The Labradoodle shoved past her in the narrow hallway, yipping with unbridled excitement. Macy made a grab for his collar, missed. “No . . . stop!”
“Hey, whoops—whoa there,” Fletcher managed as the huge, white, curly-haired animal lunged, rose up on hind legs, tail wagging frantically. “Easy now.” He raised the Starbucks tray and paper sack as high as he could to protect them while the dog tried to lap at his chin. “Foot in the middle of my chest—I’ve been threatened with this before.”
“Off!” Macy’s face warmed with embarrassment as she hauled at the dog’s collar. “I’m so sorry. Come on, Dood. Be good. Down, Dood!”
“What is he?”
“Labrador . . . and poodle. Labradoodle.” Macy shook her head.
“Okay then. Here, take these.” Fletcher handed off the drinks and sack, then gave the dog a vigorous head scratch while easing him down to the floor. He was still wriggling and whining, but at least finally on all four paws. “There you go, guy. Good to meet you, too.” He met Macy’s gaze, laughed. “What’s his name?”
“Dood.” Macy sighed, then spelled it aloud. “Like in—”
“Labradoodle.” Fletcher’s blue eyes crinkled at the edges, doing something truly ridiculous to Macy’s stomach. “Good one.”
The dog pushed past her again, a furry host leading them on. She walked ahead of Fletcher, carrying the things he brought to the coffee table, catching a whiff of something sweet—and willing her pulse to return to normal. Why on earth had she invited this man over here?
“I brought cookies. Oatmeal,” Fletcher told her, settling onto an ottoman that looked like Barbie furniture under him. Somehow he managed to seem comfortable. Maybe it was the clothes: worn-soft Levi’s, cowboy boots, and a blue cotton shirt, sleeves rolled back over tanned forearms. He wore the shirt untucked. To cover his gun, she’d bet. “And I didn’t know if you like sugar or—”
“Black. I mean green. No sugar. And thank you.” She settled onto the couch, taking the tea and a cookie from the tray. “This was nice of you.”
“No problem—glad to.” Fletcher lifted his own cup from the tray and removed the lid, releasing the scent of something dark, rich. He glanced at the array of clothing and hiking gear she’d stacked on the table inches from where he sat. “Yours?”
“Mm-hm. I’m going hiking,” she confirmed, blowing on her tea before taking a sip. She wished suddenly that she’d bothered to brush some powder over the scratches on her face. The last time she’d seen him, she’d just emerged from Southside Bank’s landscaping. “I had a couple of extra days off,” she explained, hoping he wouldn’t guess she’d been asked to stay home. “So I thought I’d grab a getaway—tomorrow.”
“Mosquito repellent, sunscreen, backpack, Camelbak water bottle,” Fletcher noted. “GPS, trekking poles, some serious boots . . .” He glanced sideways for a quick glimpse at Macy’s bare feet. There was no good reason for her face to warm. “Sleeping bag. And is that bear spray?”
“Yep.” She smiled, enjoying the look on his face. A triumph after that faint smirk when he peeked at her feet. “It is. I like to be prepared.” She glanced at Dood resting his furry chin on Fletcher’s boot. “Although apparently I need Labradoodle protection too.”
“Looks like you’re not planning to walk around Capitol Park.”
“No,” Macy told him around a bite of cookie. She could never eat an oatmeal cookie without thinking of Nonni. “I’m hiking a good 150 miles southeast of here. Three hours in the Audi. Or maybe two and a half if . . .” She smiled. “If I manage to evade the highway patrol.”
“Let me guess: radar detector app on your phone.”
“I’m kidding,” Macy assured him. “Seat belt and legal speed limit—I’m an ER nurse. You and I have seen too much tragedy to take that kind of risk.” Without warning, the pale face of the young accounts manager rose. Along with a memory of her sticky-warm blood on Macy’s hands. “I needed to get away,” she heard herself admit. “The waterfalls in Yosemite are perfect now.”
“Yosemite?”
“National Park. It’s—”
“I know what it is, where it is.” Fletcher smiled. “We’ve heard of Yosemite in Texas, too. It’s just that it’s on my bucket list. I’ve read about it, seen videos . . .”
