By Your Side

by Candace Calvert

  Fletcher sat down beside her, sneaking a peek at her as he pulled out his own glasses. Following Macy up the trail had been a great view in itself. Those long legs, nicely muscled calves showing below quick-dry hiking pants, the sway of that long ponytail. And the way she looked right now, with the morning sun on her face . . .

  “That’s Liberty Cap,” she told him, pointing again, “just beyond the waterfall. Mount Broderick is the smaller bump in the middle. And over there, Half Dome again—the back side of it this time. The cables just went up last week.”

  “Cables?”

  “For the hike up Half Dome. You have to apply for a permit—access is very protected now. Then it’s about ten hours up to the top,” Macy explained, hugging her arms around her knees. “The last nine hundred feet is really a rock climb; you have to pull yourself up the rest of the way—sometimes sort of hanging out away from the cliff—using steel cables. There have been more than a few people who fell to their deaths. The whole first time, I didn’t want to trust those cables.”

  “You . . .” Fletcher stared at her. “You climbed that thing?”

  “Four times.” Macy lifted her glasses, smiled. “And when you finally get up on top, you’re in serious danger of lightning strikes.”

  Fletcher scraped his hand across his jaw. “Obviously you didn’t need me out there on that freeway.”

  Macy’s smile eclipsed. “That’s not true. That was . . . a whole different thing.”

  Aagh. Fletcher wanted to take back the words. Only a few days ago this woman had faced that shooter again, held his victim in her arms.

  “I’m sorry, Macy. That was a lame attempt at a compliment. I should have known—”

  “No problem,” she said quickly. “I think it’s time to dig into these packs and find food. You brought some too, right?”

  “Sure did.” He unzipped his pack, hoping he hadn’t crushed what he’d brought. And wishing there was something he could say or do to bring back Macy’s smile. Maybe—

  “Well,” she said, her lips quirking toward a smile after all. “Right on cue. We have company.” She pointed.

  Fletcher turned his head, saw them. A troop of furry creatures standing on their hind legs. Inching closer, rising again. With the obvious mission of getting their paws on the contents of the backpacks. Fletcher squinted at the leader. A gopher face, but much bigger, more like an oversize groundhog. Or a beaver out of water—with a fuzzy tail. “What are they?”

  “Yellow-bellied marmots.”

  “Good sandwich,” Macy told him ten minutes later, wondering if Fletcher had noticed the hunk of roast beef she’d tossed to the marmots. He’d politely insisted on sharing the food from his pack. Admitting she was a pescatarian—ate fish, but no other meats—might seem ungrateful. Besides, he’d probably think she meant Presbyterian or some other religious affiliation. Why on earth had she mentioned that her first trip to Yosemite had been with a church group? She swore she saw hope in the man’s eyes. Going to church had been more about pleasing Nonni than trusting God, but that’s the last thing she wanted to discuss right now. “How are you doing with that veggie wrap?”

  “It’s . . . great.” Fletcher wiped a stray alfalfa sprout from the corner of his mouth. “Grilled tofu and seeing Half Dome—a day of firsts.”

  “You’re a good sport,” Macy told him, meaning it.

  “So are you.” He glanced at a trio of begging marmots. “After that taste of your roast beef, Larry, Curly, and Moe will be craving Texas brisket.”

  Macy’s face warmed.

  Fletcher raised his barely nibbled wrap, smiled. “I should have guessed we might like different things.”

  Macy returned his smile and shrugged. “But we’re in total agreement on—” she swept her arm across the amazing view—“all of this.”

  “We are.” The sun was drying his clothes, but the awe in Fletcher’s expression looked like it was there to stay. He laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I don’t know. I was thinking about those last six hundred steps up here.” He glanced toward the steps. A young couple had just reached the top. “I kept hoping I wouldn’t embarrass myself by coughing up a lung. And then I noticed how those steps, with all the mist, seemed to rise up and disappear into a cloud. It was like Moses climbing the Mount.” Fletcher’s eyes crinkled at the edges again. “Only a miracle would keep a bush burning anywhere near that waterfall.”

  Macy smiled. “Only you would bring God up the Mist Trail.”

