Her Mountain Man

by Cindi Myers

  Dear Paul,

  Thanks for writing to me. I was sorry to hear you’ve been ill, and I’m glad to know that watching me on television has helped in some small way in your recovery. I hope you’ll continue to fight to get well. Once you’ve beaten your illness, conquering a mountain should be no problem for you. When I’m faced with difficulties during a climb, I find it helpful to keep my mind focused on my goal. The hardships and discomfort are merely things to be got through on my way to the top. They aren’t what’s really important.

  I hope you are much better soon. Write and let me know.

  Sincerely,

  Victor Winston

  Sierra looked up from the letter. “You were ill? What kind of illness?”

  “I had cancer. Leukemia. It’s why we moved from Dallas to Houston—to be near the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center.”

  Her face had gone pale. “So when you say you watched that documentary over and over…”

  He nodded. “I had to spend a lot of time in bed. There wasn’t much else to do. I was a bald, skinny, weak kid, but when I watched your father I could pretend I was strong enough to conquer mountains.” For the duration of the show, at least, he could forget how afraid he was of dying.

  “And obviously, you did get well.”

  “I had a bone-marrow transplant when I was fourteen. No more cancer.” It sounded easy now, but he’d almost died twice during the process.

  “That’s amazing.” She was writing now, her pen scribbling furiously across the page. “Did you write to my dad and let him know you were well?” she asked.

  “I did. But he didn’t answer.” He’d told himself the letter must have gotten lost in the mail, but it was more likely that the famous Victor Winston didn’t remember the boy who had sent him a letter two years before.

  “Do you have any lingering health concerns now? Anything that interferes with your ability to climb?”

  “None,” he said. “I was lucky.” Of course, any cancer patient, even one who was considered cured, lived with the possibility of a recurrence of the disease. Some studies had shown the chemotherapy and radiation used to treat childhood cancers could result in the development of new cancers as an adult.

  It was one more thing that drove him. The cancer was a time bomb inside him, waiting to go off. Risking his life on mountains made it easier to deal with it, as if every time he faced down the possibility of his own demise, he got stronger, less afraid of the end. But he wouldn’t share that with Sierra and her readers.

  “So beating cancer led to your career as a mountaineer,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She laid down her pencil and studied him. “I still don’t understand,” she said. “You cheated death once—why risk it over and over again?”

  He shifted in his chair, trapped by her steady gaze. “Every time I stand on top of a mountain, it reminds me again how lucky I am to be alive,” he said.

  Sierra fumbled with her pen. The thought of Paul as a deathly ill boy who could only dream of climbing mountains brought a tightness to her chest. The image of Paul she’d come here with—brash, invincible, even arrogant—had been shattered by the reality of a much more complex man, alternately bold and vulnerable, aggravating and endearing. Now she had this picture of a sick boy to add to the collage.

  “Why haven’t I heard about this before?” she asked. “None of the news stories about you have mentioned it.”

  “I never told anyone before,” he said. “It’s not something I like to talk about.”

  “But you told me.”

  “I hadn’t planned to, but…you’re Victor’s daughter. I never had the opportunity to tell him how much he helped me get through that bad time, but I can at least tell you.”

  She focused on her notebook, struggling to process conflicting emotions. She was touched that Paul would confide in her, but disappointed he’d done so only because of her father.

  As if to prove this further, Paul said. “My one regret is that I never got to meet Victor. I saw his public persona, in the documentaries and magazine articles, but what was he like at home, with you and your mother?”

  Like Paul and his illness, Sierra’s father was a subject she didn’t like to talk about. But he’d shared that part of himself with her, so to keep the conversation going, she would return the favor.

  “When I was very small, he wasn’t famous yet, and he didn’t climb full-time. He did seasonal construction work and climbed during vacations and slow times. I don’t think he was as driven then.”

  “So he was pretty much a regular guy,” Paul said.

  “He really didn’t start to be known as an alpinist until I was seven or eight. After that, he was gone a lot more. He and my mother separated when I was ten and after that I didn’t see him as much.”

  “What do you remember most about those early days?” Paul asked.

  “I remember that we were happy. He smiled a lot then. He had one of those smiles that really transformed his face, so that he was almost handsome.”

  “Was he not as happy later?”

  She shook her head. “The more mountains he conquered, the more serious and intense he became.” His focus shrank to include less and less of the world around him, so that at the end, he’d shut out even those closest to him.

  The letter her father had written to Paul had been an unexpected glimpse of a man she’d almost forgotten had existed. She tried to imagine him composing his reply to the sick little boy, but couldn’t.

  Victor had grown more callous in his later years, a judgment confirmed by the fact that he’d never bothered to answer Paul’s second letter.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Paul said. “Climbing is in many ways such a solitary pursuit. Even when you’re part of a large team, conditions make conversation difficult, and each person is responsible for himself. Your focus is all on yourself, on mustering that extra bit of strength and will to keep going. Coming back into a world where you interact with other people can be jarring.”

  “You don’t seem to have any difficulty,” she said. From what she’d seen, Paul had many friends and was well-liked.