“It’s better. Nothing can do it justice. You have to see it, feel it. Be there.” Macy shook her head, feeling the goose-bumpy awe already. “You can’t imagine the scope—sheer granite cliffs so high they make your neck hurt to search for their tops. And the smell of the air, with those huge pines and redwoods. And there are incredible waterfalls . . . At least once in your life, you have to see it.” The invitation popped out, surprising her. “Come with me.”
Fletcher lowered his coffee. “Seriously?”
“Sure.” Macy’s heart began to tap-dance in her ears. Needlessly—this was a casual, spur-of-the-moment thing. The guy hadn’t seen Yosemite. What could she do? “Come along. If you want.”
Fletcher rested his hand on her sleeping bag. “I . . .”
Was he hesitating? She felt like an idiot.
“I’m off work tomorrow,” he told her, obviously thinking it over as carefully as she had her packing list. “And my mother—”
“No problem,” Macy said quickly, refusing to debate if her wave of dizziness was from relief or disappointment. “I only threw it out there because—”
“I meant, sure, I can come. My aunt’s arriving in the morning and staying for a few days. Mom’s been doing fine, anyway.” His brows drew together. “I have to work day shift on Wednesday . . .”
“We’ll leave early. Have the whole day to hike. And we would be back by—” Macy’s face flushed furiously as Fletcher tugged the drawstring on her sleeping bag cover. Oh no. What on earth did he think?
“It’s a day trip,” she said more emphatically than necessary. “The sleeping bag was only because—”
“You like to be prepared,” he finished. “I figured that. Bear spray and all.”
“Right.” She told herself it didn’t matter if he said no thanks. It would be far from the first time she’d reached out and been turned down.
“How early is ‘early’?” Fletcher leaned down to scratch Dood’s ear.
“I have this thing about watching the sunrise,” she admitted, realizing the tap dancers in her ears had moved down to her stomach. “I plan to leave Sacramento by two o’clock.”
“Zero-two-hundred?”
“Pitch-black outside.”
Macy told herself if Fletcher bailed, it was probably the best thing anyway.
“I’m a cop.” He smiled. “We have great flashlights.”
24
“IT’S . . .” Fletcher stared out from the Tunnel View overlook, struggling for words.
“That’s El Capitan on your left. About three thousand feet bottom to top.” Macy pointed at the impossible expanse of towering granite peaks rising above the lush green forests and meadows of Yosemite Valley. “Then Half Dome—elevation’s close to nine thousand feet at the top. And that’s Bridalveil Fall on the right, about a six-hundred-foot vertical drop. When the wind gets blowing, it almost seems like the water’s falling sideways.” She hugged her sweatshirt close against the chill breeze, and Fletcher wanted to yank her back from the low railing. “There’s a lot of old tribal lore about Bridalveil. Curses and evil spirits, of course.” A smile tugged Macy’s lips. “And a legend that breathing in the mist would improve your chances at finding someone to marry. Leah loved that one.”
“You came here together?” Fletcher asked, noticing the glint of the day’s first golden rays on her black hair. It picked out that shiny cherry-cola stripe, making it look like a little girl’s satin ribbon. Or a hidden waterfall.
“We visited Yosemite once. With our foster mother Nonni. She brought seven kids up on a church trip—first time any of us had camped. In the mountains, that is. We were more the downtown shelter sleeping bag crowd. And car camping—parked beside the
Safeway Dumpsters.” Macy nodded toward the vista. “Not nearly the same view.”
Fletcher hunted for words again. But Macy’s careless shrug was accompanied by a blossoming smile.
“I can’t count the number of times I’ve been here since,” she continued. “I even worked a summer in their medical clinic. Ask me anything about new-boot blisters, altitude sickness, and hantavirus symptoms.” She took a deep breath, eyes on the valley below. Her voice hushed to a near whisper. “There’s something about this place. I feel . . . different here.”