  “Nah . . .” Fletcher looked out toward the expanse of towering granite. “I’m sure he was here first.”

  And I’m sure we couldn’t be more different.

  “It’s like what we were talking about the other night,” he continued, reverence in his deep voice. “You can’t see something like this without trusting in a plan way beyond human design.”

  Faith. Again.

  Macy searched for a way to change the subject, but Fletcher did first.

  “So . . . how many guys have died trying to follow you up here?”

  Macy laughed. “None yet. I mean, you’re the first person I’ve hiked it with. I’ve always gone alone.”

  His eyes held hers for a moment. “I’m honored then.”

  “No problem,” Macy told him, embarrassed. She shouldn’t have admitted that. Shouldn’t have given in to the foolish urge to invite him. A man who packs roast beef and God. “I sort of owed you for the dinner, anyway.”

  “You don’t owe me. I enjoyed it. It’s not every day I get to see a vegetarian attack a salmon like a grizzly bear.”

  “Pescatarian,” Macy corrected, lifting her chin. “That’s someone who—”

  “I know what it means.” There was teasing in Fletcher’s eyes. “We have a few in Texas—keep ’em up in Austin.”

  Fortunately the hike back down was much easier. But still as wet. Fletcher was glad that his off-duty firearm had been sufficiently protected from the water. And that Macy had suggested he carry a fresh pair of socks in his pack. “A hiker’s only as good as his feet.”

  He smiled to himself. This pescatarian was nothing like the women he knew in Houston. Though Jessica had managed to get herself into some reckless and irresponsible situations, she generally turned her nose up at any venue that didn’t require a manicure and completely impractical shoes. Yet somehow Macy Wynn could make a pair of cargo pants and REI hiking boots look—

  Fletcher stopped himself. What was he doing? Comparing? That was stupid. It was bad enough Macy had seen their embarrassing costume photo on his mom’s phone—and asked him about her. The last thing Fletcher wanted was the subject of Jessica to come up again.

  “It’s—” Macy glanced at her phone—“almost three. With traffic, we could have a four-hour drive back.”

  Fletcher was surprised by a stab of disappointment. They’d been here since dawn. Hiked the Mist Trail, seen three waterfalls—including the staggering Yosemite Falls, plunging more than two thousand feet—watched crazy ant-size climbers ascending the face of El Capitan, and ogled the impressive stone-and-glass Ahwahnee Hotel. They’d done so much. Still, he wasn’t ready to leave this place.

  “Want to see the Grizzly Giant?” she asked.

  “Does that involve your bear spray?”

  “No.” Macy’s eyes half closed with her laugh. “It’s a giant sequoia tree. About two thousand years old.”

  “Great . . . sure,” Fletcher told her, noticing how, despite Macy’s judicious use of sunscreen, her skin had gone sort of rosy. Lips too. The intriguing stripe in her hair had slipped from that Giants ball cap to hang loosely along her jaw. It occurred to him that it wasn’t only Yosemite Park he was reluctant to leave.

  Fletcher cleared his throat. “Big ol’ tree. I’m game. Let’s see it.”

  26

  “THERE I GO AGAIN,” Macy continued as they hiked along the shady crushed-granite path, “ticking off numbers: elevations, heights, diameters . . .” She had to be boring him to tears.
“I sound like the Discovery Channel. Just stop me.”

  “No way. If you didn’t tell me, I’d be asking.” Fletcher smiled at her. “You must have memorized the park brochures. Back when you worked here at the clinic.”

  “I like to know what I’m seeing, and—” she shrugged—“I sort of dated a park ranger for a while. Till he remembered he had a fiancée in Salt Lake City.” Macy cringed at the slip. This wasn’t the time, place, or person to engage in a conversation about her lack of trust when it came to relationships. Safer to stick to facts and figures. She took a deep breath of air pungent with pine and redwood bark. “We’re almost to the Grizzly,” she added, grateful he’d made no comment. “How’re you doing?”

  “Great. Much easier than the StairMaster Trail.” Fletcher gazed at the scenery: pines of every size, ferns, strewn pinecones and bark, and downed trees lying like a child’s scattered Lincoln Logs. “Can’t believe all this. The green, the trees. It’s like hiking through a Christmas tree lot.” He stopped and stared upward, jaw sagging. “Is that it?”

