Barely Breathing (Colorado High Country #1)

by Pamela Clare

  Barely Breathing

  A Colorado High Country Novel

  Pamela Clare

  www.pamelaclare.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Also by Pamela Clare

  About the Author

  by Pamela Clare

  BARELY BREATHING

  A Colorado High Country Novel

  by Pamela Clare

  Published by Pamela Clare, 2016

  Cover Design by © Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs

  Photo of couple by © dariyad/fotolia.com

  Photo of mountain © avmedved (Andrei Medvedev)/ Depositphotos.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Pamela Clare

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials by violating the author’s rights. No one should be expected to work for free. If you support the arts and enjoy literature, do not participate in illegal file-sharing.

  ISBN-10: 0-9903771-5-6

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9903771-5-3

  For Marie Force, who reached out to me in 2011 when I lost my newspaper job and encouraged me to self-publish — and then showed me how. From notes on a napkin at RWA13 to reality, here is the book we talked about.

  Thanks for everything.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Michelle White, Jackie Turner, Shell Ryan, Pat Egan Fordyce, Debby Owens, and Ann Wainwright for their feedback as I worked on this novel.

  Special thanks to Jeff Sparhawk, public information officer with Rocky Mountain Rescue Group™, who took the time to explain the complex work of alpine rescues so that I could present it to my readers. My admiration for RMRG never ceases. Any errors in this story are mine.

  Additional thanks to Rick Hatfield, park ranger, for the ride-along and continued friendship; and to my younger son Benjamin Alexander for his insights as a county seasonal ranger. I couldn’t have written this book without these two bunny-loving tree-huggers.

  Thanks to author Julie James for giving me some insights into life in Chicago. I’ll have to visit one day and try Lou Malnati’s deep dish pizza.

  And, finally, thanks to all my climbing heroes, those here and those who are gone, for living the dream: Lynn Hill, Alex Lowe, Conrad Anker, Gören Kropp, Dean Potter, Steph Davis, Alex Honnold, Ueli Steck, the Wideboyz… In my imagination, I’m touching the sky right beside you.

  Glossary

  Colorado and climbing lingo is listed here in order of appearance. I have included only those terms that were not specifically defined in the text. Many of these are probably self-explanatory, but I’m offering this reference just to be certain. I encourage you to watch climbing films on video to get a feel for this dynamic sport.

  “At altitude” — A phrase Coloradans use to distinguish life and conditions in the mountains from life anywhere else.

  Rock cut — A place where a rock has been cut or blasted away to make room for a road, usually leaving high rock walls on the uphill side but sometimes on both sides. Also, an overlook on Trail Ridge Road.

  Knockers — Short for “tommyknockers,” a mythical creature brought to Colorado and other states by miners from Cornwall and Devonshire. Some people believed they were the spirits of dead miners. Others believed they were supernatural. Most agreed that they played pranks on miners and protected them by warning them of impending cave-ins. Some, however, believed they were evil and caused the cave-ins. It was a tradition for miners to toss the crusts of their pasties to the knockers to keep them happy.

  Evac — Short for evacuation, the term used for rescuing a stranded, lost, or wounded party from the wilderness. “Vertical evac,” means more or less straight down (or sometimes up). “Scree evac” means following the fall line down over rocks and dirt. “Trail evac” means using an existing trail.

  Free solo climbing — Climbing without ropes or other protection.

  Sports climbing — Climbing with ropes using permanently fixed protection, such as bolts drilled into the rock.

  Take a whipper — An especially hard fall, often with a pendulum motion that slams the climber into the rock. Often caused by unskilled belaying.

  Belay — To provide security to a climber by letting out or taking in slack, often through a braking device, in order to limit the distance a climber might fall.

  Rack — A term used to describe the collection of gear that they take with them on a climb. It’s not on a rack, per se, but rather a loop of webbing that is often slipped over one shoulder and across the torso like a sash with the gear dangling by the hip where it can be easily reached. Yes, there are lots of “check out my rack” jokes.

  Anchor — A configuration of gear, such as ropes, cams, and cables, used to secure belay ropes during an evacuation.

  Anchor problem — Doing the mathematics to figure out how best to create the anchor to ensure it will hold the required weight. This includes how the anchor is set, where it is set and what is used to set it.

  Lead climber — The climber who goes first and places protection on the rock as he or she goes, attaching the belay rope as they climb (traditional climbing) or clips the belay rope into preplaced equipment attached to bolts (sports climbing). They’re responsible for picking the route and making sure that protection is set safely. This person is often a very experienced and skilled climber.

  Down climb — To climb back down a climbing route.

  Call number — The number assigned to an individual in law enforcement or search and rescue that identifies them to dispatchers on the radio. Different agencies have identifiable numbers. All sheriff’s deputies might be 16-something, while all city police might be 12-something, for example.

