Chelsea would never forget the moment when she hung in midair on Mount Everest,
nothing between her and death as she anxiously searched for Kurt against the icy cliff.
When sheâd heard him yell her name, sheâd been sure heâd fallen. Immediately, she had been stung by pain and guilt. If Kurt died, it would be her fault. She was the one who had hounded him to bring her back to the place where her sister had plunged to her death.
Her heart had rolled over. A useless lump of lead in her chest that refused to beat without knowing Kurt was safe. The moment her eyes had latched on to his red anorak against the gray-blue sky above her, it went into overdrive.
From now on, no matter what Kurt said, or how much he protested that he was no good for her, she knew in her heart she could never love anyone else as much as him.
The difficult task would be convincing him.
Iâd like to dedicate this book to my original editor at Silhouette, Leslie Wainger, with thanks.
And also to Sir Edmund Hillary, my inspiration for this book, who proved that although Kiwis canât fly, they can still reach the top of the world.
has always been a voracious reader, but she never thought of being a writer until a teacher gave her the encouragement she needed to put pen to paper. As a result, Frances was a finalist in the 1998 Clendon Award and won the award in 1999, which led to the sale of her first book for Silhouette, The Man for Maggie.
Francesâs marriage to a navy man took her from her birthplace in Scotland all the way to the ends of the earth in New Zealand. Now that heâs a landlubber, they try to do most of their traveling together. They live on a ten-acre bush block in the heart of Aucklandâs Wine District. She has two large sons, two small grandsons and a tiny granddaughter who can twist her around her finger, as well as a wheaten terrier who thinks sheâs boss. Thanks to one teacherâs dedication, Frances now gets to write about the kind of heroes a woman would travel to the ends of the earth for. Frances loves to hear from readers. Get in touch with Frances through her Web site at www.franceshousden.com.
Mount Everest
April 20
Dear Chelsea,
I can imagine your astonishment as you open this. I can almost hear you gasp, âA letter from Atlanta!â
How many years has it been? I move around so much Iâve lost count. Far, far too many, though. My fault. As eldest, I shouldnât have let a childish rift go on for so long. I just hope I havenât left it too late to set matters right.
Whatâs it all about?
Well, for a start, Iâm worried.
Oh, not over making the climb of Everest Iâll be doing soon. I lost all fear of heights years ago, when I swapped my ballet slippers for climbing boots. It was only to be expected marrying an adventurous man like Bill Chaplin. And when you love someone the way I love Bill, wherever he goes, you follow.
Thatâs right, I used the L word. No matter what you thought of the arrangement back then, our father never forced me into this marriage. Iâve had fifteen blissful years. Not many people can claim that. You were far too young to understand back then, barely thirteen. I hope time has achieved what I couldnât, and that you understand at last what it is to truly love another person heart and soul.
But Iâm getting off track. Itâs not myself Iâm worried forâitâs you. Though chances are we might both be in danger, not many people can reach me up here, so I reckon Iâm pretty safe. It takes a special kind of man to climb Everest, and Iâm certain Arlon Rowles isnât one of them.
Yes, Iâm talking about our cousin Arlon. It seems making him CEO of the business father left us, in order for us to avoid facing each other across a boardroom table, was a huge mistake.
I received a letter yesterday from Madeline Coulter. You remember Maddie? She worked for Father. According to her, Arlon has been siphoning money out of the business for the past five years and salting it away in a Swiss bank account.
Five years. My God, he must have started soon after Fatherâs death. She says that she has the proof locked away in a safety deposit box. This is the number: 44578âBank of America, Jamestown. Donât lose it. Itâs in both our names.
Along with the letter, she sent me a key. Iâve decided it will be safer on my person for now. Iâm wearing it on a chain around my neck.
But this is where it gets down and dirty. I called Maddie by satellite phone and her sister answered. I couldnât have been more shocked. Dear old Maddie was shot and killed, in an apparent mugging. It happened not long after she mailed the letter. Coincidence? I donât think so. She was found in an alley, and the shopping sheâd done on her way home from work was scattered all around her, yet they donât live in a dangerous neighborhood. And if someone was desperate enough to kill her for money, why leave her purse and the shopping behind?