Quinn considered Old Joe, then gave him a quick nod. “You have that order ready that Mom called in?”
“Been boxed up and waiting on you since yesterday.”
Quinn settled the tab and thumbed through the dollar bills in his wallet. All four of them. Heading to his truck with two boxes of necessities, he mentally rerouted his trip home. He’d stop by the bank and see what it would take to get an extension on the ranch’s credit line. While he was there, he’d withdraw a little cash to keep on hand for incidentals and cash-only emergencies.
He chuffed out a strained laugh. If things kept on like they had been, the money would be gone before the week’s end. It seemed everything had been an emergency of late, from the tractor breaking down and requiring special-order parts to the unanticipated replacement of the septic tank down at the bunkhouse.
The money he’d made selling his mountaineering business before coming back to Crooked Water had been good, and he’d really believed it would cover enough of the bills and buy him enough time to see his mom settled and secure. Then he had planned on figuring out where he’d go and what he’d do when he got there.
But the costs of keeping the ranch afloat had been staggering, and he’d watched the money flow from his account faster than water disappeared down a storm drain during monsoon season. With less than $10,000 left, he’d been forced to find a way to change the flow from solely out to at least something coming in.
He’d tried odd jobs, day jobs and more, but nothing ever panned out. With no options left, he’d quietly set up a website and begun reaching out to old contacts and looking for one-time climbs and such. Taylor had come to him through one of those channels. He’d initially hesitated. A re-cert would mean a solid week, maybe a little more. But the money... A short-notice, one-on-one recertification course demanded a hefty premium. In the end, the cash was too much of an incentive to turn down, his need for it too great.
He’d signed the contract.
And now here he was, getting ready to find his student and apologize for behaving like an ass. Because he had, and he knew it. That didn’t make the apology any easier.
Thoughts running amok, he stopped beside the bed of his truck and deposited the boxes near the cab before opening the driver’s door. A wall of heat hit him, the air infused with the leftovers of his burger and onion rings. The smell was so heavy and dense he nearly choked. Finishing lunch was clearly off the day’s agenda. Grabbing the grease-stained brown paper bag with the diner’s logo printed on the side, he tossed it into the bed of his truck and then climbed into the cab. First priority, windows down and heat wave be damned. That smell had to go.
And second...
Taking a deep breath and shaking his head in disbelief at what he was about to do, he cranked the truck’s engine, looked down the street in the direction Taylor had gone and backed out of his parking slot.
Quinn had an apology to deliver.
IRRITATION CHASED TAYLOR down State Road 120, pushing the speedometer well to the right of the posted speed limit. She muttered to herself, saying aloud everything she wished she’d thought to say to Quinn Monroe when she’d faced off with him. Smart, cutting remarks that would have made an impression. But no. Not Taylor. The most she’d been able to do was call him a “one-trick pony prick” and storm off.
“Way to go, Williams,” she groused, yanking her hat off and tossing it onto the empty passenger seat. A tug on her hair tie was punctuated by a curse, and both were followed up by a hard yank, but her hair came down. She finger combed the mess of waves, but nothing less than a hot shower and a quart of conditioner would tame the flyaway thing she had going on. She’d get settled in her little cabin, eat whatever the owner sent over for supper, since she hadn’t picked up anything at the mercantile, and then she’d get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow had to be better. Right?
Her opinionated subconscious remained silent, despite the invitation to cut Taylor to ribbons.
That didn’t bode well. Ever.
Some obscure emotion wound its way around her ankles, subtle enough, at first, that she wasn’t sure what she’d stirred up. That mystery feeling became inescapable, squeezing and tightening its way up and up her body until it became an emotional anaconda that was squeezing the air out of her chest. Trepidation, and a hell of a lot of it.
She couldn’t stand the constriction and loss of control, was so conditioned by fear to respond by shutting her mind down and focusing on surviving, that she almost missed the bright red mailbox denoting the road to the rental.
Taylor stomped on the truck’s brakes, the back wheels chattering as she came to an abrupt stop. Backing up on the empty highway, she turned down the dirt road and passed under a black metal sign displaying the place’s name.
Place. Ranch? Family? Resort? Whatever.
Losing control like that had left her too rattled to pay attention.
She pulled over, the truck’s passenger wheels well into the pasture and, closing her eyes, let her head tip back onto the headrest. Doubt moved in, swift and assertive. Had she made a mistake coming here? Why did she think she could do this? What would happen to her if she couldn’t? Clearly Monroe wasn’t a compassionate man. Should she have booked someone else as her recertification guide? There were a handful of people she could have picked from, all of whom were qualified to see her through the process. There was no reason it had to be him. After all, he’d only just reemerged onto the climbing scene after more than a year’s absence. It had been serendipity she’d tripped into a recommendation to Quinn Monroe from another climb instructor she’d contacted. That guy had been booked, but he’d told her Quinn was back in business, providing her with Quinn’s new website and contact information. She hadn’t been comfortable calling, scared he’d recognize her from the accident, which had made national news. Last thing she needed was to hear the derision or judgment that were bound to be in his voice. Rejection would be easier to take in an impersonal email.
She was wildly curious about him, though. No climber had ever worked so hard to gain international notoriety for his skill and then walked away from a career—with sponsorships—when he was at the top of his game. But Quinn had. And then he’d fallen off the grid. Two interviews had briefly featured him since then. In each, Quinn had refused to talk about the reason he’d quit. He’d been borderline surly in his responses when the interviewers tried to talk him around to discussing his stage-left exit. After all, they’d said, the climbing world wanted to know why.
Quinn’s response? “The decision was driven by personal obligations, and I don’t talk about my personal life. Sorry.”
The last articles had been printed before the accident, but the dates were fuzzy. What she knew for certain was that Quinn had disappeared, closed up shop, not long after that. Maybe she should terminate the contract, find someone else.
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