  SAR — Search & Rescue

  Crack climbing — To ascend a rock face by climbing up a natural fissure in the rock.

  Offwidth climbing — To climb a crack that is too big to manage using fingers and too small to climb by wedging your entire body (“chimney”) into the rock. Expect to bleed.

  Hand stack — Both hands pressed together, sometimes bent, to fill an offwidth crack.

  Fist stack — Using fists side-by-side as an anchor in an offwidth crack.

  Heel-toe cam — Using one’s entire foot as an anchor in an offwidth crack.

  Big Bro — The name of an expandable bolt used to create anchors in a rock face.

  Cams — Expandable devices inserted into cracks as anchors. Camalots are a brand of cams.

  Pitch — A section of a rock climb

  Undercling — A type of hold where one latches onto a h
orizontal crack from the bottom

  To “dirt” someone — To lower them down to the floor or the ground when you’re on belay.

  Dyno — An upward lunge during which both hands and feet completely leave the rock. Failing to “stick” the dyno means you fall. It’s something of a show-off move in climbing.

  Crimper — A tiny hold big enough only for the tips of one’s fingers or toes.

  Sloper — A handhold that is really just a bulge in the rock. There’s no edge to hold onto, but friction from a flattened palm makes them useful (but tricky) as a handhold. I haven’t defined the other holds because they’re pretty self-explanatory.

  Crux move — The toughest move of any given climb or pitch.

  Rap down — “Rap” is short for rappelle, which is to descend a rock face or other near-vertical surface by using an anchored rope coiled around the body.

  Emergency webbing harness — A harness made by wrapping nylon webbing (which isn’t web-like at all, but is basically a thick nylon strap) around a person’s body in a certain way.

  Timberline — The elevation beyond which trees will not grow on a mountain. In Colorado, that’s just above 10,000 feet elevation. Also called “tree line.”

  Chapter 1

  Lexi Jewell drove her silver Lexus IS convertible up Forest Canyon, top down, sunlight spilling from a clear Colorado sky. The late May breeze was warm in her hair, the air rich with the scent of ponderosa pine. Big Head Todd and the Monsters’ “Broken Hearted Savior” blasted on her sound system, a nod to the fact that she’d spent last night in Boulder, the group’s hometown.

  She glanced in her rearview mirror, the blue SUV behind her riding her bumper hard. The driver must think he had superpowers and didn’t need to worry about the speed limit, hairpin turns, sheer cliff walls, or steep drop-offs. But Lexi had grown up here and knew only too well how deadly these roads could be.

  She saw a slow-vehicle turnout ahead and pulled over, letting the speed demons pass. An SUV with three mountain bikes in a carrier on the back. Another SUV, this one with two kayaks perched on top. A battered blue Ford carrying bales of hay, its dented bumper sporting a faded sticker that read, “Keep Scarlet Weird.”

  Well, no problem there. If “weird” were a country, Scarlet Springs would be its capital, its shining city upon the hill. And Lexi was moving back there.

  No, she wasn’t moving back. She would only be there for a few weeks. She’d brought only three suitcases—clothes, personal stuff, her computer—and a box of books she’d never gotten the time to read. Most of her things were still in storage in Chicago, where they would stay until she could regroup and get the situation with her father and stepmother under control.

  Chicago, not Scarlet Springs, was her home now.

  She hadn’t been back to Scarlet since the Christmas before last. She’d been weeks away from making partner at Price & Crane, or so she’d believed. Her sister, Britta, had come home, too, and the two of them had spent hours snuggled in front of the fireplace, getting to know each other again. They’d promised to spend their next Christmas together, just the two of them, either in Lexi’s Bucktown condo or in Britta’s apartment in San Diego. It was a promise Lexi hadn’t been able to keep.

  By her thirtieth birthday that following March, the life she’d built for herself had fallen apart, thanks to Mr. Crane of Price & Crane. Now, she was thirty-one and had no job, no condo—and she was on her way back to Scarlet, the town she’d spent her entire childhood wanting to escape.

  How did big-city life work out for you, Lexi girl?

  She could almost hear her father’s voice.

  None of this had been her fault. Her work had been outstanding, her initiative and work ethic excellent, her performance reviews stellar. She’d never broken a rule or violated a single corporate policy. No, none of it was her fault, but you wouldn’t know that from the way people at the firm had treated her.

  As soon as the news had leaked, her co-workers had started tip-toeing around her, giving her the side-eye in the hallway and the break room, whispering behind her back. People she’d thought of as close friends had suddenly stopped returning calls and quit inviting her out, afraid for their careers. Chris, her boyfriend and a junior partner at the firm, had blamed her for the whole thing and dumped her.

