Kelli Ireland - Conquering The Cowboy

Survivor’s guilt swelled into monster emotional waves not even the best psychiatrists had been able to teach her to surf. Those waves peaked and then crashed, the impact rolling through her like a detonation. Her chest seized and air became a commodity so scarce she didn’t have an emotional credit with a deep enough credit line to get what she needed. Fighting off the looming panic attack, Taylor forced her hands to relax, but not before her blunt fingernails had left deep crescent marks in the flesh of her palms. The panic, and her response, had become so predictable. She hated that and fought to push the panic away. To control her breathing. To ban the memories she couldn’t completely access. To block the total recall she had where the factual reports were concerned.

Her last therapist called this type of reaction “extreme avoidance.” Taylor preferred to call it “critical self-preservation,” because if she didn’t? If she couldn’t find the strength to fight back? She was done. The bottom line didn’t change, though. Her reaction could be interpreted a hundred different ways, but the ultimate explanation was the simplest, the most consistent. Her head was a freaking mess. But Taylor was going to change that. Fate, Karma and all their cousins could kiss her ass.

A semi blew past her, rocking her four-wheel-drive truck on its shocks. The vehicle settled long before she’d convinced herself to lift her forehead and take in the fuel gauge’s digital display, which read 48 Miles. She’d better find fuel, and fast. The last town lay much farther behind her than that. Hell, it had been nearly half an hour since she’d seen another car.

A quick tap on the GPS and the electronic voice, male with a slight British accent—she’d named him Daniel early on the first day of this unsanctioned trip—advised she was only eleven miles from her destination.

Crooked Water, New Mexico.

A late-model pickup passed her, then brake lights glowed as the truck slowed.

Crap. She did not need help. Fumbling with her blinker, she checked her mirror, found empty highway in both directions and pulled back onto the asphalt. She didn’t look at the driver of the truck but instead gave an absent wave as she passed him. A sigh of relief escaped when she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw him make his way back onto the road. Confrontation avoided. As small a town as Crooked Water was reputed to be, she knew people would be curious, knew there would be questions. That’s why she’d booked herself into the tiny rental at the Rocking-B Ranch. The place had no reviews and seemed to have been listed on the online rental site only in the last couple of weeks. She’d simply tell anyone who asked that she was a guest there. While it was true, the answer served a bigger purpose. It meant she didn’t have to tell them the real reason she’d come to New Mexico.

“Your destination is ahead.”

“Thanks, Daniel,” she said, reaching out to mock fist-bump the GPS.

The word unsanctioned tripped through her mind, rolling around as she crested a hill and the first signs of civilization appeared. This personal expedition certainly hadn’t been approved by anyone—her boss, her doctor, her physical therapist or her psychiatrist. But she needed to start taking some of her own back. Getting here was the equivalent of learning to crawl. Braving the fears she’d face as she prepped for the climb would equate to the first time she’d stood on her own two feet. And the four-day recertification climb she’d booked?

Her palms went cold and sweaty, her heart rate ratcheting up to jackhammer level in seconds.

It was the climb that was all about her learning to walk again. Neither her mind nor her body’s systems cared that the “walking” she’d be doing was figurative. All she could think about was falling.

Literally.

Her hand fisted so tight her knuckles bleached out to a skeletal white. “Not going there.”

Pulling 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.