faced him, her hazel eyes bright with fury and her mouth working silently.
Then, in a voice so deep and sultry he felt it wrap around him like a silken noose, she lit into him. “Excuse me, Mr. Monroe, but did you just proposition me? I’m your client, not some...some...two-bit, cheap-thrill, ‘experience-seeking’—” she emphasized it with air quotes “—tour-on out here looking to ‘climb your mountain’ and stroke your ego every step of the way as you critique my physical form instead of critiquing my climb approach. Clear?”
Joe laughed so hard Quinn couldn’t help but worry the old man would choke on his dentures.
Whatever.
Quinn consumed Taylor in one visual gulp. She was roughly six inches shorter than his six foot three, fine boned and lean with defined muscle, but she owned her body and her space like she was his size. Tendrils of hair escaped the edge of her ball cap to trail down her neck and over her shoulders, and he had the most ridiculous urge to see her without the hat. He wanted to set that mass of wavy hair free, wanted to know how long it was, wanted to see it frame her face.
An erotic image of it playing across her bare breasts caught him off guard and he shook his head. He didn’t react to women. They reacted to him. It had been the natural order of things since eleventh grade, when twelfth-grader Marcy Jacobs had hauled him into the tack room in her parents’ barn and taught him things about older women. Not since then had he allowed a woman to cause every rational thought to vacate his brain, and he wasn’t going to start now. He just had to figure out how to retrieve the logical thoughts that had already fled without his consent. In the meantime, he looked her over with what was, at best, open interest and, at worst, carnal intent.
What happened next shocked him and left him scrambling to get his brain back in gear, if for no other reason than to save his pride.
She stepped into his space and glared up at him, going toe-to-toe without batting an eye. “I know you did not just tell me to turn around so you could...could...take my physical measure and decide whether or not you deem me worthy of your bag of tricks.” When he didn’t answer, because he couldn’t, she shoved him hard enough he was forced to step aside as she stormed past him on her way to the door. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Monroe. The collision of your reputation with your self-adoration has created a testosterone-dense fallout that’s making me nauseous. I need some fresh air.”
He watched her long-legged strides eat up the pavement as she crossed the street. She yanked open the door to a familiar truck—the same one he’d stopped to help on the highway—and all but launched herself inside, slamming the driver-side door closed behind her. Reverse lights flared, she backed out of her parking spot and, with a chirp of tires, took off down Highway 39.
“You just made a colossal mistake, boy,” Joe hooted.
Quinn glanced over at Old Joe and went with the one thing he knew to be true. “Yeah? Well, she’s my client.” The first client he’d had since he’d gone live with his new adventure guide business and website. He needed this climb to go well. Months spent racking his brain had yielded little in terms of ways to help his mom make ends meet. The only thing that made any sense at all was to put his skills to use locally. He more than wanted this venture to work. He needed it to. Quinn had to find a way to bring in the extra income his dad had earned cowboying for others in order to cover the lean years on their own small place, and no one was hiring Harding County’s version of the prodigal son.
“She’s a woman who deserves respect, is what she is.” Joe looked up with a kind of seriousness that wasn’t at all common on that old face. “I know you and your mama have been through hell. Especially your mama. I can’t imagine losing my wife, Josie, after more than sixty years married.” He shook his head, light glinting off his pate. “But if gossip’s right and you intend to stick around and help your mama keep the family ranch running, you’re going to have to set aside your pride, and not just this once, mind you. There’s no room for pride when you’re clawing your way up from hell’s own belly.”
Quinn stared at his boots, considering.
“Hurts to have your pride lashed by an old man’s tongue, I know. My old man was brilliant but brutal with it, so I’ve been there and more than once.” Old Joe leaned on the counter. “Go on after her and tell her you’re sorry. It’ll likely hurt your pride, but no man’s pride has ever caused him to bleed out. Besides, it’s your best shot of making something of this climbing thing.”
Quinn’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Make something?”
Joe waved him off. “I know all about your accomplishments and records and such. Stuff you’ve done in the past,” he said, dragging out the last word. “I don’t give a rat’s patooty about what was. Can’t change it anyhow. I care about what is and what might be. I don’t want to see your mama hurt again because her son followed in the father’s footsteps and put pride out front just waitin’ for the fall. Say you’re sorry to the lady. It won’t kill you, boy.”
Quinn considered Old Joe, then gave him a quick nod. “You have that order ready that Mom called in?”
“Been boxed up and waiting on you since yesterday.”
Quinn settled the tab and thumbed through the dollar bills in his wallet. All four of them. Heading to his truck with two boxes of necessities, he mentally rerouted his trip home. He’d stop by the bank and see what it would take to get an extension on the ranch’s credit line. While he was there, he’d withdraw a little cash to keep on hand for incidentals and cash-only emergencies.
He chuffed out a strained laugh. If things kept on like they had been, the money would be gone before the week’s end. It seemed everything had been an emergency of late, from the tractor breaking down and requiring special-order parts to the unanticipated replacement of the septic tank down at the bunkhouse.
The money he’d made selling his mountaineering business before coming back to Crooked Water had been good, and he’d really believed it would cover enough of the bills and buy him enough time to see his mom settled and secure. Then he had planned on figuring out where he’d go and what he’d do when he got there.
But the costs of keeping the ranch afloat had been staggering, and he’d watched the money flow from his account faster than water disappeared down a storm drain during monsoon season. With less than $10,000 left, he’d been forced to find a way to change the flow from solely out to at least something coming in.
He’d tried odd jobs, day jobs and more, but nothing ever panned out. With no options left, he’d quietly set up a website and begun reaching out to old contacts and looking for one-time climbs and such. Taylor had come to him through one of those channels. He’d initially hesitated. A re-cert would mean a solid week, maybe a little more. But the money... A short-notice, one-on-one recertification course demanded a hefty premium. In the end, the cash was too much of an incentive to turn down, his need for it too great.
He’d signed the contract.
And now here he was, getting ready to find his student and apologize for behaving like an ass. Because he had, and he knew it. That didn’t make the apology any easier.
Thoughts running amok, he stopped beside the bed of his truck and deposited the boxes near the cab before opening the driver’s door. A wall of heat hit him, the air infused with the leftovers of his burger and onion rings. The smell was so heavy and dense he nearly choked. Finishing lunch was clearly off the day’s agenda. Grabbing the grease-stained brown paper bag with the diner’s logo printed on the side, he tossed it into the bed of his truck and then climbed into the cab. First
