Freefall

CHAPTER TWO

SAM TOOK THE path toward the High Sierra Trail, feeling like a fool.

He hadn’t known Hope was a park ranger. The night they’d slept together, he’d assumed she was a slope bunny on vacation. In hindsight, he’d been careless. Seducing a woman he didn’t intend to see again only worked if they didn’t see each other again. He should have made sure she wasn’t local.

A quick glance behind him revealed that she wasn’t having any trouble matching his longer strides. It figured. She’d been an energetic bed partner, too. He remembered her strong, slender thighs, gripping him like a vise.

Giving himself a mental shake, he pushed aside the memory and picked up speed, setting a relentless pace. He’d never been able to outrun his problems, but physical exertion soothed him in a way nothing else could. The day was already warm, the sun peeking over the tall treetops. After twenty minutes, he was sweating.

Hope used her radio to call the whitewater rafting guide. “Go ahead without me,” she said, signing off.

“You’re missing a rafting trip?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Yes. We were planning to spend three days on the Kaweah.”

“We?”

“My sister and I.”

“Does she live around here?”

“No. She’s from L.A.”

He heard the telltale inflection in her tone. Los Angeles was a dirty word in the Sierras. How could he have mistaken her for a tourist? He’d really been thinking with his dick that night. “Where are you from?”

“Ojai.”

Now that he thought about it, he remembered her sharing that detail at the bar. Ojai, pronounced Oh-hi, was a sleepy town near the coast. They’d laughed together over its hippie nickname, Get-high.

No wonder he hadn’t realized she was local. Maybe she’d kept him in the dark on purpose. It wasn’t a secret that he didn’t date climbing groupies or park residents. He didn’t date at all, since Melissa.

Sam couldn’t fault Hope for the miscommunication. Even if she’d lied to him, which he doubted, it didn’t matter. They’d had anonymous sex. Honesty wasn’t required. He hadn’t exactly given her a full disclosure, either.

Concentrating on the climb, he adjusted his gait along a steep incline. His legs moved forward at a steady clip, step after step. Hope didn’t slow down or complain, so he continued to push hard. When he was in the zone, his thoughts drifted away, leaving nothing but the moment. They were making good time.

Two hours later, at midmorning, the sun was blazing, and his shirt was damp with sweat. She stumbled behind him, her breathing labored.

He stopped under the next shady tree to rest. “We should eat lunch,” he said. “You don’t want to get light-headed on the climb.”

She agreed, reaching into her pack for two protein bars and two apples. He accepted her offering without complaint. His dehydrated meals weren’t half as tasty. The crisp apple awakened his senses.

Although he tried not to stare, he couldn’t avoid glancing at her. She was even lovelier than he remembered.

The night they met, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. The moment she walked into the bar, his pulse had kicked up and his throat had gone dry. After more than a year of his feeling next to nothing at the most challenging, dangerous summits, this flood of sensation left him breathless.

She’d been wearing a dark blue thermal with a cute snowflake pattern. It was about as sexy as a reindeer sweater, not revealing in the least, but he’d ignored the good-girl giveaway and focused on the body underneath. He’d been mesmerized by her bright smile, smooth skin and shiny dark hair.

Why hadn’t he left her alone? She’d looked disgustingly sweet, innocent and healthy. Easy pickings.

They’d both been drinking. She sipped white wine like a teetotaler while he knocked back shots. He’d waited until she was tipsy to make his move. At that point, he’d been drunk enough to go through with it, but not too drunk to perform.

He knew Hope wasn’t a no-strings type, and he hadn’t cared. He hadn’t cared about her name, or her profession, or her feelings.

And the way he’d acted afterward—Jesus. He couldn’t get rid of her fast enough.

Since then, he’d tried not to think about her. He’d convinced himself that she wasn’t special; any woman would feel fantastic after a long stint of abstinence. She wasn’t beautiful; he’d had beer goggles on.

He’d really been kidding himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her bite into the apple. Her white teeth pierced the fruit’s ruddy skin. She was flushed from the hike, dewy with perspiration, her tank top plastered to her chest. No, he didn’t need alcohol to find her attractive.

“How do you know Owen?” she asked.

“Owen?”

“Owen Jackson.”

He blinked a few times to dispel the sexual voodoo. “We met in San Diego during the earthquake.”

She arched a curious brow, crunching on another bite of apple. He hadn’t spoken to the media about the incident, but it was widely reported that he’d almost died in a freeway collapse. “You were in a coma.”