You are. Fletcher had to stop himself from saying it aloud. But it was true. He’d never met anyone like this woman. Streetwise, gutsy, competent, and capable for sure. But wary. And still so tenderhearted and sort of vulnerable deep down. Especially when it came to her sister. Her patients. And this place.
His eyes swept the breathtaking panorama again. A mist had begun to rise from the floor of the valley, a soft contrast to the sheer granite cliffs lit by pale sunlight. Macy had surprised him with her invitation to come along, even more with the raw honesty in that comment a few moments ago. Maybe she felt “different” in this place because it softened her defenses. It made him wonder if the day would bring more surprises.
“We should head on to Yosemite Village. Catch the shuttle.”
“Shuttle?”
“To Happy Isles. If we pick up the trail there, it will shave a little time off our hike. Not a bad idea, since it’s easy to spend a lot of extra time ogling the views on the way up there.”
“Up where?”
“Vernal Fall . . . the Mist Trail.” She pointed to the massive peak she’d identified as Half Dome. “I’m going to get you a lot closer to that puppy.” Macy’s lips twitched. “And maybe some marmots.”
“Marmots?” Fletcher shot her a look. “What is that? Some kind of . . . bear?”
Macy smothered a laugh. “I think I’ll let you be surprised.”
Surprises. He’d predicted that.
Taylor told herself to turn the TV news off; this was too painful to watch. But what would that say about her ability to work with crisis victims? That Charly Holt and Seth were right to be concerned?
“There’s a big difference between a scab and a scar, Taylor.” Seth was wrong. It had been two years; Taylor was fine now.
She reached for the remote and turned up the volume on an interview with the husband of the accounts manager killed at the bank.
“You and your wife had—have two small children,” the reporter amended, extending the microphone.
“Yes. Three years and almost six. Boys.” The man swallowed and shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked like he hadn’t had more than a few hours’ sleep.
“That must be so difficult,” the reporter continued. “How are the boys taking the loss of their mother?”
Taylor cringed. Who asks that kind of question?
“How . . . ?” The young widower’s brows pinched together as if he didn’t understand. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. “They . . . miss her. They keep asking when she’ll be back. If she’s away on a business trip. I’ve tried to explain, their grandparents have, our pastor . . .” His voice broke. “They don’t understand how she could go to work and not come back. How this could happen. None of us do.”
Taylor switched the TV off, closing her eyes against a familiar ache. “How this could happen . . .” That was the worst of it right there. Trying to make sense of something that should never have happened. Making it fit into a suck-it-up-and-deal-with-it, stuff-happens sort of box. The kind of platitude that softens the blow of being passed over for a job, dealing with a costly fender bender, flooding your kitchen, burning a Thanksgiving turkey. There was no box for this kind of tragedy. The shattering of a soul-deep trust that allowed you to kiss a loved one good-bye with assurance that . . . he’ll come back.
Taylor closed her Bible and reached for the printed list of phone records. Papers she’d promised herself at least a dozen times to toss. She’d finally emptied Greg’s clothes closet and donated his tools to the church’s Mexico outreach ministry. She’d even stopped sleeping in his old shirts. But these stupid papers . . . Why couldn’t she let them go?
Taylor traced her finger down the list of cell phone calls. The ones Greg made in the week before his death. She stopped at the number she’d highlighted with a yellow marker. Three calls to that number the day he died, the last one made an hour before the accident. It was a landline belonging to a friend he played basketball with. Not a close buddy, just one of a loose group. His fiancée was a flight nurse; Taylor had met her a few times during transports. They’d both been at Greg’s funeral.
Taylor set the paper down, angry with herself. What was the point of this? She’d already asked the basketball buddy about the calls—if he’d seen Greg that night. He hadn’t. Hadn’t even been home. He guessed Greg didn’t have his cell number, and he’d insisted he knew nothing about his friend’s plan to help someone install a home theater system. There was no point in asking again. It would simply spotlight Taylor as the widow who couldn’t move on. A woman with a scab, not a scar.
“. . . don’t understand how she could go to work and not come back. How this could happen.” The young widower’s words. The beginning of his battle to accept the unimaginable and still . . . trust God?