  “Maybe if you didn’t dress like you were looking for a fuck, Crane wouldn’t have gotten the wrong message. You should never have reported him.”

  She couldn’t help feeling like some pathetic stereotype of the small-town girl who’d gone off to the big city full of dreams only to be chewed up and spit out.

  That pretty much describes what happened, doesn’t it?

  And now, as a bonus, the father she’d never been close to had apparently gone off the deep end since his wife, Kendra, had left him. He drank too much, neglected the inn, and, if Kendra hadn’t exaggerated, had taken up shoplifting.

  Shoplifting?

  What a brilliant idea, Dad.

  This was his way of showing Kendra how much he needed her, but turning into the world’s biggest loser was not the way to win her back. If he didn’t watch it, she’d divorce him. If that happened, either Lexi or Britta would have to move back home to help him run the inn, something neither of them had any interest in doing.

  She turned up the music, trying to drown out her worries, the next curve sending her past the Mine Shaft, a little roadside pizza place that catered mostly to bikers and had been in business as long as she could remember. “World’s Best Pizza” read the hand-painted wooden sign out front.

  Not even close.

  Though the pizza there was better than frozen, store-bought pizza, it was nothing compared to Lou Malnati’s deep-dish pizza—her favorite.

  A wave of homesickness washed through her, so many of the things she’d come to love now far behind her—the city lights reflecting off the Chicago River at night, walking on the beach in the summer, the culinary thrill of Taste of Chicago.

  Victoria Woodley, her best friend and former college roommate, said she needed to look at the silver lining. “After all that stress, you’re getting a long vacation at the expense of those bastards at Price and Crane. You’ll have all the time you need to unwind, sort things out, and make new plans.”

  Lexi supposed that was true, but this was not the way she’d planned it, not the way she’d thought her life would go. And, God, she was going to miss Vic, too.

  This is just temporary. Just temporary.

  The canyon began to widen, the view opening up before her, the mountainsides dotted with barren heaps of yellowish rock, mine tailings left from the days when the gold and silver rushes had brought prospectors to Colorado’s mountains.

  She rounded the next curve, and her breath caught.

  The Indian Peaks—South and North Arapahoe, Apache, Arikaree, Kiowa, Navajo, Ogalalla, and Pawnee. They ringed the valley that nestled Scarlet Springs, their white-capped summits jabbing toward the sky, jagged and awe-inspiring, remnants of a massive volcanic eruption that humanity had been fortunate enough to miss.

  No matter how many times she saw that view, it never failed to amaze her. Some of the tension she’d been carrying lifted. She didn’t hate everything about Scarlet Springs, after all. The mountains were beautiful, and the men …

  Austin Taylor.

  It had been a long time since she’d thought about him.

  Okay, not all that long. A few hours maybe.

  Well over six feet tall with dark blond hair and the bluest eyes, he’d been her first serious boyfriend, her first lover, her first heartbreak. He’d lettered in football and had been the school’s champion skier, taking state in both giant slalom and freeride—a big deal for a senior class with fewer than a hundred students. He was a park ranger and paramedic now, or so her father had said. It was the perfect job for him.

  You’re going to run into him.

  Of course, she was going to run into him. Scarlet was a small town with a single grocery store. Everyone
bumped into everyone all the time.

  Not that it would be a big deal for either of them when it happened. They were now adults with busy lives, not high school seniors in the throes of their first sexual relationship. They had both moved on a long time ago.

  Well, mostly.

  She was on the outskirts of town now. Highway 119 intersected with a dirt road with a brown parks sign that read, “Moose Lake.” A few yards down the road from that stood another that read, “Scarlet Springs Town Limit, Pop. 1,447, Elevation 8,936.”

  Well, here you are.

  Yes, here she freaking was.

  She’d reached the top of the hill that overlooked town when something off the side of the road caught her eye and had her pushing on the brake. At first, she thought it was a mountain goat hanging out on the rocky embankment, but it was too small. As she got closer, she realized it was a little white dog, and it seemed to be stranded.

  She pulled onto the shoulder, parked, and got out of the car. “Hey, buddy, how’d you get up there?”

  The dog stood on a rocky ledge about twenty feet off the ground on what was a steep rock cut. It wagged its little tail, barked, then whined, staring down at her. If it had climbed up there, it could surely climb down. Right?

  She whistled, called to it, tried to encourage it, clapping her hands against her thighs in universal doggy sign language for “come here.” “You can do it, boy. Or girl. From here, I can’t tell. Sorry.”

  The dog gave a brave little wag of its tail, took a hesitant step, then stopped, whining again. The little guy was terrified, its body trembling.

  A semi drove by in low gear, using its engine to break as it hurtled down the hill toward town, the roar making the dog even more afraid. It whimpered, dark eyes looking down at her as if she were its only hope for salvation.