Her Mountain Man. Cindi Myers

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      “What led you to become a mountaineer?”

      “I enjoy the challenge of climbing, and the sense of discovery. Mountains are one of the last frontiers left to us, remote and largely untouched by development.” He climbed places where he was likely the first man to ever set foot, and felt awed and humbled by the experience.

      “You say you enjoy the challenge—so is it an adrenaline thing? You get a charge out of the risk?”

      He frowned. “That makes me sound reckless. I’m not. My goal is always to climb safely.”

      “Safety is a relative term at nineteen thousand feet.”

      “Things have changed since your father’s day,” he said. “We have more high-tech gear now, though I prefer to climb without supplemental oxygen as much as possible.” He watched as she made note of this. “How technical do you want me to get here?” he asked. “I can bore you with descriptions of safety harnesses, if that’s what you really want to know.”

      She looked up from her notes, hazel eyes meeting his, her expression troubled. “What I really want to know is what would lead a man to repeatedly risk his life on the side of a mountain?”

      The question was less an accusation than a plea. Paul searched for some way to answer her. “Climbing mountains is only part of any climber’s life,” he said. “A big part, but the climbers I know aren’t irresponsible about it, whether it’s their job or their avocation.” He rearranged the salt and pepper, as if lining up his defenses against her probing looks and questions. “I don’t look at it as abandoning my responsibilities,” he said. “I mean, I don’t really have any.”

      “So you’re single. No significant other?”

      He shook his head. He hadn’t exactly avoided serious relationships, but his schedule—away half the year or more—made attachments difficult.

      “What about your parents? Don’t they worry about you?”

      “My parents have been my biggest fans. They’re very happy for me.” He paused while Kelly put down their drinks. Ordinarily he would have encouraged her to stay and chat, but Sierra didn’t seem to want to linger on niceties.

      Her question about his parents fueled his curiosity, and he leaped at the opportunity to turn the conversation momentarily away from him. “What about you? Tell me about growing up with Victor Winston,” he said. “What was it like having such a legend for a dad? Did he share his love of mountains with you?”

      It was her turn to look uncomfortable. “I’m supposed to be interviewing you, not the other way around,” she said.

      “Yes, but the whole reason I agreed to this interview was to get a chance to meet you.” He leaned across the table. “Your dad was my hero when I was a kid. I was fascinated by the incredible things he did. He wasn’t content to follow in other climbers’ footsteps. He insisted on finding new routes up some of the most challenging peaks. And he was one of the first to create high-quality films of his expeditions, so that others could share the experience. I wore out a tape of a British documentary made about him. You know the one—about his ascent of K2?”

      He grinned, remembering a point in the film where others in Victor’s climbing party wanted to turn back in the face of adverse conditions. Victor had insisted on forging on, and stood at last at the summit, a solitary conqueror, wind whipping back the hood of his parka, the huge grin on his homely face saying all that needed to be said about his triumph. Paul had watched that part over and over, imagining himself in Victor’s boots, victorious after overcoming insurmountable odds.

      She shook her head. “I don’t think I ever saw that one.”

      “Aww, you gotta find a copy. You’re even in it.”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