Conquering The Cowboy. Kelli Ireland

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      She pushed through one of the large doors to the mercantile and stopped, door still half open. Generic canned chili—a lot of generic canned chili—had been built into a pyramid display right inside the entry. A large sign proclaimed “BOGO! Get it before it’s gone!”

      “How much chili can a community of barely two hundred people eat?” she asked quietly, still frozen halfway through the doorway.

      “Oh, you’d be surprised,” a tiny, bespectacled man answered from a stool behind an ancient register.

      He was so diminutive in a wizened way that it took her a second to realize he’d stood. Shuffling around the end of the worn pine counter with its aluminum flashing and green glass candy jars, he couldn’t have topped out at more than five foot three inches.

      “Get fishermen in here all damn day who think they’ll pull a Bear Grylls and live off the land. Bunch of morons, the lot of ’em. More men end up with food poisoning from trying to cook their catch over an open fire and forage for greens along the riverbanks than those eatin’ at my sister’s diner over in Boise.” He gazed up at her with rheumatic, watery blue eyes and grinned. “Works out for me, though. Buy-one-get-one-free chili is mighty tasty when you’ve had the dysentery in the wilds. Got a special on Charmin, too, for that matter, but you don’t look like a moron.”

      Lips quivering, Taylor stepped the rest of the way in and let the door fall shut before she burst out laughing. It had been so long since she’d let loose, her facial muscles ached with it. Bent over, hands on her knees, she glanced up to find the old man grinning even wider. “And the locals?” she couldn’t help but ask.

      “We don’t touch that canned, preservative-filled crap. Anything with a shelf life of eight years is bound to kill you,” he said, gesturing across the street with a small jerk of his chin. “Town folk eat at Muddy Waters.”

      “What’s good over there?” she asked absently as she peered down the store’s aisles. The place was admittedly well stocked for such a small, remote grocery.

      The little man shrugged. “Just about everything.” Then he held out a hand twisted by years of arthritis and roughed by physical work. “I’m Joseph Cummings. You can call me Joe. And if you’re here long enough, Old Joe.”

      She shook his hand, surprised at the strength in his grip. “Hey, Joe. I’m Taylor Williams. I’ll be here a little over a week. I’m climbing Trono del Cielo.” She swallowed hard at the last bit, not at all sure why she’d offered a stranger the information.

      He cocked his head to one side, considering her. “You’re the one going up the mountain with Quinn Monroe, then.”

      “I am, yes. Why?”

      “He mentioned he had someone booked for the climb when he came in and ordered provisions.” He waved a hand dismissively, shuffling around the counter to reclaim his seat as he spoke. “Couldn’t be no one better to lock yourself onto for that climb.”

      The idea of being locked together, of carabiners tying her fate, her very survival, to another’s—and his to her—made her swallow convulsively. Gear could fail. Decisions made under pressure, decisions not carefully weighed and measured, could be wrong. Do-overs weren’t a given but a matter of grace, and if life lacked one thing, it was grace.

      “Good to know,” she croaked out.

      He carried on, not seeming to notice the sweat suddenly trickling down her temples. “Got a small storefront here, but we do a bang-up catalog order business. I might be older than a petrified dinosaur turd, but I’m good with a computer.” His fragile-looking chest puffed up. “I can get you anything I need from my Santa Fe supplier or with my laptop, so you need something while you’re here, something I ain’t got on the shelf? Just let me know.”

      “I’ll do just that. Thanks.”

      Joe’s eyes narrowed. “You nervous about the climb or meeting Quinn?”

      So he had noticed. “Why would I be nervous about meeting Quinn?” she asked, avoiding the first part of the question.

      The old man cackled. “You’re a woman, ain’t ya?”

      “Yeah, but my breasts don’t tend to get too intimidated by the male species.” She grinned. “They have a bit of a narcissistic side.”

      “Rightly so,” he said, winking and, of all things, causing her to blush as the door swung open behind her, a rush of hot, dry air washing over the sweat at the nape of her neck. “But Quinn? Well, he’s famous in these parts for lovin’ and leavin’ in nothing flat. Broke a lot of hearts when he left town that first time. Imagine it’ll be the same when he leaves this time.”

      “Good thing I’m just here for the climb, then, isn’t it, Joe? That’ll keep us both safe.”

      “Safe?”

      “No chance of falling for someone if you go into things knowing he’s a one-trick pony prick.”

      “Not too far off the mark but for one thing,” said a deep, smooth voice from behind her. “My bag of tricks is bottomless.”

      The depth of the newcomer’s voice rooted her in place. Taylor couldn’t have moved if the hem of her jeans caught fire. She couldn’t turn. Couldn’t face the man at her back.

      Joe laughed, the sound part wheeze, part cough. “Quinn, this here’s Taylor Williams.”

      “Nice to meet you, Ms. Williams,” he said, voice cool and detached.

      Oh, man. “Somehow I doubt that’s true, Mr. Monroe.”

      “Is it safe to assume you’re the climber I’ve been exchanging emails with? The one who recently hired me to obtain his recertification?” His voice, the pitch deep but smooth, sent a shiver up her spine.

      “Her recertification, and yes. That’s me. I’m her.”

      “You didn’t tell me you’re a woman,” he said, the accusation clear.

      “It shouldn’t matter, seeing as my gender has nothing to do with my ability to get up or down a mountain, Mr. Monroe.”

      “Since you’ve discussed my prick and its tricks with our local grocer, you’ve invoked the discussion on gender. It also seems more personal if you go ahead and call me Quinn.”

      Taylor closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. Only one thought ran through her head. The burning heat of abject humiliation would keep her warm when the desert nights grew cold.

      * * *

      QUINN MONROE HADN’T expected Taylor Williams to show up early. He also hadn’t expected Taylor to be, well, a woman. But from the slim column of her neck to the end of long, seriously toned legs and the very fine ass parked right between the two, Taylor looked like she was all woman. That Old Joe had been giving her the standard spiel about Quinn’s reputation was further proof. The grocer must’ve taken to her quickly. Otherwise he never would’ve felt the need to warn her to mind herself around him. Unless Joe was just screwing around. You never could tell with him.

      Curiosity ate at Quinn and he wondered if her face was as СКАЧАТЬ