Conquering The Cowboy. Kelli Ireland
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.
He parked curbside, hopped down from his truck and traversed the fractured concrete walk that never failed to trip up drunks and tourists alike.
Inside, the atmosphere was comfortable in its familiarity. Square laminate tables, each surrounded by four vinyl-covered chairs, were scattered around the floor.
He nodded to a handful of familiar faces as he settled at a table in the corner and dropped his hat on the neighboring chair.
The waitress sauntered up, order pad and pen in hand. “What’ll it be, handsome?”
He didn’t even bother with the menu. “Cheeseburger, medium, all the trimmings, large basket of onion rings and a lemonade. How’s your mom, Amy?”
The waitress was another high school friend, and her family had owned the restaurant for three generations. She rolled her eyes. “Same as always. Swears I’m running this place into the ground and am going to end up being forced to sell to an—” she feigned a gasp “—outsider. She’s threatening to come out of retirement.”
Quinn chuckled. “If she comes back, tell her she’ll have to make her chocolate cream pies by the dozen. I miss those.”
“Secret family recipe I just happen to possess.” She considered him for a moment before tacking on, “You should come to dinner one night. I’ll make you a pie.”
He appreciated her predicament, being single in Crooked Water. The dating pool was more mud puddle than pond. But as much as Quinn liked her, he wasn’t the solution to her problem.
He’d once thought he wanted a love like his parents had shared, had spent years looking for it, dating, hoping every new face was The One. It hadn’t taken him long to realize exactly how rare that kind of love was. And now, given what he’d seen his dad’s death do to his mom? He intended to avoid relationships at all costs. No amount of love could make that amount of grief worth it.
Looking up at Amy, he smiled. “I appreciate the offer, but I have to pass. With Dad gone, Mom needs all the help she can get. Keeps my priorities at home, making sure she’s taken care of.”
The waitress smiled. “Can’t blame a girl for asking.”
“I’m flattered you did.”
She tucked her pen into her topknot of hair and ripped his order off the pad. “I’ll turn this in. Hank should have it out in just a few.”
He settled back to wait, sliding down in his chair to stretch his legs out in front of him.
“I hear you’re taking someone up the mountain,” Art Jameson, a town local and family friend, called out across the vacant dance floor. “That mean you’re back to climbing again, Q?”
Every eye in the place landed on Quinn.
He had no idea how the news had reached the gossip mill, but it clearly had. And he wasn’t ready to answer. Mostly because he didn’t have a damn clue what to say.
There’d been speculation that he’d be out of Crooked Water and back on the ropes before the seasons changed. But he hadn’t. Not this season, anyway. He was still grieving his dad’s passing, for Pete’s sake. More than that, his mom needed him. None of that mattered. People around here were fascinated that he’d left home and made something of himself. And since Jeff, the guy who’d bought Quinn’s former business, had referred this climber to Quinn—the first client of his new climbing business—he had expected folks would discover he was going up the mountain again. Next, word would get out he was opening up shop as a full-time guide. Managing that news would be...difficult, at best, seeing as he hadn’t discussed it with his new ranching partner.
His mom.
Fighting the urge to pull his shoulders up around his ears and growl, he instead met Art’s curious gaze with his level one. “I never really quit.”
Sam Tolbert, the region’s large animal veterinarian, picked up his tea glass and tipped it in Quinn’s direction. “Heard you agreed to take some climber up Trono del Cielo next week.”
Trono del Cielo. The Throne of Heaven.
Quinn arched a brow as he slid lower in the hardbacked diner chair. “Gone a handful of years and the only thing to have changed around here is the gossip mill’s efficiency.”
This, this, was what he hated about small towns. You couldn’t switch toilet paper brands without someone noticing and “mentioning” it to someone else.
“Rumors come and go, Doc. Hang around long enough and time will let you know what’s true.” Grabbing his hat, he stood, slapped it on his head and searched Amy out in the small crowd. “Make that a to-go order, would you?” He needed to get out of here. The levee of polite restraint had been publicly breached. People would ask what they wanted to know, pose question