Her Mountain Man (3 page)

“I am?” She looked surprised.

“Well, you were probably too young to remember, but there’s this great shot of him carrying you in a sling on a training climb.” Amazing to think that the woman before him was that baby. “He said he wanted you to learn to climb almost as soon as you could walk.”

Her expression softened. She looked…almost wistful. “I don’t remember that. How old was I?”

“Two? Maybe a little older. I’m not good at judging ages. How old are you now?”

“Twenty-six.”

“The documentary was made in 1986, so you would have been two.”

“And you were four. How old were you when you saw the film?”

“Ten. It wasn’t released in the U.S. until 1992, after Victor became more well-known.” Before she could ask
why
he’d been watching the film—a subject he didn’t care to discuss—he shifted the conversation again. “Are you hungry? I forgot to eat lunch and I’m starved. I bet you didn’t get a chance to eat, either.”

“I had a pack of pretzels on the plane.”

“I’ve gotten to where I pack a lunch when I fly. You never know when you’ll get a chance for real food. Do you care if we order a pizza?”

“Uh, I guess not.”

He signaled Kelly and ordered a pepperoni-and-mushroom pizza, and another beer for him and more water for Sierra. He really was hungry, but mostly he was glad of the chance to shift the conversation away from his least-favorite topic—the dark circumstances that had driven him to climb mountains for a living.

“Why don’t we get back to the interview,” she said when they were alone again.

His brown eyes were wide and innocent. “I figured you’d be sick of listening to me talk by now.”

“You keep changing the subject.” She tapped her pen against the pad of questions. “Tell me more about yourself.”

He threw one arm across the back of the booth and looked out over the saloon. Was the pensive profile an act, or was he really that uncomfortable with her? “I don’t know why you want to know all that stuff about me,” he said. “The real story is your father and all he did. I’m only a small part of it, the person who found his body. I thought you came to talk about that.”

She never liked to talk about her father, yet he was, in truth, the reason she was here. Because the magazine wanted this story from the point of view of Victor Winston’s daughter. And because she was determined to uncover some insight that would help her reconcile the father she’d adored as a child with the man who’d abandoned her when she was older. In some ways, Paul seemed to know Victor Winston better than she had; could he be the key to reconciling her two views of her father?

“I need to know your background in order to give readers a complete picture,” she said. She consulted her notebook. “I read that the first mountain you climbed was Long’s Peak, here in Colorado. Why did you pick that one?”

He faced forward again. “Because I was living in Boulder at the time and it was close. Say, did you and your mom ever go with your father on his climbs?” he asked. “I know you didn’t climb with him, but were you at base camp? Or waiting in a nearby village?”

“No. We never accompanied him on his climbs.” The idea of her pampered, patrician mother in some frozen base camp was preposterous. “I’m sure he would have thought we were in the way.”

Even as she said the words, a memory flashed in her mind of her at six or seven, weeping and clinging to her father as he prepared to leave on an expedition, begging to go with him. Victor had knelt and embraced her. “Maybe I’ll take you with me someday, sweetheart,” he’d said. “When you’re a little older. We’ll go climbing together.”

She blinked rapidly, and sipped water to force down the knot in her throat. She hadn’t thought of that memory in years.

“Base camps are like little villages, you know,” Paul said. “There are all kinds of people there—men and women, and some children, too. There’s a fourteen-year-old boy who’s already summited four of the seven sisters. His parents climb with him.”

“Not my idea of fun family bonding,” she said. Though if her father had asked her to follow him into the icy, forbidding wilderness that was a high mountain peak, there had been a time when she would have gladly done so.

The waitress, Kelly, delivered plates and silverware. “Pizza will be out shortly,” she said.

“Great.” Paul rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “I’m starved. I remember reading about your dad waiting at base camp for two weeks for conditions to clear enough to climb Everest,” he said. “He lived off oatmeal and peanut butter for the rest of the expedition.”
He made a face.
“I hate oatmeal.”

