off at the first gas station she saw, she set the pump to fill her tank and crossed the lot to use the tiny, unisex restroom. Splashing water on her pasty face didn’t do anything but make her look pale and wet.
“Excellent. I’m proof the walking dead can tolerate daylight,” she muttered, pulling her ball cap off and finger combing her hair. She pulled the mass back and tucked it up in a sloppy topknot. Best she could do at the moment. Another final glance at the mirror revealed hazel eyes, too wide, dark brows parked under a seemingly perma-creased forehead and a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. The V-neck of her T-shirt offered some decent cleavage, though. An unladylike sound—half hiccup, half snort—escaped. She was comedy and tragedy all rolled into one, but comedy didn’t have its game face on.
Crossing the lot to her truck, she hung up the pump nozzle, took her receipt and boosted herself into the cab again. Only habit, and certainly not the nonexistent traffic, had her looking both ways before she pulled back onto Highway 39 and continued west. It took more energy than she typically had this time of day to force herself to pay attention to the winding road. The Sangre de Cristo Mountain Range rose around her in stunning glory, the peaks of each granite precipice defying the tree line and piercing an impossibly blue sky. Late spring and the temperatures were still cool, but the forecast said the weather would hold for the climb.
Sweat created instant half-moons on the fabric under her armpits, the moisture stolen straight from her mouth.
Her stomach dove for the soles of her feet, and she swallowed back the seemingly ever-present bile that kept her throat raw.
I’m probably going up one of those peaks.
No, not probably. The climb was happening. No backing out.
“Not alone,” she whispered to herself. “I’m not going to be alone.”
She’d have Quinn Monroe, owner of Legendary Adventures, as her climbing partner.
He was notorious in the mountaineering community. Considered one of the best in North America, he’d climbed all over the world. He’d be a strong enough partner and professional instructor to help her shed this unrelenting fear and regain her confidence. Unless she managed the class with success, there was no way she’d be able to complete her recertification as an alpine guide and wilderness first responder nurse for the National Park Service.
She might have neglected to mention her, well, neuroses in her email correspondence with Mr. Monroe, but he’d find out soon enough. Hiring the best of the best had been her only hope of getting through this, so they’d both deal with the repercussions of her omission when it became necessary. Until then? It wasn’t relevant.
Her initial obstacle would be getting through the refresher course. She’d have to hold it together long enough to make the trek to the base of the climb. Then she’d gear up and the truth would be out there. She had to recertify if she wanted to keep her job as the team leader for the National Park Service’s Search and Rescue Team, or SRT. Recertification was standard for any team member who had been involved in a rescue attempt that had resulted in the death of a team member, but as a team lead who’d lost all five members of her team and the climber they’d gone after?
She readjusted her sunglasses and tried to swallow the lump of truth lodged in her throat.
If she failed, there were no second chances. She’d be out of a job, without a certification. She could go into clinical nursing, but a hospital setting didn’t suit her. She’d be miserable. Beyond miserable.
Since the accident, her employer had been compassionate as well as generous, holding her job while granting her more than the mandatory recovery period. But compassion only carried an employee for so long. Management had begun making noises about her getting back to work, prompting her boss, Greg, to call.
“Your name’s been coming up at management’s roundtable meetings. HR is all over me to get a firm return-to-work date from you.”
Tension had formed an invisible noose that tightened around her throat. “I told you I’m working on it.”
“They’re asking for something in writing.”
“What, my word’s no good?” she demanded, nausea forming a greasy film that coated her stomach lining.
“You are coming back, right?”
“That’s always been the plan.”
“Then give them something, Taylor.” Greg’s voice had been solid but somber. “Tell them you’ll get your re-cert by whatever day and you’ll be back a week after that.” He’d paused. “Whatever date you pick, keep in mind that sooner would be better.”
The unspoken truth had been there, suspended on the airwaves between her cell and his. She would either get herself together and get back to work or management would cut her loose.
So she’d make that first, and only, attempt to face the mountain and complete her recertification climb...or she wouldn’t. If she couldn’t do it, if she couldn’t conquer this fear of heights or, more specifically, of falling from significant heights, she’d be done. Out of work.
And probably over the edge.
* * *
DUST OBSCURED EVERYTHING in the rearview mirror as Quinn Monroe pulled onto the highway. The shoulder medium—fancy way to say dirt—was so dry his tires fought for purchase. The county needed rain. Bad. The harsh conditions were what had prompted him to stop and offer to help the owner of the out-of-state tag that had pulled onto the shoulder, the driver resting his head on the steering wheel. This was no place for vacationers to get lost, run out of gas or need a bottle of chilled spring water. Big-city conveniences didn’t exist out here. Hell, nothing existed out here but grassland, cows, mountains and the handful of human souls who called Crooked Water, New Mexico, home.
Home.
If someone had suggested to Quinn even five years ago that he’d be back in the remote little village for more than just a visit, that he’d come back to this godforsaken place for good, he would have called the guy a liar. Sure, he may have grown up here, but he’d never been at home, never felt like part of the community or part of something bigger than himself. That’s what he’d been looking for when he left more than a decade ago. And damn if he hadn’t found it—only to lose it and wind up back here, after all.
His focus shifted, drifting away from the road, across the grassland and up the foothills before settling on the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. That was where he belonged—in the mountains, on the mountain face, granite under his fingertips. Not here.
I was never meant for this life.
Sunshine glinted on metal in the field south of the highway and Quinn glanced that way instinctively. Muscles in his stomach tightened at the sight of the windmill, the tail wagging back and forth to keep the lazily spinning fan faced into the wind.
Forcing himself to refocus on the two-lane highway, he tried to keep his mind on the faded yellow and white lines in front of him.
No dice.
It had been almost eighteen months since the middle-of-the-night phone call that had changed everything. Eighteen months back here, home, in New Mexico. His heart ached with loss and longing.
Rolling onto one hip
