Her Mountain Man. Cindi Myers
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Teasdale.”
She didn’t take his hand. “A moment ago you didn’t seem so sure about that.”
“Sorry about that. Reporters have been hounding me. I’ve been doing my best to avoid them.”
Her expression relaxed and she took his hand. “I know what you mean. I’ve gotten a lot of calls from the press lately, too.”
He winced. What a clod he was, complaining about his own notoriety, when she’d had her grief and pain made public again after twelve years, all thanks to him.
“You’ll be safe here,” he said. “I think most of the press have given up and gone home.” Indy sat at his feet and leaned against him. “This is Indy, by the way. I promise he’s harmless.”
A hint of a smile appeared on her lips, then vanished. She reached into her purse and pulled out a mini tape recorder. “Why don’t we go inside and start our interview,” she said, her tone brisk.
He pictured the chaos that was his living room—climbing gear competed for space with dirty clothes, half-chewed dog toys and cross-country skis he was in the middle of waxing. “Hold on a minute,” he said. “Did you just get into town? Where are you staying?”
“I’m at the Western Hotel. And yes, I just got here—my flight out of Denver was delayed.”
“I hate it when that happens,” he said. “But it’s a beautiful drive from the airport, isn’t it? What kind of rental did you get?”
“Some little car. I’m not sure what kind. I don’t own a car, so I never pay attention.”
“Yeah, well, we thought the subway would be finished by now, but they ran into a vein of gold while they were blasting the tunnel and decided to mine that instead of building track.”
She stared at him, as if debating his sanity. Usually women laughed at his jokes; maybe his brand of humor didn’t play well east of the Mississippi. “Why don’t we just get on with the interview?” she asked.
“My house isn’t really in any kind of shape for company,” he said. “I’ll just stow my climbing gear and we can go over to the Western Saloon for a drink,” he said. “How long are you staying?”
“My return ticket is for next Monday.” She didn’t sound very happy about that.
“Then we’ve got a week. Plenty of time.”
He began to roll up the rope, carabiners and harness. “Why don’t you use a ladder, like everyone else?” she asked.
“Because I don’t own a ladder. Besides, this is more of a challenge.” He stashed the gear in a box on the front porch. “Let me get my keys and I’ll drive you back to the hotel.” He glanced at her feet. “I can’t believe you walked over in those shoes.”
“I like to walk.” But she didn’t protest when he returned with his keys and motioned for her to follow him to the red Jeep Wrangler parked beside the house. Indy hopped into his customary place in the backseat, tail wagging.
“There are a lot of great trails around here,” he said as he backed the vehicle into the street. “But you might want to think about a pair of hiking boots. They wouldn’t go with your outfit, but they’d be a lot more comfortable.”
She ignored the remark and pointed to the dog. “Does she go everywhere with you?”
“He. Indy, after Indiana Jones. And yeah, he pretty much goes everywhere with me when I’m in town. When I’m on an expedition my neighbor keeps him for me. Do you have any pets?”
“No.”
“Not even a cat?”
“No.”
“I thought all single women in the city had cats or little dogs—like they came with the apartment.”
She laughed. “No.” Then sobering. “I had a cat once. Oliver. He got sick and died.”
“I’m sorry. That’s tough.”
“Yeah.”
“So you never got another one?”
“No. It was just too hard.”
They stopped at the end of the street. A pickup truck rumbled past on Main, the driver sounding three toots on his horn and waving. Paul returned the greeting. They passed two more pickups and another Jeep between his house and the Western Hotel and Saloon. Every driver slowed and waved, grinning at Paul.
“You have a lot of friends here,” she observed.
“I do, but they couldn’t care less about me today. They’re interested in you.” He parked at the curb and climbed out of the Jeep, motioning for Indy to stay. With a sigh, the dog lay down on the backseat.
“In me?” Sierra asked.
“Yeah. They want to know who you are, where you’re from, if you’re single and what are the chances they could score a date with you.”
“You’re putting me on.”
He held open the door for her. “An attractive young woman always draws attention in a small town where males outnumber females,” he said.
Every time Paul stepped into the Western Saloon he half expected to see John Wayne bellied up to the carved-oak bar. The tin ceiling, scuffed wood floors and brass spittoons looked straight off a movie set, but Paul knew they were the real deal.
“Are there really more men than women in this town?” Sierra asked as he guided her toward a booth at the back.
“Have been ever since it was founded by miners in the 1800s. Like those guys there.” He nodded to a black-and-white photograph of a group of solemn-faced men with elaborate moustaches that hung over the booth. “They came here planning to get rich and go home, but a lot of them ended up staying. There are a lot more women here now, but even more single guys. They come for the climbing and hiking and skiing and Jeeping and the outdoor lifestyle.”
“You don’t think women like those things?” she asked.
“Not as many, I guess.” He thought of her high heels and miniskirt. “You don’t strike me as the out-doorsy type.”
“Not really, no.”
The waitress, Kelly, sauntered over. “Hey, Paul.” She rested one hand on the back of his chair and smiled warmly. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a Fat Tire. What would you like, Sierra?”
“I’ll have a glass of water, thank you.” She arranged the small tape recorder, two pens and her notebook on the table in front of her.
He eyed the tools of her trade warily. Right after his discovery of Victor Winston’s body he’d been eager to talk to the one person who might understand the mixture of grief, admiration and frustration the find had kindled in him. He’d imagined Victor’s only child would understand his admiration for her father and that she’d be able to tell Paul things about his idol he’d always wanted to know. But Sierra was nothing like he’d expected.
He’d tried to find information about her online, but other than her byline on a few articles, he hadn’t discovered much. He’d imagined a tomboyish, outdoorsy type—a female version of the young Victor Winston.
Confronted with this beautiful, sophisticated, coolly businesslike woman, he realized how delusional he’d been. Why should this woman want to commiserate with him, much less share intimate details about her life with her father?
She switched on the tape recorder. “Tell me about Paul Teasdale,” she said. “I did a bit of research on the Internet, but I’d like to hear your story in your own words.”
He shifted in his chair. This was why he didn’t do interviews—he hated talking about himself. “What exactly do you want to know?” he asked.