Читать книгу Conquering The Cowboy - Kelli Ireland - Страница 10
ОглавлениеWHETHER 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.