  “Sure is,” Macy confirmed as they stepped aside to let a man and his dog pass by. “Giant sequoia, one of the oldest living things.”

  “I can’t even see the top.” Fletcher stepped back, craning his neck. “Go ahead: hit me with the numbers.”

  “Most estimates put it at around two thousand years old,” she started, resisting the urge to say she’d googled these facts long before she met the cheating ranger. “The tree is 209 feet tall. About 96 feet around at the base. That bark’s like two feet thick.” She pointed up the tree’s massive, vertically grooved and cinnamon-red trunk. “See that branch way up there, sticking out from the trunk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Over six feet in diameter. That one branch is bigger than most trees here.”

  He gave a low whistle, stepped sideways enough that their shoulders brushed. “I’m feeling short.”

  “I remember reading once,” Macy continued, suddenly too aware of Fletcher’s physical closeness, “an estimate of the number of pinecones the Grizzly’s produced. Like two million. Because of its age, you can figure this tree has seen 700,000 sunsets. That always gives me goose bumps.” She rubbed her arms. Fletcher was watching her now, not the tree. Her pulse skittered. “And it’s probably been hit by lightning thousands and thousands of times.”

  “Whoa.” He glanced back at the tree. “Amazing it’s still standing.”

  Amazing that I am . . . Macy took a safe step away, shielded her eyes, and gazed up at the giant tree again. “They’re resistant to fire. In fact, it’s important to them—helps the cones open, clears away fallen debris, and makes them stronger.”

  “Hmm, trial by fire . . .” Fletcher’s expression sobered. “It works for people too, I hear. Gotta hope it’s true.”

  Macy checked the trail behind them. “It’s going to get crowded. Looks like the tram off-loaded. Have you seen enough?”

  “I want to get a few pictures.” He pointed into the distance. “Maybe if we go down there, off the trail, I can get more of the height.” He shook his head. “Up this close everyone in Houston will think I took a dozen shots of a huge redwood barn.”

  “Good idea. It’s out of the crowd too.”

  Fletcher led the way and Macy followed behind, using the opportunity to check her phone—cell reception was hit-and-miss out here, but maybe a text had come in when they were near Curry Village. She stepped off the trail, feeling the crunch of bark under her feet and the soft brush of pine seedlings against her ankles. She walked behind Fletcher, scrolling through the messages.

  “Hey, Macy, watch out for—”

  Her shin connected with a fallen log and she pitched forward, stumbled, and fell to one knee.

  Fletcher was there in an instant.

  “Here, I’ve got you.” He grasped her hand, slid an arm around her waist. Then eased her up to a standing position. “Are you okay?” he asked, still holding her hand.

  “Fine. I guess there needs to be a law against hiking and texting. And—” her fingers moved inside his—“I dropped my phone. It’s probably over . . . Oh, I see it.”

  “Stay put. I’ve got it.” Fletcher leaned down and managed to grab the phone without releasing her hand. “Your leg’s scraped. There’s a bench over there. Let’s sit down a minute.”

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  “Don’t make me flash the badge, ma’am. You’re coming with me.”

  “But I’m fine,” she told him as he began to lead her in that direction. The truth was her shin was fine. Her knees were the problem now . . . weak as a fifteen-year-old’s with a crush. Fletcher’s hand was warm, strong, and . . . This was ridiculous.

  “It’s nothing,” she told him, sliding her hand away as she sat. “Minor scrape. Soap and water, Band-Aid. My tetanus shot is up-to-date. I had to trot that information out after . . .” Her hand rose to her cheek as she remembered.

  He sat beside her. “After I pushed you down on the freeway.”

  “You already apologized.” She managed a smile. “And I already—”

  “Thanked me.” The blue eyes did a number on Macy’s knees again. “We do have a strange history.”

  “We do.” She took a breath, sighed.

  “Well . . .” Fletcher glanced upward to where the sky, visible through the canopy of trees, had changed from golden to a lavender pink. “Looks like the Giant is about to see another sunset.”

  “It does.” Her capacity for words was setting as fast as the sun.