  “I like people,” he said. “But I can be satisfied with my own company, too.”

  Satisfied with his own company. “I guess you spent a lot of time alone when you had your bone-marrow transplant,” she said.

  He nodded. “The treatment requires several days of isolation, and very limited contact with others for several weeks after that. I guess you could say that it was training for the solo climbs that have become my specialty.”

  She copied the quote into her notebook. “This is going to be a great story,” she said.

  “Just don’t forget that my illness isn’t the whole story,” he said.

  “Right. So what’s the rest of the story?”

  “I’m still writing it,” he said.

  “What are your plans? What do you hope your legacy will be?”

  He shifted in his chair and looked uncomfortable. “I’m a little young to be thinking about a legacy,” he said. “One other thing my illness taught me was to not worry about the future. My focus is on right now, today.” He glanced out the window. “It’s a beautiful day out. Want to drive into Montrose with me to pick up a few things I need?”

  “I don’t think so.” The revelations of the afternoon had left her feeling too emotionally vulnerable to spend any more time with him than necessary. “I guess you’re telling me the interview is over?”

  “I told you before, I’m a lot more comfortable doing than talking, especially about myself,” he said. “Besides, aren’t you sick of hearing about me?”

  On the contrary, she found him fascinating, but she kept this information to herself. She closed her notebook and clicked her pen shut. “I suppose I have enough material for one afternoon.” She stowed the tape recorder in her purse. “It will take me a few hours to transcribe the tape and organize my notes, then I’ll have a better idea of what I still need.”

&n
bsp; “That doesn’t sound like a fun way to spend the evening. Why don’t you come out with me, instead?”

  His tone was casual, yet his gaze locked on her. “Are you asking me on a date?” she asked.

  “Why not? There’s a band tonight at The Outlaw.”

  She could think of half a dozen reasons she shouldn’t go out with him, starting with the fact that she was supposed to be interviewing him for an article and ending with her leaving town in four days. She’d come to Ouray to work, not get personally involved with her interview subject. But considering how much time she’d spent not interviewing Paul and the personal things they’d each confided, they were clearly more than coolly distant reporter and subject.

  Bottom line—she liked Paul, but she didn’t know what she should do about those feelings. Since she was leaving soon, what was the point in taking things any further?

  On the other hand, was she passing up the opportunity for something great?

  “I really do have to work,” she said, half-hoping he’d try harder to talk her into coming with him.

  “Suit yourself.” He stood. “I’ll drive you back to the hotel.”

  “No, thanks. I can walk.”

  “Are you sure? You looked a little winded this morning.”

  “I’d rather walk.” She needed the exercise to clear her head and organize her thoughts.

  “All right, then.” He walked her to the door. “Should I kiss you goodbye?”

  His tone was teasing and his eyes flashed with amusement, so she tried to adopt the same attitude with her reply, though her heart beat erratically at the thought of his lips on hers again. “That won’t be necessary,” she said.

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He held open the door. “That’s something else I learned from my time in the hospital.”

  “Kissing or trying?”

  “Never pass up the opportunity for pleasure,” he said.

  It was almost enough to make her turn around and kiss him. Almost, but her sense of dignity held her back. What if this was all just a joke to him? She’d never felt she was good at reading men, especially a man like Paul, whose cavalier attitude concealed such depths. She hadn’t inherited her father’s love of risk, especially when it came to exposing her emotions, so she didn’t turn back and kiss Paul. Instead she started down the hill toward her hotel, aware of him watching her all the way to Main Street.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BACK AT THE HOTEL, Sierra found Kelly in the bar. “I’ve got that list of contacts in New York for you,” Sierra said. She’d made the list last night. “Come up when you get the chance.”

  “I can come up now.” Kelly looked around the almost empty bar. “The lunch rush is over and I’ve got time to kill before I have to get ready for the happy-hour crowd.”

  She followed Sierra up the stairs and down the hall to her room. “Did you find Paul?” Kelly asked as she waited for Sierra to unlock her door.

  “Yes. He was at the hot springs. Thanks for pointing me there.”

  “Did you have any luck getting him to answer your questions?”

  “Yes. We had a good interview.” She was still reeling from the revelation about Paul’s cancer. He was obviously so strong and healthy now, it was hard to imagine him as a sick little boy.

  She retrieved some papers from the desk and handed them to Kelly. “The first sheet is a rental agent and a couple of private individuals who can help you find a place to live. The top name on the second page is a talent agent I know, and the other two names are people who might help you get a job.”

  Kelly scanned the pages. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

  “They’re only names. And they may not be all that much help.”

  “I’m sure they will be. Keith will be so excited.”

  “Keith?”

  “My boyfriend. I’d love for you to meet him.”

  “I’d like that.” She was curious to meet the man who was willing to finance Kelly’s move away from him. “Do you think he’ll come to New York with you?” she asked.

  “I don’t see how he can,” Kelly said. “I mean, he has a business here.”

  “That must be kind of hard, huh—leaving him?”

  Kelly shrugged. “It is, but hey, I can’t let that stand in the way of my dream, right? I mean, Keith’s giving me this chance and I’d be a fool not to take it.”