Taylor touched her Bible, stunned by the thought. Of course she trusted God. It wasn’t that. That wasn’t why these questions kept turning in her head. It was . . . that I don’t trust my husband?
Her stomach roiled. Enough of this.
She carried the remains of her breakfast to the kitchen, dumped it into the garbage. Then reached for the nursing magazine she’d left on the breakfast bar alongside her coffee cup. It was folded open to a page she’d highlighted with that same yellow marker: a recruiter’s ad for a traveling nurse position in San Diego.
“How’s it going?” Macy cupped her hand around her mouth, shouting over the tumultuous roar of the Merced River. “Doing okay?”
“You mean . . . can I still breathe?” Fletcher puffed, pausing with one hand on the metal rail that ran along the sheer, staggering drop down a granite cliff to the river. He grinned, a flash of white against tanned skin flushed by exertion. He was literally soaked with water, drenched. Hair, face, shoulders, broad chest . . . “Or are you checking to be sure I haven’t drowned?” He glanced down at the frothy white torrent rushing over endless boulders, some nearly the size of a house. His expression was clearly awestruck. “This is a whole new definition of humidity,” he shouted back. “I’m inhaling melted snow!”
“Exactly.” Macy nodded, impressed with Fletcher’s ability to keep up with her. He was obviously fit, but the elevation here was nearly six thousand feet, with a total heart-slamming gain of nineteen hundred feet once they reached the top of Nevada Fall. Jogging in Houston or even some of the rugged hiking he’d done on hunting trips wouldn’t be training enough for the Sierra Nevada mountain range. She glanced up the trailhead, slabs of shiny-wet granite fashioned into crude steps, pitted with residual jackhammer marks from the volunteer crews who’d painstakingly carved them. Six hundred steps to scale this last half mile. Condensing mist from the waterfalls sluiced downward from step to step.
She turned to look at Fletcher again. “We’re more than halfway,” she shouted against the deafening roar of the river. “Maybe another two hundred steps to the top. Watch your footing.” She blinked as water streamed into her eye. “Slippery.”
“I’m doomed.” Fletcher shook his head.
“Just grab the rail. You’re doing great.”
He grinned, blue eyes teasing. “No. I meant my single days are numbered.”
“What?” Macy asked, not sure she was hearing him correctly.
“That legend about the mist . . . and marriage. I’ve breathed in a gallon of this stuff.”
“Oh.” Macy laughed. “Wrong waterfall—you’re safe. Two hundred more steps, Holt. Let’s do this!”
BY THE TIME THEY REACHED THE TOP, Fletcher’s lungs were heaving. He followed Macy to the spot she said was best for viewing, and when he turned to take in the panorama, he nearly lost the last of his breath. He widened his stance, momentarily dizzy. And completely awed: Morning sun and clear-blue sky, distant snowcapped mountains studded with green pines. Unbelievably immense granite peaks with that cascade of white water, Nevada Fall, in its endless free fall down the boulders, before finally disappearing from sight.
“Pretty amazing?” Macy spread her arms wide and turned in a slow circle, a beautiful hostess enjoying the obvious delight of her guest. “Worth the climb?”
“Absolutely. I . . . Wow.” He’d never seen anything like it, doubted he ever would again. He raised a thumb. “I’m impressed.”
Fletcher watched as several people reached the top and joined them; the glut of hikers had thinned after Vernal Fall, where the climb got considerably more strenuous. He was glad Macy insisted they come early. The crowds were evident the moment they entered the valley, and based on the group that had shared their shuttle, these people came from all over the world. Fletcher had already heard Japanese, German, French, Portuguese, and Russian. There were cyclists, parents with children in backpack carriers, senior citizens, photographers with huge lenses, people pointing cell phones—and countless people simply pointing fingers, mouths agape. Why wouldn’t they be? Impressive was far too small a word.
“Pull up a rock.” Macy sat down and slid her arms from her backpack. She retrieved sunglasses from one of the pockets and slid them on. Then she lifted her face toward the sun and sighed. “Ahh. This will dry our clothes faster than you think.”
By Your Side Page 15