“Most of the time,” he agreed. “A group of us were trapped in the rubble. Owen used my climbing equipment to get out and find help.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re friends?”

Sam wouldn’t go that far. Even his close friends didn’t talk to him anymore, and he avoided his family. He’d alienated everyone who loved him. “We’re friendly enough,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering.”

“Has he given you any trouble?”

“No. He works hard.”

“He seems like a good kid,” he said, shrugging. “I owed him one, and I thought he deserved a second chance.”

She nodded, finishing her lunch.

It occurred to him that she might be interested in Owen as a man. The “kid” was in his early twenties, but prison had matured him beyond his years. Although he had some issues, he wasn’t half as screwed up as Sam.

“How old are you?” he asked, suspicious.

“Twenty-eight.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. Most park rangers were college graduates, and she was hardly jailbait. “You look younger.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“You look older.”

He acknowledged this truth with a wry smile. Even before grief and illness ravaged him, the sun had stripped any hint of youth from his skin. “I owe you an apology,” he said, surprising them both.

She almost choked on a mouthful of water. “For what?”

“I...wasn’t myself that night.”

“Who were you?”

“I don’t know.”

Hope didn’t seem impressed by this nonexplanation.

“The way I reacted was rude,” he said, feeling lousy. “I’m sorry. I could have handled it better.”

She still looked skeptical, and he couldn’t blame her. There was no polite way to tell the woman you just had sex with to get out of your house. He shouldn’t have brought it up; his behavior was inexcusable.

“Let’s just forget about it,” she said, forcing a smile.

Sam wasn’t relieved that she’d let him off the hook. On the contrary, her words plucked a painful chord inside him. He’d never forget anything on purpose. Every memory he’d been able to retain was precious to him.

She rose to her feet and brushed off the seat of her pants.

“Do you want me to carry your pack?”

“No, I’m okay.”

As they continued toward Angel Wings, the silence became increasingly uncomfortable. His apology, though sincere, hadn’t cleared the air. If anything, it made the situation worse. Tension swirled between them, thicker than ever.

The last two miles of the path were the most challenging. He didn’t want to exhaust her before the climb, so he let her walk in front of him. This way she could set her own pace, rather than struggle to keep up.

Her other physical attributes were just as fine as her face. She had an athletic build, taut and toned, but not skinny. She was curvy in all the right places. Her cropped jogging pants clung to her slender thighs and cute ass. She had long, graceful arms. If she climbed with as much gusto as she did everything else, they’d have no problems reaching the summit.

Sam wasn’t looking forward to the ascent. He didn’t partner anymore. Not with men at his skill level, not with women at any level. The idea gave him hives. He didn’t want to hold Hope’s life in his hands.

Angel Wings rose in the distance, a massive wall of pale gray granite. This angel had dirty wings, feathering high into the sky. Mighty Valhalla stood directly across from her. Both monoliths had smooth faces, ribbed with cracks and handholds, etched by ancient glaciers. It was the stuff of climbers’ dreams.

Hope stopped and flashed a smile, more genuine than the one she’d offered earlier. “Which route did you take up Valhalla?”

He fell into step beside her, following her gaze to the wall. There were five or six charted routes with fixed pitons. Climbers could follow a trail that had already been blazed, or strike out on their own. “North Arete.”

The smile fell off her face. “You free-soloed North Arete?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible.”

He didn’t argue. It was the most difficult route on Valhalla, and a challenging free solo, but hardly impossible.

“It hasn’t been done. Not even in the daytime.”

“I did it.”

She squinted into the distance. “How?”

He rotated the elastic band on his wrist, uncomfortable. A climbing feat didn’t exist without a witness, so there was nothing to brag about. Glory and record-breaking no longer appealed to him. “Never mind.”

But clearly, she did mind. “You free-soloed a 5.12 route in the middle of the night? Are you crazy?”

“Maybe.” Probably. Yes.

“Next you’ll tell me you BASE-jumped off the top.”

He smiled at her horrified expression. “That’s illegal.”

“So is backcountry hiking without a permit,” she said, her dark eyes flashing.

“I don’t free-BASE,” he said. Some young daredevils were combining free-solo climbing with BASE jumping. Sam wasn’t tempted. He liked the freedom of climbing without gear; the sensation of falling just made him nauseated.

“I’d arrest you in a heartbeat if you did.”

Oddly, this conversation thrilled him more than the risky climb. He pushed the limits because he felt dead inside. Although he still had some capacity for fear, he’d lost his sense of self-preservation.