“But you became a mountain climber despite the hardships. Why?” This was a question she would have asked her father; the one her readers would surely want to know.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

He hesitated, then said, “There’s a tremendous sense of accomplishment in climbing. The freedom of setting your own pace. The challenge of testing yourself.”

“That describes how climbing makes you
feel,
but is that the only reason you do it—for the adrenaline rush?”

“You don’t think that’s enough?” The grin was a little more lopsided now, a little less sure.

“Most people don’t spend their lives looking for a rush,” she said. “Is that really all you get out of mountaineering?”

“Let’s put it this way—why did you become a reporter?”

“You’re trying to shift the conversation away from the interview again.”

“No, no, this relates, I promise. You’re asking me to explain what I do for a living. I want to hear your reasons. Did you always have a burning desire to write? Or did you just fall into the job after college?”

“I always wanted to write,” she said. She’d majored in journalism and had gone to New York after she’d graduated, determined to get a job at a magazine. She’d never even thought about a different job.

He nodded. “I guess mountaineering is like that for me. It feels like what I was meant to do.”

“Climbing mountains? Come on—that isn’t a real job. It doesn’t offer a service or entertainment or improve the world. And unless things have changed since my father’s day, the pay is pretty lousy.” Her mother had had the money in the family; in darker moments, Sierra had wondered if that was the chief reason her parents had wed.

“He made money selling the film rights to his expeditions, didn’t he?” Paul said. “He was one of the first climbers to do that. Today, it’s all about sponsorships. I have a couple of mountaineering-equipment manufacturers and outdoor-clothing suppliers who sponsor me. And I’ve got an agent who’s trying to get me to go on the lecture circuit.”

“My dad did some of that, too. There was nothing he liked better than a captive audience.”

“Really?” He leaned forward, eyes alight with interest. “Was he like that at home, too?”

The man was good, but she’d dealt with tougher interview subjects. She focused once more on her notebook, reserve firmly back in place. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why do you climb mountains?”

“There are some people who think that each person fulfilling his or her potential is enough of a reason to do anything,” he said.

“Let me guess—you picked that up from a Sherpa you met on Everest.”

“I met him on Nanga Parbat, actually. Do you like your job? Do you enjoy what you do?”

“Most of the time, yes.”

“I enjoy mine, too.” He leaned back to allow room for Kelly to set down the pizza.

“What is there to enjoy about risking frostbite and hypoxia on some lonely mountain peak? About living on peanut butter and oatmeal for days in the middle of a blizzard?”

“All those things you mentioned—the frostbite and danger and lousy food—that part of mountaineering sucks,” he said. “But the climbing itself—pitting myself against the elements and then reaching my goal—in those moments, I feel so incredibly alive. I think it’s the closest any human can get to immortality.”

She stared at him. “Aren’t you a little young to be worried about immortality?”

He dragged a slice of pizza onto his plate and refused to meet her gaze. “High mountains are one of the few places still relatively untouched by human development. The scenery is spectacular, like nothing you’ll find on the flatlands. Your father must have felt the same way. Didn’t he ever talk about it?”

“No.” She laid her pen aside and helped herself to the pizza.

“Then I don’t really know how to explain it to you. Tomorrow, let’s go up into the mountains so you can see for yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll take a Jeep tour. Go up above tree line. It’ll give you a whole new perspective on what I do and why I do it.”

Would it? Or was this just another way for him to avoid answering her probing questions? “And if I refuse?”

“You want to get a good story, right? I’m better at showing what I do and why than sitting here talking about it. If we were up in the mountains, I think I could explain things better.”

She could see his point. Putting a subject in an environment where he felt comfortable could sometimes get him to reveal a side of himself she might not otherwise see. “If I go with you, you’ll answer my questions?”

“I’ll do my best.” He offered another charming smile. “Hey, you came here to work, but it doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, too.”

“Barreling up a mountain in a Jeep isn’t really my idea of fun.”

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing. Better skip the skirt and heels,” he said. “And wear a coat. It gets cold up there.”

“Anything else I should bring?”

“No, I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Just come prepared to talk.”