  Fletcher pointed to her phone, lying beside her on the bench. “Important message?”

  “No. I . . .” She met his gaze and found it impossible not to tell him. “That’s not true. I’ve been waiting for a text from Elliot—he’s helping me buy a house.” Macy saw the surprise on his face. “Taylor reacted the same way.”

  “No. I mean . . . It’s great. Because you’re tired of renting?”

  “To help my sister. She’s never had that stability. I think if I bring her to Sacramento, help her to find a job and register for school, I can give Leah a real sense of family. Permanence.” Saying it, Macy felt Nonni’s door latch under her fingers. “It’s what she’s always wanted. What she needs.”

  “How’s she doing with the rehab?”

  “I haven’t talked with her in a couple of days,” Macy admitted. “But she’s doing the program, trying. I guess the withdrawal symptoms from hydrocodone are tough. She’s having trouble sleeping. And a lot of vomiting.”

  “It is tough.” Fletcher nodded as if he had experience with it. He’d probably arrested countless people for drug violations. “My . . . neighbor went through rehab for that same problem. She said it was the hardest thing she’s ever done.”

  “Jessica?”

  “Yes.” There was obvious discomfort on Fletcher’s face.

  “I don’t want to pry.”

  “No. It’s okay. She’s very open about it. In fact, she wants to use her experience to help kids—adolescents. She’s a psychology major.”

  “So Jessica did well in rehab?” Macy asked, more curious about the play of emotions across Fletcher’s face.

  “She did. Even though her treatment was complicated by a diagnosis of bipolar disorder.”

  Macy winced. “Ouch.”

  “I’ve known Jessica so long that I saw it all evolve. You don’t want to know what she put her parents through. How hard it was on everyone who loves her.”

  Including you? Was that what Macy saw in Fletcher’s eyes?

  “But even with that, she did great,” he continued. “She completed rehab, clean and sober. She’s back to work. Doing great in college . . . Moving on with her life.” Unless Macy was imagining it, there was something in Fletcher’s eyes that said she was moving on without him.

  “That’s good to hear,” Macy told him. “Thank you. It makes me feel encouraged. Leah’s had such a hard life. I tried my best to be a good sister, protect her, but . . .” Her throat tightened e
nough to choke her. But the kindness in Fletcher’s eyes prodded her on. “When she was fourteen, she was raped. It was my fault.”

  27

  BLAMING HERSELF FOR HER SISTER’S ASSAULT? Fletcher didn’t know what to say. Or do. But he didn’t like that Macy had gone quiet. “Want to walk a little? Is your leg okay for that?”

  “Sure.” Her eyes met Fletcher’s. The gratitude in their sad depths said he was doing the right thing after all. “I’d like that.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They continued along the path leading toward yet another giant sequoia. The crowds had thinned considerably; folks were heading back before darkness encroached. They’d have to do that too, but right now—

  “I think I told you that my mother died when I was six,” Macy said, her voice blending with their soft footfalls on the path. “I sort of pieced some things together later and found out she was a fashion model. She did a lot of runway work on the West Coast. A few top magazines too. One of them called her ‘spectacularly Nordic.’ I had no clue what that meant. But she was amazingly beautiful.”

  Fletcher noticed how the sunset glow highlighted the planes of Macy’s face. He wasn’t at all amazed her mother had been beautiful too.

  “It was important to me, made me feel important, I guess—back then. That stack of old fashion magazines and some newspaper clippings were all I had. I read them to Leah like they were bedtime stories. And filled in the huge gaps with fiction. I told her she could be a model too. I must have said it a hundred times. She was about ten then and ate it up. She loved to pretend . . .” Macy’s breath escaped in a groan. “I shouldn’t have done it. It feels like I set her up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Macy stopped walking. “This man stopped her in a mall. . . . He told her she was special and that he’d see to it everyone in the world knew it too. He said he represented a Los Angeles modeling agency and that he could arrange to have her photos taken for free. Because she was that ‘special.’ Leah wanted to believe it. She trusted him.” Macy squeezed her eyes shut. “They found her in an abandoned warehouse in Modesto. Incoherent from drugs. Her jaw was fractured. The police figured there were three men—” She shuddered.