“Flatter me much more and I’ll lay prostrate at your feet begging for a belly rub.” His tone and affectation were dryer than July dust, but he eked out a smile.
She cringed a little, realizing how bad her word choice had been. “Sorry.” Drawing a deep breath, she held it and then let it out in a rush. “Look, I’d really like to start over. From the point I drove into town and encountered Old Joe and his mountain of chili, this has been a cluster.” Shoving her hands in her pockets, she rocked back on her heels and forced herself to continue to meet Quinn’s unblinking eyes. On a whim, she held out her hand and waited while he considered her offering. With a casual flair she could only hope to master someday, he took her proffered hand.
She smiled, more with relief than anything. “Hi. My name’s Taylor Williams. I’m a Taurus, which explains my occasional superiority complex. The guy who read my palm for five bucks at the county fair assured me that I’m very fortunate my superiority complex is countered by both my humor and good taste. I consider picking out my toenail color a major commitment every time I get a pedicure. I rent my home, don’t own. Maybe someday. I love baseball, cars, travel and camping, though not necessarily in that order. I will never put vegetables on my pizza because, really? That’s just wrong. And I am absolutely willing to try anything once.”
“Except veggies on your pizza,” Quinn added.
She gave a mock shudder. “I did try it once. That’s how I know what an extreme level of wrong we’re talking about here.”
He grinned then, wide and genuine, and her heart skipped in her chest when he squeezed her hand, which he was still holding. “My name’s Quinn Monroe. I’m a Sagittarius and only know that because the newspaper horoscope says my birthday falls on that sign. I have no idea what that means about my personality, but I know myself well enough to know I’m honest, practical, hardworking, appreciate humor and I’m loyal to a fault.
“I love a good steak and will have a mild seizure if you put curry anywhere near my plate. Trucks over cars unless you’re talking a 1969 Camaro Rally Sport. Then? This grown man will be reduced to tears, grunts of approval and inappropriate sounds of pleasure—all with the engine’s first rumble. I prefer outdoors to in, believe towels should always be dried without dryer sheets and can’t plow a straight line even if the tractor is equipped with GPS and the new self-drive technology.
“My cosmic gripe is that Brussels sprouts aren’t sprouts but actually minicabbages. Some politician somewhere needs to make that part of his platform—Sprout Reform—because if the American farmer can’t be truthful about his crop, and grocers perpetuate the lie, then the world has gone to hell and we’re all just along for the ride.”
Taylor found herself smiling before Quinn had finished his short monologue-slash-introduction, but the sprout rant? That tipped her over into full-blown laughter. Squeezing his work-roughened hand, she let go. “Sprouts are clearly a hot-button issue for you.”
“You have no idea.”
She nodded. “Clearly.” She looked in the direction of the cabin, trying to figure out how to mend that last breach and put herself back on track. She wasn’t entirely confident Quinn was the right instructor to see her through this, not with her complicated history and the voice of her father delivering one of an infinite number of stern speeches on the fact she needed to choose her life’s calling and pursue it with singular focus. He’d raised her under the strict decree that an individual devoted his life to the pursuit of professional perfection in one thing and one thing only. To do otherwise was to divide one’s focus and settle for being no more than half as good. He’d taught her firsthand, too, devoting himself to his profession before his family and, specifically, before his children.
Unwelcome doubt crowded her newfound relief. What if Quinn wasn’t the “best” anymore? What if he’d lost the edge that made him a force on the mountain, notorious for taking calculated risks? What if he’d divided his focus and would only get her halfway to where she needed to be? What if—
The man occupying her thoughts interrupted her rapidly developing case of What-if-itis, tipping his head toward her bag. “Why don’t I take these to the cabin and see you settled.”
She grabbed her small suitcase and overnight bag, hoisted them over her shoulders and fought the surge of panic that struck without warning. To take that first physical step toward the cabin meant more than staying. It meant she would climb, putting her safety, her well-being, her life into the hands of the man before her.
He simplified things when he hefted the duffels containing her gear and grabbed her small ice chest. “I’ll leave your rope duffel in the truck. We won’t need them, even on the official climb. I prefer to use my stuff. Once you’re settled, we’ll work out our training plan. I want you to be comfortable with the approach I intend to use in recertifying you.”
She swallowed hard and nodded, grateful she could breathe after finding she was unable to force sound around the fear clogging her throat.
If I stay, I climb.
He started up a narrow path, calling back, “Cabin’s this way.”
Her feet moved of their own volition, ultimately following him down the path. Looked like she was staying.
They made their way to the cabin and it took Taylor two-point-six seconds to fall in love. More cottage than true cabin, the rustic place was, essentially, a smaller version of the main house, from building materials to the wraparound porch to the stone chimney on one side.
Impossible as it seemed, the inside of the little house was more appealing than the outside with its warm-colored wood walls and floors, worn leather furniture huddled around the large hearth and the bright efficiency kitchen. Simple décor centered around the ranch’s heritage, from pictures to tools to an old copper double boiler that had been artfully filled with dried wildflowers and displayed on the steps leading upstairs.
Taylor gestured to the loft. “Second bedroom?”
“And a three-quarter en suite bath.”
“Your mom’s seriously not charging enough per night,” Taylor said, delighted. “But I’m selfishly glad.” Moving into the bedroom on the main level, she dropped her bags on the floor beside the closet.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that Mom’s got you coming up for breakfast and dinner. Breakfast is on the table at 6:30 every morning and dinner’s around 6:30 every evening. Bring an appetite—she’s a helluva good cook. Lunch is usually whatever we have lying around—leftovers or sandwich makings or some combination of the two.” Quinn pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll, uh, leave you to get settled.”
He was gone before Taylor could protest.
She was alone.
Wandering through the space that would be hers for the next couple of weeks, she looked in cabinets, checked out the loft and searched for extra supplies like paper goods, laundry detergent, dishwashing soap. It was all there. After opening most of the windows on the main floor, she grabbed a soda from the stocked fridge and headed to the living room. She lay down on the leather sofa and stretched out, tilting her head over the rolled arm. Overhead, ceiling fans whirred and rocked as they lazily stirred the cool afternoon breeze. She placed the as-yet unopened can against her neck. That extra burst of cold felt good.
Exhaustion stole over her and made her eyes feel gritty, her eyelids heavy and her limbs leaden. Setting the unopened can on the floor beside her, she rolled over with her back to the room and snuggled into the sofa. Her breathing slowed. The urge to close her eyes was too strong. She’d close them for a few minutes. Then she’d get busy, unpacking and showering before dinner. All she needed was...a...minute...
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