Granted, Paul wasn’t exactly spilling his guts into her tape recorder, but she’d find a way around his reluctance to tell his story. And as soon as she wrapped up the interview she’d be heading to the airport to change her flight, no matter what it cost.

She kicked off her shoes and lay back in the bed, trying to organize her whirling thoughts. The interview with Paul hadn’t gone quite as she’d hoped, but she’d gotten some material she could use. Tomorrow she’d dig deeper; she was nothing if not stubborn. She could already feel the story taking shape: a portrait of two mountain climbers—the laid-back boy wonder versus her single-minded father.

A knock on the door roused her. She shoved off the bed and went to look through the peephole. The waitress from the saloon downstairs stood frowning up at the door, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently.

Sierra released the chain and opened the door. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Hi. I’m Kelly. From the Saloon?”

Sierra nodded. “I remember.”

“I’m on break and thought maybe we could talk.”

“About what?”

“Oh, you know. The town. Fashion. New York. I overheard Paul say you were from there.”

Was it a passing mention, or had the waitress been eavesdropping? Sierra had planned on interviewing some of the locals about their notorious neighbor, so she might as well start with this young woman. Maybe Kelly could provide some interesting background on what Paul was like when he wasn’t scaling mountains. Sierra held the door open wider. “Come on in.”

Sierra guessed Kelly was about twenty-one or twenty-two. Dressed in low-slung jeans and a black polo shirt with the Saloon’s logo, she might have been mistaken for any small-town waitress. But her jeans were an expensive name brand, and her pointed-toe boots had a three-inch heel and a designer pedigree. Her hair was cut in the latest style. She might be waitressing in an out-of-the-way restaurant, but she clearly wanted to set herself apart. “Have a seat,” Sierra said, indicating the room’s only chair, and settling herself on the side of the bed. “My name’s Sierra, by the way. Sierra Winston.” She waited for the last name to ring a bell, but Kelly gave no indication that it registered, which made Sierra relax a little more. She’d had enough of competing with her father’s ghost for one morning.

Kelly sat in the chair and crossed her legs, jiggling one foot. “Are you a reporter or something?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m a writer for a magazine called
The Great Outdoors.
”

“So you and Paul just met?”

“That’s right.”

The foot stopped jiggling. “I was wondering. He didn’t exactly act like you were strangers. He was being really friendly.”

“He isn’t usually friendly?” The idea didn’t jive with the Paul she’d seen so far.

“Not with reporters.” She laughed. “The other day a couple approached him while he was eating lunch in the Saloon and he threatened to sic his dog on them. As if Indy would hurt a flea! But the reporters didn’t know that, I guess. They backed off.”

“He agreed to an exclusive interview with my magazine,” Sierra explained. “It was all arranged before I flew out here. So, what can I do for you?”

“What part of New York are you from?”

“I live in Manhattan.”

“So you’re right where all the action is. Do you see many Broadway shows?”

“A few.”

“Know any actors or actresses?”

“Not well, but I’ve met a few. One of my neighbors is an actress, I think.”

“No kidding. What’s her name?”

Sierra shook her head. “I don’t know.” She didn’t know most of her neighbors’ names. “People in the city like their privacy.”

“I guess so. I mean, she probably doesn’t want to be bothered by fans and everything.”

“Right.” Sierra doubted her neighbor was famous enough to be recognized by anyone on the street, much less mobbed by fans.

“You’re so lucky,” Kelly said. “New York has everything—the theater, night life and great shopping. Those are killer shoes, by the way.” She nodded to the heels that lay on the rug beside the bed. “Totally impractical here, but they look awesome.”

“Thanks. But you’re right—they’re useless on these dirt streets. I’m supposed to go on a Jeep tour into the mountains tomorrow and I guess I need to find some hiking boots to wear.”

“What size are you? About an eight?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a new pair I’ve hardly even worn. I could lend them to you.” Her gaze settled on the heels once more. “And maybe you’d let me borrow those? I have a hot date tomorrow night.”