What he’d retained, in overabundant amounts, was concern for others. He couldn’t belay a partner without anticipating a fall. His intense anxiety interfered with his love for the sport. He didn’t want to be responsible for another climber. Often, he didn’t trust the gear. Solo-climbing had become his only solace.

Partnering with Hope would be excruciating.

“Why did you report the accident, instead of checking it out?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You could have climbed up to investigate the crash.”

“Before contacting park authorities? That’s against rescue protocol.”

“You’re a rule-breaker. We’ve already established that.”

He scowled, guilty as charged. “I was afraid of what I’d find.”

“Survivors?”

“Corpses.”

She tilted her head to one side, deliberating. “I suppose you saw a lot of those in San Diego.”

He didn’t want to talk about it. “Have you ever done a 5.11?”

“Yes,” she said, moving her attention from him to the wall. “I’ve climbed this one.”

“Which section?”

“South Ridge.”

“With a partner?”

She nodded.

“Okay. I know that route, too.”

They checked and rechecked the gear. He gave her a pop quiz on ropes and knots, pleased to find her proficient. Most of the prep was second nature to him. He could tie an eight in his sleep.

At noon, they were ready. It was the hottest part of the day, near ninety degrees on the rock face, but a pleasant breeze drifted through the canyon. Sam did the lead climbing and Hope followed, steady as it goes. Although she was a natural athlete and a fair climber, he couldn’t relax while she was in motion. Every time she reached for a new handhold, he held his breath. Disaster seemed imminent. Images of her plummeting to her death swarmed his vision. He saw frayed ropes, broken harnesses...cracked skulls.

Melissa’s ashes.

Sam knew better than anyone else that climbing was mental. The sport required intense concentration, a quiet mind and a positive outlook. Fear would literally kill you on the rock face. If he didn’t rein it in, he might endanger Hope.

Luckily, he was experienced enough to know the difference between foreboding and phobia. Climbers were a superstitious lot. They followed their instincts, weighing risks in a fraction of a second. Only a fool ignored his internal warning system. But Sam’s reaction was based on psychological trauma, not the situation at hand.

Hope could do this.

Besides, abandoning the effort would have grave consequences. She’d have to find another partner, maybe even wait until morning. While any possible survivors battled the elements on top of the mountain after the temperature plummeted.

Sam tried to tamp down his fear, but it wasn’t easy. He didn’t get scared that often, and he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with it. He’d become soft, in a way. Apathetic. Caring about life or death required effort.

Oblivious of his struggle, Hope continued to climb. She was confident, but cautious, spending too much time thinking about every move. Time dragged out into an eternity. He had to bite his tongue to keep from criticizing the flaws in her technique. She wasn’t an expert and it showed.

A few years ago, Sam had been an easygoing partner who enjoyed initiating newcomers to the sport. Now he was quickly frustrated, his body humming with impatience. The type of climber he used to loathe.

To her credit, Hope stayed positive and kept a smile on her face. He began to suspect that she was doing it just to annoy him. When she made a minor misstep and almost lost her grip, he swore up at the sky.

His negative attitude made an impact on her near the top. She came to a wide gap about ten feet away from her last placement. A fall from this distance could be dangerous, whether the gear held or not. Even during short drops, climbers could get tangled in ropes, crack their heads against the rock and break bones.

If the gear failed, death was certain.

Her footing looked off as she stretched out her arm. He muttered another curse, and she must have heard it, because she spooked. Instead of committing to the reach, she second-guessed herself and faltered. Her questing fingertips found no purchase, and her foothold crumbled.

With a sharp cry, she tumbled backward, her arms and legs flailing. Her harness caught and held, jerking her body roughly.

Sam braced himself against the rock and listened for the sound of gear popping, his blood thundering in his ears. To his intense relief, the protection bore her weight as she dangled in midair, a thousand feet from the ground. He held the safety rope, her last lifeline, clenched in his trembling hands.

She grasped the rope that attached them, staring up at him with frantic eyes. He let out a slow breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. They’d get through this a lot easier if she didn’t look down.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She moistened her lips. “I’m okay.”

“Reach out to the wall.”

Her gear was keeping her safe, not his gaze, but she seemed reluctant to look away.

“I’ve got you.”

After a short hesitation, she straightened, focusing on the rock face. She let go of the rope with one hand and touched the wall with the other. The tip of her shoe found an overhang, and her fingertips gripped a small fissure. She flattened her belly against the sun-drenched surface and paused there, as if soaking up its spirit.

