Except he’d been the best. A person didn’t lose that distinction simply because they took a hiatus. He’d voluntarily come back to the real-life Chutes and Ladders. She didn’t need to know what prompted the absence or return, only that he was back and had the ability to lead her back, as well. To that end, she needed the best climber and instructor money could buy. So what if he’d never be nominated for Most Congenial Mountain Man? Heaven and hell alike knew that personality wouldn’t save a person’s ass in a pinch. Cold, logical decisions were their only chance.
“Looks like I’m keeping him,” she whispered.
The admission didn’t subdue her offended independence and female pride. His gall chafed that part of her raw. Who the hell did he think he was, ordering her around as if she were some green climber who needed him to dictate her every move from the moment she hit town to the second she was off the mountain and on her way home.
What. An. Ass.
Of course, she hadn’t exactly been a peach. More like a pit. She laughed, lifted her head and gasped as the view out the windshield hijacked her attention. Every bit of it.
A series of mesas ran north to south, their varying heights accentuated by extremely flat tops. Each mesa was a mélange of browns and greens, the grass a short carpet interrupted by cedar shrubs and split by the dirt road that snaked its way deeper into the heart of the ranch. At the foot of the nearest mesa stood a lone windmill. Cattle gathered around the stock tank below the spinning fan, their white faces and rusty-red-brown bodies bright against the neutral background of grassland. And above it all rose an endless blue sky.
Taylor shut her truck off and got out, walking to the front and leaning against the bumper. A slight breeze lifted tendrils of hair off her neck and cooled the shirt that sweat had glued to her skin earlier. Inside, she quieted, the change startling enough to be apparent but reality too big to be bothered by it. Never had she experienced anything like this. The mountains in Washington were big, but the space here?
Massive.
This wasn’t the first time nature had made her feel small in relation, but this? No way was this the same. Standing there looking out over the wide-open space, the horizon appeared endless, the sky infinite.
All the questions that had been jockeying for position, each wanting her immediate attention, stopped. And Taylor breathed. Simply...breathed. Lungful after lungful she reveled in the clean air infused with earth and cedar and green growing things.
If a soul could sigh, she swore hers did.
Tires hummed on pavement, the sound carried by the wind. Unwilling to compromise the quiet she’d discovered, she got back in her truck, started it up and put it in Drive. She didn’t look back.
The truck rattled and chattered all the way across the metal-pipe cattle guard.
“Rustic rumble strips,” she mused.
The road was in very good shape, devoid of the washboard surface or shin-deep ruts inherent to dirt roads exposed to wind and rain. A good drainage ditch had been cut down one side. Fences were in good shape. Grass was grazed but pastures were clearly managed for conservation. She slowed as she reached the first incline. The herd stood spread out across the road like giant yard art, unmoving save for the occasional flick of a tail or slow, considering blinks of long-lashed eyes. They all looked young, given their size, but also healthy. And undisturbed.
She inched forward and the young cow—steer?—nearest her ambled off with a disgruntled chuff. The herd shifted around and a couple of others that had been in the road followed the first one out onto the grass.
Impatience bubbled to the surface and the urge to hurry things along got the best of her. Yes, the cows were moving, but they were too damn slow. Rolling her window down, Taylor waved an arm wildly and shouted. “Move!”
The cattle stopped and looked at her.
“Get out of the road!” she shouted.
She hit the truck’s horn, beep-beep-beeping before leaning on it hard and steady, the grating, obnoxious noise shattering the quiet.
One of the cows lay down. In the road.
The soul-deep peace she’d found was lost.
To a bovine antagonist.
“I’ve been reduced to this,” she thought, tears and laughter arriving at the same time.
She gave in to both.
Several minutes passed before she even tried to collect herself. Several more passed before she was successful. Drying her face on her shirt hem, she fished around in the console for a napkin, blew her nose and tried to decide what to do. She could attempt to drive around the animal, but the pasture on either side had cattle scattered about. She could nudge this guy and try to get him to move, but she didn’t want to hurt him. How fragile are cows? She also didn’t want to bang up her truck if it turned out the animal was more dent-proof than her vehicle.
When she was two seconds from throwing in the towel and calling the cabin owner for help, the cow stood up and moved on.
The universe was laughing. She could hear it.
Unwilling to waste any more time, she drove through the remaining animals—who all moved—as fast as she dared. The road went on long enough that she wondered if she’d taken a wrong turn, and she crossed three more cattle guards before she rounded the mesa and found herself in a canyon and following a stream. Aspens clustered here and there, white trunks stark against the hillside, their leaves shimmering in the slight breeze. The stream widened and turned north, winding through an empty field littered with wildflowers.
A little house sat straight ahead. Other buildings were situated behind and, like the stream, to the north so they faced the water. She parked in front of the main house, put her hair back up and hopped out of her truck.
“It’s like a fairy tale,” she whispered, standing behind the open driver’s door as if it would shield her from the fallout when the image shattered. And it had to shatter. Nothing like this existed in real life.
The house was half stacked river stone, half rough-hewn log cabin topped by an aged tin roof and embraced by a deep, wraparound front porch with tree branches used as porch railings. A porch swing hung from the rafters on one side while rocking chairs occupied the other. Country music played on a radio inside and, somewhere in the house, a woman sang along. The smell of fresh-baked bread drifted out of open windows. Beneath that hovered the scent of something rich and savory.
Please, God, let that be dinner.
Taylor laid her hand over her stomach when it growled in protest. When had she last eaten? Breakfast in Colorado? Must have been.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from the truck and shut the door.
Inside, the singing stopped.
Seconds later, the front door opened and a lovely woman stepped out, a dishtowel in one hand. She looked to be in her midfifties. Long dark hair threaded with gray had been braided, but a few flyaways rebelled. Worn jeans, faded and slightly frayed from a hundred washings, hugged slim hips. Her dark T-shirt had a smudge of flour on one corner. Her gaze met Taylor’s and each woman lifted a hand in greeting and smiled at the same time.
The older woman laughed. “If you’re Taylor Williams or if you’re selling Girl Scout cookies, come on in. Otherwise, I don’t need any, want any, have already registered to vote, found the Lord decades ago so He’s not missing anymore and I’ll warn you I have a loaded shotgun inside the doorway.”
Taylor paused halfway up the front steps. “Shotgun?”
The woman’s grin widened. “It’s reserved for salesmen and politicians.” She stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I’m