a visitor. “Hello! Excuse me! Hello!” called a feminine voice.
Paul swiveled ninety degrees and looked down on the woman. She tilted her head toward him, cheeks flushed pink, hazel eyes sparkling. He clamped one hand on the ridgeline to steady himself. “Uh, hi,” he stammered. So much for impressing her with his charm and savoir faire.
His golden retriever, Indy, scampered around her, tail wagging. She absently patted the dog. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Paul Teasdale. I was told he lived on this street.”
“Are you a reporter?” he asked. Who else would be looking for him these days?
“I am.” The woman’s expression sharpened and she studied him with anew intensity. “He’s supposed to be expecting me. In fact, my visit here was his idea.”
Paul blinked, the vague memory of a telephone conversation he’d had last week—one of many telephone conversations last week—sharpening. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Sierra Winston.”
This sophisticated beauty was the daughter of the great outdoorsman, Victor Winston—a man who had bragged about never wearing a suit, and who was known in his youth as “potato face”?
Paul almost fell off the roof in his haste to scramble over to where he’d anchored his climbing ropes. He slid down the side of the house and landed directly in front of Sierra. He wiped his hand on his cargo shorts, then offered it to her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Winston. I’m Paul Teasdale.”
She didn’t take his hand. “A moment ago you didn’t seem so sure about that.”
“Sorry about that. Reporters have been hounding me. I’ve been doing my best to avoid them.”
Her expression relaxed and she took his hand. “I know what you mean. I’ve gotten a lot of calls from the press lately, too.”
He winced. What a clod he was, complaining about his own notoriety, when she’d had her grief and pain made public again after twelve years, all thanks to him.
“You’ll be safe here,” he said. “I think most of the press have given up and gone home.” Indy sat at his feet and leaned against him. “This is Indy, by the way. I promise he’s harmless.”
A hint of a smile appeared on her lips, then vanished. She reached into her purse and pulled out a mini tape recorder. “Why don’t we go inside and start our interview,” she said, her tone brisk.
He pictured the chaos that was his living room—climbing gear competed for space with dirty clothes, half-chewed dog toys and cross-country skis he was in the middle of waxing. “Hold on a minute,” he said. “Did you just get into town? Where are you staying?”
“I’m at the Western Hotel. And yes, I just got here—my flight out of Denver was delayed.”
“I hate it when that happens,” he said. “But it’s a beautiful drive from the airport, isn’t it? What kind of rental did you get?”
“Some little car. I’m not sure what kind. I don’t own a car, so I never pay attention.”
“Yeah, well, we thought the subway would be finished by now, but they ran into a vein of gold while they were blasting the tunnel and decided to mine that instead of building track.”
She stared at him, as if debating his sanity. Usually women laughed at his jokes; maybe his brand of humor didn’t play well east of the Mississippi. “Why don’t we just get on with the interview?” she asked.
“My house isn’t really in any kind of shape for company,” he said. “I’ll just stow my climbing gear and we can go over to the Western Saloon for a drink,” he said. “How long are you staying?”
“My return ticket is for next Monday.” She didn’t sound very happy about that.
“Then we’ve got a week. Plenty of time.”
He began to roll up the rope, carabiners and harness. “Why don’t you use a ladder, like everyone else?” she asked.
“Because I don’t own a ladder. Besides, this is more of a challenge.” He stashed the gear in a box on the front porch. “Let me get my keys and I’ll drive you back to the hotel.” He glanced at her feet. “I can’t believe you walked over in those shoes.”
“I like to walk.” But she didn’t protest when he returned with his keys and motioned for her to follow him to the red Jeep Wrangler parked beside the house. Indy hopped into his customary place in the backseat, tail wagging.
“There are a lot of great trails around here,” he said as he backed the vehicle into the street. “But you might want to think about a pair of hiking boots. They wouldn’t go with your outfit, but they’d be a lot more comfortable.”
She ignored the remark and pointed to the dog. “Does she go everywhere with you?”
“He. Indy, after Indiana Jones. And yeah, he pretty much goes everywhere with me when I’m in town. When I’m on an expedition my neighbor keeps him for me. Do you have any pets?”
“No.”
“Not even a cat?”
“No.”
“I thought all single women in the city had cats or little dogs—like they came with the apartment.”
She laughed. “No.” Then sobering. “I had a cat once. Oliver. He got sick and died.”
“I’m sorry. That’s tough.”
“Yeah.”
“So you never got another one?”
“No. It was just too hard.”
They stopped at the end of the street. A pickup truck rumbled past on Main, the driver sounding three toots on his horn and waving. Paul returned the greeting. They passed two more pickups and another Jeep between his house and the Western Hotel and Saloon. Every driver slowed and waved, grinning at Paul.
“You have a lot of friends here,” she observed.
“I do, but they couldn’t care less about me today. They’re interested in you.” He parked at the curb and climbed out of the Jeep, motioning for Indy to stay. With a sigh, the dog lay down on the backseat.
“In me?” Sierra asked.
“Yeah. They want to know who you are, where you’re from, if you’re single and what are the chances they could score a date with you.”
“You’re putting me on.”
He held open the door for her. “An attractive young woman always draws attention in a small town where males outnumber females,” he said.
Every time Paul stepped into the Western Saloon he half expected to see John Wayne bellied up to the carved-oak bar. The tin ceiling, scuffed wood floors and brass spittoons looked straight off a movie set, but Paul knew they were the real deal.
“Are