After a moment of communing with the climbing gods, she made her way up. The final push went by in a blur. Before he knew it, they were at the summit. With Sam’s help, she scrambled over the edge.

He studied their surroundings, breathing hard. The top of Angel Wings was jagged, with dips and crags, like the surface of a tooth. He couldn’t see the remains of a plane, but there were hints of its trajectory. Burned-up bits of fuselage marred the landscape.

Sam pulled up their haul bag while she rested, her shoulders trembling from fatigue. The elation he usually felt after a climb was tempered by worry. They had a new obstacle to meet: searching for survivors.

“That was close,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“My fault.”

“You’re a difficult partner.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Yes.”

He searched her face, wondering why she’d overestimated him. Then he realized that she was judging him by his performance in bed, which had been a hell of a lot more generous. Until he threw her out.

A flush crept up his neck at the backhanded compliment. He drank water from his pack, flattered and confused. The fact that he’d given her pleasure didn’t excuse his behavior, but she seemed determined not to demonize him. Maybe she saw the good in everyone. Or maybe she just expected poor treatment from men.

The thought depressed him. He didn’t like the idea of being one of a long string of jerks. He wanted better for her—and himself.

Hope took her gun out of her pack.

“What are you doing?” he asked, startled.

She shoved the weapon into her waistband, against the small of her back. “I have to check out the crash site. Stay here.”

“No way.”

“You can’t come.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a civilian, and this is a potential crime scene. It’s risky to fly at night without GPS or a flight plan. The plane might have been carrying illegal cargo.”

“Not every risk-taker is a criminal.”

“True,” she said. “Some are just idiots.”

He winced, knowing which category she placed him in.

“The crash victims could be smugglers, protecting their stash.”

“Don’t you need backup?”

“I won’t try to arrest a group of thugs by myself. I’ll just survey the scene and collect information.”

“I’m coming with you.”

She deliberated for a moment, her mouth pursed. “You have to take my lead, be quiet and stay back when I tell you to.”

“Okay,” he said, swallowing hard. He might be an adrenaline junkie, crazy as fuck, but the situation scared him. He didn’t like guns and he wasn’t keen on getting shot. There was a difference between free-solo climbing, in which he trusted his abilities, and assisting an armed park ranger he hardly knew.

He also worried that they’d find a dead body. His aversion to corpses was stronger than his fear of guns or drug smugglers.

But he had to accompany her. Had to. Because his biggest fear was that Hope would be hurt or killed on his watch. The last woman he’d climbed with was dead. He couldn’t handle another blow like that.

Sam was already broken, hanging on to sanity by a thread. At the slightest provocation, he’d fall apart.

As Hope walked across the uneven, pebble-strewn surface of the crag, he followed close behind, his heart racing. It was ten degrees cooler at this altitude. Wind rippled through his microfiber shirt, evaporating the sweat from his body. Although he’d just slaked his thirst, his throat was dry.

When the wreckage came into view, she paused. It appeared that the plane had clipped the southwest corner of the mountain and broken up across the surface. The majority of the fuselage was still intact, perched very close to the edge of the opposite cliff. A figure was slumped over in the pilot’s seat.

Sam’s stomach clenched with unease.

Although the pilot appeared to be dead, she approached with caution. “We’re with search-and-rescue for Sierra National Park,” she called out, shading the sun from her eyes. “Do you need help?”

No response.

She glanced at Sam, her face tense. Motioning for Sam to stay there, she crept forward. He ignored the gesture and stuck by her.

The plane’s front windshield was broken. Inside the cockpit, the pilot was motionless, his head resting on the dash, gray hair fluttering in the breeze.

“Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

It didn’t appear that any bodies had been thrown from the plane. When she was at an arm’s length from the broken windshield, she leaned over to peer inside. The wreckage was so close to the cliff’s edge, he pictured it toppling over with one touch. He bit back a warning as she craned her neck for a better view. A black crow flew out of the cockpit with a shrill screech, wings flapping.

Sam almost had a heart attack.

Hope screamed at the top of her lungs and leaped backward, bumping into him. He stumbled sideways.

“I told you to stay over there,” she scolded.

Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t take his gaze off the pilot. The lower half of the man’s face was obliterated, and he had a second wound in the center of his chest. Blood spatter coated the interior.

This wasn’t just a crash site. It was a murder scene.