Her Mountain Man. Cindi Myers

Victor Winston’s daughter.”

      As if that wasn’t a sacrifice of a different kind. Sierra had refused to think of her father for years, and then Paul Teasdale had carried his body down from a mountain and for the past week she hadn’t been able to turn on the television or pass a newsstand without seeing or hearing his name. The headlines screamed at her in stark black letters: Famed Mountain Climber’s Body Discovered Twelve Years After His Death! Or Twelve Years On Mount McKinley—Body Of America’s Most Famous Climber Recovered.

      Dead more than a decade, Victor Winston was still a celebrity. No doubt, he would have loved all the attention. Other mountaineers may have been more technically proficient, but no one was better than Victor at playing to the press. Even freezing to death in a blizzard at nineteen thousand feet, he’d radioed details to all the major wire services.

      Never mind Sierra and her mother, sitting at home glued to the television and waiting for news. By then, it had been years since fourteen-year-old Sierra had felt close to her father, but the memories of those times were still fresh—days when public acclaim and the allure of summiting the next peak hadn’t meant more to him than spending time with his family. In those last few anxious days of his life, she’d listened to the increasingly desperate dispatches from Mount McKinley, hoping for some sign that he was thinking of her, but it never came.

      When the transmissions ceased and it was assumed Victor Winston had died, what little love she’d had left for him had died, too. She’d followed her mother’s example, presenting a stoic face at the public memorial service after he was declared legally dead, boxing away the pain like old clothes that didn’t fit anymore.

      Now Mark was asking her to take out those old garments and try them on again.

      “I know it’s a lot to ask,” he said again quietly. “But it’s the big break I’ve been waiting for.”

      Promotions at Davis Partners Publishing were tough to come by, especially on the testosterone side of the company. The editors of the hot rod, hunting, fishing and other male-targeted publications tended to stay on the job until they suffered heart attacks at their desks. The only way for an assistant like Mark to score a better position was to do something earth-shaking.

      An exclusive from Paul Teasdale probably qualified. Mark was one of Sierra’s dearest friends, but could she do this, even for him? “What would I have to do?” she asked. Maybe a phone call or two wouldn’t be so bad …

      “He lives in some little town in Colorado—Ouray. We’d fly you out there and you’d hang out for a few days, get an idea of what he’s like. And I want your personal touch on the story—emotions, opinions, whatever comes to mind.”

      In other words, he was asking her to bare her soul.

      “I’d have to go there and meet him?” She’d avoided looking at any pictures of Teasdale, but she knew what he’d be like—wiry and ruggedly handsome.

      It was enough to make her gag.

      “Come on, Sierra. Aren’t you a little bit curious?” Mark asked. “Don’t you think this would help you, too?”

      She stiffened. “Help me how?”

      “I don’t know—answer some questions about your dad. Bring you some closure.”

      “I don’t need any closure, Mark.”

      “Right. Of course you don’t. So interviewing this guy should be no big deal. Think of it as a free vacation to the mountains.”

      She knew Mark; he wasn’t going to let this go. She took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll go out there and talk to him. But not only do you owe me that big fat paycheck, when I get home I want dinner at Jean-Georges.” The exclusive Central Park restaurant was a favorite of well-heeled foodies.

      “Dinner, with champagne and all the chocolate you can eat. And thank you! I’ll send down the travel documents as soon as they’re ready.”

      So here she was in Ouray, Colorado, hiking uphill in high heels and fighting a queasiness in her stomach that had nothing to do with the altitude. She’d lied to Mark when she told him she wasn’t curious about her father. She didn’t have any questions about how he died—the details had been played over and over in the news the past few days. But since he and her mother had separated when Sierra was ten, she did want to fill in the blanks of his life between then and when he’d died four years later.

      What had driven him to risk his life in such hazardous conditions, to spend months away from home and family and suffer all manner of hardships?

      What had he found in the mountains that he couldn’t find with his wife and child?

      Why had he played the part of the devoted father for the first ten years of her life then left her, taking with him a piece of her heart she’d never been able to get back?

      Those questions had been enough to override her better judgment and persuade her to leave Manhattan for the wilds of middle-of-nowhere Colorado. She hoped that in talking to Paul Teasdale she could somehow solve the mystery of her father and discover what had driven him to the mountains—and away from her.

      PAUL TEASDALE SAW the woman long before she spotted him. He’d climbed onto the roof of his duplex to replace some damaged shingles and had scarcely driven the first nail when he glanced down the hill and saw a vision in short skirt and crazy high heels doggedly hiking toward him. She stopped every half block to catch her breath, giving him the opportunity to study her. Her brown, shoulder-length hair, her narrow black skirt and crisp white blouse, though simple, screamed designer pedigree.

      He let his gaze linger on her long, shapely legs. That’s what high heels did for a woman.

      What was a woman like her doing in Ouray, Colorado, a long way from fancy gyms and designer boutiques? She didn’t look like the typical tourist, so that left the other category of visitors the town had seen too much of lately: reporters.

      Frowning, Paul turned his gaze from the woman and fished another nail from the pouch at his waist. He’d really hoped the news media had tired of him and his refusals to talk to them. Yes, finding the body of Victor Winston had been an historical moment, but also an intensely personal one.

      Like much of the rest of the country, Paul had been glued to his television twelve years before, when the mountaineer had been trapped on Mount McKinley, the weather keeping his rescuers at bay, infrequent radio transmissions relaying his plight. Only sixteen at the time, Paul had vowed to replicate Winston’s historic climb one day.

      He’d never dreamed he’d come face-to-face with his idol upon doing so. He was still processing everything the discovery meant, and didn’t care to share his feelings with reporters.

      Excited barking from his dog, Indy, announced 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