  “Right.” If she’d been in Kelly’s shoes, she’d surely have done the same, but did she have to be so, well, cold?

  “Hey, we’re going over to The Outlaw tonight to hear The Railbenders,” Kelly said. “They’re a really kickin’ band from Denver. You should stop by. Then you could meet Keith.”

  “Thanks, but I really have a lot of work to do.”

  “Paul will probably be there.”

  Paul, around whom she felt entirely too vulnerable. Not only had he unearthed the childhood memories of her father that she’d never shared with anyone else, but he constantly distracted her from her purpose here. The more time she spent with him, the less she saw him as merely an interview subject, and the more she cared about him as a man. “Thank you, but I really need to work on this article.”

  “Suit yourself,” Kelly said. “But if you change your mind, it’s right down the street.”

  “Thanks.” Some time alone with the facts of Paul’s life would no doubt remind her of all the reasons she should continue to fight her attraction to him.

  She booted up her laptop, then switched on the tape recorder. She spent the next couple of hours transcribing the interview tape and organizing her notes. Paul’s voice, calm and low, filled the room. When she came to the part of their conversation where he talked about his cancer and the letter her father had sent, tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them away, but she couldn’t as easily put away her sadness over a boy who had almost died, and a girl who missed the closeness she’d once known with her dad.

  Her father was the other important part of this story. Before she could write about Paul, she needed to sketch a summary of the events leading to her father’s death—a mini history to bring readers up-to-date. She knew the facts from the newspaper, but those stories had focused on the climb itself and the efforts to rescue Victor once he was trapped by the storm. She needed to know what had led her father to make the solo climb in the first place. Her own memories of that time were too hazy. She needed more information.

  With a feeling of dread knotting her stomach, she hit speed dial for her mother. Jennifer Richardson—she’d reverted to her maiden name after Victor’s death—hadn’t been pleased when Sierra had told her she was going to interview the man who had found Victor’s body. “He should have left him up there on McKinley,” she said. “Victor wasted so much of his life on the slope of one mountain or another. Why shouldn’t he spend eternity there?”

  “Hello?” Her mother’s voice was sleepy, though it was only a little after nine at her home in New Jersey. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom. It’s me, Sierra.”

  “Of course it’s you. You don’t think I have a bunch of other daughters running around, do you?” Sierra heard fumbling, and the clink of ice in a glass. Her stomach tightened further.

  “How are you doing, Mom?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. I took your grandmother to the doctor today. She needs surgery on her other hip, but she refuses to have it. She’d rather complain to me and Dad. He just turns off his hearing aid when she starts in, but I’m not so lucky.”

  Sierra pictured the house both she and her mother had grown up in—a sprawling, elegant estate in rural New Jersey, built by Jennifer’s father, Adam Richardson, when she’d been a baby. Sierra and her mother had retreated there when Jennifer left Victor. For a while, Sierra had imagined they’d move to their own place soon, perhaps a little house nearby—though the only little houses in that neighborhood were guest cottages or servants’ quarters.

  But Jennifer had settled into her childhood home and stayed. Sierra didn’t believe her mother wa
s really happy there, only that she didn’t have the energy to uproot herself once more.

  “Where are you?” her mother demanded. “I tried to call you yesterday and your office said you were on assignment. You didn’t answer at your apartment, either.”

  “You should’ve tried my cell.”

  “Two phone calls to try to locate my daughter are enough. Where were you?”

  “I’m still in Colorado. You remember—I’m doing a story about Paul Teasdale.” She winced at the sound of a glass set down hard on the table beside the phone. She hoped her mother wasn’t about to launch into one of her tirades against her father, or mountaineering in general.

  “What’s he like?” Jennifer asked instead.

  “Paul?”

  “No, the abominable snowman. Of course, Paul. What’s the young Turk of Mountaineering like?”

  “He’s…he’s interesting. Not what I expected.”

  “Good-looking?”

  “Yes, I guess you could say he was good-looking.”

  Her mother laughed. “You’re not sure, or you don’t want to tell me?”

  “I said he was good-looking, okay?”

  “I remember the first time I saw your father. Nobody would call him handsome, but there was just something about him… First time he walked into a party I was attending, I felt he’d sucked all the air out of the room. I couldn’t even breathe, I was so captivated by him.”

  This revelation startled Sierra—not that her mother had been captured by her father’s famous charisma, but that Jennifer would admit it. “I can breathe just fine around Paul,” she said. Any light-headedness she felt was strictly due to the altitude.

  Jennifer was obviously in a nostalgic mood tonight, whether because she’d so recently buried her husband or from the vodka that no doubt filled the glass clinking against the phone as she raised it to her lips. “Every woman in that room was jealous when he asked me to dance,” she continued. “If you’d asked me before that night if I believed in love at first sight, I’d have laughed you out of the house. But that’s what happened. One dance and I was done for.”

  Sierra hadn’t heard this story before. She was fascinated, craving more, but afraid of breaking whatever spell her mother was under. “You got engaged pretty quickly, didn’t you?” she prompted.