
“There’s a rock wall that’s popular with local climbers. They can climb in the morning, and hit the pool in the afternoon.”
Of course. Some people drank coffee to get going in the morning, Paul climbed rock cliffs. He was one of that breed of men who seem to think something isn’t worth doing unless it’s difficult, painful and carries the risk of serious injury or death.
Her mother had once said that if she could have figured out a way to make it more dangerous, she wouldn’t have had to nag her father about mowing the lawn. Apparently Paul had found a way to make even a relaxing trip to hot springs risky.