Her Mountain Man

But Sierra just couldn’t figure out why. She’d steeled herself for a swaggering braggart who would try to impress her with tales of his mountaineering exploits. Instead, she’d met a disarming, slightly goofy regular guy who seemed reluctant to talk about climbing mountains at all.

He was also decidedly better-looking than the blurry Internet photo she’d located had indicated. Not too tall, with short, spiky brown hair and brown eyes and the great legs she’d expect from a climber. He had a smile that would stop any female in her tracks—but if he thought he could use that smile to distract her from her purpose here, he’d be disappointed.

She, of all people, was immune to the charms of a mountain climber.

Dear Reader,

The closest I’ve come to mountain climbing is hiking a few of Colorado’s fourteeners—peaks that rise over 14,000 feet above sea level. Getting to the top was a major rush, a little taste of what I imagine real alpinists feel.

Overcoming any big obstacle can feel that way—scary, exhausting and triumphant. Some obstacles in our lives can certainly seem as insurmountable as any mountain: a serious illness or the pain of hurt suffered in childhood.

In Her Mountain Man I wanted to write about two people who confront personal obstacles in different ways. Sierra thinks she’s conquered the hurts of her past by ignoring them, while Paul feels compelled to face down his personal demons over and over. Neither of them is getting anywhere until falling in love forces them to take a different approach.

I hope you’ll enjoy Paul and Sierra’s story. Write and let me know. I love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at [email protected].

Cindi Myers

CINDI MYERS fell in love with the mountains of Colorado the first time she saw them, and she fell in love with her husband almost as quickly. They met on a blind date and were engaged six weeks later. It’s no wonder she writes about romance and people who were meant to be together.

Her

Mountain Man

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ONLY THE DEAREST OF friends could have persuaded Sierra Winston to risk life and limb—and some very expensive shoe leather—on this wild-goose chase. She looked down at her nearly new pair of Christian Louboutins sinking slowly into the muddy streets of Ouray, Colorado. “Mark, you sooo owe me,” she muttered, as she pulled one foot, then the other, out of the mud and took stock of her new surroundings.

The Victorian-era storefronts along Ouray’s main street looked straight out of a postcard, but the backdrop for this slice of small-town Colorado drew the eye and made Sierra’s breath catch in her throat. Snowcapped mountains soared above the former mining town, their icy granite spires and sun-washed slopes making the village and the people in it seem tiny in comparison.

Sierra felt a little sick to her stomach, staring up at those mountains. They reminded her of too many things she’d avoided thinking about for too many years.

That was part of the reason she was here today, she reminded herself. She would have to face her past if she ever wanted to let go of it, and this was the place to do it.

She started across the street, slowing to allow an open-topped Jeep to pass. The two male occupants of the vehicle whooped and waved at her. She managed a thin smile, conscious of how out of place her designer miniskirt and red stilettos were in a town where most of the women wore jeans and hiking boots. You’re definitely not in Manhattan anymore, she reminded herself as she reached the opposite side of the street. Here, a life-size bronze sculpture of a bugling elk confronted her.

“Can I help you, miss?” An older man with a thick head of graying hair approached her.

“I’m looking for Sixth Avenue.” None of these dirt roads was what she’d term an avenue, but that was the address she’d been given.

“Who’s the lucky person you’re going to see?” The question was delivered in a jovial tone, but the old man’s eyes sharpened. In Manhattan she’d have blown off the question, but this was a small town, where everyone knew everyone else. There was little chance she’d keep her destination secret for long.

“I’m going to see Paul Teasdale,” she said.

The man’s friendly manner quickly became guarded. “Are you some kind of reporter?” he asked.

Apparently she wasn’t the first journalist to have found her way to this remote outpost. Then again, it wasn’t every day that the body of one of the most celebrated mountaineers of the twentieth century was recovered from the side of an Alaskan peak by one of the mountaineering stars of the twenty-first century—a man who just happened to live in Ouray, Colorado. Sierra offered her most disarming smile. “It’s all right,” she said. “Mr. Teasdale is expecting me.”

“You want to head two blocks up that way,” the man said, pointing. “Though I can’t say if he’s home right now.”

He’d better be home,