The heels were brand-new and had cost more than the week’s accommodation at the hotel. But Sierra needed the hiking boots by tomorrow and Ouray didn’t look as if it boasted a lot of shoe stores. Besides, she liked Kelly, who so clearly craved more excitement than this small town could offer. “It’s a deal,” she said.

“Great.” Visibly more relaxed now, Kelly settled back in her chair. “I’d like to live in Manhattan one day. What I really want to do is act, but I guess there are probably plenty of waitressing jobs there.”

The longing in the younger woman’s voice struck a familiar chord in Sierra. She’d arrived in Manhattan with one thousand dollars in her bank account, clips from her college newspaper and a determination not to leave until she landed a job. She badgered every publisher in Manhattan until she found work as a copy editor at one house and a receptionist at another. She’d shared a tiny apartment with three other women and had worked practically around the clock for the first year. But eventually she’d landed a writing job and a few years later had moved into her own apartment. So who was to say Kelly wouldn’t make it as an actress, as well? “I think it’s almost a requirement that aspiring actors and actresses have waitressing jobs on the side,” she said. “Do you have any experience—acting, that is?”

“Only with local community theater. But I’m saving my money and I’m going to go there and take my chances soon.”

“When you’re ready to move, I can give you the names of some places to look for an apartment and roommates, and some casting agencies who might be able to help you,” she said. She’d interviewed several people at top agencies for a story for
Cherché
only last year.

“That would be great.” Kelly looked around the room. “So what do you think of Ouray? It’s a lot different from the city, isn’t it?”

“It might as well be on another planet,” Sierra admitted. “But the scenery is breathtaking.”

“The people are nice, too,” Kelly said. “Of course, being a small town, everyone pretty much knows everybody’s business, which makes it hard to have much privacy, if you know what I mean.”

“Then give me the scoop on Paul. What’s he like?” If Paul was so reluctant to talk about himself, maybe Sierra could gain some insight from those around him.

“Oh, he’s a lot of fun. Very…” Kelly tilted her head, as if searching for the right words. “Thoughtful. Considerate. I mean, some guys only think about themselves. Some women, too, I guess. But Paul is really interested in other people’s opinions. We went out a few times and he always wanted to know what I thought about the movie, or my views on local politics. Little stuff like that.”

“So you dated.” Her fingers itched for her notebook to write some of this down, but she didn’t want to risk interrupting the flow of conversation. She could make notes later.

“Only for a little while. Paul’s not interested in settling down and neither are most of the women he’s dated. I know I wasn’t. Besides, how can you have a relationship with a man who’s gone half the year climbing mountains?”

Right. One of the many problems in her parents’ marriage. “Why do
you
think he climbs mountains?”

“Don’t those guys always say they climb because the mountain’s there?” Kelly shook her head. “Seriously, I have no idea. He says it’s something he loves to do. It doesn’t seem any crazier than a lot of things guys around here do. In the winter, this hotel is full of men, and a few women, who come here just to climb the ice in the ice park. Then you have the Jeepers and hikers in the summer, and the skiers and snowmobilers in the winter. There are folks whose whole lives revolve around their sport. I guess they’re dedicated to it the way I’m dedicated to acting.”

The way Sierra was dedicated to writing? No, it wasn’t the same at all. Writing hadn’t taken over her life, and it didn’t separate her from her friends and family the way climbing did. “Does he have any family nearby?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. His parents live in Texas—Dallas, maybe? I think he came here to be close to the mountains.”

Of course. No matter what other positive traits he might possess, Paul still had the glaring flaw of loving big piles of rock more than anything else.

Kelly stood. “I have to get back to work. I get off late, so I’ll leave the boots for you at the front desk.”

“Thanks.” Sierra retrieved the heels from the rug. “Take good care of them,” she cautioned as she handed them over.

“I’ll treat them like gold.” Kelly paused in the doorway. “When you see Paul tomorrow, ask him to tell you about his secret swimming hole in the mountains. It’d make a great story for your article.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

When she was alone again, Sierra sat on the side of the bed and contemplated her bare feet. The Louboutins were the most expensive shoes she owned, and her favorites. Paul had better give her one heck of a story to prove he was worthy of such a sacrifice.