Kelli Ireland - Conquering The Cowboy

“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 without slowing, he pulled his smartphone out of the back pocket of his Wranglers. A single press of the home key showed no missed calls. He’d become paranoid about being inaccessible, and cell service out here was sporadic at best, nonexistent at worst.

Five bars of service.

No missed calls.

The ringer was on.

Volume was up.

A small part of him relaxed. The rest of him remained as knotted up as ever.

Memories crowded in on him, despite his objections, and for a split second Quinn wasn’t in his truck headed to town. He was in bed in his little Idaho home, the alarm set unreasonably early so he’d be on time for a scheduled climb up Baron Spire. The ringer on his smartphone had been shut off, the vibrate function left on in case his parents needed him. And they had.

Mom.

She’d called four times in a row, the phone eventually shimmying its way across the nightstand and over the edge, hitting the floor with a thunk that pulled him out of deep, dreamless sleep. He’d rolled over, blindly fishing around on the floor for the phone, accidentally hitting Answer before he had the phone to his ear.

Soft sobs came from the caller.

Adrenaline had careened through his system and driven his heart wild, setting his nerves on edge and sharpening his voice. “Mom?”

No answer.

“Mom?” he’d asked again, undiluted fear souring his stomach. He had fallen out of bed then, his knees striking the hardwood floor with a loud crack. He’d buried his face in his hands and the phone had slipped, forcing him to re-pin it between his ear and shoulder to hear her.

Odd thing to remember.

“You need to come home, Quinn.”

“Where’s Dad?” he’d demanded. “Put Dad on the phone, Mom.” Pleaded. “Where is he?” Beseeched.

“This afternoon...” She’d hiccuped, a sharp sound. “Oh, Quinn...” Deep breaths had raked across the phone’s receiver, scraping at him through the earpiece.

“Tell me.”

Then she’d done as he’d asked. He’d stopped breathing the moment she complied, uttering damning words he wanted to childishly demand she take back. “Your dad was working on the windmill in the south pasture. No one is sure what happened. Not exactly. All we know is that he fell. The doctor said his injuries were massive. Quinn, he didn’t...”

The words make it weren’t spoken, but they were there just the same as if they had been shouted, hovering a moment before they crashed into him. The impact tattooed the truth on his heart. And then? The world simply stopped.

His dad. The man Quinn had spent years following, listening to, emulating. The man who had convinced Quinn it was okay to want more than the rural lifestyle he’d grown up with. The man who’d handed him the title to his pickup and $15,000 in cash, telling Quinn to figure out what made him happy and where he’d be happiest doing it. The man who’d been unashamedly in love with his wife and left a light on for his only child every night.

His heart had seized, a tight band of pain around his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Dad.

A jackrabbit darted across the road and he jerked the wheel. “Pay attention,” he muttered to himself.

More than eighteen months since he’d lost the man and Quinn still felt off-center, like the world had tilted hard to the left and he couldn’t get it back on its axis.

When he crested the small hill, the town appeared as if conjured by dark memories that defied the impossibly blue sky. It looked exactly as it had when he’d left twelve years ago. He chuffed out a harsh laugh as he realized that there was as little for a man of thirty-one to do here as there was a nineteen-year-old boy on the edge. Nothing had changed. Not a single. Damn. Thing.

“Except that one half of the best part of this place is gone.” His words were swallowed by the noise his all-terrain tires made on the rough asphalt road.

Stomach rumbling, he shot a look at the clock. It was late for lunch. He could skip it altogether, head to the ranch and snag something from his mom’s fridge or—he turned onto Main Street—he could grab a bite in town. The cook at Muddy Waters, the local bar and grill, was an old high school buddy. He’d throw a burger on the grill without complaint and Quinn would be sure to tip the waitress well. His stomach growled in response. A burger it was.